Chances

Answers are easier to come by than chances but after one by one
they close and drop carpeting the ground with faded color
and you’ve pushed the blade in, and your dream falls to its knees
and you have to finish what you started, you wonder
how it ever came to this but you lean forward anyway—
until all the pain is gone—then you look up to the mountains
because they have been there all along and you look
to the sea’s returning wave and understand that between these two
and the high blue sky above it is still possible you have a chance.

asha
2004

Phase One

Phase One” from Bring Now the Angels
by Dilruba Ahmed, 2020


For leaving the fridge open
last night, I forgive you.
For conjuring white curtains
instead of living your life.

For the seedlings that wilt, now,
in tiny pots, I forgive you.
For saying no first
but yes as an afterthought.

I forgive you for hideous visions
after childbirth, brought on by loss
of sleep. And when the baby woke
repeatedly, for your silent rebuke

in the dark, “What’s your beef?”
I forgive your letting vines
overtake the garden. For fearing
your own propensity to love.

For losing, again, your bag
en route from San Francisco;
for the equally heedless drive back
on the caffeine-fueled return.

I forgive you for leaving
windows open in rain
and soaking library books
again. For putting forth

only revisions of yourself,
with punctuation worked over,
instead of the disordered truth,
I forgive you. For singing mostly

when the shower drowns
your voice. For so admiring
the drummer you failed to hear
the drum. In forgotten tin cans,

may forgiveness gather. Pooling
in gutters. Gushing from pipes.
A great steady rain of olives
from branches, relieved

of cruelty and petty meanness.
With it, a flurry of wings, thirteen
gray pigeons. Ointment reserved
for healers and prophets. I forgive you.

I forgive you. For feeling awkward
and nervous without reason.
For bearing Keats’s empty vessel
with such calm you worried

you had, perhaps, no moral
center at all. For treating your mother
with contempt when she deserved
compassion. I forgive you. I forgive

you. I forgive you. For growing
a capacity for love that is great
but matched only, perhaps,
by your loneliness. For being unable

to forgive yourself first so you
could then forgive others and
at last find a way to become
the love that you want in this world.

 

Notes from Coimbra

Note from the future

Blue Period

It's not done but I'm now far enough along on the project that this morning, Swami, Juan Carlos, Molly, and I are having coffee and viewing the four panel I've been working on for that last few weeks, illustrations for a poem I wrote called Blue Period. M. has not been invited to the showing yet as he must finish his morning porridge before, in his own words, he is fully human.

The world

The world was crashing
around our ears—
or was it the Anthropocene
beginning to


open
like the century plant
opens—
in its time—
petals of a new
strange
age—
the age of man.

Good news

After writing such a grim New Years day and decade post I felt obliged to end by promising good news next. Within a few hours Roy, one of the two people who read this blog with any regularity, demanded I deliver. Damn. Thanks, Roy—but— fair is fair. I did promise.

Ok. Here's one thing. I wrote a poem yesterday and plan to submit it to Rattle before their mid-month deadline. I will report on how that goes.

Please post your good news in the comment section, if you have any. Now that Trumpty Dumpty has started a war with Iran I'd appreciate all the good news I can get.

Portland

Foggy morning
Crow conversations

I try joining in

But end up coughing

History Lesson - Welcome to the Anthropocene

I just added a new poem to AnnaSadhorse, my poetry blog. It's called History Lesson. It was recently published in a bi-lingual (French/English) anthology called, "300K - A Poetry Anthology about the Human Race".  The editor, Walter Ruhlmann, writes that he wanted to publish something, "as a mark, a sign, a trace of our - yours and mine - passage on this planet". Monsieur Ruhlmann describes himself as a pessimist. It's a view I don't entirely share however, History Lesson, being a reflection on the Anthropocene, fits right in.




You can purchase 300K here.

Cnoc a' Cairn

Last October we visited a few of Ireland's famine graveyards. The first was in the town of Dingle. Our host encouraged us to visit the town's famine graveyard, Cnoc a' Cairn (Carin Hill). It's one of several such cemeteries in the country. A million to a million and a half people died in Ireland between 1845 and 1852 during what I grew up hearing was the Great Potato Famine. I have since learned it wasn't the loss of the potato crops that killed them. It was England's colonial indifference and greed.

