bi_janus
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The Poetry of Happiness (1980)
Bi_janus
The poetry of happiness
is bland,
of happiness threatened,
grand,
of unstudied joy
is sublime,
of joy in shadow,
a finer clime.
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Poem requested by Annabelle
Bi_janus
Hear it is, Miss Belle!
You sleep next to a rabbit
with a very interesting habit
of singing to Miss Belle
until she’s finally all well.
Usagi sings when you sleep.
When you wake, she makes no peep.
Though, rabbits listen well
to secrets little girls tell.
Whisper any fears
into her silky ears,
and listen for your special tune,
sung by the rabbit in the moon.
Tsuki-no-usagi
Bi_Janus
For Annabelle
All fun and laughter,
even with the fever,
reading to you after
the poison, the endeavor,
I love your cranky spirit,
swinging out in the dark,
love that coming near it
so often, between fatigue and spark,
you bear your parents’ sorrow.
Life all struggle at four years,
the crab wound round your cord,
the nurses who bring you tears
and promise of distant reward,
you patiently tell
politely to go to hell.
I met you when I
placed the moon’s rabbit
at your side.
Let’s swing out in the dark,
I in mask and you
in tiny gown,
neck blistering.
Let’s dance with Kelly
in the rain, and cool
that neck with water
from Bethesda’s pool.
In place of the hug
we both need and avoid,
let’s play hide and seek
with the ray gun
and the poison,
while you help me to know
how the bear finds
his hat and what the rabbit
meant.
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Angels Coughing
Bi_janus
Few white cells in sight,
chemo’s and gamma’s blight,
here in the cancer spa.
You think I won’t live,
so solace must give,
here in the cancer spa.
You show a smile off,
but can kill with a cough,
here in the cancer spa.
Please, catch me in a few,
and spare me a stay in the ICU.
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I never tried the stuff, although my friend, Jim, was a connoisseur. The blonde in the first stanza refers to the Moroccan Hash that Jim craved; the blonde in the third stanza is a very good friend named Jay. You have it on the middle stanza--the old man is Japanese. I took the old man's example and just let life roll without benefit of chemical enhancement. I may be the only person who lived through the sixties without getting a buzz.
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What competes with Hash? (1967)
Bi_janus
The sex, man, is
incredible, Jim
croons to me.
You’ll really dig
the blonde.
Richie, you’re
so lame, just
take a draw from the
hookah.
With the old man,
in the garden,
both on knees,
where he considers
in silence
with a mind clear
as a diamond
for a half-hour
before snipping
the branch.
His laughter so
different than Jim’s.
The sex, man, is
incredible, I
croon to Jim,
when I really dig
the blonde,
drawing from his
fleshy hookah
after considering
him with clear mind
for a half-hour.
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Scratch
Bi_janus
The exam room door opened, and Dr. Thatwhich walked to the foot of the exam table, extending his hand.
“Good morning. What brings you in today?”
I shook his hand and extended my forearms to show the deep scratches. I didn’t explain further.
“My, oh my, how did your get those?” asked the good Doctor, grasping my right arm for a closer look.
“My pets.”
“What sort of pets do you have?”
“A white Siamese named Padma, a hound named Piedough, and a floppy-eared rabbit named Acomma.”
“A rabbit? How do the cat and the dog get along with the rabbit?”
“The cat is aloof and ignores the rabbit. I think of Padma as a set of independent claws.”
“And the dog?”
“That’s another story. Piedough is bred to hunt, so he’s always trying to chase Acomma, and he’s jealous of the time I spend with the rabbit. Training the hound causes most of these scratches. Unlike the cat, Piedough is more a set of dependent claws. ”
“I see. What’s your training routine?”
“I put the rabbit on the floor in front of the cat. Nothing happens. I put the rabbit on the floor in front of the hound and all hell breaks loose. I get scratched when I try to keep Piedough from going after the rabbit.”
“Well, I think this situation requires a couple of approaches. First I’m going to prescribe Minocycline, an antibiotic. A couple of those scratches look infected. Take one capsule twice a day.”
“What’s the second approach, Doctor?”
“My advice is that while you may put Acomma before your independent claws, you should rarely put Acomma before your dependent claws.”
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Camy,
You are indeed. I hope you never do.
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Hué (1969)
Bi_janus
Ty, home in a box.
