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Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Campus Elegy

This entry is part 33 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011

“If I cried out/ who would hear me up there/ among the angelic orders?” – Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies

We heard the news, we saw on video how
they sat in rows, arms linked, no chorus
sounding anguish from among their ranks.
Or pain, or anger— not that the formality
of silence cannot mean something seethes
beneath the bludgeoned front. Attack the head,
the ribs; pour acids down the throat and
scald the eyes. What civil liberties we take.
A student writes, They’re human too, they hurt
from all this fear. Long days ahead, of vigil;
flushed nights spiked with sudden chill. All’s over-
cast. Phalanx of blue: faces that look, as they
close in, like neighbors’, brothers’, uncles’—
What you see, before the bodies fall to blows.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

A-shantying I did go

Watch on Vimeo – watch on YouTube

Here’s an example of the sort of shenanigans we get up to around here. Well, O.K., this is not perhaps a typical Central Pennsylvania party — but sea-shanty sing-along potlucks are happening twice a year now, thanks to the planning skills and infectious enthusiasm of Steven Sherrill, whom I interviewed for the Woodrat podcast a while back. (And speaking of the podcast, I hope to present a lengthier selection from our sing-along in audio form here at some point.) Songs included in the video, in all or in part: “Haul Away Joe,” “Hanging Johnny,” “Haul on the Bowline,” “South Australia,” and “Wondrous Love” (not a shanty, but it has the same tune as “Captain Kidd,” which we also sang). The somewhat disturbing paintings in the basement are all Steve’s work. The drink of choice was mulled cider spiked with rum.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

The Colors of Noise

This entry is part 2 of 29 in the series Conversari

From her phone’s camera, the orange & pink blur of an ear
pink noise is often used as a reference signal

My words boomerang back & vanish in a storm of static
blue noise — good for dithering

Later, at a party, I drink enough to hear a sort of surf
blue noise is also called azure noise
violet noise is also called purple noise

My ears ring from an hour & a half of singing
brown or red noise is also known as
“random walk” or “drunkard’s walk”

Back home, I notice huge gaps in the sky where stars used to be
black noise is also called silent noise

*

Phrases in italics are from the Wikipedia article, “Colors of noise.”

See the photographic response by Rachel Rawlins, “Bucket.”

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Landscape, with Early Frost and a Dream Interior

This entry is part 32 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011

Dear heart, before the sun can overthrow all the sturm und drang caused by restlessness in the sheets, too much caffeine, and that over-decorated danseuse named guilt waltzing in your ballrooms especially when nights are longer, look close at the beds in the garden— There are tiny spires beneath summer’s leftover foliage, cities of frost spangled with brittle diadems. Look at the miniature hanging bridges on the outskirts, the lined streets leading to the plaza devoid of movement. Spires, casements shut: who’s sleeping there? who’ll ring the bells in the bell-tower? In a few hours, it’ll be warm enough to melt them all: not even a sigh left behind. Meanwhile, in the Cinema Paradiso that plays all the time in my head, the music in the opening scene is always indistinguishable from the breeze that parts the curtains, draws the eye in toward the complicated interiors. There’s the linen cloth, the table where lemons lie on a ceramic plate. Maybe I’m making parts of this up. Maybe the plate is tin, or maybe it’s a bowl. But there is no mistaking the wistful light that brushes them, so that even in black and white or sepia, a spray of citrus, a stroke of rosemary, perforates the air.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Delusional

Take these wings. I have
no business in the sky.
From now on I shall confine myself
to smaller sections of an arc,
go back to the bitter
milk I was weaned on
at the silk-parachute plant.
None of this erratic dancing
about on a trajectory
that’s impossible to plot.
That’s not how dragon-
flies do it, much less wrens,
airplanes or hummingbirds.
My piloting mechanism must have
a fatal flaw, & I lack
the strength to climb much higher
than the hills. I have
no business flying, & aim to stop—
as soon as I can figure out
how to get back in that mummy
sack, the chrysalis.
Whatever made me dream up
some place called Mexico?

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Knit nap

Twisted Rib

“She’d fall asleep? and knit at the same time?”

“Yes. Her eyes would close and her head would nod but her hands would carry on knitting. And then at the end of the programme she’d wake up and have to undo it all.”

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Delivery Confirmation

This entry is part 31 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011

The box you sent came in the mail today,
the three jam jars intact— I did not know
the local orchards now have kumquat, enough
to turn into a thriving industry. We love
the bagful of pastillas, each bite just
as we remember, toasted milk-sweet in fluted
pastry shells, each wrapped in colored
cellophane. I didn’t recognize the vendors’
tags on any of the shirts, but the girls
think they are cute, especially embellished
with rhinestones. I smelled a whiff of travel
as I undid the plastic and lifted wads of
crumpled newsprint, padding, from inside: just
for a moment, that other place and its crowded
streets, old houses leaning at the curb or
limned with tungsten light— mingled scents
of tobacco, wilted greens, old linen somehow
sharper and more crisp, because of evanescence.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.