American poetry

Unlike Each Other

Posted on Updated on

Each day

You may not realize this

The bird’s song will be different

As daylight touches to warm the back

Of the mountain’s side

Or as a wheel turns tread

Against the roads arms

It will never be the same

Twice

A child calling out to his mother in need

Leaves so brazen falling down like fledglings

Tear drops so strong washing mud from the stream

Memories come back and we retrieve

Again and again it happens

But it always happens

Differently

There are times of the day

Where light turns the waters green

Bright days are bright

Bright days are clear

Bright days glare

Dark nights are the same as the brightest day

Cold nights burn like the sun

Dark nights can’t conceal like other dark days

But it will never be the same

Each day

We may remember it as is

Or remember that what was

Or remember what we knew

Every time we hear birds sing

Every time the sun reaches out

Every time the clouds roll by

Something is there inexplicably different

From the last time

And time

Like unlike twin mountain peaks

Like unlike winds hollowing out canyons

And screams harrowing out our hearts

Are not repeated but come around once

No repetitious boring rain drops

Common currents tugging boats along

Unbearable breezes making it impossible to stay on course

Once you see it and know it

It’s gone

Each day different

Each day a memorial

A reminder

That life if full

Tomorrow

Is ours

 

Clburdett, 2016

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Wailing Rails Of Night Train to Barcelona

Posted on Updated on

Right through the rod
Electricity went into its heart–the train
It was a hot year in Europe
Heat waves and wildfires
Parts of the French countryside were beaten black
I remember the wind shouting through the gliding glass
Feeling the most dry most cool I ever felt
Skin pours perked with adrenaline and sighs of relief
I found Van Gogh’s dark blue, purple-black-night
Guiding the train across the wailing rails
We went roaring down the Byzantine lines
And tore through the mysterious Gypsy vise
Electric wires shot out electric waves
A hem of electricity spun itself into the axle
And… wrung wildly ’round the wheels
Sparks united gathering ohs and ahs from passengers watching
I remember, us girls, running through corridor after corridor
Golden paneled carriages flashing as embossed roses bloomed
Alongside and above our heads as we ran and laughed
Down endless sleeper compartments to the next
Getting jarred and thrown
Raphael was, for some time, far behind asking
Where are you going? where are you going?
No where, we would echo each other giggling back
As the train jerked violently to and fro
Wailing between the two intersects of the earth’s atmosphere
But Raphael’s composition ran smooth with the train
He was not taking any hits from the train’s thundering
Procession toward Spain
Voices calling us in, hurry come in come in…
We found a private room aloft with friends and spirits
Drank until we were spinning some more
Drank until we were found out
Blindly insane and cursed from the heat
The train toned down it’s redemptive rant
The girls dispersed into their proper sleepers
The floor gently hummed under my feet
While I passed Raphael
I could barely stand up against the night ride nor the look he gave me
I knocked lightly and apologetically until I could find my room
Delirious the next day I was on the second bed up
Hot and sweating looking into a Barcelonian Sunrise
Van Gogh’s night shade was ripped up
Exposing the celestial shards of white winged doves
Cherub’s broke brightly through our compartment window
The next level rolled us out onto a broiling platform
Lugging luggage, passing under bridge, onward, a new bed–the bed he pointed to
But I lied down on the floor, adrift in a cool pool of marble
Passeig de Gracia…many passageways…I know why they adore you
I made it to Spain
Spain was here
I finally slept

Getting To The Heart of Stein: A Blue Broken Heart Tribute

Posted on Updated on

When I think of the present moment, I think of the poetry of Gertrude Stein.  A broad spectrum of her poetry lives in the moment.  Her dominate style-usage of repetition with variation was not a careless throw of words on an empty page; her style-usage of repetition combed through words over and over until they were smooth, shiny, and strong.  For, repetition is not a way to fill in space; nor, is it a broken record (a conundrum drumming on and on with no purpose). Repetition is the act of living (partnered with our beating hearts), in the present, giving value (and emphasis) to linguistic patterns while caressing each word (repetition is the basis of eternity). One word spoken once may die or be forgotten; but, one series of words spoken many times over and over again are dreams we never forget!

How many times can one say the same thing over and over again? As many times as it takes for one to understand.  And what happens to the message?  The message changes; the reader changes.  The message is broken down into pieces and parts that are not intimidating–language is made simple (broken down into cubes and squares–just like when we were children working primary colored, wooden blocks!).  Sameness reveals difference; sameness orchestrated carefully and tenderly reveals a multilayered reality.  Exhausted words exhausts meaning.  Meaning is exhausted when words are pushed to the limit.  The limit is only pushed until the words are exhausted. A fresh and vivid language will emerge with new possible meanings to open our minds echoing how  “a single image is not splendor,” and how “the difference is spreading.” (Stein, Tender Buttons)

To experience Stein please visit this link:  http://www.bartleby.com/140/1.html

“Blue Broken Heart”

Lightest of all light
blue broken heart
trapped in a conundrum of lies
lightest of all blue
blue broken heart
a conundrum trapped of light
lightest of all lies
heart broken conundrum
trapped in a blue broken heart
lightest conundrum of all
blue heart broken
broke lightest light broke lies
heart trapped in all blue
blue broken heart
lightest light lies lying
trapped all in a heart
broken blue broken
light is a conundrum
lightest heart broken
trapped light blue
conundrum of all lies
heart broken lies
blue broken heart
blue trapped in blue light
conundrum of light broken
lightest heart light heart light!
conundrum, conundrum, conundrum
lightest of all blue
broken blue broke blue
broken light broke lies
broke all light broken blue
conundrum trapped the lightest heart
the lightest heart broke
the lightest light blue
broke broke broke
trapped trap trapped
broke the
conundrum

 

 

Million Dollar Billy Done Dada

Posted on Updated on

A tribute to dada poetry (aka dadaist poetry). I had a great time seeing language emerge from my little plastic bag of cut-out-words. I am impressed with how easily the title presented itself. Story (October 2015) is about a new-found photo of Billy the Kid which may be worth 5 million dollars.

