RECENT POEMS

ALIENS

Endre Farkas

                  I was sitting in The Skala having a beer
                  When a guy in a Superman’s costume walked by.

What I think you are saying,
inhaling smoke on the back porch
after everyone is in bed:

We’re all aliens

born into this world out of love,
out of rape, by mistake

we enter this alien state
and make it a temporary home
where we struggle, live, love
grow and—

and then, like you
become aliens somewhere else.

What I think you are saying:

To be an alien is to be in our natural state.

I, myself, lately, have been feeling strange,
walking past my parked car

lying among silk desires,
seeing the city as a murder of crows
as rooming-house angels

at night, talking to dreams and fetishes who
stroll along familiar avenues holding hands.

I see your aliens everywhere.

HERE IS WHERE

Endre Farkas

Here is where we find lost memories.
Here, we scatter crumbs
to find our way back to the hidden,
unremembered drawers
in homes we will never return to.

Here is where our guilt and sadness
sit accusingly, silently, like the old
on park benches watching the world
drop its coins in cups and
know that it means nothing.

Here is where no explanation is good enough
no matter how right
to make the guilt and sadness go away.
This is what we inherit,
is our heirloom,
even if we do not want it,
to pass onto our children.

Here is where we come,
bringing morsels of ourselves
watch ourselves disappear
into labyrinths of stories,
with awe we listen
and wave good-bye as best we can.

Here is where we see white steam rising
outside the window this winter afternoon,
and lie down like a laid-out corpse
and, lips barely moving
ask, for the last time,
can I go home now?

THE HEART

Endre Farkas

Beneath the palling skin
wrinkling into translucent luminescence
sagging into jowls, into sacks beneath chins
into peeling at the elbows and knees
into being worn with less care now.

Beneath the loosening weave of muscles
stiffening, slowing the upright jaunt
to a cane-curbing shuffle
unravelling, unflexing, untwining
quickening the arrival to stillness.

Beneath a crashing network,
shorting synaptic messengers
deliver the letters of language,
postcards of places, packages of memories
to the wrong address, for the wrong reasons,
or late, or never.

Within a crumbling castle of bones
creaking fragility haunts
the laboured light
that is neither night nor dawn
but up and down the stairs of
the ever-shortening breaths
embedded—
the dark monarch is slaving away.

Buried deep within,
Sisyphus, a clenched fist sized boxer
in the unlit ring,
always coming out second-best
against the unbeatable
inevitable, one-two of time.

Ignorant as muscle,
the heart, pumping, weakening,
transforms passive life
into fears, thoughts, aches, pains, and attacks
of four-walls-staring questions.

Meditation and a frightening clarity
become its intense progeny.

ONE EVENING IN BATAM     

Ken Norris

She was a thin Indonesian woman
of indeterminate age,
squatting there in the street,
with great dignity
meticulously going through
the plastic bags of garbage
that had been put out
by the businesses,
looking for something to eat.

I gave her some money.
I should have called her mother
and given her everything I own.

SADNESS       

Ken Norris

There's sadness in the rain,
there's sadness in the blue
of the sky.

And sadness is the weight
borne by all beings.

We meet, only to depart
in sadness.

As our friend
is lowered into the ground
and we feel the weight of sadness
everywhere around and within us.

It's an impermanent world,
and the corrosive acid of living
eats away at everything.

We're all on the train
heading for Oblivion--
every last one of us.

Now make a case for happiness.

MY OLD ENEMIES       

Ken Norris

 
I don't pay them any mind.
I just let them disappear.

Time drops by
and carries them off,
and their tedious works
are carried off too, flailing.

The eighteenth century
didn't need to be reprised
after all.

Oh, they were a band
of formal fellows,
and their formality
almost touched me.

But life and art
are about more than etiquette,
and when permitted
to be themselves
they demonstrated
venal tendencies
and abysmal manners.

FOR ANNE 5/11/48 - 2/13/2005       

Claudia Lapp

You’re gone, my girl,
I always thought we’d meet again
in Pau or Dusseldorf, Dublin or New York,
put down some wine on Caribbean terrace,
talk politics and books, buy dresses off the rack,
sautee some scallops for a summer feast.

