Oh celery

Unforgettable —

classmates translating “Apogeo del apio”

Those imaginary stalks!

Unforgotten in thirty-odd years

Such trifles constitute eternity,

its small eternal bits

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written this very minute after dancing to Tanya Tucker, then putting on Heather Nova and walking away into my office. Looking for something to write, celery intruded by means of untraceable association.

The Spanish refers to a poem by Pablo Neruda, “Apogee of celery”.

Also a truly totally optional poem for Totally Optional Prompts.

He’s trying to talk to the woman he has been living with for three years

You are incredible!
he said,
I don’t know where
ugly little me
fits in there
with your lofty ambitions
any more.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written around Ambitious, Incredible and Ugly from 3WW.

Author’s note: Not the least bit autobiographical, I’m happy to say. But such relationships exist in real life…

A lesser known preventive doctrine

Let’s engage in some mayhem before we disarm.

Contains the 3 words engage, mayhem and disarm from 3WW CLIV.

Could be said to be a variation of the Bushism “you disarm, or we will.”

PS: I noticed – belatedly- that I posted this on September 11. It’s just as well, then, that it alludes to George W. Bush.

A subject never raised

I would have loved to capture that Jinx – our Jinx – but, being her cousin, albeit twice removed and not much older than her, I did not qualify. Not that the subject ever came up.

Now she’s married, happily it seems, with two cute kids, and I get to see her every once in a while, at birthday or funeral parties, as it is among relatives.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written around Capture, Jinx, Qualify from 3WW CL.

Island with Palms and Daffodils

Me alejo de mí mismo…
– Octavio Paz

Wiping the windows for hours
The stale blue cool coming alive
behind her eyes:
Little transparent one-cellular crumbs
She and her white and blue cotton cloth

are one

In the evenings we take walks
Then the daffodils are not so yellow,
and she says in a very foreign language:
Amru tys amry nos …

I open the steel-blue steel car door

She glides in

Or we go to a hula dance but she keeps watching me
through my black-rimmed glasses
and thick small-patterned dark suit,
my bulgy fifties self

But tender I read in her attentive eyes
Amru tys amry nos …

Her short-nailed fingers follow fine threads
and find islands easily

Buttons

And what do you have there? A piece of paper? And it says,

Keep this coupon?

Yes, amru tys amry nos …

– Johannes Beilharz ( © 1981 )

Note
I decided to post this older poem because I thought of it immediately after glancing at One Single Impression’s Windows prompt. This did not seem too far-fetched after rereading the entire poem because the themes of windows, transparency, looking through are all over the place.

She tells him

Don’t give me that
hypnotic sulk, you drip.

That used to work, but
it ain’t workin’ no more.

Go feel sorry for yourself,
I ain’t doin’ it no more.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written around drip, hypnotic and sulk from 3WW.

A musical piece in three movements

For A.B., as usual

1 / Collapse

Several times he seemed
ready to collapse
under the burden of
pain from unhappy love

Yet always managed
to pick himself up –
by his own scalp,
so to speak

But there were moments
when collapse seemed
the sweetest thing on earth –

the final breaking of those
iron rings in his heart region
that would manifest pure love

2 / Sweet

An infinite sweetness
bearing no relation
to the object of collapse

Something truly
unconditional – an oath
not to ever betray

love, that particular love
regardless of anything
that might happen

3 / Yearn

Despite it all,
in the face of despise:
there it is – near-blind,
sighful yearning

The more un-
fullfillable
the better

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written around Collapse, Sweet, Yearn from 3WW.

Too many years

I opened the door and I found I was looking at danger
It’s been so many years but we’re hiding our faces like strangers
She says that she’s got to go but there ain’t no way
I’m letting her walk while there’s something to say
It’s been too many years
to watch our hearts die in this way.
She’s feeling a time for a seasonal change and she’s yearning
To shake the trees of our love in the streets where the leaves are for burning
All things on this earth were made for the dying
One look in my soul says there just ain’t no use trying
It’s been too many years
to watch our hearts die in this way
In an unwritten time I thought that life was for sharing
And living together was simply a matter of caring
But things did not work out like I planned
and alienation has left me here damned
It’s been too many years
to watch our hearts die in this way

– Jorma Kaukonen

The dilemma of seeming to know each other too well, for too many years, becoming almost strangers. Unfortunately, there is no rendition of this wonderful song by ex-Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen on Youtube.