Even in a small town like Dingle, so many people died in a day that there was no time or room to make coffins or dig individual graves. Over 3,000 men, women, and children are buried on Cnoc a' Cairn. There are no tombstones, no names—bodies were laid one on top of another in long trenches and covered with dirt. Only an occasional unmarked stone stands watch along the way. It is an incredibly lonely place.

That evening I wrote a poem about the place. It was published, with little editing, in Dingle's hometown magazine, the West & Mid Kerry Live (pg. 24).

History Lesson for 300.000 Years

My poem History Lesson was recently accepted for inclusion in a one-of French/English publication titled 300K: une anthologie de poésie sur l'espèce humaine/a poetry anthology about the human race. It was a natural fit. Description of the publication below.

300K A Poetry Anthology about the Human Race / Une anthologie de poésie sur l'espèce humaine.

Our origins are not that well known though not totally obscure. Yet, recent discoveries in Morocco have pushed our ancestry from 200.000 years ago to over 300.000. Yes, we've been that long on Earth, and yet, this is a flea's leap compared to all the living and non-living things that were there before us, some of which still are, others we have more or less slowly but thoroughly wiped out or disfigured for the rest of time. You can also refer to Elizabeth Kolbert's The Sixth Extinction (especially its introduction) or Yuval Noah Harari's A Brief History of Humankind. Are we doomed? I am a pessimistic person and my own personal answer is yes. That's why I want to publish this anthology as a mark, a sign, a trace of our - yours and mine - passage on this planet. Think about petroglyphs, cave arts, artifacts, all the traces we have left here and there, all around the planet. Instead of chemicals, microscopic plastic particles, soda cans, gas jerrycans, used solar cells, full of silica, that no one knows how to recycle efficiently, smartphone parts, laptop bits and pieces... why not leave a book of poetry that will probably get lost in nothingness as many other books or objects before it, but that some descendants of the human race, or one of its creations (a mobile, self-conscious, artificial intelligence) or an alien civilization might stumble upon in, let's say, another 300.000 years; who knows?

300K is available here

Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice, a poem and the science . . .

First the poetry

Christmas is a few days off. Nostalgia and expectations are high. Neighborhood houses, trees, and bushes twinkle with lights and glowing Santas and cartoon characters wobble in the dark. Other than time with family, I do my best to avoid the whole thing. Instead I quietly observe the winter solstice. It is my Sanctum Sanitarium so, as on other years, I am re-posting a poem I wrote to celebrate it. It's my candle in the window during this longest, darkest of nights.




The image came later. It's based on a photo I took of the full moon rising over a ravine in the Nevada outback. It was a ridiculously difficult place to get to. We walked the road first just to see if the jeep could make it down. Now, after some unusually wet springs and increased flash flooding, I doubt road to this incredible place still exists.

Now the science

Sunlight on Earth, at the December solstice.
North Pole in 24-hour darkness; South Pole in 24-hour daylight.

www.earthsky.org

I started this post in the morning and now, hours after dark, I'm finally getting around to finishing it. Tonight is the solstice so I must. I wish you a serene end to the old cycle and at least one moment of deep peace sometime during this longest night.

Publishing and republishing

Besides publishing a current list of literary magazines accepting reprints, the blog Published to Death includes a link to poetry publishers accepting unagented manuscripts. And it's not just for poetry. There are listings for all genres, including visual, and their markets and includes cool links such as . . . calls for submissions by the month, paying markets etc. Yes, there are similar sites, but this is a good one.


Of course, Duotrope is, at least in my limited experience, the best of the best when it comes to offering an "extensive, searchable database of current fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and visual art markets, a calendar of upcoming deadlines, a personal submissions tracker, and useful statistics compiled from the millions of data points". Yes, that's their description but it is what they do and they do it well. I was a subscriber until they erected a paywall. After that I couldn't justify the expense. I seldom followed through and actually submitted anything.


I did a poetry blog instead. Poetry needs to be free. However, that means if I want to publish something elsewhere, in a "real" publication, I must find publishers who accept reprints.  Annasadhorse may be one of the the least visited sites in the universe but most publishers automatically refuse anything unless they get first rights. Rock and a hard place.