Hard circumstances took over your life.
You carried on till heart and nerves were spent.
As the Sun moves closer to your day of birth
I can’t believe you’re out of time for projects and
that carrot, retirement, all remedies and plans kaput.
Those scenes we thought we’d someday share –
your daughter’s soccer victories, another tropical beach in winter,
the museum tour I dreamed up just for you,
they have no chance now, since your chair is empty,
way sooner than any one could guess.
Can you believe, me writing an elegy for you?

Almost-sister,
what can I offer but spring sunshine,
from here to wherever you are,
free of watch and train schedules,
beyond the heavy news everyone says is real.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE YEAR       

Claudia Lapp

when I was six and there will only be
one year in which to be six-with-a-zero.

How full that egg shape!
Not empty but spacious,
holding all that has been
and what is yet to be in this lifetime.

Driving home from the airport
I delight in the many ways
the year’s oval could be filled,
choices and desires mine alone.

From six-O, I direct my chariot
and look back on the girl in pinafore
who bridled her wishes to fit the rules,
raged like a mustang to kick her paddock down.

Supremely calm on this first day
of six-with-a-zero, I surrender to
what comes up in my globe-o,
my mother’s touch light on my shoulders,
grandmother’s strength in my heart.

Relaxed, (so unaccustomed),
hands on the steering wheel,
even without a map, confident,
cruising at my own speed.

HERE'S THE THING   

Here’s the thing:
Mornings should be for caresses,
coffee and biscotti, or, if you ask the cats,
kibbles and sill sitting. As they crunch and jump,
radio news is just noise to them.
If only I could ignore the bleak words fed to us –
ways some want to kill us and we, them
(I won’t name the ways, mornings are for glad things -
squirrel who begs, thrush who trills.)

Politicians and their experts warn:
Evil is everywhere, aiming to strike us
in our kitchens and hot tubs.
Officials advise that safety from horror
can be had with duct tape, plastic sheeting, bleach.
They insist that no such safety exists for the enemy,
that our enemies shall have no more beautiful mornings,
not in Baghdad, Fallujah or Kandahar.

So here’s the thing:
We need words that vibrate quicker
than ones invented by terror and official dread,
so we can start the day like cats and children –
eager to reach for the hours, palms together,
mind eddies for the moment stilled.

THOSE BLUE SUNGLASSES       

Claudia Lapp

which I lose at least twice a day
and to whose pale blue ovals I’m so attached
drive me crazy again today – misplaced,
swallowed by some black hole – maddening,
maddening, I say… knowing they are just
where I put them, it’s my mind that’s missing,
whole seconds vanished from awareness, scary.

Oh, there they are, the black frames straddling the sofa
(why not?). I vow not to let them out of my sight,
stick them onto my head into my hair, knowing my
mind’s likely to lose track of them the very next minute.

As a child, I had the excuse of being a child when
favorite objects were lost. As a young woman, oh
I was always in love, or stoned, or had my mind on
higher things. Now I could blame it on mid-life,
but that means things will only be getting worse.
So I vow to keep tabs on my mind, not miss any moments,
and bow to my teacher, a pair of pale blue shades.

VIRTUOUS MOMENT   for Carol

Claudia Lapp

meaning, thoroughly good, perfect,
this long hour on a massage table.
Getting touched by the right person, in a quiet home,
dollars earned by a woman who will use it
for the well-being of herself and her son.
From this exchange, no corporation profits,
just muscles and tissues, which soften and open,
and mind, slowing to sigh in a simple room
under moss green flannel sheets, soles, palms
and shoulders warmed by plump black stones
from an enamel cooker.

This is the virtuous moment
that lingers in cellular memory,
brings domestic peace.

THE POWER OF YOGA       

Claudia Lapp

Supine, legs up the wall in relaxation stretch,
more than a dozen women in yoga class
slowly descend to seated posture and
sit tall, faces soft, after the efforts of asanas.

Long sighs all around,
then a charged stillness,
like a summer bedroom after love,
foreheads damp, shirts and blankets askew.

We’ll get up from our mats and
bring our loosened bodies, beautified,
into the noisy gritty world, bees OM’ing,
lucky, and knowing it, to be so alive.

