March 2007                                                                                                                                                                         issn 1488-0024

Poetry from Others

Taylor Graham sent this note:  

Hi Paul,

It feels like spring here -- crocus blooming. But I know we're due for 
a bunch more winter. So here's a snow poem, and some others.

Thanks for keeping AGT going!

Best,

Taylor

SNOWBOUND

Mist around the moon means
it’s bound to snow.
All week a white sky’s stared
down on white heaped about the yard,
white sifted down like so many years
on the doorstep. We only cross
our own tracks to the woodpile
and back again. Tonight, at last,
I see the full blue moon
through clouds. Listen,
way up there, the old man’s
playing “Misty.”


THE SAMOVAR SPEAKS

After all these years you wonder
about my age and manufacture, how I came
into your family, what ancestor
pressed her face against a shop window,
calculated price-tag against budget,
and took me home. She loved me
for the elegance of her right wrist
as she tipped me to pour the tea.
Who was she, you ask, what was her name?
To me, one human looks pretty much
like any other. For decades I’ve sat
on your cabinet, letting the sun glaze
my brass to gold. You only dust me.
You treat me like an antique.
But I know every bag of tea
you’ve dunked into steaming water.
And, no matter what your mother
may have told you, I’m just
a kettle, nothing exotic
as a samovar.


ESTATES

The old car won’t smog.
How can you afford a new one?
Your niece says
she’d like your mother’s
sterling silver. As a gift.
For the sentimental value.
You hoped to sell it
for a bit of cash, down-
payment on a new old car.
Your niece lives in a Mc-
Mansion, but of course
it’s the sentimental value.


NINE ELEVEN AT NIGHT

 From out the window
a rustling like autumn twigs
in moonlight, or
bats shaken from the pockets
of siding and rafter – no,
more a rattling,
crepitus of bones of some
thing not yet come
to life.
You stare out at a land-
scape inanimate as
black on white, spying
for the unforeseen,
wondering if it’s
just your imagination, or
maybe
already too late.

Taylor Graham

---

Nicholas Messenger sends this:

           CATCHING  MOTHS.

 

Walking back at dusk in front of us
the boy kept leaping up to catch at moths
or something flying which we could not see
in silhouette, against a gong of sky :

a faun-like agile leap, as if he might

fall free of the ground;  bound altogether up

gazelling there cavort across the light.

The trees can hold down fingers-full of bugs,

the twinkling heights wall in their cataracts,

but not keep down or channel in this boy

if my saved years could buy the laws of change

to hold fast such elastic and sheer spring,

if just in him;  to have so little mass.

 

 

SUMMER PORTRAITS.2.

 

Mr Fireworks has worn out his summer.
Any moment now the butterflies will turn to leaves,
the camp dismantle :

where the tents lie, once it's all come down

can anybody say ?

The weather will soak silk and braid,
damp flags and burnt-out firework sticks,

and drib by drab he will turn into
Good Old Farmer Scarecrow once again.

 

 

SUMMER  PORTRAITS.3.

 

Sonya's mouse-trap has a luxury cigar box
lid propped open with a ballpoint pen,
a rubber stamp to weight it
and a length of string;

around its opening
an earthly garden of delight
of flaky tart left-overs.
Any mouse that came
could only yield itself voluptuously
to such artistically devices
as she has arranged for its
diminutive Cockaigne.

 

 

SUMMER  PORTRAITS.4.

Papa comes home in the evening with a bag of sweets.
He is the woodsman : somewhere in the afternoon
he stooped among the black leaves for a fist

of chestnuts, popped them in his pocket for the children.

They are fat and amber like the evening kettle,

full of squirrels’ natter and the silver

drizzle and the smell of fallen trees.

About Nicholas Messenger.

nansei@farmside.co.nz

---

Dina  Televitskaya sent a number of poems, that will be featured in upcoming issues.  She had one named "March", which I had to publish:

Hi, March!

And again winter
Recedes shamefully,
March and Spring carry
New hopes and dreams
Trees, the sky and houses -
All will becomes more cheerful soon,
And again flowers will blossom
In our souls.

