Joel Dias-Porter's Weblog

Where I've been

2008-07-19T11:43:00.001-07:00

It turns out I've visited 35 of the 50 states, although some states I was just passing through on the way to somewhere else. I can't remember if I've been to South Dakota or not. I'm pretty sure I went to Kentucky to eat at a restaurant with Jeff McDaniel and Joe Ray Sandoval on an AWP trip. I think the least amount of time I spent in any state was 45 minutes in Nevada, when me and Kenny Carroll changed planes in Vegas coming back from a poetry convention in Cali. I've spent most of my life (19 years) in DC, which isn't on this map because it isn't a state. The state I've lived the most amount of time in is PA (17 years), next is MD with one year in Baltimore in '68, then 4 years in PG County during the '80s, then NJ since I've basically spent the last 4 years in Atlantic City. I lived in TX, MS, WA, and MD during my three years in the US Air Force. No matter where I go or where I live, if someone asks me where I'm from, the answer will always be "Pittsburgh, PA."

visited 35 states (70%)
Create your own visited map of The United States

Aint no Third Verse

2008-07-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

Years ago I read in an interview by Bill Withers (one of my favorite songwriters) that the infamous "I know, I Know, I know . . ." section of 'Aint No Sunshine' came about because he hadn't writen a third verse yet and used that phrase as a mere placeholder (intending to replace it) but after hearing it, felt it brought something special to the song and kept it. I've always wanted to write my own 3rd verse, but it's much more difficult than it looks. You're only writing 2 new lines of 7 syllables each, since the song is a 12 bar blues and most of the lyrics are a repeating form, but still. So far I've got

"AInt no sunshine when she's gone,
[every face I've found is gray],
Aint no sunshine when she's gone,
[and I crave her all day long]
anytime she goes away.

Instead of Procrastinating

2008-07-01T15:09:00.000-07:00

I was playing around with an extended riff on a list of words I got from Evie Schockley's Intro to the issue of Mi Poesia she edited, just trying to write some pure poetry, I came up with this. A kind of ecstatic exhortation, something different than what I usually write.

ON A LAZY DAY

Question the callalily,
Query its silent symbolism,
Dispute the divinity of its hue.
In question- The sturdiness of rhetorical stems,
Out of question-The plurals of floral pleasure,
Beyond question-The dazzle of the dew.
Sequester all cellular insecurity,
Confiscate the plastic plants of certainty and
Seize the cool assurance of shadows.
Bequest a quick climbing vine,
Inheritance of the curious,
Legacy of the lost,
Heritage of the hopeful.
Quest incessant like a foaming wave,
Search scattered beaches on an
Expedition of dangerous desire,
Voyage of raging joy,
Odyssey of the seldom sane. An
Inquest of the native unknown,
Inquiry into thickets of thorniness.
Request random rhododendrons,
Plea bargain for the boldness of marigolds,
Call for kisses the color of cornflowers.
Wish for a dahlia's intense geometry and
Desire the daisy’s scalar
Conquest of a meadow’s melody.
Vanquish the stinging insects of doubt and
Defeat fear’s firing spree by
Climbing a single sunbeam.
Scale the sky's face with your
Acquisition of luminal levity and
Prize blindly what blossoms anew.

A New Hymn

2008-07-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

OK, so my old idea for the B-Bop Solo had actually already been invented, and had a name (the Quotilla) thus I have created a new form that I'm really excited about, this form will freely allow me to utilize Jazz ideas of improvisation in poetry. The idea is simple; to start by writing multi-stanzaic Quotillas, and then redo the line breaks and revise the poem in whatever way best helps the poem. Each stanza will still be tied together by the ghost of the original phrase, but the poems should flow better and lose all of the awkwardness that comes from being forced to use certain words in certain places. Here is the old B-Bop Solo #4, based on the Louise Gluck line "At the end of my suffering there was a door."