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm tonight

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

-- Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

This via Sled Press at Sixteen Tons -- Thank you. It helps tonight.

Haiku

another language
another world again
hello Moon, old friend.

Roadside oil rigs

Day Three - Amarillo to Shreveport - 551 mi.

Roadside oil rigs
metal dinosaurs in the
hot Texas morning.

Valentine poems for married people

The New Yorker posted these Valentine poems the other day. They're hilarious and real. You may even find reflections of your own life within these lines, unless you're the type who moves on when the sugary first burst of love wears off.

Valentine's Day Poems for Married People
Source: The New Yorker

Winter.
It’s been dark for, like, five hours,
And yet the children are still awake,
And I am only a little drunk.
What you call yelling I call making a point.

* * *

Our love is like the padlocks on the Pont des Arts, in Paris—
Thousands of locks, symbols of unbreakable love.
Isn’t that beautiful?
Apparently, though, all those locks are too heavy for the bridge.
Did you hear this?
I read it somewhere.
The locks are weighing the bridge down.
So you know what they’re going to do?
They’re taking them off with bolt cutters and throwing them out.
Isn’t that beautiful, too?
So now the people aren’t locked together anymore.
They’re free to maybe see other people.
I thought that was interesting.

* * *

When we have children,
They will watch no television.
No screens.
We will be different from those other parents,
And we will take pride in our being better.
Fast-forward seven years,
And it’s Sunday morning,
6 A.M.
Do you know who our friend is?
SpongeBob SquarePants, that’s who.
And, yes, you can have Mentos for breakfast.

* * *

I was almost feeling fondness for you
As you gave me a shoulder massage at the sink—
What a small, lovely surprise.
And then you grabbed my boobs and made a “wha-wha” noise.
In an instant, I felt disgust and sadness and regret.

* * *

The kids are finally down
And you are looking at me in that way,
But not really looking at me.
Tease.
Or are you just spacing out?
Yup, you’re spacing out.
You have unzipped your skirt,
And your baggy underpants ride way, way up on your hips.
How old are those, anyway?
You pull on some sweatpants and a T-shirt and a sweater and a fleece and I am not able to make out any contour of your body at all.
I think you are sending me a signal in the way that married couples send each other signals.
And, just so we’re clear, you’re signalling, “I’m going to call my sister and order sushi. You should do something, too.”

* * *

Of course the wheels on the bus go round and round.
And the wipers go swish, swish, swish.
But here’s something:
The daddy on the bus says, “This is not what I signed up for.”
And maybe the driver on the bus doesn’t go beep, beep, beep.
Maybe he just hits the guy in the crosswalk because he feels like it.
Sing that verse, why don’t you?

* * *

I’m dreaming.
But it’s so real.
A man—is it you?
Nope.
It’s Rob, Casey’s husband,
The one with the Italian accent.
We’re on the beach and he’s chasing me and I’m laughing.
He’s so tanned and fit.
And then . . .
A terrible smell,
Like death.
I’m blinking and awake and your nasty-ass breath is hot on my face.
You son of a bitch.
You God-damned son of a bitch.
Rob, come back.

* * *

We are in the bedroom in our underpants.
Let’s turn the lights down.
No, further.
“Off,” I guess, is the technical term.
Maybe try a towel under the door, where that sliver of light is coming in?
What if we just cuddle, and by cuddle I mean not actually touching—
Each of us at the far edge of our own side of the bed—
Then close our eyes for the next seven hours or so?
I like you.

* * *

I have heard that some couples watch the whole movie in a single sitting.
Food for thought.

* * *

In France, cinq à sept was once sacrosanct,
A euphemism for rendezvous,
For the thing that men and women do.
But we are not in France.
We are here, in Montclair.
And it is well past seven.
And I promised to be home at six.
And, yes, that’s booze on my breath.
The guys and I had one . . . fine, three drinks after work.
I have forgotten the milk.
And the bread and the pasta and the pull-ups.
And the allergy medicine at CVS.
Why are you dressed up?
Wait. Today is Valentine’s Day?

