Three Summer’s Erotic Haiku

the heat!
vying
············for the wet spot.·

·

·

later—
····she brushes wild-flowers from her floral
············dress.

·

·

rain
····on her back—rain pooling
·········inside.

·

·

3: Three Summer’s Erotic Haiku • November 9  2015

·

  • The first haiku is a bit of a joke, obviously; but the joke is a stab at Japanese haiku. Anyone who’s read enough Japanese haiku will recognize the common complaint—’The Heat!’ It seems to have been a tradition that included Basho, Buson and Issa, among others, to begin their haiku that way. Thought I’d give it my own irreverent twist.

Stet

·
The author wishes to revise
The late summer’s riotous plot—
The gourd, the liquored grapes, and flies
Besotted where the apples rot.
 ·
There’s hesitance at first and yet
There always comes the killing frost;
And then not one forgiving stet
To spare so little as the moth.
 ·
It ought to be enough to live
And let the season have its say,
Accepting what the short days give
And what the long months take away;
 ·
And yet there’s something in me burled,
Counter to the grain, knowing
Whatever expurgates the world
Might well choose me the next one going.
 ·
Change will come but I’ll always prefer
The crass defiance of the crow
Plopped on a spit of long-dead fir—
A quarrelsome smudge condemning the snow.
·
·
·
by me, Patrick Gillespie | November 4th 2015

Tom O’Bedlam reads Skeletons

  • Tom O’Bedlam, of SpokenVerse, has beautifully read Skeletons. I was unfamiliar with Tom’s readings until recently (and astonishingly), but I’m a bit of hermit. Tom read Browning’s poem My Last Duchess, quoted my summary of the poem and provided a link to my post. I listened to his Duchess, then other poems, and then was so taken by his readings that I wrote Skeletons for him; imagining a poem to suit his voice. In truth, the poem is dedicated to him. So here it is, once again, and beautifully read by Tom O’Bedlam. I’d be happy to write him a hundred poems. He’s inspired me.

§

My skeleton and I go out for walks,
Although he mostly likes it in the closet.
I’ll hear him tap, tap, tapping
His skull for some conundrum; there are many.
It’s no small thing for any skeleton
To think. His skull’s a ruined house, its clasps
And door-locks long since gone.
························He teeters, grasps —
Ideas are fretful winds. They blow into
And through his vacant stare, emptily tumble;
Then out the way they came. He stands perplexed,
A sharp forefinger’s bone upraised, his jaw
Aslant — he’d almost had it.
························So it goes
It’s times like these that we go out. I keep
Our walks discreet though every now and then
We’ll meet a passerby (my skeleton
And theirs will pay no mind). We pass a cape,
A woodpile covered by a sheet of tin,
And laundry—skirts and sheets. They billow ghostlike
Above the ruined dooryard.
························He walks
With fingers laced behind his spine; looks
A little this way and a little that.
The dust recoils between his toes and smolders
At his heels. There’s nowhere he’ll stop
Unless it’s where there used to be a house,
Midfield, where now there’s just foundation stone.
He’ll gaze with longing and he’ll heave
And here and there a leaf snagged in his ribs
(And bones withal) will tumble down. They’ll scrape
And skitter through and in between until
He stands in them.
··················He lingers. He’d share
A secret he kept in life; that now,
In death, keeps him. I never asked and yet
One day he pointed where the house had been
With such a trembling grief
He might have been as likely reaching to touch
Another’s unseen fingertip.
························A gust
Took from the cellarhole a crackling smoke
Of leaves.·The sheets of the house nearby
Were chased into the field’s conflagration
Of nettle, thorn and thistle. Too late
They fled but couldn’t flee. The sudden gust
Confounded them — the mother and her child!
I saw them both. How like a mother’s hand,
And like the daughter’s where the small sheet clung
If only by a clothespin to the larger;
As if they’d change what was already done,
As if this time they’d reach his outstretched sorrow;
Undo, a hundred years gone by, the crows
That rise like startled ashes from the ruins—
Their screams dispersed into the neighboring hemlock
And birch.
······His lowering finger curls beneath
Their rake of knuckles. The sheets lay motionless
Under a settling soot of leaves and wildflowers charred
By frost.
······He never afterward did more
Than linger. I’ll not swear that what I saw
Was true, but then I can’t be sure that I
Won’t too, for guilt, regret, or for some sorrow
Dwell in your home.
······You’ll know me, if I’m there—
My bones, a few remains, shelved in a poem;
Willing, if just for company, to share
Your walk and should you need me to — your pain.