4 PM       

PLEASURE IN EXERCISE, IN AIR
      in Breath itself       better with motion as lungs pull in crisp winter

IN SOUND OF BROOK     UNDER AND OUT FROM THIN ICE

          the brook/Der Bach has soft songs/leise Melodien

PLEASURE OF CHEST AND SHOULDERS PUSHING AIR

          Lungs -organs of Pleasure pump       organs of Grief wail

THAT’S NOT COLD ENOUGH TO HURT

          Cold as tonic       Wintery pleasure

JUMPING INTO SNOW BANK       NO SOUND

you at 20 in photo on Alpine slope snowball in hand

arms bare     snow frosted hair & ski suit, smiling behind shades

                   Full Sun at 12 PM

2)

PLEASURE, BUT TO THE EYE, TERROR OF A KIND

                   In one short breath jump from Joy to Dread

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTO WORLD

                  Unreal          no sound          no breath

NOT NIGHT YET BUT AT 4 PM NO LIGHT WE KNOW

                  turning from day to dark, Bardo of alien season begins

HEMLOCKS AND CEDAR A TONELESS BLACK
SNOW-TUFTED TRUNKS AND BOUGHS

                  Evergreens          deprived of color      no sound


BLACK SKY WHITE     BIRCHES WHITER     SNOW INFINITELY WHITER

                                    Jungfrau’s peak, Mount Shasta’s dazzle
                                        you reach for more & more Light

ALL THINGS MUTED         DEPRIVED OF COLOR

      dust gray jacket           your blanched face a mask robbed of sunbeams

AS IF COLOR WERE UTTERANCE

                                             Color as Utterance?! Brush strokes violent
                                                      defy muting of light and desire

                           Utterances Un-uttered          Shadowed          No sound


A TERROR AS OF ECLIPSE …………………………THE WHITE’S GRAYING

                           Nothing to save you
                               Nothing

INTO THIS SPACE                    

Tom Konyves

                  light at first penetrates uneasily in long pencil-thin strokes, unsettling dust before moving on, ever upward, bouncing from glass to metal in Pan-like strides yet without any semblance of mischief or grace. Its touch is warm, it's true, yet it pretends not comfort or joy. Impossible to deduce a will moving invisible yet causing enlightenment. Against all odds, the creator walks into the path of light streaming through the crusted window and interrupts the silence with a song. The beams know it not, nor the nocturnal roaches, and the mirror is blind, the dust unforgiving.

Into this space
                  water drips mysteriously, avoiding the snare of a tin can with its random bursts. The roof was coated in all the likely places, yet the uneven tap of water persists, a benefit for an unknown tree in an impenetrable forest.

Into this space
                  two lovers have escaped to spend an uninterrupted night together. The calm of the neighbourhood does not diminish their fear of discovery. They nearly trip upon a cot, over which he spreads his long black coat, sits to remove his boots. She is cold under the cover, sitting and hugging her knees, and rocking, attempting to see through the dark. His whispers grow more urgent, yet she moves not, and is silent. He laughs into the silence, to which she replies with a whisper, then a kiss, and a touch.

Into this space
                  a group of squatters have begun moving furniture, a cooking range, portable heaters, boxes of clothing, canned pasta foods. Three men struggle with a washtub through the hallway. As one iron leg catches on a loose floorboard, they're forced to retreat and examine the remaining distance. Children scream and run up the stairs, followed by a small but loud scruffy white dog.
The women hang sheets to divide the sleeping quarters. Two old men sit at a table, tapping black and red pieces on a checkerboard, arguing, punctuating their curses with spitting on the floor.

Into this space
                  Fellini and then Ferlinghetti lured a plump girl of nineteen who has lured three young boys who carry bottles of wine and baguettes. The youngest drags the others' schoolbooks behind him, tied together with a simple belt. How she dances and twirls, drinks and gesticulates with the bread, now like a proud soldier with his gun, now a focused batter with his powerful bat. How the boys cheer and stamp their feet. Popping a cork, she lifts the bottle high, lifts her skirts, and smashes an empty against the brick wall. The youngest begins to cry at that, while the other two hold him back from running out. Loud whispers in his ear do still him, and he raises a new bottle high and thrusts it out to her.

