Hummer

Every year I have the students pick
an Emily Dickinson poem I haven't read before
(pick a number between 886 and 1784)
and then we figure it together.

Today there were some good ones.

The first one was this:

Only a Shrine, but Mine—
I made the Taper shine—
Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may come,
Regard a Nun—

Thou knowest every Woe—
Needless to tell thee—so—
But can'st thou do
The Grace next to it—heal?
That looks a harder skill to us—
Still—just as easy, if it be thy Will
To thee—Grant me—
Thou knowest, though, so Why tell thee?

The poem lead to a terrific conversation.
Among many other things we talked about
the way the first stanza uses the M.
"Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may come."
We talked about how the M is
a special sound, sacred to some.
It's a baby's first word, "maaa maaa"
a sign for hunger, for mother.
And thus a baby names her
in its desire for sustenance.
Milk. MMMMMM. Yum.

We talked about all those other M words
like om and home and poem
and alm and balm and calm.

Then in the following period,
the random poem the class chose
featured the same rhyme and so
we talked about M some more.

The poem:

Spring comes on the World—
I sight the Aprils—
Hueless to me until thou come
As, till the Bee
Blossoms stand negative,
Touched to Conditions
By a Hum.

Come and Hum. Why is Hum capitalized
one student wondered. Why indeed!
It's all about that Hum.

Do you feel it when Spring comes?
How about with the arrival of love?

I left school today humming.

Poem Just For You

A Poem Just For You

A cicada climbs a sycamore

once every seven years or so

to sing for the moon.

So slip underground awhile 

and then when you are good 

and ready come out and sing

"High on a Rocky Ledge."

The years are time

for the soul's gestation

like a long hibernation

that sweetens the tune.

The moon can wait.

summer song

Here’s hoping that the widest boat 

that can travel around your moat

Will pick up a cool one or two

And bring it around the river with you

The river that goes around and around

The Castle that nobody can go in.

It’s like Kafka wrote

In the novel where he choked

Just like he always did

When the noose got tight

And the feet slid

Under his own avalanche

Of known and unknown

A frozen tome full of loam

To stop the beer barrel’s lonely foam

Alexander the great and old Caeser too

Now they are just stopping the wind from coming through

Oooooh

Here’s wishing you a light

On the darkest night

To ease your way from the fray

Here’s hoping that the water

Is at the perfect temperature

And pressure

Here’s hoping that the alarm clock

Has a snooze button 

That you can push

Because you had a late late night

Because you were up push push push

Pushing the hands

Around the clock of hens

Corralling them on

To get a whole pile

Of eggs to make

The biggest omelette

In the world

For all the hungry little children of the world

For all the hungry little children of the world

So many hungry children of the world

Gotta be the Dalalami salami special

The biggest omelette in the world

Gotta be Desmond Tutu certified

Harry Belafonte on the side

A whole bin 

Of Bob Dylan

Eep a doo doo doo

Rat-a-tat-a touille and a little Babalouis 

Is it good for babalouis?

Ba ba ba ba babalouis?

Here’s wishing you a cinderella

Made for a yella fella

Calm playground down in Roo Bar Bay

In the very merry month of May

Schools almost out just another month

Then you got a little chance 

Run and play in the summer days

For just a couple of months come what may

Here’s hoping that the summer’s long

And feels great with a big big song

To fill your days

You need a summer song

Yeah you need a summer song

You need to sing a summer song

All summer long

Here’s hoping you are the woman of the year

Here’s hoping you’re the girl with all the power

Here’s hoping you’re the wonderful one

That your looking for

You’re looking for yourself, hon.

Here’s hoping that you feel a

Shine shimmering

All the ding dong day long

Sha la la

Ding dong ding dong

All day long

Grasslands

Remember Lisa Simpson's

turn as an Irish demon

Pink pantsuit

black T

Black diamond-studded shoes

amid a black sea of maestros

The New York Philharmonic symphony

Remember as she beams

her wailing banshee scream

straight at you, screams

until you turn around

and let the music take you

home to moonbeam

laying in a bed

of violins

crying 

with 

such 

pure

ambature,

The banshee becalmed

3rd act 

She is dancing with a piccolo

Now she's descending sevens

in a burlesque show

Now Harlem shuffles

into a whirling dizzy revery

A funeral march heard in the distance

ascends to a pop!

