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Tuesday, November 11, 2008

3 Little Love Poems/Flashes (Draft)

Any comments, critiques? This will be up for a day or two then gone. I hope you enjoy!

3 Little Love Poems


Relations

Auntie was prone to say: “Cheese is best when sliced thin just like life.” She always bit off a lot of less than she could chew, and avoided more than a mot of mirth, even with dessert and a spot of port. “Take little and relish it, and you will be sufficient. But that’s just my opinion.”

When I was little, I ate too fast and choked at birthday parties. Then I grew up a little and married the first man who’d overcome me, big with an eloquent tongue. I nearly lost my breath till death might do us part.

At Auntie’s funeral, a weeping man hugged me so brutally he caught my breath. He was the man called Happy Henry Auntie had left at the altar. As the attendees gasped, Auntie reversed herself with deliberation and panache, floating down the aisle towards the door. “So sorry, I made a little mistake,” she spoke politely, waving her white-gloved hands.
_______________

His Heart

Carla wore his heart under her sleeve. The heart he’d carved said “Carla and Carl forever,” as if her arm were a tree he’d planted on his property. An arrow with angel wings pierced the dead center of the heart, “a darling, thoughtful touch,” she exclaimed, turning as red as the heart’s aorta. When Carl left for Majorca with Mabel, the wings turned black and blue.

______________

Nostalgia

Short, plump Lili longed for the man on the other side of the square, the one who sat on a bench reading Sonnets to Orpheus. Everything about him was grand and aquiline. Atop the man’s mane of white hair perched a black beret. A black tie always relaxed on his lavender silk shirts; he seemed to have a menagerie of them. Was he always going to a Ball?

The man she called “the one” reminded Lili of what she wished to remember of her childhood: a blueberry sundae with dark chocolate chips. She wondered what color his eyes were. She was an expressionist who loved Kandinsky.

Lili took to wearing a black hat to cover her dull gray hair and a long black silk scarf to adorn her parade of lavender blouses. She started to make a habit of walking by him, winking her hips. Then she added an accessory, a book of poems by Rilke that poked ostentatiously from her mini-tote bag. Lili did this for weeks, months, years, oh what is time? But he never even glanced her way. He was too busy mouthing poems, looked as though he were eating them. Yet he was ever gazing up at the sky, into the sun, with his eyes closed. Lili tried wearing spiked heels to create noises to awaken him from his Rilkean reveries. Nada. Niet. Rien du tout. She tried tripping and ripped her purple stockings on several occasions. Nada. Niet. Rien du tout.

One day, Lili set up an easel in front of the patisserie opposite “the one’s” bench. She brought her most luxurious colors and began to paint him. A crowd soon gathered to exclaim her praises in most colorful words. When the crowd dispersed, “the one” walked cautiously up to the painting and asked Lili if he could suggest a “minor touchup.” “Although I cannot see, I can smell the color you used for my eyes,” he said. "They are in fact absent of color, but perhaps I should say they were, as you’ve made them blush. I can feel you are a warm woman of wit and refinement, the one I’ve awaited to take to the Ball.”

And so they went and that was only the beginning.

1 comment:

INCOGNITO ERGITO SUM said...

The poet Suchoon Mo has analyzed the first poem, Relations.

" 'At Auntie’s funeral, a weeping man hugged me so brutally he caught my breath. He was the man called Happy Henry Auntie had left at the altar. As the attendees gasped, Auntie reversed herself with deliberation and panache, floating down the aisle towards the door. “So sorry, I made a little mistake,” she spoke politely, waving her white-gloved hands.' "

I went to my own funeral. She came from her own funeral and sliced cheese. This is not about "linear" or "non-linear" or "post-modern" poetry; this is existential reversal of temporality (past-future). Few poets experience such reversal."

When I asked him to clarify what he was saying, he added:


"Let me start my monologue. First of all, your poem:

" 'Auntie was prone to say: “Cheese is best when sliced thin just like life.” She always bit off a lot of less than she could chew, and avoided more than a mot of mirth, even with dessert and a spot of port. “Take little and relish it, and you will be sufficient. But that’s just my opinion. '”

When I was little, I ate too fast and choked at birthday parties. Then I grew up a little and married the first man who’d overcome me, big with an eloquent tongue. I nearly lost my breath till death might do us part.

At Auntie’s funeral, a weeping man hugged me so brutally he caught my breath. He was the man called Happy Henry Auntie had left at the altar. As the attendees gasped, Auntie reversed herself with deliberation and panache, floating down the aisle towards the door. “So sorry, I made a little mistake,” she spoke politely, waving her white-gloved hands.'

What Kafka, and a bunch of 'theater of the absurd' people, couldn't do was to be absurd themselves (being, that is) when crying about how absurd is the life, the society and the life. We have what is known as "paradoxism" in poetry.

Poetry about what is paradoxical. Of course, the poet is not paradoxical. Just the poetry is. So, irrationality is defined by rationality. Hegel is defined by the logic of Artistotles. A nude artist is not an artist who is nude, but an artist who paints a nude. Can't an artist who paints a nude be a nude? Why not? But I am not yet to know a single true nude artist. Perhaps. Ezra Pound came close. But I am not sure. "she bit off a lot of less than she could chew" That "lot of less" is paradoxical. In terms of description (object) or existence (subject)? And it comes right way. by stating "when I was little ... choke .... married ....he overcame" So the subject is biting off a lot of less than she could chew while about biting off a lot of less than she can chew.

And Auntie dies, and the writer is again overcame by a big man. A stranger who was perhaps the man whom the writer married and was overcome. So, through this paradox, Auntie walks away from her funeral. Enlightenment, salvation, hope, etc are just a little mistake.

So, this poem doesn't end at all. It has the early sign of birth of a mantra. Who is going to chant that mantra?"