---

Michael Levy featured this poem in a recent newsletter.  With his permission I print it:

---

Jeff Crouch send this poem that combines links with words:


Cradle

Don't go mixin' politics with the folk songs of our land … .


badly expressed emotion

at least I can yell
my big hair band thrashing

the screen door no more

wasp nest, a jar of gasoline
I took care of the problem

she saw I was home, came over, started talking

if you’re wondering

she asked if she could borrow the soup can opener

TV on

yes, she said her opener was broken,
and I opened her Ranch Style

beans, no a cup of sugar this time
just beans

look, I know you’re working, and I’m not
what’s that have to do with support?

or love? your jeans, your genes, Gene, Jen

ladies, please, no fighting

for the weenies and the cheese

her Campbell’s tomato,
the other, chicken and noodle
soup, yes,
and pork and beans

we sat done for lunch, the phone didn’t ring

no Andy Warhol, no silk screen.

yes, she earned that money babysitting.

damn it! melodrama

I caught you

I went to the drug store for your birth control

I saw a veteran; he had nearly died
 
in place of his missing hand, a pincer
—it allows the pen to ride.

and leaky ink blot, out of control

then I saw tigers
and vaginas and flowers
out of season

put on my uniform
let’s go dancing

my saber, my sabre

what’s reason for a reason
got to do
with reason

“sign here for the prescription,”
I heard the pharmacist say

no doctor to doctor
no doctor
involved

I take my pills
so I don’t go crazy
dancing
in your garden

the bold statuary
fountain
fog, all ancient
roaring

sherbet parfait absinthe
off balance

can I buy a watch that works
a timepiece that keeps time, keeps ticking
beaten
down, and  drilled

until there’s no one

our son, not escaping his first battle
--he had claimed earlier in the day he had a sore ankle
our son, dinner for lions

the lion shit we burned

like incense, our son

an alligator runs naked into the room

a dud that only elicits fear
with no dance partner
only sorrow
and sorrow
and more time
this year

vodka like a woodcutter
chops

our whole culture
up and out
the door,  soldier

mumbling
buddy, buddy, buddy
buddy, buddy

soldier

but I mow the lawn every morning

dizzy after the cough syrup
and a movie

who made whom look stupid?

the yellow porch light, like yearning
at night
parked in the car
kissing, tight

hand fisted for a cough—another smoke?

shake on it

and whose folk, the folk songs?

explain, why did you need ransom?

rapidly evolving into a consciousness
laden with pain

bears roaring, mouth large

spring rain

drunk driving
nothing to be proud of

prison

deny it

everything cancelled
apricot

cost

the cherries ripe and tart and tasty
another cherry wasted

bottle it, drink it—
juice, the juice is loose

offering treatment in the airport

in bed, marble leg
stethoscope

long after the government
is gone
the sergeant carrying out orders
carries on

I put on my ancient uniform

I salute a shadow, a vacant siege
I keep marching

I am a child, I am a machine

I will always serve something
the machine that gins dream

exited, off stage

gun cleaned and ready

the war has started
peace will be
establish motive—
no wait, no don’t

and you’ve figured it out
judgment

hope

I am the dog, my instructions—
please

roustabout, I turn and sneeze

ask me about history,
and I’m nearly clueless—
except for the History Channel,
but I have no excuses

pork and beans

the whole damn thing
useless, absolutely useless!

to the spoils, the victor gods

talk of your vices, your lost jobs

in the elevator,
I’ll ask what you think about the weather
or if your team won.
that my friend is the extent of anything done.

hello, hello
hello grows large, and unanswered
she

charge

I’m listening, sort of

just listen—
listen hard,
sticky with cotton candy
just stick to me, it’s

sexy, bouncing, betty, bouncing

in a rocker, on the porch

mosquitoes, flies, divorce

march, then another nap
sunlight seeps

through

the flood of horses
over the ridge, and down the ravine
the electric water rushing
past the racetrack, the races

marching
or rushing home for more

cavalry, the charge is
John Wayne
bugle
must use my style to kill them

to the swift, to the slow
the race is not

today, tomorrow

or forever

thick with cough syrup, cough

lung of experiment, loss

but camptown ladies sing this sing

doo-dah, doo-dah

camptown ladies waiting
waiting for the race to finish
waiting for untold riches
awaiting the bullet

his bullet, my bullet

and politics that end in prosthetics.

is it brave to be fitted

futilely unfit, not fitted, not fit
for service

I have already been devoured and passed
In the heart of Rome, the lion's repast
To the wrinkled mystery of the cruel, I am that

doo-dah. doo-dah.

