Who would do that?
Put a dead pigeon in yr rubbish bin?
If it was good enough
To put in my bin
Why wasn’t it good enough
To put in theirs?
O the stink,
The weight of it!
I shovelled it out of the bin
And tossed it,
Neck all crumpled,
Into the far right hand corner of the garden
Where it could decay
Among the cluster of leaves.
The only good thing is
It’s given me something rancorous
To write about.
have you had any incidents with neighbors or strangers re your rubbish bins?
I don’t know whether you noticed but when I write a poem I slam it down on the page still white –hot from the cauldron of creation. Only when it cools do I see its cracks and imperfections. This may take minutes, more often hours, sometimes days. One poem took me nine years to write. There’s still a few I’m working on from twenty years back.
Those of you who see the still molten post will be surprised when you see the reworked version solidifying into its present state. Yes, you should edit. The trick is not to edit out the primal energy which birthed the poem.
Montaigne wrote an essay on Cannibalism
But he was not thinking of the literary kind.
Lately, having been ravaged by an uncontrollable
Hunger for poems to post, I have begun feasting
On a number of my haiku, being both salubrious
& delicious, not to mention efficacious. No one else’s
poems were hurt during the making of this poem.
The proof, they say, is in the pudding, which
I will set out before you to decide whether
Such a practice should occasionally be condoned.
I am staring down the barrels of
the red pencil sharpener
big as drainpipes
fat as full moons
flared like the nostrils
O-shaped mouths hungry
The red pencil sharpener sharpens
Whenever I feel a poem ‘coming on’
The images flickering before me like dragonflies
In sunlight, the sentences skittering off
In the distance, I feel like Cezanne bawling out
Vollard who kept falling asleep during a pose,
“Wretch! Stay still! You’re ruining everything.
You must hold your pose like an apple.”
his little epiphanies
tucked away in his notebook
like matches in a box
when I go off the rails
I’ll eat strawberry flan and chocolate cheese cake
wear my slippers to the shopping mall
my pj’s to the mail box
play my beethoven string quartets real loud like I did
my elvis records when I was fifteen
when I go off the rails I won’t be nice to mr fydler
just because he’s a senior
nor put the tv down when my kids ask me to
nor empty the dishwasher when
I don’t eat home at night
when I go off the rails
I’ll leave my newspapers just where I’ve read them
blare my horn all morning just to let my neighbors know
I’ve got one too
say what I really get up to when I “ go for a walk “
change my pass word on the internet so my brother-in-law
can’t sneak on
and when I go off the rails
like tootle the train engine
in the meadow
I hope no one puts me
back on track
When I wait for her to do a spot of shopping
I wait in the car.
When she’s getting ready to go out,
I wait in the driveway, the sun
like a lamp. with my stash of magazines
between the seats:
my New Yorkers, National Geographics
and that lady in the glove box,
It is my loo, my library, my study,
My five-seated reading room,
My Chapman’s Homer.
My car really takes me places.
I caught an intruder in my kitchen just now. He was trying to break into the wine bottle. Anybody who knows me knows this is an intolerable act. I pulled out my gun and immediately ordered him to put his hands up. Thankfully as this photo demonstrates he was compliant. Henceforth I will keep my wine under lock and key.