Category: POETRY
Again, look up “poem” in the dictionary if you don’t recognize the word. Or, better yet, just have a look at what’s here and form your own impressions.
The Parrot
(Apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.)
For my own retirement party, 03 Nov 2012.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, bleak and bleary,
Over many a faint and phoney answer to a midterm question,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, capping off my indigestion.
“‘Tis some student,” then I muttered, “capping off my indigestion —
Seeking answers to the question.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in a wet November,
And my dying mental ember wrote some words upon a page.
Dreading then tomorrow’s lecture, vainly I had sought to hector
From my writing some wise vector that would make me seem the sage —
Make at least a feeble gesture thus to earn an honest wage,
Negating the effects of age.
And the silly sad mistaken midterm answers did awaken
Dark despair and desperation I had never felt before;
So that now, to stop the sinking of my heart, I stood there thinking,
“‘Tis some offer to go drinking there outside my office door —
Some sad colleague tired of thinking, knocking on my office door;
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my office door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” — here I opened wide the door.
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness staring, long I stood there scowling, swearing,
Wond’ring who decided unused lighting was a mortal sin;
But the darkness was unbroken, and the hallway gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Again?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Again!”
To my sustainable chagrin.
Back into my office turning, indigestion fiercer burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than the last.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, putting this annoyance past —
Let my stomach still a moment while I put this in the past;
Then I’ll take antacids, fast!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a scruffy parrot from a pirate film grotesque;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a moment stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cluttered desk —
Perched upon a Feynman poster just above my cluttered desk —
Perched, and sat there, statuesque.
Then this raunchy bird beguiling my sad scowling into smiling
By the colourful profiling of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy orange plumes I stare at, thou,” I said, “art sure no carrot,
Smelly, bold and silly parrot wandering from the Carib shore —
Tell me what thy pirate name is on the Caribbean shore!”
Quoth the Parrot, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird on Hennings’ thirdmost floor —
Bird or beast upon the poster here on Hennings’ thirdmost floor,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the parrot, sitting lonely on the poster there, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Fantasies have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my wits have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”
But the Parrot still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled an office chair in front of Feynman, ‘cross the floor;
Then upon the cushion sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this raucous bird of yore —
What this rainbow-colored, fat, ridiculous, clownish bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose gaudy plumage gave impressions of burlesque;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On neglected printouts pining there upon my cluttered desk,
A pitiful pile of ancient data damning me from on my desk,
Demanding writeup, Kafkaesque!
Then methought the air grew colder as I gazed upon the folder
Full of formulae and figures that confused me to the core.
“Wretch,” I cried, “what colleague sent thee thus to mock me and torment me?
Theory, please let me invent thee — grant me insight, I implore!
When will I analyze this data, know the purpose it was for?”
Quoth the Parrot, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, here where wiser minds are wanted —
Where intelligence is flaunted — tell me truly, I implore —
What the hell’s a Luttinger liquid? Tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Parrot, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By the ghost of Feynman — by the intellect of Phil and Bill —
Tell this fading fake if ever, even if I lecture never
And my service duties sever, with a valiant act of will,
If I can understand my data, write it up and publish still.”
Quoth the Parrot, “Never will.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting —
“Get thee back into the tempest and the soggy, soaking shore!
Leave no orange plume as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my lethargy unbroken! — quit my poster, out my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form out from my door!”
Quoth the Parrot, “Nevermore.”
And the Parrot, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the phallic Feynman poster just above my desk and more;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the neon o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted . . . nevermore!
**************************************************************
Well, that sad ending kind of sucks. How about this alternate ending:
And the Parrot, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the phallic Feynman poster overlooking my workstation;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is scheming
My demise; but he is dreaming! I ignore his accusation,
Focusing on fishing, track and fiction now in combination
On my permanent vacation!
Things I Never Get Tired Of
The shape of a breast,
the touch of skin.
The tug of a fish,
a flashing fin.
The looming hurdle,
the mighty leap.
The joy of winning;
to fly in sleep.
The color of peaches,
the knowing of things.
The hunter’s stalk,
a mallard’s wings.
The taste of beauty,
the magic of math.
The thrill of taking
an unknown path.
The very first time
a program works.
The Physics community’s
limitless quirks.
2009 or so?
That One Talent
“Death to hide?” Oh please, give me a break.
Nobody cares, or even should, if you
can make a poem of your worst mistake.
Go think of things more practical to do.
Your soul is bent indeed, like Narcissus,
to serve therewith your ego, nothing more.
If you could meet your Maker at the bus
you’d only try to beat Him to the door.
Your true account, if only you had heard,
is empty. There is nothing to present
beyond a tribute to the molded word
that knows (as you do not) the thought it meant.
And yet… and yet… the music of the spheres
rings in the voice of any well-turned phrase.
The power to move can overcome our fears
of suborning all that power to self-praise.
2014 or 2015
something
if on the odd occasion something stoops
to sweep aside your granite benchmark
boil your sleeping shadow’s guts
and leave you with a burnt medallion
if this thing blinks
out of a shot-through animal eye
or if it wakes from tickled loins
or in the judgement of your ape
or in the nightmare of your child
whether it touch you like a tongue
or taste you like a knife
even if you understand
27 November 1976
Swallow Dog
I trip on the shadow of some black Other
fluttering
in the corner of my eye.
