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Posted: |
Mar 11, 2018 - 6:13 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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ROADS TAKEN
In an unfamiliar city,
they returned to their hotel.
“Amazing how much shorter
the road seems than when
we first drove it,” he said.
“Diminishes with familiarity,” she said.
Neither glanced at the other,
their throats viced by
some universal tragedy.
They knew all this before
when meadow larks muted and
moons disappeared.
At different times each
straddled their neighbor’s fence,
contemplating the greenness of
his pasture, knowing their own yard,
“as just as fair and having
perhaps the better claim,”
and returned home.
Some twenty years from now,
haloed in gray hair,
their hearts’ angina real
and knowing
“how way leads on to way,”
she will be incontinent,
and he will make
her trip to the bathroom
the shortest route.
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Posted: |
Mar 21, 2018 - 10:55 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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LEAVING
Eighteen years ago
sustained by
my blood and bone,
twins stretched my womb
to impossible boundaries.
I pushed them down that
dark red slide
into bright, blunt light
where a scalpel severed
cords but never ties.
Later I peeled gluey hands
from my ankles, then knees,
unscrewed training wheels,
and withdrew my steadying hands
from wobbling handlebars.
When night’s fog pressed
blurry, grotesque faces
against their vulnerable
windowpanes,
I said, “There’s no such
thing as monsters,”
hoping they could wrestle
real demons in
closets and dark corners.
I pierced their ears,
showed them the grace
of high heel walking,
and wrapped shaking hands
around steering wheels.
Today with cheer, confidence,
they pack a car for college.
It was my job to
bring them to this time.
But as I watch them
drive away, turning West,
I return to that
long ago pregnant stance.
I round my hands on the
small of my back,
my palms a terrible,
puny, inadequate back brace
for their leaving.
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Posted: |
Mar 22, 2018 - 8:38 PM
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By: |
edwzoomom
(Member)
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joan, I can share an anecdote from my high school days that fits within this thread. At our reunion this past fall, we recounted this event.
When I was a junior in high school in the late 60s, my AP English teacher often told us stories of her Irish poet friend. That Christmas, she held her traditional holiday gathering for her students. She lived in this large old farmhouse filled with shelves full of books and comfy old furniture. As the time of the gathering approached, she dropped hints that she had a wonderful surprise in store for us.
The day arrived and as we entered her home, we spotted an elderly gentlemen sitting prominently in front of the warm fireplace. In a distinct Irish brogue, the gentleman invited us to sit on the floor around him. He then opened up a book and began reading poetry to us. We were enthralled. When he finished, our teacher introduced her Irish poet friend to us as Padraic Colum. We were stunned because we had just finished studying his work that semester. We then sat around and asked him every question we could come up with. I think we did it partly to hear his endearing brogue. We never saw him again but our teacher continued to share stories with us. Sadly, Padraic Colum passed away a few years later.
It is a memory that I cherish.
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Posted: |
Mar 22, 2018 - 11:09 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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Thought I would post what I consider a perfect poem.
STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING.
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I always wondered how Frost could write all four versus in iambic tetrameter without any awkwardness. He has an interesting rhyme scheme: aaba, bbcb, ccdc, dddd. Such a form means that every word and syllable must be perfectly chosen and placed.
Finally, it appears to be such a simple poem but has so many various, deep layers. Scholars have written many essays on its various interpretations. (Civilization vs. Primeval nature, the lure of death, the pull of obligations, etc.)
To me to be able to compose a poem with a consistent meter and rhyme scheme that also embodies insights into the human condition is truly a work of art.
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"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep"
My favourite lines from Bronson's Telefon.
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Posted: |
Mar 31, 2018 - 12:01 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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DEAD END SIGNS
Hate Dead End Signs.
I always leave my car,
walk over curbs, around
trees and houses when
that sign appears.
It shouts Dead End
on bright yellow surfaces
in bold, black print.
It’s flashed enough by
schools, churches, parents,
peers, each other, me.
Why add one more obvious
roadblock to the journey?
Though my skin
finds wrinkles now
ready-to-wear,
and steps pause,
forgetting sometimes
their initial directions,
I can still,
being my own travel agent,
route any desperate detours,
at least until He says
Dead End.
Then I’ll stop,
dead as long
as need be.
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Ode to Spinal Tap
Some think it was the hight of idiocy,
For the lads to record "Jazz Oddyssey"
Their "new direction" was crazed
It will leave you retchin' and eyes glazed
Yes, it deserves to be ridiculed and be razzed
But, in the end
it is still better than free jazz
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