He vaguely reads the news.
He knows Barrack is President,
otherwise the day is filled
with his quirky cheeriness.
His thin hairless legs elevate
in his cherished
dirty leather recliner.
He opens his wallet,
riffles his dollars,
doses, hands fold,
at his bandaged baby toe.
What’s wrong with it?
Sweetie, it’s a “booboo pad”.
The private life without impiety
is now a bit public.
He vaguely reads the news.
|Going Down The River In A Hayloft Coffin: the evocative years of Robert Peters (CD/MP3) is a music poetry album featuring the illustrious poet Robert Peters and music composer Harlan Steinberger. The record includes forty nine poems that are strung with a twinge of Gothic & glaciated enchantments sequentially evoking how a poet thaws and carves out his destiny distancing himself from his primordial Wisconsin roots. The poems start off with winning tales of model Ts, berry picking, sexuality among North wood folks and other vivid backwood encounters. There are variances of deer hunting and fishing expeditions fleshed out. The sequence forges to the present covering eulogies to his beloveds and poignant elegies to the folks who were such integral part of the poet’s life. In the midst of these violent, visceral, celebratory, and elegant tales there’s a silver cord that keeps these images astonishingly alive with high voltage and renderable music and lyrics.|
|Mp3 Song Samples from the CD:|
|Father, Son, Cousin Country Western Band|
|Howard Warner (Huntington Beach artist)|
|I’m Now Eight Four|
|Purchase the CD/Mp3:|
I will be blatant with the play on
dementia and dimension if you please.
Kismet has it that these two guys
one a singer of lyrics, the other
a reciter of meters and worth
bond with a common theme
leaving remnants of their art.
A thread of losing the mind
through proteins that consume
neurons leaving artists,
common folks alike as
empty shells of who they were,
puts them all on a voyage where
the portholes of their minds are
arranged in a deranged architect
of each of their own paths’ designs.
The time of their declines, soundness
moves uniquely each within their own
mutated accord–there is no exemplar.
The singer is castaway with forgotten
lyrics while the poet puts away his ink.
The caregivers of their remnants require
filling in the expanding holes who they
were once was with quiet resolute
HOW TO MAKE ROSEWATER RELEVANT?
Well you have a dapper of an interrogator
who spritzes it on him daily to smell right
to get a journalist to say he’s Western spy.
Comedian Jon Stewart masks brutality
making it aromatically palatable to view.
There’s more to it and I’m not naming names.
I do broad strokes to peel down the essence.
“Swing to the left, swing to right sit down sit down
fight fight”–kick his ribs ‘til bloody bloody blue.
Okay! Okay! I’m a SPY, alright I’m a SPY
This famous journalist’ runaway seller.
allegorically captures his Iranian tormenter.
The essence is being doused with rosewater
doesn’t suppress the conquest averring gallantly
to galvanize intelligent might to wipeout wicked
persecution no matter what part of the globe it dwells
Take down bars of brutality, letting freedom dance
with the stars be it the waltz, jive, rumba, or tangle.
CLACKING OF RED SHOES
I’m not a cave dweller
reading hieroglyphs deciphering
how to stuff woes back into
Pandora’s Box but I do share
a galvanizing vision so insanely
“armed to the teeth” to here I speak.
I cannot shake this Mormon fiber of
my being of gathering fellow travelers,
arrogantly anointing them to leap away
from the woes that vexes so many of us.
I cauterize this impasse to remind the public
of their free flowing Will packed with wisdom
to separate ‘”Tare from wheat” to their accord.
The “Ring a Ring o’ Roses” in this nano
second space capsule is a possible panacea
to stretch out where all knowing selves
rightly excel in no falling down friendship–
no bosses, no pains, no subjugation–
pervasive tenderness squelches forebodings,
So today will heal past woes and tomorrow’s too.
The Looking Glass
This is it, I flipped out
into wonderland, regaining
my thick tousled hair, not
a care of Putin, Ferguson City,
Mogadishu or Syria & Iraq.
