Compasión

Hands cup the face

of the elderly woman

who lost her children

during the lost time.

She wears the headscarf

as a tribute to her and the

other mothers, grandmothers

children.

Her tanned skin,

aged with wrinkles and dark spots,

melts in his hands,

his "compasión."

Silver hair falls

in strangled curls

and brighten her face

just a tad more.

The look in his eyes

speaks for itself:

dark, hollow, yet

full of hope.

His graying beard

still thick with black hair

disguises his inner

gratitude, "compasión."

...................................

Lost children,

kidnapped in the night

and sent to detention centers;

unknown, their fate is.

Robert Bly Poetry Reading

On October 16, I went to Robert Bly’s poetry reading for his new book “Stealing Sugar from the Castle.”  His new book is a collection of poems ranging from 1950 to the present.  It is, essentially, a biography of all of his poems.  The audience ranged in age and personality.  There were many middle-aged people but also some very young people too.  A guy behind me played the guitar softly while a young French couple was in front of me.  There were some college students as well off to the sides.

There was a 15 minute introduction by one of the organizers and then another 5 minute introduction by someone else before Robert Bly got up.  Throughout the hour and a half slot, he would make self-deprecating jokes about himself as a poet and have a few jokes in his poems.  He’d often say to the side things such as “At least that’s what poets say,” or “Like poetry is not ever random.”  His poems weave humor and beauty together, using imagery and structure to sway the reader and the listener.

One of my favorite poems that he read was “Wanting Sumptuous Heavens” (right). 

Along with his side comments, joking about this poem here and there, he covers a bunch of different topics in a short amount of time.  One of the topics coming up a lot is religion.  Bly writes here about wanting a comfortable earth and a sumptuous heaven.  Not so much the fact of it but more that people are obsessed with having a comfortable life on earth and in heaven, if there is even a heaven.  His next line “But the heron standing on one leg in the bog // Drinks his dark rum all day.”  He describes how even though we humans try to think in the future and try to everything right, the heron, like many animals, just think about the present.  About what is going on now.  And I think that it’s kind of like a whistle, like we should follow what the animals do and be who we are and what we want now and don’t worry about the future.

Louis Jenkins Blog Post

What I really love about his poetry is he tells stories with it, sort of like a short story or short-short epic poem.  Taking that into account, he uses either first or second person perspective to draw the reader in.  In his poem "The Speaker," he uses the phrase "Can you tell me the color of your sweetheart's eyes? Do you remember where you parked the car?" This phrase especially drew me in because it was addressing me personally, as if he was speaking to me.  He asks me a question related to the poem, but close to the reader as well that hits the reader home on something of importance to them, drawing the reader in even further.  Many of his themes deal with big ideas such as change, love, science, etc.  His poem 'The State of the Economy" really highlights the 2008 Stock Market Crash (I'm assuming this is what it's about.)  Jenkins writes "There might be some change on top of the dresser at the back, and we should check the washer and the dryer. Check under the floor mats of the car. The couch cushions. I have some books and CDs I could sell, and there are a couple big bags of aluminum cans in the basement, only trouble is that there isn't enough gas in the car to get around the block."  Though it may seem third person, it really speaks to the reader in a sense of a first and second person speaker tone because Jenkins is telling the reader to do these things.  His simple use of objects and actions give a realistic view of imagery.  It's simple, but not overpowering so much that it seems surrealistic.  It seems like something either out of a movie or a book, something very lifelike and that is what I love about his poetry.

"Sons" Spoken Word Poetry

The Silver Lining of the Grecian Clock

I stand along the river at dawn

When he, Apollo, rides his chariot

Across the dark, blank canvas.  His fine lawn

Mowing the stars with the new steed he bought.

Artemis’ spear catches the spoke of his

Painted vessel, so that he tumbles out

Onto the half starry field.  And no kiss

More bitter than siblings, their fights, their shouts.

Their hatred, their love, bequeathed unto them

Hath nevermore been so bright, so dark’ning.

One to day, the other night, Zeus condemned.

Polar opposites, the songs of birds sing.

Away, I run, when fair Apollo rides.

The time between dawn and dusk shall be mine.

Souls of the forgotten

The sultry, soaked sod squelches soundly b’low

My feet.  Barefoot, I tread unwillingly.

Blood-red berries glow in the frosted air.

Birds chirp to the beat of my icy breath.

They spread their wings, their songs of the lost ones

Who once ruled the land I travel across.

Known for their fearlessness, they conquered all

That stood before their intrepid weapons.

But nonetheless, they carried themselves here

And became one with Gaia, Mother Earth.

They watch through the trees, black eyes and pale skin.

Birds dwell on them and leaves become from them.

But none today.  No leaves shine through the frost.

All birds suddenly vanish with the wisps.

They tangle around my ankles, my hands,

My fingers, intertwined, with ancestral

Hope rushing through me.  I force my eyes shut.

The voices, the chanting grows infinite

In volume.  Long hair and thick spears, blued lips.

Fleeting images wrap me, too tightly.

My eyes, shut harder.  My face drawn with pain.

My mind, broken point of calamity.

Until silence.  Silence doth come to me.

Eyes look up and  trees look incessantly

To me, waiting for my demise?  My leave?

I walk on, the ground frosting with ev’ry step.

Blood flowing from my feet, purple hands and

Black fingers circle each other, gath’ring

Warmth of the invisible, unknown fire.

The ground rushes up to me, slicing my

Skin, freezing my life, devouring my soul.

Souls of the forgotten hath not forgot.

Chris Martin Poetry

The non-narrative style of Martin's poetry leads to a voice that seems to have been long forgotten.  It's a voice in the back of the head not unlike the conscience.  It travels around the head, creating a halo effect and finally the voice meets at the front with the other half of the voice, an echo effect.  His poetry reminds me of introductions to movies where the filmmakers put the middle of the movie in the beginning.  Not so much the story of it that makes you want to watch on but the imagery of it how one is confused at first and then everything unravels.
This kind of poetry is one of my favorites; there's always a quality of mystery and fog-like confusion that makes the sound and imagery muddles but crisper and clearer as I read on.  An example of this would be his poem "The Throat."  Martin first writes about the bird calls: "If harkening a bird for its throat we hear you," (Martin 1-4.)  IN the end, the poem seems to try to bring out different qualities in the throat and the memories it brings.  The poem goes on to talk about Martin in a first person narrative but then alternates with a third person narrative and Martin writes about nature, history, and love. 

a crisp wind of red apples
opens the seam between our eyes
but this isn’t about about
it’s a noun flown verb
designed to hurt slowly
in a foraged ear
we go planting - See more at: http://www.pen.org/two-new-poems-chris-martin#sthash.lqdbHlfJ.dpuf

The imagery of the poem brings out a certain quality in himself that normally would be left latent in a writer.  It brings out the best of him and yet brings out qualities in the object that he writes about.  He writes in "The Bones", "These birds crowding the eave to rouse sun back its plausible ire," (Martin 2-4.)  Both poems, "The Bones" and "The Throat", have a similar non-narrative, broken down structure of putting emphasis on each image, creating a clear canvas of the artistic impression of each line, each stanza, and the poem itself, making it stand out from the rest of the poems.

a crisp wind of red apples
opens the seam between our eyes
but this isn’t about about
it’s a noun flown verb
designed to hurt slowly
in a foraged ear
we go planting - See more at: http://www.pen.org/two-new-poems-chris-martin#sthash.lqdbHlfJ.dpuf

harkening
a bird
for its throat
we hear youIF

harkening
a bird
for its throat
we hear you