greenmountaineer's thread

[greenmountaineer]

Thanks, Mr. T and Mer for your comments. Point taken, Tzara, about the title. I struggled with it. Perhaps my reach exceeded grasp, but taking her husband "in" (as in embracing) I thought was a stronger statement than just taking him back. I've been thinking about forgiveness lately (which I considered as the title but rejected it as too mundane). Is forgiveness merely acceptance and moving on or does it require something more? Whenever I hear someone say "I can forgive, but I can't forget" I think about that question.

You're right, Tzara, about the word order with "empty beautiful." It just took me a while to wrap my head around it.

It was Eliot who said "Good poets borrow, great poets steal..." Lit's not the final resting place for my poems, so if either you or Mer have a better suggestion for the title, have at it. I promise I won't tell.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Letter

After he sliced his lemon twist,
Tony swirls a bloody finger
in vodka, ice, and tomato juice,
spinning it around and around

in the tumbler while his stereo
needle gets stuck in a groove
at the end of Pachebel's Canon
beneath a turnstile Claire de Lune,

but deep in his Bloody Mary mind
spinning around and around
is Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue
oh my Peggy, my Peggy Sue.

 

[greenmountaineer]

A Day in the Life of Big Ronnie

Big Ronnie watches the red-eyes
and sun rise on Sunrise Boulevard,
prepared to say he hasn't any
change when shaking hands for a Lincoln,
selling the Sunday paper to
Christians on their way to see God
and Casanovas after their Mary.

If there's no get up by morning
in his dugout at Orchid Street Park
where horseflies slurp on tobacco juice,
he can sell flowers at 5 p.m.
to shirts and ties for the Mrs.
before he goes to People's Free Clinic
to have his first bout of kidney stones.

That's what Pillsy told him to say
for the pills he'll sell to Sundance Kid
who drives him home in his '83 Ford
to crawl in his hole when the lights are out.

 

[legerdemer]

Big Ronnie watches the red-eyes
<....>
to crawl in his hole when the lights are out.

I've really enjoyed this one.

Love the plays on words and sounds, like:
"...the red-eyes
and sun rise on Sunrise Boulevard"

and...

"...Pillsy told him to say
for the pills he'll sell..."


This is terrific, though I would probably add a comma after God (I have noted you're a punctuation minimalist):

"selling the Sunday paper to
Christians on their way to see God
and Casanovas after their Mary."

The tone of it is playfulness downplayed. Lovely yet again.

You must be assembling a book of poetry...

 

[greenmountaineer]

Thanks, Mer. There are certainly many homeless people who are so for reasons beyond their control. I've seen my share of them throughout my career. There are also a few like Big Ronnie. I've seen those too.

The only book of poetry I'm assembling is for my two children, an older son from a prior marriage who's a career naval officer and my daughter, currently a junior in college. Although 20 years apart, they both apparently inherited my "I like poetry" gene.

Oh, I almost forgot. A third copy goes to my editor, my wife who BTW is the nicest and sexiest 59 year old woman in northern New England, and who has to approve my poems before they're posted. On more than one occasion she's sent me back to the drawing board with good reason.

 

[Trixareforkids]

Oh, I almost forgot. A third copy goes to my editor, my wife who BTW is the nicest and sexiest 59 year old woman in northern New England, and who has to approve my poems before they're posted. On more than one occasion she's sent me back to the drawing board with good reason.

That there is a good woman!

I can't help thinking Sunset Blvd. would fit better, the repetition of sun rise bothers me, wish I could say why . Plus it just has an L.A. Feel to me, shrugs.

 

[greenmountaineer]

That there is a good woman!

I can't help thinking Sunset Blvd. would fit better, the repetition of sun rise bothers me, wish I could say why . Plus it just has an L.A. Feel to me, shrugs.

Could be, Trix. I may have gotten a bit too parochial. Sunrise Boulevard is an actual main thoroughfare down in Ft. Lauderdale, FL. I used to see homeless men selling newspapers in the morning and roses in the evening at the main intersections. They probably do the same out in LA, but I don't know, never having been there.

 

[legerdemer]

Could be, Trix. I may have gotten a bit too parochial. Sunrise Boulevard is an actual main thoroughfare down in Ft. Lauderdale, FL. I used to see homeless men selling newspapers in the morning and roses in the evening at the main intersections. They probably do the same out in LA, but I don't know, never having been there.

Papers, yes. Roses, not so much. At least farther south along the coast.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Riding the Bus in Riyadh

"Chadors aren't as black as chaperones," she hissed.