THE FIRST GOSPEL
B-Bop Solo #1

At the darkest center
of his soul,
there was a cry
without end,
the song of whatever
was suffered.
His eye was the pupil
of its own affliction,
a darkness dilating
like a learning.
Was the 'I' lashed?
Was something like skin broken,
the opening jagged,
groaning like a door?

At the core
of his cry, the 'I'.
In the center
of the 'I', an Iris.
At the end of its stem,
a serrated slash.
In the mouth
of the slash,
a bead of blood.
In the blood
of the suffering,
a saltiness.
From the salt
a sound crystalizes.
The sound is a hinge,
and from a swinging
of the hinge,
something like a door
opens.
Beyond it . . .
a new Hymn.

Just poking around

2008-04-13T21:47:00.000-07:00

I unscrewed a simile

to see what was in it,

and found a smile
with an eye inside.

2008-04-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

Kinky Naps

So I lie down, eyes closed.
Sin wears silky lingerie, a
thin disguise for her
thighs. She
tangles my hair,
singles out a strand,
samples its aroma,
bands it together.

Bound, it feels better.

2008-04-09T17:49:00.000-07:00

One fringe benefit
of being a poet
is that even
when you're down
you can at least
throw objet d'arts
at the target of your sorrow.

Reasons

2008-04-08T19:47:00.000-07:00

It isn't always
a tornado that tears
down the walls of the house.
We once lay interlocked
like links in
a fence around
the potato patch of love.
Your lips nudged my ear
with the words of Neruda
in the original Español,
every palabra coloring
your tongue like
a twist of licorice.
I fed you lines of Lorca
like fettucine al dente,
my voice warm and saucy.
We shared Shakespeare's phrases
like fries from McDonald's,
no ketchup needed.
And I guess what is woven
through all of this
like a blue strand of straw
is that we could've
kept feeding each other forever.
But nothing freezes my teeth
like cold peanut butter
and you just wouldn't stop
putting the jar back
into the refrigerator.

On The Long Way Home

2008-04-07T20:41:00.000-07:00

She said
she liked
being made
to wait
for it.

And thus
was in love
with ellipses . . .
the latest
of the Greek heroes.

Warning

2008-04-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

Much of the following poem started out as Status Updates on Facebook.

DISCLAIMER

This is a free range poem,
devoid of antibiotics
and bovine hormones.
No animals were harmed
in the writing of this poem,
although it was tested
on several chimpanzees.
This poem has swollen hands
from swimming all night
through dark water.
This poem is not seeking asylum,
this poem was produced in a place
that processes nuts.
Do not attempt to duplicate this poem
it was performed
by a professional driver
on a closed course.
This poem is not readable on radar,
but has a high heat signature.
The claims of this poem
have not yet been verified by the FDA.
This poem denounces and rejects
Denouncement and Rejection.
This poem thought it looked sexy
in its dipthong,
then realized it had a consonant
caught between its teeth,
and vowel lint stuck
in its stubble.
This poem may cause you to feel
a sudden rise in blood pleasure.
If after hearing this poem
you experience an erection
lasting for more than 4 hours . . .
consider yourself lucky.
This poem knows firsthand
why the King of Hearts
is the suicide King.
This poem is absolutely,
positively not paranoid,
but very aware of the fact
that you have been following it
all the damn time.

What Was the Question Again?

2008-04-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

On the pillow
beside my head-

her sigh.

On the Calamity of Cobalt Sphericals

2008-04-04T12:40:00.000-07:00

THE TRUE MEANING OF THE BLUES
(according to Neckbone Nelson)

Is to be alone and horny
as a nine-headed rhinoceros.

With arthritis in your left hand
and rheumatism in your right.

For Frida

2008-04-03T12:38:00.002-07:00

Here's what I came up with for today. Enjoy.

SHIVER

It is dark
as I enter the garden.
Gently, I push aside
the twin slender branches
and marvel
at the moistness
of the petals, before
slowly
parting them
to bare
a glistening bud.

