Monthly Archives: February 2011

‘Round Midnight

(written by Thelonious Monk, performed by Miles Davis)

 

When you put the funny hat on your horn

you take Monk’s tune down

darker streets, into

darker bars where

Sinatra’s asking Joe

to set ‘em up and

Ella’s letting Billie

sob on her shoulder,

and you keep flexing your arm, trying

to keep the cramps from taking you

for the inevitable fix

in the dirty john.

 

‘Trane tries to take you up into

a major sunrise and you let him

run about a while, then bring him back

where he and it belong

–in the minor,

in the dark.

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Comic Cuts

(A sharp-edged setting

summed up pronto—

moonlit penthouse,

high-tech, empty.)

 

Telephone burbles

and sex interrupted:

he answers in silence,

she listens in dread.

 

A gun from a drawer is

hastily pocketed,

a hurried embrace then

she watches him go.

 

The next time she sees him

he bleeds on her shoulder

in the back of a limo

on a traffic-free street.

 

Revenge is a boardroom,

seven suits in a row:

there’s blams and there’s blood

and a reckoning is done.

 

He looks tired when she greets him,

there’s a cut-out of kiss,

then they walk away happy,

a long shot of bliss.

Vice Versa

Mourning is fashionable

in the Cities of the Plain—

barely-legal girls wreathed in

widow’s weeds while

their beaux are tattooed

like tombstones.

 

Undead, they gawp at

their gaudy elders,

so manifestly living their lives

the wrong way round.

Capricorn

The Greeks get all the credit for our sky

but, as on Earth, a little digging

yields older bones.

The stars meant something in Sumer too

in first cities

rising from rivers.

 

Half goat, half fish—what the fuck?

Caprice? No. It’s Enki,

Lord of Nudimmud—of making–

and of mischief when

cooking Men from clay

was all the rage amongst Gods.

 

The goat-fish was King in a

land of mud where

Ziggurats at least kept

your feet dry,

where wet earth was

pierced by first pen.

 

There was so much water Enki thought

it would be fun to have more,

a flood to float his thoughts on

Man’s evanescence,

watching his buildings

sink back into mud.

 

“Man is Man is Man, when not

Woman,” laughed Enki, watching the

bitter black lake spill into the

Middle Sea, his own headwaters

leaching rich soil, turning his sea

forever red.

 

Babel is gone, Sumer no more,

Eridu smitten with weapons.

The sky has moved, taken the old Goat

down a peg or two—but

he’s still Enki and he will

surprise you yet.

No poem but

look at this link if you are a writer

http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/02/second-writers-platform-building.html

Ornette

An ornery Texan playing plastic
like a New Orleans funeral band
on speed,
frightening at first
until the soulfulness got you
and the swing,
because they never buried you in New Orleans
without swing.

Cinematography

Wide shot, mid-shot, medium close-up,

close-up (CU for short),

BCU, FBCU (that’s

Fucking Big Close-Up. Ma’am),

Irish Salute (think

just the eyes),

macro (for flies’ eyes to see it):

Dutched, if I want it

at an angle;

Dollied, if I want it

moving;

Spanished, if I want it

gone;

DFI, if I have a

different fucking idea;

and if I ask a spark why

a light’s not working,

the fucking fucker’s

fucking fucked.

 

This is the language of my working day:

abstruse and vulgar and fizzing with that

evanescent poetry

of the workplace.

“Ruby My Dear” Take 3

Monk tries the keys
one by one from
the big bunch
on his fingers,
each one jangling with
possibilities:
what if I went there?
It started so simple but
the trying is what is
torture and fun because
there are so many chords
between those written.

The Locked Room–A Riddle

There is a dark room in my house

that’s nearly always locked.

I try the handle every day but

the door has a mind of its own.

 

Now and then it opens wide

revealing the room entire

–different each time, full of

jumbled, shrouded things,

a different size and shape and

function: ballroom, bedroom,

kitchen, study, attic, den; each

mysteriously functional but

ineffable, inscrutable.

 

Sometimes it opens just enough

for me to enter, clumsily,

to trip, tumble, fumble my

way to the far side.

Frequently it seems wedged on some

frustrating obstacle just out of sight,

leaving me to peer at possibilities

through the crack.

 

Most times it’s just locked,

sequestered, unrecoverable.

Which?

Was that your breath which

riffled the waters,

shivered me, made me pull up

my collar?

 

Was that your whisper which

I strained to hear,

craning my neck amidst

busy-ness?

 

Was that your touch which

tightened my scrotum and

made me sweat on a

cold night?

 

Was that your laugh which

sent me stupidly searching

the dense heave of a

dark bar?

 

Was that your face which

I glimpsed from a crowded bus,

hemmed in and unable to

get off?

 

Was that you?

N A L I N D A

P H O T O G

Apollonia Saintclair

Ink is my Blood

CHARLESVAS

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Diana Marin

Fine Art Photography, Poetry, Multimedia art, & Editorials

Rusted Honey

Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry

Turning the Lights Off

Random musings inside my head no matter how hard I try to shut the damn lights off

Southern Georgia Bunny

Adventures of an Southern Bunny everything from dating, sex, life and shake your head moments.

Secret Dates Diary

Diary from a hotwife's perspective

Lessons in Kate

What can I teach you?

Human Pages

The Best of History, Literature, Art & Religion

The Cat's Write

Milly Schmidt