Diamond Poetry

Prose Poems: #4

2010-05-10T08:00:00.005-04:00

(This prose poem is one of a series titled, "Tone Poems of the Cowboy", which tries to capture the tone and attitude of the American archteypal cowboy.) This is the spoken word version of the poem.

The Cowboy Speaks of Solitude

I want to thank you all for taking time from your busy schedules to listen to these poems. Not too many people will read a poem and fewer still come out of their way to sit and listen to poems being spoken, especially the poems of a lonesome cowboy. I say that because you might think it’s lonely out on the trail working the herd or mending a fence line. But that is not the case. My life offers the great advantage of plentiful solitude. A solitary life establishes independence. As independence grows loneliness goes. You might have to think about that to see its truth. I will point out that a solitary person has time to think. Loneliness comes from missing things that seem dear. Think about it. What’s to miss? The squeal of the urban pigs? The gobbets of excrement let fly in the air as the pundits of propaganda strive to fill your ear? The ubiquitous stench of the foul stew of egotism emanating from the pot of every person? The perpetual program hammering your brain? The program that teaches you to be programmed, to expect it and accept it as necessary? I don’t miss that a bit. The entire world is arranged to highjack your mind – whereas a poem is designed to offer you the opportunity to think. It’s only an offer; you can take it or leave it. My life will remain worthwhile whether or not you pay attention to the words in this poem. Can you make the same claim? The next poem you hear won’t be as sensible as this one. You might have to think more than you’re normally inclined.

Prose Poem #3

2010-03-20T09:02:00.001-04:00

Ten Dollars a Gallon

Oh, gigantic, hideous thing, long and aluminum, rectangular, with pleated sides and flat top, tinted windows, shiny black tires, and numb passengers nodding at the dumb shows inside, why do you exist? Oh, box of stuff, rolling along, in command of four hundred horses, the cost of your travel from mountain to sea matches the yearly income of two campesinos. ¿Es usted la bestia del apocalipsis? When the fat, wealthy man at the helm high in your padded cabin, the back of his leather chair sweaty, hemorrhoids athrob, drinking gin to wash down two Excedrin, tired from his days at the bank, has a heart attack and crashes, will anyone care? Probably not. Even his children won’t weep. I see your future -- your round legs ground up, your tin skin punctured, little wood-burners installed for cooking, smoke stacks jutting out like broken arms. Shelter for the homeless! After all, we are a practical people.

Playing with Prose Poems #2

2010-02-08T13:24:00.001-05:00

Here’s a little machine, its gears precise, turning teeth, whirring wheels: steel drum just so, like a torturer’s instrument, tiny nipples arranged in variegated rows to trip the steel tangs, tensile, tempered, slim as a bird’s tongue – a mechanical sorcery, teasing tempos somehow musical, lilting, lovely, from springs wound tight – all beneath a complicated tableau, a girl turning, perpetually gazing at a chariot tracing a circular track, its horses’ forelegs prancing, noble heads up and down, a grassy park, a tree, a glass sky, a globe to be concise. And I, with wily hands inside the workings, agile fool, thinking, tinkering, never satisfied.

Music Box

Playing with Prose Poetry #1

2010-01-16T22:01:00.002-05:00

Tiny Universe

A star exploded in a tiny universe sending an immense expanding sphere of light outward. On a tiny planet at the farthest reaches at the edge of nothing, an old man stood in his garden next to his tomato plants. He had been kneeling to turn some manure into the dirt with a trowel, but stood up to stretch and rest. He felt the wave of light, the initial intensity of which had been multiply reduced by the vast distances it had traveled in the tiny universe. Still, it was terribly hot. The hot wave washed over him. His face flushed and he felt dizzy. His face flushed redder yet as something burst like an infinitely small star in his brain, discharging a tumbler of energy from his body. the old man fell to his knees then toppled forward. By the time his face hit the soft dirt of his cultivation he was dead.

No title

2010-01-07T13:46:00.000-05:00

I stand
at your grave
waiting for words to come,
but no words rise from my depths, only
peacefulness: acceptance
that you have
expired.