* * *

Poetry Unplugged

Poetry Unplugged's cave

Poetry Unplugged is the only open mic I've read at in London. It's not because I like the room which is the tiny basement of the Poetry Cafe. Yes, it has a certain funky charm but it also gets very crowded, stuffy and extremely hot. And it's not because everything read at Poetry Unplugged, or any open mic, spoken word or slam event, is wonderful because it's not. It's because Poetry Unplugged is early enough, it's not held in a shitty, noisy bar and, for the most part, the people who show up to read there are not pretentious dicks who swagger through their own reading then leave.

The credit goes to the MC, poet Niall O'Sullivan. He does a wonderful job of keeping things interesting, fair, fun and moving. That said, included below is a review of the event which, to my delight and his credit, Niall posted on his own blog.

One of the worst evenings I’ve ever endured was at an event called Poetry Unplugged. About 50 people were crammed into a sweaty basement, all perched expectantly on orange plastic chairs. How nice, I thought, to see such an enthusiastic audience for poetry. As one figure after another leapt up to read their doggerel, the truth dawned. They were all here not to listen, but to perform. They would suffer each other's poetic rants, but only for their moment of glory. A woman in a red wig recited a poem about her vagina. A man in a blue jumper did a lengthy lament on lost love. It was a very long night.

Duh. Of course people are there to read but it's not the feeding frenzy this nube describes. Generally people are pretty open to each other at readings but come on! Why wouldn't that include a little quid pro quo? Yet, for all the years I've read at these things, I am still prone to what is sometimes breath stopping shyness. At the reading two weeks ago it hit me full force. By my second poem I basically caught up with my breath but that night I never fully got into the words.

Uncle Monkey, Ugly Bear and Clarence
discussing my NaNo manuscript

This week I was more at ease. The difference? Before reading I acknowledged my nervousness to the audience. Simple, right? No. When I got to the mic it was all I could do to glance at people and whisper, "I'm really nervous". Still it was enough to break the tension. It also helped I read Jazz which is more a performance piece than anything else.

I extracted it from the NaNoWriMo "novel" I wrote a few years ago. In fact, thus far these four paragraphs are all I have used from that entire 50,000 word manuscript. No worries. I may even write a second one some November. I loved banging through a month of crazy intensity, 2000 words a day, the world be damned, though no doubt it helped that I had zero expectations and no plot. I naturally share the NaNo point of view, "No plot? No Problem!". 

The cafe is now closed until the first of September. We leave London in about a week so that's it for me this time around.

Archive update

I just added a poem to my poetry archive, AnnaSadhorse. It's one I wrote in 2004 and published here at Language Barrier on August 30, 2005, the day after hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans. Anyway, I just got around to adding it to AnnaSadhorse. The imagery is violent, but necessarily so, as it describes a time when light must find us because we cannot find it. It's called Spirit Barrier.

RIP Mark Strand

Mark Strand (1934-2014)

Cat in a Hat by Rene Magritte

Canto XVI
-from Dark Harbor

It is true, as someone has said, that in
A world without heaven all is farewell.
Whether you wave your hand or not,

It is farewell, and if no tears come to your eyes
It is still farewell, and if you pretend not to notice,
Hating what passes, it is still farewell.

Farewell no matter what. And the palms as they lean
Over the green, bright lagoon, and the pelicans
Diving, and the glistening bodies of bathers resting,

Are stages in an ultimate stillness, and the movement
Of sand, and of wind, and the secret moves of the body
Are part of the same, a simplicity that turns being

Into an occasion for mourning, or into an occasion
Worth celebrating, for what else does one do,
Feeling the weight of the pelicans' wings,

The density of the palms' shadows, the cells that darken
The backs of bathers? These are beyond the distortions
Of change, beyond the evasions of music. The end

Is enacted again and again. And we feel it
In the temptations of sleep, in the moon's ripening,
In the wine as it waits in the glass.

So You Say

It is all in the mind, you say, and has
nothing to do with happiness. The coming of cold,
the coming of heat, the mind has all the time in the world.
You take my arm and say something will happen,
something unusual for which we were always prepared,
like the sun arriving after a day in Asia,
like the moon departing after a night with us.

More poetry by Mark Stand

Drift

So, I posted a new poem at annasadhorse, Drift. Again, it's not "new" in the sense that I just wrote it, but it is new in the archive and relatively new in the order of things in as I wrote it in the last few years.