comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 3

Should I send this to Slate when it’s done?

“Hell it is, Pop” version 3

Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread

a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,

the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.

Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.

How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,

range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.

Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.

another postcard

Beverly Backstrom was another of Mom's old buddies. I like this one because it is just a nicely written dispatch from travel. You don't have to know anything about Beverly or Mom to find it interesting.

comments on "Hell it is, Pop!" version 2

Most of the poems I’ve versioned on LuvSet have been old old poems. The first version of this one is quite new. Usually I do a new version just before I post it. Version 2 is not that fresh. In fact, I already have versions 3 & 4.

"Hell it is, Pop!" version 2

From above, the diamond burns
ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread

a cure for the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,

the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.

Shine me on over light-fingered

ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
a toe’s-breadth above turbid currents

below which blind muck-lurkers
poke feet of claw.

How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,

range cheek by elbow, acre lines
overlapping plots families draw,

knot by knot, among their grudges.

Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new filament

with an oomph and an oomph and
an oom pah pah. Good time! Good news!

Good road not yet cracked with green,

earth girded by meets,
loosened for goodbye.

Among the material I brought back from my mother's house was a box of postcards. Most of them are blank. A few aren't. This one is from Mom's old friends Rose & Galen Smith.

comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 1

“Hell it is, Pop” is a piece written on top of "Elegy, Father's Day"
By Kevin Young, which appeared at Slate.

“Hell it is, Pop” version 1

From above, the diamond burns its look
into ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread

curing the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,

the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.

Shine me on over light-fingered

ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
just above the turbid currents

below which blind muck-wanderers
poke clawed feet.

How many thousands of feints
and hundreds of falls,

ranged cheek by elbow, line the acres,
overlap like plots families draw,

knot by knot, among their grievances.

Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new sight

with an oomph and an oomph and
an oompah pah. Good time!

Good road not yet cracked
with green,

the earth girded by meets,
loosened with goodbyes.

Living in Berkeley

Rained yesterday & through the night.

Kent wanted to see the new Coen Brothers movie, No Country for Old Men, but it’s not playing in Berkeley. What? With all our movie theaters?

For lunch we walked down to Au Coquelet, a café on University Ave. Sun’s shining now.