Magician

2009-11-27T16:30:00.002-05:00

Inside
the top hat,
a rabbit nibbled greens:
the man tipped his hat away to show
the rabbit, still, with long-toothed
grin, as mean
as hell.

Birds Flew from His Mouth

2009-11-16T18:55:00.001-05:00

Birds
flew from
his mouth – larks,
sparrows, swallows and black –
they fluttered forth in strange formations
scribing wild story-land
adventures:
his great
love.

Poem for an Autumn Day

2009-11-05T08:04:00.005-05:00

Everyone Knows

On an Autumn day,
the path open,
and the leaves orange
like a whirling orb,
he said,
“I’m going to walk a way
down the trail.”
Shoulders bent, back bent,
just to clear his mind,
he went.
She watched him go
and put soup in a pot
for his return.
“I’ll be back,”
she heard him say
before he closed the door.

He went that way
of his own design
with a stick for a third leg
and a brown scarf he liked.
She loved to see
the trees sway
in the Autumn sky,
their leaves in flight
and scattered on the ground,
sometimes swirling in circles,
a golden tunnel down the trail
inside the trees,
a spear of sunlight
through the middle
with a tip of hurt
that traveled to her heart.

Reading Poetry

2009-11-03T19:18:00.002-05:00

Late
at night,
past midnight,
the fan’s hum sporadic
overhead: red wine tastes of wood: thoughts
fade into emptiness
as I read
one last
poem.

Going to the Tenth Continent

2009-10-28T13:19:00.001-04:00

.
Air –
mountain
peaks cut through
thick fog banks: black clouds shaped
like mountain peaks drift above: a glimpse
of fabled continents:
Immortals go there:
home.
.
.
.
Sea:
the other
shore: a hidden island:
the rippling wind breaks off the quiet
sand: wave after wave: they
roll away:
now.

Response to Rilke

2009-10-23T14:36:00.003-04:00

.
The following poem responds to Rainer Maria Rilke's poem from A Book for the Hours of Prayer titled "I have many brothers."

Response to Rilke

I, too, have brothers in the South –
they pray inside a frame, these men
from the high hills, with leather skin,
who set themselves against the world
and are a world unto themselves,

and I have brothers in the West
with stone cold churches
built for the ages to communicate
the ageless truth of their belief,
which they believe more than they know,

and I have brothers in the East
with wisdom held in books
for the common person’s good,
but the words can’t be understood
unless one can stand without words.

Yet, no matter how far I go
on my inward journey, my power
is neither light nor dark,
but clear and cold as a winter
night, as broad and deep as space,

and though my soul does drink as roots
of trees with need, it doesn’t claim much,
but joins as drops do to water -
with affinity - so I come to return
to that early hour, clear and clean as dew.
.
.

Commemorating Columbus Day

2009-10-12T16:37:00.001-04:00

Christopher Columbus

came in the Santana Maria – the Pinto and the Nono
not far behind. He stepped ashore the island, Lucayos,
and immediately announced, “I have taken possession
of this land for the King and Queen, (Queen Isabella of
the big hips and weird collar): they hid a financial under-
standing, the two of them, under the cloak of adventure
and discovery. Next thing he knew, Columbus was torturing
the natives for knowledge of the whereabouts of the gold.
“But we have no gold,” the naked men protested while
their fingers were twisted and broken, their lying faces
beaten. A goodly sum of the Guanahani was slaughtered.
Later, the native chief was discovered hiding in a pit.
No gold at hand, Columbus put them to work exploitatively
and thus the “Day of Discovery” brought us the new world
and established the first principles of foreign relations.

Kreativ Blogging Award

2009-10-10T22:10:00.003-04:00

Award winning painter, Rosemary Sexton, awarded me the Kreativ Blogging Award. It's nice to have someone let you know that you have inspired them or brought a little art into their life. Thanks, Rosemary.

A Poem for John

2009-10-04T12:27:00.000-04:00

.
.
188th Street

I remember well
the kid with polio
who hid in the bushes
and flung rocks
with his good arm, his body skeletal,
covered with pale flesh:
who, in his rage and loneliness,
with his corpse-like visage,
scared me to a hollow gut.
You came with me
the next Sunday morning:
I could tell that you were scared, too,
but took up the older brother’s
duty to be brave
and charged in blindly
then punched him away.
When you saw and turned,
and I saw, too, what was done
in the name of fear,
we were ashamed
to be so dumb
and never spoke of it again.