Her cousin poked her back
and whispered she
would rather talk
about the bra and panty set
Fadl smuggled in

for "what's her name,
you know, the second one."

But Fatima's lost in thought:
"My veil should fall.
They should see my lips,
or if an itch,
I'll lift my hem
to rub a naked toe"

Fatima didn't polish
when on her rug last night
half way through the Insha'a
she dreamt that Father stole her feet
that Mas'ud wouldn't steal her soul.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Seeking Alchemy, Finding None

It's as if the ignis fatuus
under a full moon in early November
gave me back Indian summer,

although it shrouds dead leaves
and shale by the creek like debris,
each shard too brittle to hone

A+L

where the birch bark has died.

So I palm a palette of mud
to finger paint instead my love,
but in the depth of my mind

I see her cold cream fingers
wipe her come hither come hither jeans
with disdain where once there lingered
my fingers unzipping Louise.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Terms of Endearment

"Dead Ass" comes to mind
as in the case of Pillsy,
Buddy, and Pinhead hanging out
down at Freeman Street Park

when you want to mooch a butt
as in "Hey, Dead Ass, get off your butt
and gimme one of your Camels"
even when there's only four left

after a game of b-ball,
two on two, point a basket,
as in a dead ass sweet summer sun
when August makes your high tops stink.

Thank God Witkowski ain't here,
Dead ass just stands there, six foot three,
arms outstretched, he's a klutz,
so easy to take the b-ball away.

Dumb ass is also acceptable
only if you're outta butts,
but it doesn't mean I luv ya, Man,
as much as dead ass does.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Nouveau Riche

Grimes, le chauffeur, drives Benny down
to the club at five fifteen pm
where he orders Beef Wellington

without the pastry, Sacre Bleu!
he likes to say to snigger Papá
as the old man putt-putts in his den

unless, of course, it's gluten free
he likes to say to snigger Mamán
before Gustave does her hair again

at five fifteen while Benny watches
grass grow on the putting green
where someone pokes a ball now and then.

 

[greenmountaineer]

María Comes in from the Cold

María whose gray hair is white
with flakes of Hackensack snow
will eat frijoles cold tonight
unless someone fixes her stove

while no one in Boca Ratón,
the big rats, fat cats, or landlord,
will pick up el teléfono
or has to come in from the cold

speaking Spanglish in el Welfare
Office rattling por favor
una pildora left in el bottle
por la vagina, Señor,

for petty crimes from laid back times
when on her knees in Mayagüez
María teased Hola Muchacho
and never had to say please.

 

[greenmountaineer]

A Girl and her Dog on Skunk Hollow Road

Teats still sagging for puppies not there,
the black bitch wags its mud crusted tail
and chases another thingamabob
Little Girl tosses next to her trailer
missing its skirt like a green-sleeves whore
still working the farmhands in November.

It's March fifteenth on Skunk Hollow Road
where a rusted out lawn mower leans
much like the cornstalk left in the field
next to a rusted out snowmobile,
and the mercury's still at seventeen,
although it feels like twenty below

when the wind whips a tee shirt off the line
Blackie will fetch to take to the hole
she dug at noon when the sun was high
since mud on a rug is warmer than snow
another day down on Skunk Hollow Road.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Mona's Song

A year ago, assisted with her living,
Mona sang "We'll Meet Again."
Tonight it might as well have been
a window tintinnabulum,
for Mona can't recall a word
when Gina asks her Daddy why
her Nonna needs a lullaby.

As latex hands wear patience thin,
I whisper, "Mamma," cheek to cheek,
"These songs we treasured won't be lost
Te amo, Mama, Tu capishe?
The World War Benny Goodman swing
and even country lovelorn twang
that was so Bronx Italian wrong."

Where Gina hears a crow that caws,
the voice I hear is Vera Lynn
when 1-2-3 the airborne gloves
turn bedsores up.

It's Mona's song.

http://youtu.be/cHcunREYzNY

 

[legerdemer]

A year ago, assisted with her living,
Mona sang "We'll Meet Again."
<....>

http://youtu.be/cHcunREYzNY

It's so touching, gm. Small quibble: don't trust me, but I think it's probably "capisce".

These lines!

"Tonight it might as well have been
a window tintinnabulum,
for Mona can't recall a word
when Gina asks her Daddy why
her Nonna needs a lullaby."


Your YouTube brought to mind another song I associate with World War II and with my own parents: Lili Marlene

 

[greenmountaineer]

It's so touching, gm. Small quibble: don't trust me, but I think it's probably "capisce"......

