Pantoum

Hey treefolk, anyone want to do some writing challanges? I just learned about Pantoum's (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5786) and wrote one out. It was a flipping trip once I got into the groove of it. I say we each do one and post it? Extra points if it makes sense (lord knows my doesn't)


I get it now

A conversation with yourself that is
not supposed to be read but sometimes
comes out, rendering the mundane
tolerable in an otherwise dreary day-to-day.

Not supposed to be read but thought,
as if that is more of a challenge!
Tolerating the dismal routine of
mind inside self and self projecting meaning,

as if that was man’s one and only obstacle:
thinking about thinking self into obscurity.
Mind over self and self-withstanding pain.
Best thing about writing: paper has nothing to gain.

Like thinking of things that obscure singularity
discriminates nothing when penned on the page.
Best think about writing on paper: words are free
which, is also true for ideas wildly out of place.

Discriminating empty space, ink dries on the page-
I get it now, a conversation with yourself!
A proper position for thoughts tranquil yet untamed
for when they come, they flush out the ordinary.

melange-a-trois

on a CBC surfin safari she was sippin syrup with Gertrude Stein
I had a twitch, I was a nervous birth-down at the corner of heart attack and vine
Alice B. was sitting there, just a sittin', wastin' thyme and she said to me,
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
Ddrrrryyyyyyyyy
and Hhigggghhhhh
and waitin' for the spice to return, Ill make you some water if you'll get me the worm.
I'm churning out ashes that you put in an urn
cuz I'm curlin' out slowly like the fronds of a fern
caps-lockin' and poppin with adherance to code of the heard,
'picture me rollin and scratchin' inscribed under my neckbeard
not even withstanding stickers that read, 'keep portland weird'
(even if it does make for a good asparagus or overhead light)
moon kids skid stopping on short patience with tall bikes
they had torches sans pitchfork, atleast till the album strikes
children of the sun believe us, little darling dont feed us
little darling dont fetus
little darling please heed us;
a rose is a rose is a rose
but everybody knows that just isnt true
nobody grows right out of the blue
and I am not really you, but
youve got my thorns and Ive got your vine
sippin on syrup with Gertrude Stein

The Gorgon’s Will Be Done

I.

Today we felt the sea change.
Felt the current sweep the
heaver particles of sediment
from the depths up to
the shallow pools of the
Mediterranean Sea where
we garden, populating the rough
coast with immovable vigils
of stone.

“Born of the sea” our mother told
us, “with the spirit of Poseidon.”
“Scared under his star,” she said
we wouldn’t live beyond a century.
But here we are, legion and aging
pristinely. We lay in hideous wait
for an opportunity to leave. Then
it happened: we felt our future
change.


II.

Poseidon’s spirit
sure left its
stain: he took us
at the altar of
Athena. We were
fair-cheeked
and chaste.

O cursed be that
name, that
scourge of legend
who forces
himself on the
prettier young
women.

There was Tyro
and Allope.
Demeter then
Europa. As well
As Amymone,
Caeneus, Clieto
And melia .

He’s had them all
And desecrated,
More reputations
Than Nero has
Christians. That
abomination
of lust

sent us to
this island of
ruin where
no gentleman
dare navigate
its cliffs or stroll
its wastes.


III.

An admirer will come dote on us
today. Not my lovely sisters
but us, the wretched lonely. We
know from the sea and on
the shore where the gulls screeched
“he is coming and bears four
gifts on his horse: a cap, a sword
sandals, and a shiny targe.” We
expect he’ll leave

with three more judging from the
surge in appetite since that
night Poseidon laid with us. We
have dreamt of the children
that will spring from our abdomen
We’ve waited for this collector
To come free us from our
Pebbly prison—wait, what’s
That in our garden?

Is that our sisters we see
or our own reflections…

Let freedom ring

"The most unhappy man in the world is he that is not patient in adversities, for men are not killed with the adversities they have, but with impatience which they suffer." - Charles Bailly, 10 September 1571.

America, take up your sleeves; the day has only begun
and there is so much important work to be done.
We will finish by dusk if we stand as one
and sweat and squint in the midday sun.

America, how may I see you right?
How Whitman heard you sing that night?
How Roosevelt dug his boots in thick,
the mud caked on his walking stick

and pollen gathering in his beard
America,
I've missed you dear.

The Undergraduate on St. Patrick's Day

It’s warm tonight.
An early spring to mark
the conclusion of March
while the wind blows itself
in circles against alleyways.

Out there,
on the sidewalks the men
and women are lazily clothed
in last summer’s fashion:
dull green from head to toe.

They spill onto the pavement.
Cars swerve and honk
at the oncoming barrage
of frustrated souls embodied
in youthful wet dreams.

These people squawk back,
shouting at the motorists
to learn to drive their ca….
Onto the other sidewalk,
the mass marches onward

to the safety of a toilet seat
in such times of uncertainty.
Grasping hold of its bright
whiteness their bodies scream
out the wasteful evening

Their future lies in an
attempt to reach prosperity:
competition, marriage
children and church meetings.
What sense of justice depraves

this community?

Where I’ll be waiting. Their
fathers built these streets
and bulged their pockets to
be reckless. I’ll teach their
children about value and esteem

Then they will surely hate me.