By the Tuckaseegee River

2009-09-30T13:44:00.002-04:00

The
mountains
look on fire
this morning: mist drifts up
high in rough ranges of smokiness:
my old friend, gone away,
would have loved
this grand

view.

.
Morning
glories twirl
up around the corn stalks:
pink and purple flared horns: the yellow
corn leaves curl down edges
turning brown:
damp ground.

Blue Dusk Poem

2009-09-21T16:36:00.005-04:00

This painting by Sylvia Williams is one of my favorites ...here's the poem.

Hot Sky

Blood runs in the wood.
Sweet beauty
doesn't want to tell the world about that feeling
for which there are no words,
sweet beauty that draws tremor and pain
like a wire through the body’s arches,
through the brain,
up and down the spine.
I see your picture, your time.
Winter black branches
draw geographical designs in space,
delta networks
bleeding with the hot bay
of twilight blues -- a chorus behind,
waiting for the wintry moon:
a chanting silence --
beauty and sadness,
sadness and beauty.

Observing Nature

2009-09-13T12:20:00.003-04:00

Deplete,

trident leaves,

yellow edges, borders brown,

passion flower failed to bloom this year,

no fruit to seed anew,

fading life

complete.

Praying

mantis wife -

self-determination

lacking, taken within by instinct,

does eat her spouse's head:

would she not,

he would.

Yow! My Chapbook For Sale

2009-09-08T13:42:00.004-04:00

.
Yow!
You can now purchase your very own copy of "Deep Fried Do What and the Jesus Fish."
Only $3.00 plus postage. Contact me here or at the4winds@verizon.net.
Here's a sample:
(from "Three Days of Winter on the Tallapoosa."
.
We have lost the church to the liars
and the pastor rolls in the briars
like a cat in summer
scratching its back:
and God has gone to the moon,
where he lives in an Airstream trailer,
the shiny tin shines
on the craters around
creating a skyline of diamonds,
and the moon makes a home for his failure,
a home for his brooding days,
a night for his sky
pinned with tin badges.
He sits on a chair and looks out
on a ridge of tin like a jagged blade --
a mountain scape,
a crater scape,
around the neighborhood of God’s trailer.

Here's at cha' Appalachia

2009-09-05T12:54:00.002-04:00

.
Footage
of Muslim
extremists exhorted
by their leader made me realize
that Jihad, when shouted,
sounds much like
Yeeehaahh!
.
.
Twang
twang twang,

dress up nice,
twangey twang twang, yeeehahh!:
Well, stomp my feet and bow my fiddle
Give me a girl that likes
To diddle,
Yeeehahh.
Dang!
.
.
Yeehahh,
hee hah hah
yeehah, yeehah
hee hah, yeehah, yeehah, oh, do what?
Do what? Do what? Do what?
Ahhh, yeeeehahh!
I heard
that!

Green and White

2009-08-31T16:01:00.003-04:00

.
.
Cool
morning:
everything
damp from an early rain:
the sky like a white dome: a good day
to simmer the string beans:
no time left
to look
back.
.
.
On
the way
to Asheville
we stopped for a picnic.
At wood’s edge, I noticed a flower
I’d never seen before:
Fly Poison –
flowers
spiked.
.

Three Blues Diamonds

2009-08-21T14:47:00.004-04:00

.
.
The
old rag
and bottle
men down in New Orleans
would play cheap tin horns, making blue notes
that brought the children out
for candy
and small
toys.
.
.
In
my youth,
the showmen
each had a style, a hat,
a handkerchief, a worn overcoat,
and voices that knew time:
character:
the real
stuff.
.
.
The
bent notes

of the blues
come from the depths: they turn
that piercing sliver of cool sweet sound
that makes your soul shiver:
their women
loved that
way.
.

2009-08-13T14:36:00.007-04:00

A beautiful still life by Rosemary Sexton's friend Zena.