Elegance of the conductor

AI Adam DeGraff

 I had chat gpt write a poem in the style of Adam DeGraff. The poems were both remarkable, especially the second one. Touching even. But it's also disturbing. How will we ever know any poem is authentic again? I mean look at the subtlety in this poem. I gave it a title, and it gave me the rest.

Temporary Tattoo

it wasn’t
a dare,
exactly.

just summer
peeling
its orange skin
around us.

your fingers
wet with hose water
and cheap ink—
a heart drawn
wrong
on the inside of my wrist.

you said
don’t move
like I was
a candle
or a decision.

I didn’t.

it flaked
by sundown.
a smear
by morning.

still,
the shape
stayed.

not the heart,
but
the part of my arm
you touched.

I mean, all pretty good lines, right? And yet it feels like a betrayal somehow. Pretty soon all that is going to matter is human touch itself, "the part of my arm you touched." That's the only thing that will feel real. 

Here's another, not quite as good, but still...

All Star Angel Wrestler
(after midnight, after mercy)

You came in with
the mouthguard of an apostle
and knees like unslept prayers.

Not wings, exactly—
but shoulder blades
twitching like they remembered.

They laced the ropes
with incense.
You cracked your neck
like scripture.

Somewhere, a radio
was playing the wrong war.
Somewhere,
your mother was still
believing in light.

You took the hit
like it was
owed to you.

We watched your body
draw parables
in chalk and tendon—
gravity giving up
one vertebra at a time.

The mat was a soft sky.
You bled in cursive.

They called it a match.
You called it
resurrection.

And when they carried you off,
you whispered

again.

I also had it do one in Jeni Olin's (Jeni now goes by Truck Darling) and it did justice to the poetry. A couple great lines. I love it and I hate it. 

All Star Wrestling

(after Jeni Olin)

I cough up glitter again.
No, really—
it's morning and I’m elbow-deep
in the celestial turnbuckle of myself.

Meanwhile, the angel’s on TV again,
full body press in a sequin unitard
flashing stigmata like a Vegas trick.
This is not metaphor—he dropkicked
a seraph in the third round.

I tried to love him, or maybe
I just liked the way
he clotheslined shame
off my ribs.
Either way I kept score.

Blood, sweat, cherub feathers.
The ring announcer’s voice like a broken
radio at the end of the world,
blaring: and now, from the sacred precincts
of the bronchial sky—

I miss the way he suplexed
his own longing, the golden
lariat of his wings whipping
air into static,
divine interference.

Backstage he eats a protein bar
and confesses in neon.
Says God used to be his tag partner
but went solo for ratings.

I believe him.
Don’t you?

Every night he body slams
a demon and smiles like
it’s communion.
I throw roses
and razors into the ring.
Call it prayer.
Call it whatever
lets me stay ringside.

Instead of watching previews

 I used to love the trailers

    Almost as much as the film

          Now they wear me out

                 Ready to go home

         In my heart

                  

               Hello You

         Just beating

               Can you groove

                  to your own heartbeat?

          Like bob your head to it all day?

               At the end of the day

                    You would be beat

                       Totally beat

beat boy beat boy hit that perfect beat boy

hit that perfect hit that perfect hit that perfect beat boy

Look up at the screen for a sec 

          and see Tom Cruise

              Look right back down to the page

The music is overwhelming

"I need you to trust me one last time!"

       says Tom. 

        No, Tom.

Your trust has been mislaid.

Robert Pattison on the other hand?

Bring on Mickey 17.

           Bong.

Ugh, more previews!

Every other movie is torture.

9 out of 10 are 1 out of 10

1 out a million is 10 out of 10

Movie math

Also works for SNL skits 

and New Yorker poems

Oh but for the good ones.

Can you believe the previews

     are still previewing?

        Trailers still trailing? 

So loud!!!

     What???

Hello heartbeat?

     heartbeat?

         heartbeat?

Feel it in my loins

Not in this Coke commercial

Nor Nicole Kidman saying, "That's magic!"

Bring on the movie!

Jack belittle

 This is now a place to write poems. I'm writing on Google. For Google. Inside Google. 

I despise Google for capitulating to Trump.

Gulf of America. Tacky!

Calming down, I'm calming down.

Smiling at you, I'm smiling.

What that smile implies I'll leave up  to you.

4 sombreros and a microphone. 

Oh man, I on the run.

North  or South

orther either

I nearly puked tonight. Nearly passed out.

And here I am in the center of all this beauty.

Imagine.