Then, softly,
I touch it
with the tip
of my tongue.

Light Through the Blind

2008-04-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

Here is day two's entry. For whatever reason I write more poems when I'm running bad at poker, and judging from my results the last three days this 30 poems in 30 days thing might turn out to be a cakewalk.

SONRISE

Today is not

my birthday.

But, what a gift
I am given,

when I awaken
and encounter

the up-curling corners
of your eyes.

(for Joel)

For NaPoMo

2008-04-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

OK, so it's National Poetry Month. This year to honor the month I'm going to abstain from banal intercourse and re-dedicate myself to the oral. Which means I'm going to try to post a new poem every day. Obviously most of them will be very short, and probably not very good. But here goes . . .

In the high coo
of a mourning dove, I hear
seventeen things to sing.

Haiku

2008-03-30T20:47:00.000-07:00

March morning
the windshield wipers fling
Cherry Blossoms

Split this Rock

2008-02-13T11:28:00.000-08:00

I'll be on Al Jazeera (English) on Sat. Mar 15th at noon reading and being interviewed as part of the Split this Rock Festival. I'm also reading on Fri. Mar 21st at 5 PM along with Grace Cavalieri among others.

B-Bop Solo #5

2007-09-06T15:37:00.000-07:00

This poem riffs off the first few lines of Louise Gluck's 'The Wild Iris'

PUPIL OF A REDDENED EYE

At the dark core of the cry, an 'I'. In
the center of the 'I', an Iris. At the
end of its stem, a slash. In the mouth
of the slash, a bead of
my blood. In the blood of the
suffering, a saltiness. From the salt
there rose a sound. The sound
was a hinge, and from
a swinging of the hinge, a
door. Around its edges . . . light.

B-Bop Solo #4

2007-09-06T15:33:00.000-07:00

Here the initial riff is from Dylan Thomas' famous villanelle. I wanted to write a piece that worked against its riff.

SOLO FOR AN INSOMNIAC

Do you
not trust the dark? Why
go raging against
gentle twilight? Why not relax
into those shadows
that grow full as a
good moon, dark as Arctic
night. Forget the hiss of
rage seething, since
rage siphons, drains
against good sense.
The heat of day is
dying, and the hum
of sound sleep has
the melody of moon-

light.

Do you still
not trust the dusk?
Go seek its
gentle massage, dip
into that darkening
that caresses like a
good breeze, forecasting
night. Solace not
rage is likely to last, since
rage exhausts, flames
against the serene.
The discord of day is
dying, and the sighs
of deep peace thrive in
the languor of lowered
light.

For Sodade's Sake

2007-09-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

Sodade is the Kriolu word for the Portuguese term 'saudade.' It has no direct English equivalent and is a mix of homesickness and nostalgia. Starting riff here is from Steven's 'Idea of Order' and (as is the case with all of the B-Bop Solos) can be found by reading the first WORD of each line down the left margin.

IN HER SOLITUDE

Her voice is a breeze, her
song washes like eternal waves
and cleanses, but sea
water and the salt of sorrow
are perhaps too married.
Medleyed with a moving sun, her
sound tracks the heart's arc.
Since all that rises fears
what falling might follow,
she was careful,
sang of descent first,
was cautious with
what hope
she allowed to be
heard in the rising.
And we wondered
what price of translation
she paid, as she
sang in a voice that
was wearied and slowly
uttered every
word
by barefoot
word.

Her voice is more searchlight than
song, brightens dunes
and waves of whatever is bluer than
water. Her lyrics
are an island's sighs
medleyed with moonlight, a
sound like whales exhaling.
Since tears also shine,
what saline struggle
she tasted
sang through her and
was perhaps sweetened with
what traces of grace
she may have
heard in the gusts
and waves swirling across
what beach she walked.
She knew the sea and sorrow
sang in the same key, but still
was lifted by what the East Wind
uttered in the interim,
word
by whistling
word.