Who could resist such a painting.

.

Zena's Truth

I am the plum
inside the apple-plum confection.

I am the word unspoken.

I am the glow beneath
the white rose petal, above its shadow.

I am the sound
between the black and white keys

where the painters live

who paint koi
in the flow of cool water.

Favorite Creatures

2009-08-06T11:23:00.001-04:00

.
The
manta
rays glide through
the sea with ease: rippling
wings propel them: do they dream walk
on dry ground as I dream
of floating
above
trees?

I
waited
patiently
for hippopotamus
to gape her mouth: a vast pink chasm:
blunt bone teeth: bulk under
water: those
wiggly
ears.

Pink Hat

2009-07-30T10:54:00.004-04:00

Here's another abstract painting by Sylvia, which is great fun to look at. It has a Japanese quality to it - I imagine if Hokusai were to have made abstract prints they would look like this.
My poem takes off from the image and goes to places I didn't expect.
.
.
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Pink Hat

Silly,
ignored as a child, drew fantastical pictures
of creatures in unnatural crayon colors.
Now, she wears bright cotton dresses
in lemon and orange, ruby and sapphire, and
a pink picture hat. Dressed such a way,
she paints to please the child inside.

The hat transports her to other places in other
times – once to the Paris of Breton and Eluard,
where she rode a balloon with a small man
in plaid: he touched her knee: she didn’t mind:
once to Ireland where ghosts appeared
from passage tombs to greet her
with voices like soft summer breezes.
In Africa, a dangerous man in khaki
and rifle put a pink diamond in her hand
and told her to run – which she did.
“Hold on to your hat,” he had shouted.

Then she vanished. No one knew how –
or why. She had traveled to her own childhood
and decided she loved this girl she used to be:
she would become the imaginary friend
she once had imagined and guide the girl’s
growth and when she ripened into bright colors
she would give her the pink hat of her dreams.

Summer Meadow/ Remote Benevolence

2009-07-29T10:04:00.012-04:00

This painting by Silvia Williams seems to be in motion -- The sky slanting down toward the flowers; the flowers leaning toward the sky. Wouldn't it be nice to step into this meadow?

Remote Benevolence

Across the day's page
...................... the sun script slants
.................to the lavender reaches:
the blood of the ground
............................ pulses inside rusty racemes.

Hunger for light -

.......can we grasp its must?
................What does the flower tell

the sun as it swallows?

.............The sun tells no one

what it knows:
The one who is most absent
is most present.

Out in the World

2009-07-29T09:41:00.003-04:00

Telling
is the world’s
work: you are told to be
what the world wants: even what you want
is what you are told you
want: you can’t
escape.

A
silence
fell upon
the group as I walked past
with my dogs: I could feel the tension
in the air: those people
with giant
campers
there.

The Blue Kettle

2009-07-22T22:53:00.008-04:00

This painting is by Rosemary Sexton. It reminded me of my visit to the Acoma Pueblo and the beautiful pottery the people there made. The painting has the earthy tones of the southwest. It is very pleasant and calming to look at it. Here is a poem inspired by this painting.

Blue Kettle Tea my Blessed Daughter

The eastern sky
stands blue behind the Sandia Mountains,
but in the west a thunderhead approaches.
Teresa Chino comes down
from the mesa
to dig fresh clay for her pottery.
After the day’s work,
tired from the carry and the walk,
she climbs the sandstone stairs to Sky City,
ancient Acoma pueblo.
She looks forward to her daughter’s tea
made in the blue kettle:
they eat bread baked in a clay oven,
and strips of elk cooked all day
with carrots, potatoes, and wild onions.
In the evening, in sand by the door,
they draw designs
lit by moonlight and firelight,
their eyes in shadow, their hearts free.
The next morning,
they grind the stone.
In the weeks ahead,
she will teach her daughter
the secrets of pottery.
Teresa prays to the sun and the stars –
May her temper give her making strength
and the hard will of the Acoma way.
May her spirit give her making beauty.
In the evening, as we listen to the kee kee yah
of hawk coaxing black rabbit,
may you guide me in my lessons.
May we have rain and a cool wind tomorrow.