Posted for One Single Impression and The Stranger.

I know you a little better now

Once again for A.B.

I know you a little better now
than before, will

know you better again tomorrow
and the day after

I knew the sparkle before,
the sparkle in your dark brown eyes

Last week I noticed the wrinkles
around your eyes – you’re

thirty-seven after all, I noticed them
from the side as we were driving along

And yesterday it dawned on me
that you’re also fickle –

capricious for capriciousness’ sake;
you call it spontaneous

And don’t tell me you don’t thrive
on compliments on your beauty –

I know you better than your daughter
who is like you,

dancing away throwing a mane of hair,
curious of its effect

“Did I do a good throw?”
she said over her shoulder

I can’t wait to hear what you will say
over your shoulder

The day after the day and the day
I will know you better

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written to incorporate Fickle / Sparkle / Wrinkle from 3WW.

Covert

For A.S.

With all my cavorting
– and yours on top! –

we never know
who we’re dealing with.

You told me today
that sometimes

you did not know
who you were talking to

when talking to me –
my inner child,

my outer child,
my higher self

or whatever
(I don’t have

the nomenclature
down), and which

layer of you was
communicating with me.

“We’re complicated,”
I said. “No,” you said,

“complex.” That
definitely came

from your mouth
and went into my ear.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written upon inspiration by “covert” for Sunday Scribblings.

Kamala Das passed away

Kamala Das, one of India’s eminent poets, passed away on May 31, 2009.

Kamala Das alias Kamala Surayya alias Madhavikutty passed away in a private hospital at Pune, India, on Sunday early morning. She was 75. She had been undergoing hospital treatment for the last few months.

She wrote in English as well as Malayalam, her native language. She is considered to be one of the outstanding Indian poets writing in English.

Her popularity in Kerala is based chiefly on her short stories, novels and autobiography. Much of her writing in Malayalam came under the pen name Madhavikkutty.

A poem by Kamala Das from an earlier post.

Bear

As he would occasionally do when taking a solitary walk, he shifted into another being. This time it was a brown bear, to enable him to climb a tree and survey the forest from a different point of view.

This was his first time as a bear. He relished the feeling of powerful ease with which he was able to use his claws on the rough bark of the tall, thick pine he’d picked, and the total absence of his usual fear of heights. But he also noticed how thoughts and associations not his own were infiltrating, which he knew to come from being a bear. His sense of smell had increased tremendously, to a degree that was overwhelming. He could sense that there was carrion nearby, and his sensitivity to traces of urine and dung in the vicinity was acute.

His human soul was somewhat let down because his bear-self did not think of his surroundings as beautiful – they were his habitat and therefore entirely normal.

Stirrings of hunger were there, and they were for the dead animal about 20 yards away, for other things his human self did not consider terribly appetizing, but also for the chocolate in his own backpack which he’d hung from the lower branches of a smaller tree.

Time to return and attack that chocolate before some other bear would try and get to it.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written for Café Writing’s May/June project, The Magic of Milne. Photo Credit: Tony Campbell.

From my little Kazakh warrior

My dear James, last night was wonderful! You were so gentle and sensitive, yet you knew when to be strong and firm with me. I do like to be chastised when I have been naughty, just a little , and you knew exactly how much force was enough to send me into ecstacy. You can be so stern, you nasty man! And when you spoke Swabian to me! That made me wild! And your homemade spätzle was divine! You are the perfect man, James. So well read, so cultured, so knowledgeable, yet so unassuming, so humble. That combination drives me crazy (as you probably realized ). I can’t wait until we meet again, James. – from your little Kazakh warrior

Notes
This was written facetiously by a friend and colleague of mine as part of an e-mail by that same little Kazakh warrior he forwarded to me. It was the one and only association that came to me for Inspire Me Thursday’s Warrior theme.

Maligned

“I have been maligned by a cryptic flash,” declaimed Tommy theatrically.
Gerald added a few pinches of salt.
“Taste! – I think that will do,” he said, offering a spoonful of the bright yellow sauce.
Tommy turned away in distaste.
“What is it now,” Gerald said.
“You never listen to me. All you care about is food – cooking and eating, cooking and eating!”
“Oh come off your huff. You like my cooking. And anyway, I’ve been listening all along.”
“Prove it!”
“I believe you were saying that someone, most likely your loving mother, said something about you behind your back that you didn’t like, and you found out about it somehow.”
“No! I said ‘maligned by a cryptic flash’! Does that sound like my mother? Or any real person for that matter? And it’s quite poetic, by the way. But you wouldn’t know, maker of curries.”
“Thank you, dear Thomasina, for putting me in my rightful place. But let me return the compliment and call you by your real name: flasher of malignant cryptics and soon-to-be eater of pungent elliptics and sensibly cut rhomboids.”