(For Cesaria Evora)

Don't piss me off

2007-09-06T13:48:00.000-07:00

I'm having a lot of fun with the 'Red Wheelbarrow' and Conceptual Art. Here's another take. With apologies to William Carlos Williams and Marcel Duchamp

MODERN ART

so much depends
upon

a white porcelain
toilet

signed by the
artist

beside the pale
critics.

Put this in your Museum

2007-09-06T11:28:00.001-07:00

Part of an ongoing series of poems celebrating artists from Pittsburgh. The blog posts don't do columns and I don't know enough HTML to make it display correctly, but this poem is meant to be read in columns, not straight across the lines.

[from Andy's lost manuscript]

so much depends    so much depends      so much depends
upon       upon          upon

a fuschia wheel    an orange wheel    a golden wheel
barrow    barrow    barrow

glazed with rain    glazed with rain    glazed with rain
water    water    water

beside the indigo    beside the aqua        beside the green
chickens.    chickens.    chickens.

Blue in Green

2007-09-03T10:23:00.000-07:00

On May 15th, 2007 my cousin LaSon White passed at the age of 46. Although 46 is terribly young, at 45 she had actually lived longer than her mother and grandmother, a fact that was not lost on her.
Of all my cousins, she and I were probably closest, on every trip back to Pittsburgh I called or stopped past her store. Smart, stylish, caring, her smile was often antidote for whatever ailed me. Because I got the first call in April, I set the poem there and took a little poetic license at the end. This piece has a hint of Whitman and a twist of Eliot.

A Solo for LaSon
B-Bop Solo #3

April sprouts around us,
is the sky as sullen there?
The hour after we talked was
cruelest, most raw. In less than a
month, your doctor says
breeding cells will overwhelm you.
Lilacs bloom here as there, just
out the door. Purple hints
of all the Prince songs we've shared.
The plentiful petals are
dead certain to flutter around,
land and decorate your walkway.

April's sibilant drizzle
is like a cymbal, mocking
the insistence of memories,
cruelest at dusk. What other
month would dream of
breeding, then watering these
lilacs purple as bruises?
Out of the incessant rhythm
of the rain's thin fingers,
the melody of a woman's voice
dead on key, singing 'Adore',
lands on my quivering ears.

April winds wane,
is that the phone ringing amid
the backscatter of the evening news?
Cruelest is the quiet after the call.
Month after month will sprout,
breeding a peace soothing as those
lilacs you loved so much. But right now,
out on the horizon, the purple song
of the setting sun is
the last hope I have, of being
dead silent and hearing your voice in the
land of the living.

(For LaSon C. White, 1961-2007)

For Hope (A Little Star)

2007-09-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

IN A SILENT WAY
B-Bop Solo #1, Ars Poetica

The code eludes all but tillers of
text, a secret not simple
for deciphering. Because
today, an undertone
Is dismissed too
early, too easily. Although
miles separate the source of
the river from the sea, the
Columbia has called for
years in undercurrents. And
that same submerged
tone still guides salmon
pared almost
down to skeleton and skin
to home, with the sparest of
essentials, subtext.

FOR COLORED GULLS WHO HAVE . . .

2007-09-01T07:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing brightens up the day like a bit of despair.

EIGHT WAYS OF LOOKING AT LONELY

[one]

A wisp of white against an eternal blue.

[two]

A tiny town

in Alaska.

[three]

Along twenty occupied bar stools,
the only moving thing
was the hum of the Blues.

[four]

Maybe cuts on the wrists,
or a cup of cyanide,
or a fork in the toaster,
or fumes filling the car,
or pills in the hand,
or a bullet in the chamber,
or a rope dangling from a ceiling,
but definitely the dive from a bridge to the river.

[five]

An empty set of parentheses.

[six]

Always an invitation, never an RSVP.

[seven]

In a mirror while everyone else is sleeping.

[eight]

As seed of the unplucked peach.