Into this space
                  a burly seascape painter drops his easel near a wide window. Sneezing twice, he struggles with the latch, and succeeds to open the window but not without a big bang which threatens to smash the frail panes. Examining the room from different angles, he retreats, reappearing with two black suitcases, which he drags beside the easel, emptying the contents into one pile. A large blue cloth is last to emerge, which he spreads out on the floor with great care. Now naked, he lies on his back, hands clasped on his chest, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Into this space
                  a general will order his men to fire. Positions had been taken only hours before, no warning will be given, no inquiry made as to the occupants' identities or choices (whether, indeed there were occupants, and, if so, were they the cause of the maneuver). The instructions were simple, continue firing until the building is brought down to the ground. The general is not one to question his orders; he has read the handwritten note many times over. There is no reason given, only an address, underlined with three heavy strokes of the pen, a brief statement of purpose, and an indecipherable signature the general took for the Secretary of the Interior. He was not going to take any chances either; a tank was rolled within thirty feet, two truckloads of recent recruits were dispersed in small groups to circle the building. First, the lines of communication to the building are severed. Next, traffic is rerouted, and, as the last voices of soldiers become less audible, there remains only the wait until the word is given.

Into this space
                  the word is given by the poet with the mustache headache, fighting off impossible demands on his flesh, and his bloodtype. To be known for one who "caught a glimpse of the eternal,
despite clearly posted signs to the contrary" he launches one final desperate metaphor and disappears.

Into this space
                  you enter alone, bearing your heart, mind and body. The poem is illuminated upon the wall of your mind, it reminds you of dream in which you were afraid and you knelt before your saviour and said I am so afraid please help and the reply was laughter and shame, you shielded your eyes with your hands and they were wet and they were bloody and you screamed and awoke in the bed of a stranger; the poem strips you bare while you're listening, the poem enters your body as an orgasm.

Into this space
                  seven poets retreat in the heat of writing. In time, they find the perfect combination of form and image – the father hitching white clouds to white horses. Immediately, they are rewarded with the appearance of a great ark, literally floating above the times, a vehicle transformed into a kind of post-modern muse: dispensing favours but coin operated.

LOST AND FOUND       

Tom Konyves

DOMINICAN MOON

Ken Norris

MY FRANCESCA

Ken Norris

THE POETRY WARS

Ken Norris

GETTING STARTED

Endre Farkas

If I rest for a moment
just before turning the corner
at Bonavista and The Boulevard
waiting for the light to change
the world becomes a busy place
filled with trapeze artists without ropes
just the hope that the almost orange lights
are strung as nets
and I, dropping down like teardrops
plowing the granite night,
am afraid that it will be a dream of bowler hats
and umbrellas
so I tighten my belt and wait.

IN-SEEING

Endre Farkas

If I rest for a moment
using Rilke’s letters as an example
I will imagine you & I
as vowels
whose affairs are clandestine
between the consonants
whose letters are not tied with ribbons
nor hiding in a shoe box
but in humping nakedness are scattered
across the bed for all to read.

MORE IMAGES

Endre Farkas

If I rest for a moment
and not write a poem
how many starving fat-bellied children
will die of hunger
in countries I can not name
beginning with mine
so I plough and plant
into the white page and watch
black seeds of words
grow into a greater hunger.

WAYS OF LOOKING

Endre Farkas

If I rest for a moment
and rage I will see a stranger
sight than Bauhaus chairs headfirst
ass to God in a pool of snow in the dog
park outside my door
but why
when the world gives me
such riches on December third at eight am.

MANY WAYS OF LOOKING

Endre Farkas

1

If I rest for a moment
I will never see a poem
and
If I rest for a moment
in the wind-whipped tree
and
If I rest for a moment
outside my window;
and etc
a pine tree
as big as my four story apartment building
swaying with the passion of a Hassidic Jew
at the Wailing Wall


2

If I rest for a moment
I will never see a Hasidic Jew
at the Wailing Wall swaying
with the passion
of the wind-whipped
four story tall pine tree
outside my window;


3

If I rest for a moment
I will see a poem
wind whipped
bitch slapped
groin gonged
head banged

but giving as good as it gets
and get good.


4

If I rest for a moment



This series was inspired by looking at a “creative Writing Manual” and the first line from the Frank O’Hara poem “Music” (1954).
farkas
jan 08/08