Ordinary, I was attempting
to take Frost’s untrodden way
allowing me that afflatus-Leap
but fell into the mirror like Alice,
I shrank with a fervent prayer
into a peculiar realm-smoking
in the fume from the hookah
inhaled by Big Tomato worm.
The Clockwork Rabbit whisked
me to the tea table with amenities.
No one can call me to bring me back.
The Mercury Tea so sweet like Nectar,
having no clue madness so beguiling.
“SEND IN THE CLOWN”
One the most famous arias ever is Vesti La Giubba (Put on the Costume)
English translation is befitting of Robin Williams soul. We have still have
a long winding road to get to a profound understanding of Bipolarism and what to
do about it.
“Go on stage, while I’m nearly delirious?
I dont know what Im saying or what I’m doing!
And yet, chin up! Ill try harder. Bah, you think youre a man?
You are just a clown! on with the show, man,
And put on your white-face.
The people pay you and you must make them laugh.
And if harlequin should steal your columbine, laugh,
Youre pagliaccio, and the world will clap for you!
Turn into banter all your pain and sorrow,
And with your clowns face hide grief and distress…”
THERE’S A TIME AND PLACE
The word is the heart,
the word is the mind,
the word is the gut,
The obstacle course is at play
Zephyr blows coolness in the pores,
taking all the stresses away, mind
is the word leading to the heart
which soothes the guts which
settles in a place of time where
nothing matters but a soft kiss solace.
I’m an easy touch when it comes,
explaining this place and time,
I leave no rivet of uncertainty
A frog hops from pod to pod, then
leaps into soothfast realm of verity.
The proper course is now at play.
A BARDIC SHEEPDOG’S PRAYER
I’m tired than an old sheep dog
misguiding, then guiding, then patted
for getting the herd behind the rustic gates.
This bucolic melody drifting like autumnal
sycamore leaves, but the haggard dog
follows them endlessly not caring where.
My fur gets snarled, encrusted from
the meandering journey nowhere,
perhaps this nowhere is a place to be.
There’s restfulness infused with restlessness.
A breeze finally moisturises my fur so
penetratingly, bringing clarity in all my pores.
So what does clarity bring to a feckless canine?
Well it delivers a benevolent twisted prayer
which spreads laughing daffodils all over the hills.
This critter still believes that a curve ball of fate
will still horrific conflict down to its knees or what
good is it to imagine blimey otherwise? Amen
HIDING BEHIND DEATH
I take a peek back onto the global stage;
Syrian still killing their children
Iraq still killing their children.
Afghanistan still killing their children–
internecine, internecine, internecine!
Such bloody theatre makes one to retreat.
I rather hide behind my beloved bard’s
death mask reveling in mournful doldrums
than witness horrifying bloodbaths which
make Shakespearean plays read like
a glimmer-of- hope-fun-of-the-art fairy tales.
My own little corner of prayers is not going
to intercept ceasing the senseless acts.
I snap my finger like a match, hoping
for a second coming to say, “Halt!”
I now open my eyes hearing the Times thump
on my pavement while glancing at my bard’s
empty chair. Will I open the paper, read
that world wars are over forever more?
Last Friday, before heading up here, Linda and I attended a record release party for Michael C. Ford’sLook into each other’s ears. Harlan Steinberger, the producer and impresario behind Hen House Studios in Venice, made use of his new facilities in Venice to host one of the most impressive gatherings of poets on a single evening outside of any formal literary event in recent years. Everyone was delighted to see Michael’s remarkable blend of cultural skepticism and wistful irony still finding wide-spread support.
Perhaps the evening’s most delightful surprise was the presence of Paul Trachtenberg, the surviving spouse of the late Bob Peters. I had exchanged a few notes with Paul since learning of Bob’s death, and while Paul sounded in his messages, both to me and others on Facebook as if a kind of rare solace had taken possession and drenched his inner self with equanimity, I hardly expected him to be at Harlan and Michael’s party. Seeing Paul reminded me of his request that we remember and celebrate Bob’s life not in a public gathering, but in the privacy of our own reading. Get one of his books from your shelf, he urged us, and read a favorite poem.