Dark Diamonds

2009-07-18T10:17:00.002-04:00

They
eat dog
paws sitting
around a round table:
the dogs limp painfully, hunting scraps
in long lamp-lit alleys,
with white teeth
dripping
down.

My
mother
smoked all day,
sometimes lighting one off
the last one in a nervous frenzy:
emphysema killed her:
she said she
could not
stop.

2009-07-14T16:33:00.003-04:00

This is a painting by my friend, Sylvia Williams, titled "Memories of the Sea." It's an evocative image and inspired the poem below.
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.
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Swimmer

An aerial view of a blue lagoon:
I’m diving down through layers of air,
soon descending, swallowed by depths,
stroked by cold water,
the almost perfect pleasure,
seeing the submerged view,
holding my breath with splendor
as the air bubbles rush past.
Then, turn, pull upward and rise,
the burst amidst wide water petals,
the smell of Bougainvillea,
the mechanical saw of the katydids,
the too sweet cry of the chickadee,
the life of the air.

On Writing Poems

2009-07-11T18:19:00.004-04:00

I want
to make each
line a line poetic,
so you may hold them in your hand,
so they may stand alone,
each round word
a stone.

I think
poetry
when I walk with the dogs,
repeating the lines that seem telling:
remembering in this way, I send a message
to my deeper self where the lines go
fishing in the dark flows
that exist
wihin.

Surreal Moments

2009-07-07T06:45:00.005-04:00

Shadows:
lime-colored
lemons: naked landscapes
disintegrating into lilies
interspersed with thorny
pods: alien
faces.
.

.
Huge
wasps float
in the gloom:
arcs of reflected white,
triangular, highlight the black bulbs:
the curved stings, like scythes,
swing down fast
stabbing,
mad.

Two Garden Poems

2009-06-29T07:09:00.005-04:00

This
brilliant
poem shines
with no knowledge, the words
empty of meaning, without any
usefulness, a dogwood
blossom the
light breeze
blows.
.

.
The
calla
lilies’ curved
yellow horns, the pink-tinged
yarrow, the rich red of the Asian
lilies -- I pick the plump
strawberries
in their
midst.

Daoist Poem

2009-06-28T21:56:00.001-04:00

First Movement

Follow Dao
Look for Dao in every situation
In the writing of this poem
In the selection of words
Words that travel
From my mind to your mind
Like migrating geese
Leaves floating on streams
Passengers in flight
From one city to another

To realize Dao
Remove the obstacles
Even your mind

Birthday Poem

2009-06-23T11:19:00.002-04:00

Happy

birthday, wife:

simply stated, I know:

our love grows stronger yearly: kindness

knows kindness: what matters

more than that,

you know?

Now and Then

2009-06-20T20:24:00.005-04:00

The
future
can be known:
watch children at school: watch
what they do: the future that forms them
they will form: they become
the future
before
long.

When her
hearing aid
squeals, I recall tuning
the frequencies on old radios:
I wonder what she hears --
what sweet songs
she knows.

Damn Spot

2009-06-16T11:20:00.004-04:00

Ms.

Palin,

those of us

who understand the need

for informed, open-minded leaders

think you should stay away

from public

office.

Out.

2009-06-14T11:34:00.003-04:00

Flag Day Birthday

Born
quondam
on Flag Day,
I never understood
the reason for displaying the flag.
To celebrate life well
one must fly
beyond
days.

Will
the dead
march the streets
on Flag Day to protest
this nation’s rape by the greedy men
who bury their millions?
The dead roam
this lost
world.

Hang
the flag
from a pole,
from your porch, from morning
until the moon makes it wave goodbye:
hang it upside down, too:
drape it all
around
you.

2009-06-08T10:56:00.000-04:00

Orange Alert

...

Dorothy.
call Glinda,
please: we need a new Oz.
The munchkins have gotten out of hand.
They gutted the old Oz
then ate what
remained.

Three Diamond Poems

2009-05-31T15:20:00.000-04:00

Evening
does not fall;
it creeps into the sky
like ink clouds thickening in water
seeping down from behind
the global
turning.

