Welp!

                                                         A PROOF OF IMPROVISATION 

AS PRAYER

If 

all art aspires 

to music

&

all music aspires 

to math—

then

all morning

the sunflower seeds

a cardinal’s song.

TEN YEARS AGO TODAY

 TEN YEARS AGO TODAY

2:29 pm at my boy Barry's 

house in Brigantine, 

I grab my black Eddie Bauer jacket 

and dash out the door because 

the 501 is due at 2:30 

one hand is deep 

in my right pocket 

as I rush to the corner

where the bus trembles up, 

only to realize

I have only $20 bills 

which yesterday the Treasury Dept. 

announced will soon

feature Harriet Tubman 

and the bus glides past 

and the next one 

isn't coming for an hour, 

so I curse our 7th President, 

only it's the kind of day 

that Bill Withers sang about 

so I stride on and revise a poem 

in my head about

coming to terms with

being in the Spectrum

which I read last night at Dante Hall, 

one of the best open readings 

since Its Your Mug 

and I change the title 

to "Portrait of the Artist 

as a Starfish in Coffee" 

because my cousin Derri 

a gorgeous actress in LA

posted a video on FB 

of Prince on The Muppets 

performing that song 

which grows like the hair 

in your ears 

and I decide to revise 

the last two lines 

by cutting "like" 

which I suddenly don't, 

now I pass a brother 

out front of his house 

digging a hole between 

the sidewalk and the street 

as if putting in a new mailbox 

or planting a small tree 

I turn on to Brigantine Blvd. 

where crew clad 

in yellow T-shirts 

with "TCM Paving" 

in lavender letters

is redoing the asphalt 

and I pull out my iPod 

but my Shure 535e earbuds 

are too good at isolating 

which is dangerous 

on busy streets 

and now I'm rising up 

one side of the Brigantine bridge

I peep white birds wheeling 

in the sky and peep that signs 

on the Borgata & Harrahs casinos

are both flashing purple 

and as I crest the bridge 

to get buffeted by the gusts 

Brigantine is famous for, 

there's a notification

for a new comment

from Derri on FB—

"It's not fair that he's gone"—

I lean on the railing

to catch my breath

and see the water below

is reflecting nothing 

but purple light . . .

30 for 30 Haiku for NAPOWRIMO

 Wasn’t going to do it, but whatever the poems say is what matters. 

the fingernails

of the new barista

plum blossoms

the barista’s

freshly glossed lips

a different menu

the outfit

of an approaching woman

lavender becomes her

Xmas flurries

my stocking bulges

with black jelly beans

Tidal Basin

the boats paddling through

cherry blossoms

through the window

a tenor sax solo

wild honeysuckle

reaching up

for the new box of cereal

the snap crackle and pop

bare stalks

across a cotton field

mourning doves

a rainbow

in a shard of glass

Monk’s robe

Another damn revision

 It’s just a revision of a haiku sequence in my book “Ideas of Imorovisation” but I’ve never been prouder of anything I’ve written. 

IDEIAS DI IMPROVASON NA KRIOLU

konxas na praia

undi sta nha kretxeu

kuxixus di mar

shells on the beach

where is my beloved

whispers of the sea

kritxa di barku

na kordas di violon

txeru di peska

squeak of the boat

on the strings of the guitar

smell of fish

konxa na orela

morna di kes ondas—

mesmu na Praia

Shell to ear

a morna for the waves—

even at the beach 

lua na seu—

karanjeju fantasma

na praia pretu

moon in the sky—

a ghost crab on

a black beach

ondas di agua

crescenti sa ta toki

morna di Cizé—

the ocean waves

the moon touches—

morna of Cizé

meiu kantiga

rabu di passarinha

ta some some

half a song

the tail of a kingfisher

fades fades

BINGO!

I think I have found the specific Bashō haiku that influenced WCW’s “Red Wheelbarrow” poem. Scholars have long since acknowledged the influence of haiku on the Imagist poets in general and the aesthetic of William Carlos Williams in particular. If I can find evidence that WCW knew this haiku by Bashō that would be the final nail in the coffin. The haiku in question is

Samazana no

koto omoidasu

sakura kana

So many things

come to mind—

cherry blossoms

Structurally the two poems are identical the only difference being the amount of detail that WCW gives us about the wheelbarrow and its setting. But otherwise they function identically as poems. I have thought for many years that the “So much depends” part of WCW’s poem was what kept it from being a haiku, but obviously I was wrong. Had he stopped after listing just the wheelbarrow there would be almost no difference between the two poems except that Bashō’s image is from the natural world and WCW’s is man made. Of course when he extended his image WCW gave himself more language to work with and his layout is genius—

upon

barrow

water

chickens

Just these four words which form the 2nd line of their respective stanzas are enough to let us identify the poem, but this one jamb and three trochees form the rhythmic spine of the poem. The poem has 22 syllables, 11 in each half (6-5 & 5-6) which I would argue make it a bespoke form and not merely a Free Verse poem. Anyway, I will keep my eye out for that last piece of clinching evidence. 

[Edit]

Speaking of Imagist circles, this poem by Orrick Johns is also known to have been an inspiration for WCW—

              —: Blue Undershirts (1915) :—

       Blue undershirts,
       Upon a line,
       It is not necessary to say to you
       Anything about it—
       What they do,
       What they might do . . .
            blue undershirts.

Welp!

 At the end of the day all thought is cartography and cartography requires the correct geometry and that geometry may not remain static over scale. 

Latest revision

THE RUMI IN YOU

fingers a thin cut

after shaving your chin

and the rings of a reed

drawn to the ax

whorl to avoid

or unveil the nay 

hidden in your name—

the flute of grief

waiting to flower.

What other rocky faults

separate you

from Shams

in the dialect of rain?

When the Harvest moon

was last ringed by clouds,

did you lavender

your deepest bruise,

or did you whisker 

your weak chin as if

ruined beauty 

wasn’t a wearable thing?

And what fluted wound

could ruin love

more than the ruts

worn by water?

Must a rusting of faith 

whisper why that i

so central to faith 

quietly ran—a letter 

left out in the rain?

Amidst the reign

of lavender & loam

something in you

wants to surrender

and say “petrichor”

to taste the essence 

of stone.

If the Rumi in you

fails to whisk 

a thicker roux

from a flour’s fat sorrow—

do your bruises or beard 

begin to masquerade 

as masculine?

Does the Rumi in you

dare to dissolve 

or does it wait 

for Shams’ return 

while whispering

how to become a lover

of the rasp of rain, 

and why to be a lover

of the rest of ruin?