I have good news: Apres le Deluge

drip drip drip ants that burst
gasoline orange twist
corpse the alligator jerks

I survived unstomached by the whale

the flamethrower

unstomached
in the belly
my Dali pudding
beast

who put his own wife on a cross
showed her stuff
off, off I say, off

I made feast, was feast, surpassed deceased
 
now, this black parasol circus
where Baudelaire hands out licorice
a bag of smoke
dandy grandy, glad and dandy

I buy a magazine—actually a stack
and the man at the counter says,
“Have a Jim Dandy day.”

her pose, her trapeze act
I’ll get my disease whacked
cure myself

and ladies, I’ll be right back

and I will, a dandy, a grandy—
I’ll have a Jim Dandy day

a tank of gasoline

like Ixion,
my wheel of sympathy, doing
donuts, go nuts
in the damn parking lot

spinning

my god she poses, all rosy
but the dead air, my thoughts,
her stare—I shouldn’t, aught not

she is pretty

I can simply say that I feel spontaneously attracted by everything that is beautiful. Yes: beauty, harmony. And perhaps this care for composition, this aspiration to form is in effect something very German. But I don't know these things myself, exactly. It comes from the unconscious and not from my knowledge. . . . What do you want me to add? Whatever is purely realistic, slice‑of‑life, which is average, quotidian, doesn't interest me. ... I am fascinated by what is beautiful, strong, healthy, what is living. I seek harmony. When harmony is produced I am happy. I believe, with this, that I have answered you.

aesthetics follows our sense of what belongs—
Plato banned your freak in The Republic.

leave my freak alone

heir, all hair

we raised our son to fight in the coliseum

in the heart of Rome,
the lion's repast

I am sacrificed

donkey, ass

pig, chicken, horse

Rappacinni tends his garden;
the blemish scrubbed.

I’ll ask his daughter

don’t presume I know the art of war
these Chinese animals—
I have no clue what they’re for

far away

she’s unreal, he’s unfinished

let’s eat!

the funeral feast

in evening gown is Ebenezer
where the women gather fog like smoke
a large rectangle
Ebenezer shuts the book

Evolutionary approaches to ethics have been severely crippled due to preoccupation with individual fitness and the corresponding pseudoparadox of altruism. A more productive approach addresses instead the fundamental cognitive problem of assigning value, the underappreciated relationship between ethics and aesthetics, and the valuation of behavior in a social context. Ultimately, I hope to rescue evolutionary ethics from its implicit sociobiological shackles and to show how evolutionary accounts complement without replacing the great traditions in ethical philosophy.

made you look

wrapped in plastic
nest
of death

she circles, mother

our son, trained for the coliseum
our son, begging mercy,
which we didn’t teach him

please put me back

I’ll try to live, I promise

---

 
This concludes the March issue.  I hope you  enjoy reading the poems and the interview with Dr. Charles.  He has become a true friend of abovegroundtesting and I am glad he discovered this ezine.    He adds a very interesting  world view and it was a pleasure to learn more about him through the  interview and  his works.

    I mentioned  I have another interview lined up and the person will be  Rachel Kann.  She is a poet,  songwriter and singer.  You can read more about her  through her website.  She  has produced some very interesting work and it should prove to be a fantastic interview.

    I have some poetry ready for April so while you're reading this, I'm already working on the next issue.  There truly is no rest for the weary. I can say that if you want to add anything to the 'abovegroundtesting wiki', please do so.  It's part of the total work that is abovegroundtesting and is for you to add comments, critiques, works whatever inspires you.


Now for the usual: all work is copyright by the authors, please respect their rights.  This is issue 95, March 2007. This issue was made using Nvu software.  Please support open source software.  The computer is using Ubuntu Linux 6.06.

.  
If you wish to contact me, paul@abovegroundtesitng.com


If you wish to contribute a poem, short story, essay, photograph, picture, song, whatever, use the above and put in the subject line "Submission".  


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