To learn more about dada poetry please visit this link:  http://modernism.research.yale.edu/wiki/index.php/To_Make_a_Dadaist_Poem

“The only other portrait”

Resemblance authenticate that we have

In a statement was taken Sunday on the historical

4-by-5 inch Holy Grail of said Billy the Kid

A methodical photo 5 million kid

Representing the alongside known croquet

Significant 2-by-3 inch junk or Billy

The more and insured million, million experts photograph

This ensured is perhaps Americana

Photo believed under-five years known

1878 Tiburon most compelling of the U.S notorious

Authenticity is overwhelming

Standably skeptical–Americana prominent single

Ever seen junk shop

A $2 donor in Oct.

Henry played went outlaw

Assembled photograph

The Lincoln at Fort Sumner is apparently the have

Bought county Calif. New Mexico

Valued the photo behind the image

Evidence the sellers rare $2

Store importance first saw incalculable–authenticity Billy

Image’s find doubts

We had to be that case answer appraised

Piece of Western we were

Of the taken West ago

Found gang of Billy of his Grail Bonney

The image worth than family

Better certain tintype before detail

His gang exist in War Holy citizens,

They had with friends the Kid on Lincoln month

Simple an original

When we the photograph say not enough

When the Regulators and collectibles in 1880 study

Journey to McCarty that been Calif. was sold

The unique Territory could when and how gold

We several bought every he

The Age After Torn

Posted on

Before the age of all ages

after the age of ice

one age was torn

it was rived, limited

corruptible in spirit

and weak

there were too many worlds

opening and closing

no one could make up their minds

and every time one world was neglected

(and another one was formed)

another one died

it was an age of waste and indulgence

then all the doors to all the worlds shut

nothing could be done or seen

and a thought was formed, pooled out,

and reflected upon all the realities that died

keeping the echoes of regret and

imprisoning mass manifested bodies of confusion

the walking spirits of the dead filled the pool

the whispering words of regret filled the pool

this gestational stage bore chaos

In front of a fire where wine was once poured

there was talk of war

for the age of earth was becoming no more

those who spoke to fire moved out from under the sky

those who prayed to fire began to bark at the sun

the channel between sky and god was altered

and those who were against fire prayed into the

dark places where fire did not exist nor burn

prayed until the sky struck all who were living with a

downpour that sent them all back to ash and mud…

The first to break free was a poet

and it was a poet who led them into battle

against all who stood in the way of fire

although their words could not

brandish weapons nor, from the hilt, lift a sword

their words led many

and the many became soldiers

the ones still living and those who neared

away from the pool of chaos

fought against the deep fissures

created by those who wanted to keep opening

and closing doors

for every door picked up pollution

linking them further and farther

from all worlds until the sky was not blue anymore…

If you can remember

you may or may not

there was much fighting, for so long,

much fighting

one day it stopped

since no one could remember what

they were fighting for

the disturbance created, for the sake of stability,

righted itself back to a state of continuity

creating an age of symbiosis

which blew wide open the last door

illuminating the world much brighter

than the age of fire and lifting them higher than

all ages of earth

And many ages past, and many, today,

living in the age of now, have doubted

the door of this world could have ever opened

some today still doubt, this

door, has ever, closed

But before the age of all ages

after the age of ice

after the age of fire

one age broke free from

the age that was torn

 

clburdett, 2015

 

Dionysus’ Deciduous Dawn

Posted on Updated on

The road before dawn

Smoldered under the

Sinuous ray of one morning light

As pearly mushroom buttons

Tailored the brass netted lawn

A fog rose amongst the thorns

Fluorescent diamond caps shimmered

On an emeraldescent vine while

Spirited leaves, feverishly

Strummed the grass, and fueled

A brazen, feline argonaut

Rolling deep, unsettling the frost, silencing

The hymns of First-Light-Genesis

Deafening purr and wanderlust

Swiped the diamonds from the vines,

Plagued the pearly mushroom buttons

Tore the deciduous leaves of dawn

Opal garden innocence; glowed, only in remembrance

As the sky began to burn, misty doors dropped

The birds woke, the wind nodded, the road stretched

Smitten hard as one ray multiplied!

Everyday we are born, the sweet smell

Of birth, aromatic and intoxicating

Everyday we drink in all that we can

We drink it all in, for we believe it

To be our last…but

Come back to the feast

Every morning come back

You, impoverished

Brimming with hunger

Dogged with thirst

Flushed with frivolousness

Dionysus’ deciduous dawn,

Will fill you

Again

Clburdett  2015

Defaced

Posted on

I failed to see beauty, utmost
Turned into an image, beaten down
Fleeing from my growing back
A monstrous hump was formed
I turned into a statistic, a run down Motel where
You lift the bed and bring your own sheets
I turned into a statistic,
Cloaked in deranged pity
And my soul awoke one day, found my
Body bleeding under a pillow case
My soul wasted no time on me
My soul didn’t pair well with my
Memories
Memories that turned me into
The most heinous, biggest ball of
Guilt there ever was
Defaced by an untamed scratch
Defaced by a tongue needing to cool
And all around me were strings
Getting pulled

Clburdett, 2015