It is not unfriendly, it wished only to remind
to write what I have seen.
I saw in the same twilight
minutes ago, swallows
skimming the surface of a reedy pond.
They convinced me not to look directly
at reflections
of mountains and clouds, lest they appear apart.
I was a bit dazzled
with the full moon.
And a fat dog ran in the mud
panting and barking
chasing the swallows hopelessly
across the interface that belongs to them.
How like me, I thought,
and the swallow flew in the face of the moon
and in my face
at the same time
and the dog cheered.
Summer 1976
Coho
The call caught them
all across the Aleutians.
In the middle of scooping krill
they heard the sound of a wordless shiver
tickling skein and milt.
They eased to South.
They ate hard across the huge current
slashing herring ritualistically
in a dance of secret steps.
As each found far out
a tiny scent of home
the chemistry began in earnest
subtle at first
tasting of sweet death.
Then it was urgent, urgent
eating their flesh with the need to leap
to find the source, to change
utterly
into the mystery.
Spending what they had been
they came to the place
ready to slough their shredded husks
to feed the nursery.
Finally
shuddering off dying confinements
they came free together
thin smoke on the embers
round and newly sparked.
Huddled
in the spaces between the stones
they dream of the next return.
01 February 1976, revised 14 July 1976
Steelhead
Quicksilver flash,
in the reel’s screech
you rush from your green shadow
into this rare air —
splash me to shock.
You came here shrewd and wild
home to this river
not to eat hooks
yet now we meet.
Dance with the spirit of Poseidon
against the persuasion of split cane —
soon, lovely alien, you will visit
my world of rocks and dry oxygen.
Now the connection is complete.
Gather your courage to meet my touch
but I disappoint your death,
watch your brief disbelief,
then shout
as your bullet body darts to the depths,
loose.
5905 Yew Street, Vancouver, 1975
The Rise
Between the watercress and the dream,
Salmo trutta, you and I
leap for a moment from this stream,
cracking the factual shell of my eye.
Out of the blink-held glitter of your gills
you lift my vision to the deeper flow
of another, wilder spring that spills
echoing through the cosmos from the rock below.
There in the currents of your art,
rinse the insensitive skin from me,
wash the worms from beneath my bark
and lead me to your liberty.
22 September 1975
Japanese Toilets
One, two, piss on your shoe.
Three, four, shit on the floor.
Breaks your knees, makes you sneeze,
but you don’t touch nothin’
so you won’t get disease.
Tokyo, 1983
Anticommuting Operator
It’s nice to be an anticommuting operator,
driving along the thoroughfares of life.
I’m happy to be on mass shell as a propagator,
planning a long-term future with my wife.
I come when everyone would go,
and go when they all come.
I doubt what others claim to know,
act smart when they act dumb.
When others’ interactions
are strongly inelastic,
I get my satisfactions
from tripping light fantastic.
So stay out of the mainstream,
ignore what others say.
Follow up your own dream
and go the other way!
Originally intended to be a song in the style and to the tune of Monty Python’s “Always look on the sunny side of death“, this was written in 1969 or 1970 when I and my new (first) wife, Suzanne, were living in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco and I was commuting across the Bay to Berkeley every day, while she commuted to Stanford. Crazy kids!
To NOGAF
A sodden mind sheds soggy morals
off its duck’s-back basis of relief.
Squatting now upon their laurels
years of yearning learning get relief.
An open mind is fertile earth,
ideas raining down on it at length;
like land, it drinks when near its birth
with gusto, turning moisture into strength.
The summer mind’s ideas flower,
flourish with the rains, until at last
its fruits and foliage – wisdom’s power –
are harvested, and the day of youth is past.
Now Autumn minds grow brown of leaf
and rains erode the sated autumn earth.
The spare supply of wet belief
is wasted. Lack of want destroys its worth.
Yet know that though the ground will freeze
and snows of dullness cover summer’s green,
yet ice will melt with the first warm breeze;
and somewhere there are always evergreens.
-Trinity Class Poem, 1967 –
(Somewhat of a rush job – could have used a bit more polishing.)
Goodbyes
The sun purred cautiously
and stroked my back with claws now sheathed,
battle-weary lion —
spiralled down black distant dots
in shimmering thermals to their prey.
While she fought the moon for the firmament,
memories of grasses dried,
died and sprung again.
There was no game.
Little life remained to cross my path;
while time passed on too fast to pause
and wait for me to dig
rabbits of freedom with my dog.
So kicking my boots with the talcum sand
I rapidly walked the road.
I met the oldest oak
and kind moss-fingered
ponderous limbs
asked to oak-leaf me and lift
and heft and hold my weight.
I left my boots
and I swung,
shimmied,
jumped and crawled
to the very
tip-
top . . .
where the gaps in the cool green leaves
glimpsed the golden splendor of the sky,
of sundown.
I saw and swore I would not descend,
never walk on bloodless
to the black highway —
But when from a perfect airplant cup
uncurled a curious circus coral snake,
I had to climb down from my limbs in fear,
unripe. He came too near.
Had I met him,
let him kiss my hand,
I could have hugged the rough old bark as tight
as now these bars, my ribs —
I would have dried,
fertilly burning, someday maybe sprouting
Resurrection Fern.
Trinity Review – 1967