Other Poems are tricky, but as with any thing I see in this world or feel - there is a need, perhaps compulsion, to document: to write it out, to photograph, to take note, even if it hurts like hell.
For me, an archivist, a documentarian, I find that Other Poems holds the work that does not slip easily into other categories, which means that it holds a lot of work, since life, does not stay within the simple confines and structures we would like it to.
Life can be surprising.
s. h. r. p.
updated | spring 2008 | 7:26 p.m.
photo: trinite, rue st. lazare, paris. fr - "sept heures au matin"
s.r.p.
12.34 p.m.
The last of summer’s persimmon hangs tentatively on the ocean tree.
When last heard your voice echoed through my tears,
soon turned to laughter, this before the heart’s slaughter.
The geese have nosed the fruit about the once-warm grass.
The day I told you about the ocean grey, thick with current,
yet smooth as glass.
sadi ranson-polizzotti
Emaila bird in the hand
You tell me, These are dreams and I know that you are right
and I know that you are wrong. In them, I see great holocausts.
If bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, how much then is the worth
of great fires seen only in the palm? Visions of the damned as they rush
a private stigmata
The waters are murky. A green pond, pollen-cloaked rich.
Through it all, I seek some clarity.
Some mathematical equation that will dole out the variables –
cut knife-like through the thickness of this moment,
the blade sharp and precise. No such luck.
a slow and steady taper
So you want this to end and you do your bit.
So I know this must end and I likewise do my bit.
It is like coming down from some heroin or opiod high
so sweet and soporific – so how to give up such that crosses the brain
a tempered passion
Everyday, I see without seeing –
more or less – more
These days, less.
It's not the less you fear,
a void | the poet cured
It is raining of course and Wednesday and the sky looms,
Monson slate it drops its heaviness as my car sucks, splashes
through new puddles as I spin fast a route to help.
Help, after all, is what I need.
ainsi-dire - edit
les mains – simply hands. a purpose. they hold up the roof. wipe away a tear. this is all.
miel – honey, you can find it anywhere.
soupir – a sigh. I can’t define. who could? only now it is less quiet – stuck in sorrow.
muette – tongue-tied. yes, this I remain. different now.
almost
Almost; one is not satisfied with this.
Almost is perhaps a near miss. Too distant.
It is a word favored by the unsuccessful.
Used by those lacking reasons.
ashes to ashes -
These traintrack abandoned buildings
vacant yards. Only the ailanthus grows.
I remember their fecund, earthy summer scent.
Things change.
baiser
You tell me you know what it means.
I am one French word up. I, at last, with upper-hand.
A real tease, taquine.
barley light
Do you remember those fields, how I moved, no -
undulated - beneath you and how the tall reed grass crackled dry beneath our kisses,
how you told me all of my worry, This could never be a sin
begin at the beginning and don't stop until you're finished
How that glass façade has served me well!
I painted it black, hid in the corner behind my dark glasses.
Me – the wise-owl in the corner, observing all.
That is what you saw, then you saw…
I let you in. I removed the black-shades,
being plain
I always wanted to be Amish.
To wear the black with the blue.
To over-clean the wood with Murphy’s oil-soap;
a house that shone bright and a white chin-tie cap
blank
The day is vacant;
Where you ought be there is only emptiness
this and the howling pain of a sharp stone driven in again and again.
I stumble, I fall, I trip.
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blank
The day is vacant;
Where you ought be there is only emptiness
this and the howling pain of a sharp stone driven in again and again.
I stumble, I fall, I trip.
No matter how hard I try to stay steady
I find the feat impossible,
blue melisma #1
It’s a blue note: a one-two on the trip-slip of the lip
that glides a smooth, silver-flash harmonica–
It is an embellishment. A melisma unnecessary,
blue melisma #2
It is your two-step slip-slide trick of the tongue: an almost kiss, not quite.
One accepts the conjoined syllables ~ they melt soft as communion in the mouth;
Absolution in your simple, not so simple, words.
I catch on the hooks of each –
bridging the gap | like moving the river
I keep wanting to somehow bridge a gap.
wanting to accept some olive branch,
yet see none forthcoming.
What I see is this: a blank, a continuation, but of what?
by this name you call me | i give no apology
She asks, Are you Amish?
It’s funny this.
My mother told me I was ‘plain.’
In Amish terms though, this entirely different
chance meeting no. 2
How I can see us, you slipping off of swings while I swung so high,
feet scuffing the ground while you worried & worried & worried
as I arced higher and higher as the summer sky dimmed
and the lights of city shone across town