writing – Page 7 – poems 2 die for

IN THE LIGHT OF WHICH

MASTERCLASS

I sat in the masterclass
rewriting a haiku
for the ninety
ninth time

when this unkempt lunatic
barged into ths room
hair, spectacles, beard
much like
Allen Ginsberg

he had a can
of spray paint with him
at a
furious, frenetic pace
did aeorosol poetry

floor to ceiling
all over the walls

and all
I had to save aesthetic rigour
defend high culture

was a tiny
little replica of
an evil Muramasa katana

but I would not dare
to sully that blade.

TWO POEMS (FLOOD; LUMINE)

FLOOD

poetry should
come
in flood

to be
any good

he said, this
bar room
brawler, boozer
of the word
did

and who am I
to pick
a fight with him

(what kind of
Charlie would I then be?)

and truth be told
hate the very
thought of once
more into
the rewriting, yet
more drafting

the thing with a mind to
resist, go
where it secretly insists,
be the
very soul
of entropy

and here we are
draft five, six, eight
or seven

express elevator down to Hell
it feels, no
stairwell to
melodic heaven

fast and furious
brain to paper

nothing lost
perfect tbirty seconds

and me, slaving away to
be
contrapuntal, speak
counter-
argument

wondering, dear reader,
dear reader

how so many of you
so so quick
to come
to snap judgement

make slick quick poetic love
to the smokey
soul of this man

who would not have
you touch the poem

until it
scresms at you

insisting
on birth
insisting on life

life on the line
down with an offer you
dare not refuse

****

LUMINE

you wound me
up like
a clockword

gave me
an extra turn

then pushed
me to the limit

harder a taskmastee
more cruel
in your tutelage
than Tarantino’s Pai Mei

but when
we broke that limit
my limit

brought me back
from a death

that bird sang a song
sweet fluting lyric that

touched
the firmament

WORK ITSELF

FOR THIS THING

CAN DO

I had
a story

a short
story

but it
was

too
short

so I tried to
stretch it, really
extend it

turned out to be
so easily elastic it could
spread to infinity
swallow
the Universes

which is exactly what
the chip in my phone
allows me
to do

what the chip in my brain
compells me to achieve

STILL SPEAKS

dead inside
but a voice still speaks

leaks out stuff
dribbles
of delight

you might
laugh at, work with,

see
how hard it is
for things
to crystallize

one perfect line per
every
waste
basket life

RIGHT MIND

A DAMN

always
in a rush to
publish

sometimes I leave typos
all over the page

sometimea my
typos
themselves
have typos

sometimes I wonder
when I write

where the Hell
is the poetry
where
is that thing
the poem

not in the world
and apparently
not
on the page

maybe
I should go look
for it

maybe we
should all go
look for it

try to figure out
what the Hell
has happened to it

go
find Dante
he
being the
expert in
such matters

hear it
from hia own mouth
hear it from
all those
voices

the blessed
and the damned

how
small poetry has got
allowed
itself
to get

barred from Heaven
closed off
from Hell
lost
all its real estate
kicked
off its land

nothing big left
to talk about
nobody listening
no
imagination
inspiration

so just shovel that shit put
it
out there
have to
put it there regardless

put it out there
fast and
furious
wrap, drench
the world in it
before it dies
entirely

no time
to worry about
this and that
the dream
of certainty
delusions
of perfection

the time
for care
and concern
has all but
vanished
is long-
time gone

no worry about typos
lack of rhyth, rhyme
missed meaning
what
does not
scan

no one
gives a fig

no one gives a damn

OF THE FITTEST

I like the way
you shot this scene

but what
does it mean
what does
it mean?

why this blocking, these
camera angles, this framing?

what does your cinematography
do for, what is it
doing to my poem?

so much you have to
surrender to reach
a wider audience

sacrifice gleefully, even
ecstatically,
for
your art
to
survive