Thursday, February 03, 2011

poem: no telling how visible

fine tooth comb
the barely brined

accidental tourists in

the casbah, bridling the fished-

over memories,

salsa-sensing the ancient of daze -

inquisitive little bastard, ain't he? -

digging the laundry out

on all the lines,

catching fire for the nth time

equal parts paisley and rhyme

slip in the side door

kitchen babies, preservatives at

the ready: canning

the lesser times, equivocating

the do ron rons: casually wear

the queries on my sleeve

you'd sneer the leavings, too,

if the drift was plenty,

i go round and round &

the answer's still no

fastforwarding through

the palace guards,

tronning the regulators,

flouting the fashionable

soundings. broadway sez

it better, which leaves little room

for you & the runt: careful how

you raise the tent, this one's

twice at the ready & there's no

telling how visible

the dreams may be:

reconnoiter seven

times the simple blessings, grieve

past the terrors,

situate down the wires,

cable your travelers,

satisfy your last longing

till longing completely over-

fills. you're the register,

you're the blank note, you're

the reason

Samson never wrote.



Blogger Dee Martin said...

inquisitive is right, when a fine tooth comb is wielded - white glove treatment and I am going to have de doo ron ron stuck in my head now along with Ancient of Days, Paisley, sage, rosemary and rhyme. this one was singing all the way through - hope you get some drifts down your way - we are supposed to go back to school in the morning but now the weather service is saying we may get more than we bargained for...I have a few queries on my sleeve for the weatherman.
Loved the part about no telling how visible the dreams may be and you actually rhymed at the end. I'm looking for armageddon any minute but it will probably just be a snowsaster.
Couldn't tell what the picture was - small laptop screen. A fish?

9:07 PM  
Blogger Teresa said...

I liked the photo at the top, but i can't figure out what it is.

This poem just dances along. I like so many of the words: "paisley and rhyme" "equivocating the do ron rons" (no easy feat that), "seven times the simple blessings," and "you're the register, you're the blank note, and you're the reason Samson never wrote." The ending is just so haunting.

Hope you are well. Happy Chinese New Year!

9:39 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: Hope still lingers on, here after midnight. It's misting out there, with calls for more precipitation later and, ahem, snow. Worst case scenario: I have a half-day seminar to attend a mere mile and a half from the house; the kids already have the day off. We were hoping we might still get the whole day off, too.

I have no idea what the image is; it came up when I googled Samson Agonistes: I liked the stonework, and I liked what I saw as a broken-off piece: it felt Samson-ish, not that he is meant to dominate the poem, but all in keeping with my collaging approach.

1:05 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Teresa: I liked that final run of lines, too; liked the rhyme that sneaked in on its own: it does haunt. Thank you for the New Year's wishes!

1:08 AM  
Blogger Dee Martin said...

we got about 4 inches here - no school again today...going to run out of fire wood at this rate.

6:15 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: A powdered sugar dusting on rooftops and streets; not much sticking in the yard, but schools and the seminar are canceled, so I call that a "win."

8:14 AM  
Blogger anno said...

This one caught me up at the "accidental tourists, bridling the fished-
over memories, salsa-sensing the ancient of daze" and carried me right along through the do-ron-rons and into the weighted rhymes of your closing lines. Love the gravity and beautiful sense of closure I always find in your poems. Hope you enjoyed your snow day!

4:11 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Thank you, Anno. This whole poem-making is a strange little enterprise, more a felt sense than anything else: strange as it may sound, it almost (almost) doesn't matter what words I am choosing: I'm simply trying to string them along with the buzzing feeling inside me, which starts as a low hum, picks up to a rough and tumble and then is looking for some set of words that will bring it all to that sense of closure. What I've noticed is that the rhymes and slant rhymes just fall out on their own: I never need to search for them, and then this little gift of closure comes floating on down the river to me.

6:43 PM  

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