Showing posts with label dog and pony show. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog and pony show. Show all posts

Saturday, November 13, 2021

Abyssinia

 
 
 
 

 
 
Abyssinia
 
 
She wanted out
before they came with
the Chicago overcoat,
but her luck was never aces,
like a filly four men own a leg of;
still her eyes. She had lamps like
two shots of fizz, a nightcap in themselves
and the bob she got to peeve her mother
she thought fit her like a laurel glove
when she left the farm behind her
when life began to wind her
like a two dollar watch.

She climbed the satin stairway 
to a sky of empty sockets just west
of Hooverville and the L.A.summer moon.
She bumped gums with the butter and egg man, 
the man who stepped on stars, another flicker
for his candle on the purple velvet couch. He cast 
her sixth behind Lugosi, the girl who screams
her heart out in a movie off the cob. He gave her eyes
a number in a book with a hundred others
who ran away from their mothers
to an apple filled with worms.

After Fatty took the Rappe,
before the Dahlia bloomed her ink smudge,
she hollered, "Abyssinia," kissed off
 the painted desert, hooked up
with the junior props boy, and threw the watch
away. They moved to North Dakota, and
she told her grandkids nothing
about being sixth behind Lugosi,
about cadillacs and canaries
about L.A. in January,
about the girl too many owned a leg of
or the man who stepped on stars.


November 2021











 
 posted for Fireblossom at
The Sunday Muse, whose theme today is
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: Abysinnia is '30's slang for "I'll be seeing you." A Chicago overcoat likewise for a coffin. To 'own a leg of' a horse is to be part of a syndicate which mutually invests in a racehorse for profit, bumping gums is to talk aimlessly or too much, especially about yourself. You can look up the rest of the slang I've used   here,   the Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle/Virginia Rappe scandal which rocked 1920's Hollywood  here,  and the notorious Los Angeles Black Dahlia murder case which sold so many newspapers  here.
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
Images: Mischa Barton posed as early film star Louise Brooks, via Sunday Muse  Fair Use
Still from the 1929 German film Pandora's Box, starring Louise Brooks and Fritz Kortner  Fair Use
 

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Don't Look Back


Don't Look Back





Out of the carnage
from the wriggling wreck
what is left
a snatch of song
a smile of peace
gone before the singing  stops.

Impossible to see
what comes next, looking back
as you kill
what pain you can
yet feel it still
in each step on.

Sanity's made from buzz and busy,
a cubical sanctuary;
you can't look back
if you want to sleep
you can't look back
but you, eyes wide, you do

to see just why
there's no forgiveness
no respite, no sacramental
wafer, wishing wine,
heart cupped dry
in the long walk on;

only the thirst,
the broken things,
only the knowledge
dropped from the tree
and the snake who nods
and sings.




~July 2014





Image: Haywain Triptych, circa 1500, by Heironomous Bosch
Public Domain via wikiart.org:
"Although similar to the Garden of Earthly Delights triptych, the Haywain Triptych is a less fantastical and nightmarish depiction of the same tale. From the left to the right, the panels depict God creating Eve from one of Adam’s ribs, earthly humans engaging in all types of sins, and a portrayal of the journey into hell. This journey through good and evil is a much less terrifying tale, as it details the many sins of humans, yet does not detail the frightfully lurid and shocking horrors under the watchful eye of the prince of hell. The outer panels of the triptych, when closed, detail a character called the wayfarer, who makes his way through the panels and through the journey from good to evil, allowing the viewer to place himself inside the world of the triptych, and take the journey along with him."  Ibid.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Epistemology: Prayer


Epistemology: Prayer






  So,
what       do
we      know   of
prayer?  A   hundred
 nights   I've  prayed
let       me    stop
loving      you
  let    me
    stop    
looking   for     you     in    wind's
twisting    of    clouds,  the  dead
face   of    full   moons,   toppling
piles  of  shut  books   in  tumbl'd
rooms.  Let  my  soul  grow  still,
calm,  old   as  it  should.   Let  it
laugh  in    dog's   tongue,   learn
love   with  small  things, dropp'd
stars,   dawnsongs  of   sparrows,
down  of    new    hatched   birds.
But no                   these prayers
like  every   other   I  have   ever
prayed         return  to   me   un-
answered.     Perhaps for prayers
to  work   they  must   know  you
for what  you   are:   a  loss  with
every gain,  candle  where   no
flame can be;   perhaps   prayers
are only the   match   we    strike
to light desire;  or  perhaps   you
must not care,      beyond fear,  beyond mind,
 if they come true.   I know nothing about prayer.