The
diamond
gathers light
inward to a center,
a holographic concentration
that traps a tiny star
inside its
vacant
heart.

The blues
bring me down
to that place where I can’t
do nothin’ but smoke and drink black rum:
a bird on the railing
turns his eye:
winds swirl.

2009-05-31T14:20:00.001-04:00

On the Diamond Form

The diamond form (diamante form) has been used most recently by schoolteachers to encourage children to enjoy the idea of writing a poem. The rules the teachers supply encourage a listing of words and apply extensive controls to the creative process. They go overboard to provide a structure the children can easily follow at the cost of constricting the natural flow of energy, feeling, and thought that enlivens a poem.
Here are the typical instructions: Line 1: A noun, Line 2: Two adjectives describing the noun on line one, Line 3: Three verbs ending in –ing (they tell what the noun in line one does), Line 4: Four nouns that go with the noun in line one, Line 5: Three verbs ending with –ing (they tell what the noun(s) in line 4 do(es), Line 6: Two adjectives describing the noun in line seven, and Line 7: A noun that means the same as line one. As you might imagine, the severe limitations of the format seriously reduce the creative potential of the poem.
I feel that the diamond form can offer the English language poet (including children), and perhaps poets writing in different languages, a sensibility, range, and effect similar to the Japanese traditional forms: Haiku, Senryu, or Tanka. While the diamond form should provide a similar set of rules regarding construction, in keeping with Western notions of freedom within structure, they shouldn’t be limited to poems concerning nature with a clear seasonal reference (Haiku), or about the foibles and follies of human nature (Senryu). Tanka employ a wider range of techniques including puns, homophones, wordplay, and commentary on spiritual, lyrical, and natural themes and, therefore, provide the best comparison for the variable possibilities of the diamond form.
As far as I know, a useful, simple, and generous set of rules that would allow the diamond form to blossom with myriad possibilities doesn’t exist. To this end, I offer the following rules for creating a poem in diamond form. The diamond form proposed should always contain a syllabic line count at its center that scans: 3,6,9,6,3. The syllabic count for the start (before the core lines) may be 1, or 2, or 1,2 (in two lines) and must be repeated in reverse at the finish. However, the poet may simply write the core lines to make the entire poem. This results in an overall syllabic count between 27 and 33 – nicely condensed, but ample for the English language poet.
The first line or two lines stand in for the title (though a title might be added). Given its symmetrical structure, the poet may want to amplify the upper portion when developing the lower portion or switch to a surprising counterpoint in the lower portion. There is no need to be rigid regarding the point at which such a shift might occur. It might be in the third line or after the first line, it might be exactly mid-point, or it might wait until the last line or the last word. However, the use of symmetry in this way isn’t required. The poem may simply offer an interesting image, idea, or rendition of an event.
While the diamond form appears to belong within the level of typographical poetry, the pictorial structure it displays isn’t necessarily a reflection of the topic of the poem. Diamond poems aren’t about diamonds. Only in the sense that the poet should strive to produce a polished gem of a poem does the name of the form apply to its creation. Its affinity to Haiku, Senryu, and Tanka, with regard to innovation within a structure, condensation, artistic sensibility, and opportunity for internal interplay, suggest the diamond form has the potential to become established as a rich and rewarding short form of poetry.
This diamond form offers the Western poet the opportunity for the same sort of focus and subtle use of words that has established the popularity, power, and magnificence of the Japanese traditional forms of poetry I’ve mentioned and, at the same time, releases the poet to a wider range of tone, ideation, and imagery than the traditional Japanese forms. Whether creating conceptual, naturalistic, narrative, romantic, impressionistic, or surreal art in the diamond form, the poet should strive to present a fresh perspective and engaging thought or imagery that evoke experience in an interesting and arresting manner.
Perhaps, poets who read this description of the proposed diamond form will see its potential, take a serious interest in the formal challenge (stick to the rules), and try it out for themselves. I hope the diamond poems included herein provide a worthy sample that will inspire poets to bring the diamond poem into the mainstream of poetry. After a few creations, I think those who make the effort will be pleased to find that it engages their creativity in a positive and rewarding manner.