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Woven around Cryptic, Flash and Malign as suggested by 3WW.

Wasn’t born to follow

And if you think I’m ready
You may lead me to the chasm
Where the rivers of our visions
Flow into one another
(from “Wasn’t born to follow”, written Gerry Goffin / Carole King, as sung by The Byrds)

I have no guru,
not much religion.

I doubt the old books,
doubt the old gods.

Still I look for truth
and know

there’s eternity,
there’s much more

to life than atoms
and cells.

And even though
I know we’re all

one, all grapes
off the same vine,

I often feel alone
as a meteorite shard,

crashed somewhere,
lying unrelated,

and as shut into
myself

as a stone.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Posted for Sunday Scribblings’ Follow.

Note
The song “Wasn’t born to follow”, performed by The Byrds, was part of the soundtrack of the 1969 movie Easy Rider starring Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda and Jack Nicholson. In essence, the film is about a new dream of freedom crushed by an old, restrictive world order that does not tolerate anything but itself.

It is written that …

It is written that future Man will move up one step on the hierarchical ladder to become a creator, just like the angels, archangels, thrones, excusiai and others are creators. Thought, which already has creative powers in some select few – think of healers that can heal long-distance – or in everyone, more than we might think, will then be much more directly creative. You think of a plant – it will be there. You think of growing the plant – it will grow and flower, directed by your thought, as you watch. Everything you think of will manifest itself. Sound good? Think of multitudes of people doing this at the same time. Some other person might think of shrinking the plant you’re trying to grow. Just as it is now, people with creative powers might not necessarily be good people – they might be mostly interested in using their creative powers for egotistical or destructive purposes. But then again a lot of problems might be solved. A hungry mother would wish for food and receive it for herself and her children, all served instantly on a nice platter. People in an area affected by drought would wish for rain and get it. Or they could choose to grow their produce without rain. We could choose to have our mobility without noxious gases – we would simply wish for flying saucers, blimps or whatever vehicles and move them at will. To Australia, Sri Lanka, Greenland, Palo Alto, Yucatán – wherever, at whatever speed. What opportunity for mankind, for happy times!

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written in 15 minutes on the process of creation for Café Writing.

Kashi

Upon flighty arrival
in Kashi I felt myself
sequestered in a clay pot
in sand in some poor
smoky kitchen – kept
wondering when I’d
ever get out of there
again to expand, move
about – kept wondering

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written for One Single Impression and Smoke.

Twilight in the garden

The April weather was lovely and mild. I’d taken my cup of tea out on the patio along with the newspaper, taken sips, put a blanket over myself as I lay back on the lawn chair and fallen asleep just as the sun was beginning to set.

I awoke with a start a little while later – there had been a slight noise. Perhaps the neighbor’s cat had stepped on something with its inaudible paws, and that something had moved, making the noise.

I peered through the twilight, and then I saw it – a garden creature, slight and grey, wearing a pointed red hat, stood on the stone border near the daffodil clump, seemingly doing stretches. I suppose I’d heard the small thud of its landing on the stone as it jumped down. More garden creatures emerged from flowers all over, and the garden was filled with tiny thuds.

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Written for Café Writing’s In the Garden.

True self

Remove that earnest
reactive layer
and emerge!

– James Steerforth

Written around earnest, layer and reactive from 3WW.

Today

Dedicated to Rabindranath Tagore

His lotus went unheeded – I knew not
what fragrance the south wind would carry
to induce strange longing

In fact, I knew not the south wind

I am so ignorant – occasionally! –
I told myself

And too concerned with myself
and the writing of poetry
that comes from that self
or something like it

Let the lotus and the south wind be

– James Steerforth ( © 2009 )

Note
I was going to rewrite a poem by Rabindranath Tagore I had just read, trying to “rejuvenate” it (take out that 19th century British-style stuffiness he instilled in his own translations), and this was the outcome, sort of a Rabindranath Tagore gone New York Poets piece only somewhat related to the original.

Happens to go well with Totally Optional Prompts’ Rewrite issue.