~January 2014,
extensively revised, April 2014

Another in a series I've written on  various epistemological conundrums of mine.






posted for    real toads


Sunday Challenge: Shape Poems
Kerry asks us to provide a poem in that form known as a concrete, visual or shape poem--one whose shape on the page reflects or is an important element in its subject matter. I have done my best, but I must say the "new, improved, updated" version of blogger makes it very very difficult. Please excuse any irregularities.



Here, for karin, and any curious others, is the original, unshaped, unrevised version written in January. It is a bit different and more rudimentary, as my finished poems always morph and develop a bit from the drafts, but I think it says much the same thing:



Epistemology: Prayer

What do we know of prayer?
A hundred nights I've prayed
let me stop loving you
let me stop looking for you
in the curl of the clouds
the dead face of the moon
a  toppling pile of books  in a tumbled room.

Let my soul grow old as it should,
let it laugh at dogs and love only
the song of blackbirds,
 the soft skin of a quiet child
but this prayer
like every other I have ever prayed
goes unanswered.

Perhaps for prayers to work
you must know them for what they are
a light where no light can be
a loss with every gain

perhaps prayers
are only the match we strike
to light desire  or perhaps
you must want them
 to come true.  I think
we know nothing about prayer.

~January 2014




I really think the revision is a better poem, so thanks to Kerry for the challenge.

Image: Woman Praying, 1883, by Vincent Van Gogh
Public domain, via wikipaintings.org


Friday, January 24, 2014

Jehanne


Jehanne




There's an angel in the fire
feathers burning, acrid, ashy black.
Where is the bird-winged host,
her  cloudy birth brothers
the holy triune fatherspiritson
to pull her out?

She keeps her shield
and sword  bright
gold light, her hose fastened tight
in the cell where they say 
the war is over, the king she crowned gone
far away as god. 

The angel in the fire weeps, she reasons,
she argues like a cardinal, while
her dark luminous eyes follow me
as I open windows to let out the stink.

The cross on her standard
won't keep away the crows
but there's no feather anywhere
of  her brother Michael, his deaf-making voice
of cathedral bells, his wings for a tabard
over her soldier's casing.

The horns of the devil
hold up the sky,
pierce the dropping night.
Her sword ignites
like a willow leaf.

Her breastplate with
the hundred dents above the heart
is all that cumbers her.
The salt stained straps cut into
flesh that was the white lily of Lorraine,
yet it will be the last
she lets go for her dress of flame. 

No sign appears, not even rain;
instead she  burns and burns
lost, half-smiling, staring at me
as if there were something I could do.



 ~December 2013, January 2014




 posted for     real toads
 Fireblossom Friday: Clothes Make The Woman
The inimitable Fireblossom has asked us to write about an article of clothing. To wit:"What I want you to do is to write a poem in which clothes play a significant part...The poem must have some item of clothing as an important component, not just something mentioned in passing." I have also written to her last challenge here, Calling All Angels, which I missed at the time, which asked for a poem about angels.






Process notes: Joan of Arc, (or Jehanne, as she referred to herself) lead a succesful campaign against the English during the Hundred Years War, till she was captured and put on trail by them for heresy. Jehanne cut her hair short and wore the armor and clothing of a male knight of her time,both as symbol and protection against rape. The most prominent "legal" pretext used by the Inquisition to execute her was based on an Old Testament text condemning women who dress in any article of male clothing to death. She was burned at the stake on May 30th, 1431. Jehanne was later exonerated, and canonized as St Joan in 1920





Images: Joan of Arc, by Odillon Redon
St Joan, by John William Waterhouse
Both paintings public domain, via wikipaintings.org