You're right, Mer. I struggled with whether or not to put in the Italian spelling or the Anglophone misspelling to emphasize the soft "sh" and re-enforce the whispering. As you probably know, the proper pronunciation has a "shuh" sound with the "e" at the end of the proper spelling. Out here on the East Coast, particularly among the working class Italians, the sound of the word is often contracted to sound as "sh" at the ending; hence, the misspelling.

 

[legerdemer]

You're right, Mer. I struggled with whether or not to put in the Italian spelling or the Anglophone misspelling to emphasize the soft "sh" and re-enforce the whispering. As you probably know, the proper pronunciation has a "shuh" sound with the "e" at the end of the proper spelling. Out here on the East Coast, particularly among the working class Italians, the sound of the word is often contracted to sound as "sh" at the ending; hence, the misspelling.

Yes, I see the dilemma...

 

[Angeline]

You're right, Mer. I struggled with whether or not to put in the Italian spelling or the Anglophone misspelling to emphasize the soft "sh" and re-enforce the whispering. As you probably know, the proper pronunciation has a "shuh" sound with the "e" at the end of the proper spelling. Out here on the East Coast, particularly among the working class Italians, the sound of the word is often contracted to sound as "sh" at the ending; hence, the misspelling.

Yes, I see the dilemma...

I saw it and figured it was a colloquial usage, but then I'm from the East Coast and I always heard "capishe," capishe? GM, maybe if you take out the "Tu" that precedes it, it wouldn't seem like a typo...

Mer I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood, so it was "capishe?" outside and "fershtay?" at home.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I saw it and figured it was a colloquial usage, but then I'm from the East Coast and I always heard "capishe," capishe? GM, maybe if you take out the "Tu" that precedes it, it wouldn't seem like a typo...

Mer I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood, so it was "capishe?" outside and "fershtay?" at home.

I've heard both, Angie, although I would agree "capishe" was more prevalent. For this section of the poem, I was trying to establish a sense of music by way of iambic tetrameter to support the narrative which, I think, works with "tu" but wouldn't otherwise. Maybe that's too much of a reach, but it still sounds better to my ear when included.

 

[Angeline]

I've heard both, Angie, although I would agree "capishe" was more prevalent. For this section of the poem, I was trying to establish a sense of music by way of iambic tetrameter to support the narrative which, I think, works with "tu" but wouldn't otherwise. Maybe that's too much of a reach, but it still sounds better to my ear when included.

I understand. Either way it's a beautiful poem, very evocative to me.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Tar Beach

"What's so rare as a day in Junius?"
Sister Bea said when we last heard Latin
during pomp and circumstance practice
turning of high school mortarboard tassels,

some of which Francesca blew
who told the old nun she was going
to lay in the sun on Coney Island
with Coppertone, Coke, and God willing,

anyone who looked like Adonis
before she enters Brooklyn College
in September nineteen sixty-
six which hung on her lipstick lips

"Cuniculus is Latin," Sister Bea said,
"for rabbit and coney a derivative
the Dutch and the Brits called the rabbits
that ate up the island in 1690"

I'm reminded of ipso facto tonight
up on the roof in Jackson Heights
with Wolfman Jack on the radio
as the moon howls back at my tongue.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Going in Again for the Cure

Another four weeks of gin rummy hell
serenity prayers with my name is Bill
et al. in rooms of windowless walls

because I promised my Helen of Troy,
now dead in Albany, where born and bred
we danced to the big band tunes before war
turned into hell in a B52,

and three weakened GI Joes on a reef
after two weeks without Lucky Strikes
and the body and blood of Jesus Christ
did three on a match, so to speak,

that Helen and someone named Dottie
might have their honeys to dance with
and we would have something to drink.

 

[greenmountaineer]

R-Nani

Oh, how I love R-Nani
who makes my bed every day
and eats Campbell's soup in the kitchen
and likes to wash the floor.

I heard Mommy say pickaninny,
and I think it was very funny
because it sounds like Ginny,
my best friend who lives next door.

So I told R-Nani what Mommy said,
and R-Nani said it was funny,
and this morning Mommy and me
played house and maybe tomorrow
I'll play again with R-Nani.

 

[legerdemer]

Oh, how I love R-Nani
<....>
I'll play again with R-Nani.

I like the way you used the POV of the child to wrap the seriousness and hurt of the situation. Each stanza is so spare, a quick sketch that says everything we need to know, building to the inevitable question.