For the past several days, I have been intermittently dipping into Gauguin’s Chair, a volume of selected poems from his first years as a poet. The title page reads “1967-1974,” but this refers more to the publication dates of the books from which the poems are drawn. (For reasons of sentiment, perhaps, the original sales slip is still in the book: 5-18-80. 4.95 plus 30 cents tax, purchased from A Different Light Bookstore: Gay Literature/Periodicals/Aesthetera. 4014 Santa Monica Blvd. (at Sunset), Hollywood, CA 90029 (213) 668-0629).
In an interview conducted by Billy Collins in April, 1974 (when Collins was a grad student at UC Riverside), Peters talked about how the sound of words is the primal attraction of poetry. “I keep sayingear when I talk about poets. I may perhaps be too attuned to sound. I luxuriate in splendid sounds in poems, my own as well as other people’s.” Peters had the rare ability to intermingle “splendid sounds” with a wide range of subject matter, including historical subjects such as Ann Lee of the Shakers or King Ludwig of Bavaria.
Peters began his creative career at a relatively late point in his life. The sudden death of his son, Richard, on February 10, 1960, at the age of four and a half, left Peters unable to derive sufficient meaning from his life as a professor of literature, and he began writing poems, many of which addressed the cauterizing loss of his child due to a one-day illness. These poems eventually were collected in Songs for a Son. As an example of the pleasure he took in “splendid sounds,” let us savor nine lines from a poem in that first book, “Transformation”:
hot coppery sides
the slime of birth
becomes a chalky
track of bone
compressed in time
to slate, or gneiss,
or marble – pressed
lifeless into stone.
The overall pattern of iambic dimeter is remarked upon in a fine instance of metapoetry: “compressed in time” refers not just to the brevity of the son’s journey in life, but to the constricted metamorphosis enacted as “compressed” becomes “pressed” in the stanza’s penultimate line. The layered internal rhyme of gneiss and lifeless provides the solemn intonation that completes the move from slime to stone. Splendid concatenation, indeed!
As the kind of memorial requested by Paul, though, and since I am in mountains now, at 5,000 feet, I have decided to share with you a poem by Bob that is rarely (if ever) reprinted in anthologies. Here is part eight of “Mt. San Gorgonio Ascent”:
At a drop below
hangs a cloud, mercurial.
The mountain it claims
gloats green, lung-red, and blue.
Pines flare. Boulders
glow. Light falls
total drift of mist,
of flesh. The trance
is my own.
My hand is a peach
attached to a limb
swung over a gorge.
It hangs beyond all reach
gathers ripeness in.
Ichor swells the vein,
proceeds to the nipple end.
A bee strikes, hovers over.
A NEW HORIZON
My Robert loved reciting his proud
Eskimo Haiku: “Drip, drip, drip! Spring
has come into my livingroom.” Now
I have a poem called grip, grip, grip.
I have a grip on grief, i have a grip
on not telling lies, I have a grip on moving,
plowing away avalanches of cobwebs
obscuring my thinking clearly, oh indeed.
You see, I am sissified cowboy who has been
on range of broken fences way way too long.
I’ve been lately avenging my cravenness.
This point, I’m going say I love you to everybody,
even ones I’ve felt slighted by, granted they may
have all reasons because of my shortsightedness.
I ponder now Robert Frost’s mended fences,
I have a front hedge that makes me neighborly.
So all and all weary worn but mending I’m proverbially
putting my newly refurbished saddle on my horsey.
Let me spelled out so plainly, I’m truly glad about all
this invigoration pulsating in my sheer existence.
By Cracky! I’m Gordon MacRrae, “Oh, what a beautiful
morning” as I rise for another cup of Yuban, shutters open.