Zebediah

Here lies the preacher Zebediah Grey:
A pillar, incorruptible, severe;
Who suffered not the children at their play

Nor tidings but humility and fear.
“Tempt not,” said he, “the wrath of righteous love—
The love that strips the unrepentant bare.
Lure not that retribution from above;
Skull the Purple BlockPrint (Block Print)Look on God’s works, ye blithesome, and despair:
How fleeting be your joys, how little worth!”
The congregation trembled at his scowl
And with him daily praised this hell on earth;
But friend if only you could see him now
····Whose sneering adumbrated mankind’s sins
····If only you could see him— How he grins!

Zebediah
November 16 2014 • by me, Patrick Gillespie

  • As promised, a sonnet — Shakespearean. I can’t bring myself to write any other kind. This isn’t at all the way I started, but once the idea got under my skin, I had to. I wrote most of this yesterday, on the drive home, sparked by the bleak landscape of November’s first snow. Readers familiar with Shelley’s Ozymandias will pick up on a good many echoes.

September

 

I’ve gone to market
And danced in the square.
I’ve picked the grape
And drunk the wine without a care;

But I know too
The howl of the night
When the trees
Recoil in the moon’s cold light

I’ve gone out
With nowhere to go
But to lose
My footfall in a field of snow.

September comes
As though to stay awhile
But in the leaves
Are the colors of her guile.

Don’t be fooled.
Whatever else you do
Love and be loved
Before her last good-night beguiles you too.

~ September

September 16 2014 by me, Patrick Gillespie

Vermonted

·
·
You might have had ten miles clear road ahead,
A sunny break of fields along the way
And breathed the scent of daffodils instead—
There’s nothing like a crisp New England day—
But life gives nothing isn’t marred or flawed.
No, certain as a ten inch snow in June
And all the passing lanes gone by, by God
You’ll not be anywhere on time or soon.
The S.O.B. is only hell-bent sure
For just so long as takes to cut you off
Then drives as if he took a Sunday tour
And now’s your luck to watch his tail pipe cough,
····You’d swear, with malice of the kind that’s flaunted.
····You haven’t lived until you’ve been Vermonted.
·
·
Vermonted
February 25 2014 :  by me, Patrick Gillespie

This time of year

·

This time of year when I go out
Winter is like an inland sea—
Waves half way up the gutter spout
And ripples lapping at the tree.

You’d think the swelling tide of snow
Claimed memory of an ancient shore
And with a melting undertow
Would turn the stone to shells once more.

But only once when I’d come to
Half-wakened from a fitful dream
Did something like a tide slip through
The bedroom window’s broken seam.

The snow seemed finally come for good,
An icy shore beneath my bed,
And yet I think that if I’d stood
I would have stepped on sand instead.

The taste of salt was in the air
And though the frost had licked the hinge
I saw, at midnight, something there—
Sunlight skirting the doorway’s fringe.

I only had to go outside
To see the ocean at my sill—
I only had to—but that tide
Will come again. Someday, I will.

This time of year

February 11, 2013 by me, Patrick Gillespie

❧ Another god-damn Villanelle

Audio:

Guess what! This was translated into French (unbenownst to me). How apropos. Now this vile poem can afflict the selfsame nation that afflicted us with the Villanelle. You can see the original here. Or click below:

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