comments on "Mom"

A portrait of Mom. Supposed to be simple and light. It amused her, I think.

Mom

Mom


63
she doesn’t jog
does walk briskly
swinging her arms
crunches over the gravel
by the RR tracks
talks about health
(raw fruits and vegetables)
beach, redwoods, state parks
sure she takes the easy walks
she has a slow stroll uphill
but she’s got a ruddy face from the sun
she hops, she bounces, jounces
on her home trampoline
she plays a banjo
doesn’t write poetry
but she sings

*

another poem from February 1985

another poem from February 1985

Car After Discovering That the Lights Have Been Left On


RUBRUBRUBRUBRUBRUBRUBRUB
phootitit

RUBRUBRUBRUBreedlereedlereedle
reedlereedlereedlerrumbrumhu—
boompoophititit…it…i

RUBRUBRUBRUBRUBreedlereedle
boomboomroom
BUBARUDDATOOOOMMMMMM
rumblerumblerumble
brrrr

*

another poem from February 1985
I’m not expecting any further versions of this one.

comments on two poems combined, version 2

I rearranged the lines. It struck me that most of the poem breaks into couplets – “I dry my hand again. Look, pie! / The crust will hold guests,” for example. I tried couplets as stanzas but after a couple readings decided the space was asking each couplet to stand on its own in a way they just wouldn’t do.

That coupleting is a sort of halfway place between the single-line statements of the first of the two source poems and the sentences that wind down through multiple lines in the second source poem. I prefer sinuousness in sentences; yet the stiffness of version 2 here appeals to me for its insistent strangeness. That line – “Ugh, that uncut handkerchief – yuck!” – has a particularly unnatural quality.

two poems combined, version 2

The handle comes unglued
while being dusted damply.
Starting to hear the window,
I draw spirals out of the glass’s ring.
In the lather over the dish dinge
the shape of my remaining hand.
Nothing in the cupboard looks like water
or like food, nothing on the counter adds up.
I dry my hand again. Look, pie!
The crust will hold guests.
In the easy chair in the living room
I press the guest book. Of five pens,
four are long gone.
The ceiling has done shadows,
the ice also a suggestion.
Weakness in fingers like flowers.
Haven’t eaten the evening black.
Went shopping hungry,
scrubbed kettles.
Sprouts and bread, peas and milk.
Ugh, that uncut handkerchief – yuck!
Small glass of water sipped slowly
to make it last until blue.

comments on two poems combined

OK. Here it is. You didn’t think those two poems could be combined?

Dave King in a comment said he preferred the second of those two, the one that starts, “I have no fingers like flowers.” I have to say that line is my favorite line. Yet in this version I’ve turned it around; rather than having “no fingers like flowers”, the fingers are “like flowers.” Kent told me he preferred the first of the two, the one that starts, “Weakness in limbs.”

two poems combined

Weakness in fingers like flowers.
Haven’t eaten the evening black.
Went shopping hungry,
scrubbed kettles.
Sprouts and bread, peas and milk.
Ugh, that uncut handkerchief – yuck!
Small glass of water sipped slowly
to make it last until blue.
The handle comes unglued
while being dusted damply.
Starting to hear the window,
I draw spirals out of the glass’s ring.
In the lather over the dish dinge
the shape of my remaining hand.
Nothing in the cupboard looks like water
or like food, nothing on the counter adds up.
I dry my hand again. Look, pie!
The crust will hold guests.
In the easy chair in the living room
I press the guest book. Of five pens,
four are long gone.
The ceiling has done shadows,
the ice just a suggestion.

comments on two poems

More poems from the 1985 notebook – I could spend the rest of my life there! The two poems have a similar look, don’t they? And a similar feel, though “Uneaten” attempts to be straight reportage while “I have no fingers like flowers” tries some imaginative flourishes.

I post them both here because I decided to combine them for the new version.

two poems

Uneaten


Weakness in limbs
Haven’t eaten yet at 4:40
went shopping hungry
sprouts and bread and peas and milk
drink a small glass of water
sipping slowly to make it more
starting to hear things
harsh breathing at the window
I draw wet spirals on the table in the glass’ ring
nothing in the cupboard looks like food
nothing in the icebox looks like food
pour another glass of water
leave it undrunk on the kitchen counter
sit in the easy chair in the living room
can’t read
nothing on TV
can’t close my eyes
can’t open my mouth
can do nothing but look at the ceiling
the ceiling empty of shadows


*


I have no fingers like flowers
and can’t imagine the evening as black as
unscrubbed kettles. I fry an egg.
I despise uncut handkerchiefs,
shaped clay unbaked
make a ceramic pot, glaze it blue
in years hardly used the handle comes unglued
while being dusted with a damp rag.
I dip my hand in dishwater,
the handprint still visible in the lather
not even the pie dough
has to be remarked upon
or the filling
I station myself at the door
with the guest book and five pens
which disappear in succession
I close the book gently
still reading the names.

-- 3/5/85

life in Berkeley

I'm sitting on the couch, a blanket over my legs, cat nestled between my shins. Listening to CDs. Moe Tucker's solo work is reminiscent of the Velvet Underground -- Tucker was their drummer so no surprise there. She even has a vocal delivery about like Lou Reed.

I've been fighting a flu. Had a fever dream night last night, which might or might not have been better than the night before -- at least I slept! Dreams too frequently were wrapped up with evil of Prop 8. Fighting, fighting.

We have Chinese food leftover from dinner last night. Will watch America's Next Top Model at eight.