They told us about
the jungle, not
the concrete
of Hué City.
Your last day,
spent among ruins
like Berlin in forty-five,
among sniper’s nests,
not palms and rice.
Your sweetness lost,
no more glances
in gym class showers
or wrestling in the dark.
Flinching at shots
over your casket,
I wish, of all things,
that you could have found
your way back,
found your way
to love.
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Timing (1978)
Bi_janus
For Mary
How’s the dish?
Did I mention
my tropical fish?
Still here? Yes.
Yes, done to perfection.
Did I mention
my Star Wars collection?
Still here? Yes.
Fascinating profession.
Did I mention
my episode of possession?
Still here? Yes!
For me you have a yen?
Did I mention
I go down on men?
Still here? No.
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My Son at Three (1978)
Bi_janus
Under the oak,
on leaf-strewn lawn,
the boy, solitary,
bends, forearms
on thighs, to observe
some insect or worm.
The breeze rustles
hissing leaves.
The boy, unthinking,
among friends,
puts finger to lips,
and hushes the wind.
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John’s Anger (1969)
Bi_janus
You hide your anger,
your pain, John,
when her music
distracts me,
when you know
you’ll never be enough,
when you can’t
understand why,
even with you
deep in my throat,
my nose into
smooth flesh,
she and you
are both wrapped
around me.
I despair at
your pain, John,
and your small smile,
but I hear her
music always, and
you hide your anger,
your pain, John.
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I Saw Daddy Blowing Santa Claus
Happy Christmas from Bi_janus
I saw Daddy blowing Santa Claus
Under the mistletoe late last night
In his concentration he could not have known
That instead of sugar-plum fairies, I saw Santa blown
Then I saw Daddy caressing Santa Claus
A good deal south of his white beard
I must be dreaming or mistaken
To see my Daddy and Santa so taken
I saw Daddy embracing Santa Claus
and pulling him gently to the floor
Santa didn’t care or mind in the least
Leaving milk and cookies for another kind of feast
I saw Daddy undressing Santa Claus
Red velvet flying through the air
Instead of shaking jelly I saw a pack of six
Nineteen years left me not prepared for these tricks
I saw Daddy loving Santa Claus
And then was undone by another revelation
Hearing Mommy’s voice so husky and so steady
Telling Daddy to make old St. Nick ready
I saw . . . well you can imagine with Santa Claus
And now I’m bewildered and confused
From time to time I had thought of other boys
But how I was intrigued at my parents’ choice
I saw Daddy and Mommy and Santa Claus
No voyeur, I finally left them to it
Back abed warm and cozy I mulled over the sight
And thought, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all bents a good-night!"
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Why are you with him?
Bi_janus
Why are you with him?
Given your history,
we are confused.
He’s not bad looking.
To us the mystery
fixing us bemused:
how is he hooking
your raucous blond heart?
Why do you stay?
He’s so quiet.
We see less play,
less worry for toys
in you, less riot.
You know, he lays
those pretty boys.
And, he reads!
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You describe the experience of most people of a certain age (and not a few younger). This poem is intended only to describe a real journey and evoke a particular place, more a memento Columbia River Gorge. I am still working on it because the meter in places is defective.
It is still possible, but not likely, that I'll carry Ann on the trek. I reject the notion that considering death must deny the joy of life. In fact, death and life are sides of the same wonderful journey, each sweetening the other. My evening was not consumed with melancholy and thoughts of death, but with constructing a nice potato soup and a crusty sourdough bread.
I hope your reunion with the departed is as sweet as you imagine. I'm not sanguine about that possibility for me. And, keep your hands of that extra pie!!!
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Riding Tanner Creek
Mens fortissima sine mens fanatica
For Ann, maybe the last one
Crossways with you,
you, taking a journey
on which
I had devoutly hoped
to carry you,
you, lugging
me up, my remnant
in your pack,
I, once more
on your back,
ferried across
the roiled water
of Tanner Creek,
a lighter burden
now than ever
in life.
Ex cathedrae
of Nichiren Nuns,
chanting the world
into flower, voices reaching
to as much heaven
as men permit,
my ash and gravel,
blown upward
by Wahclella’s plunge,
settle at last,
mingling with earth ash
in Tanner Creek.
From your rooted place
as you watch me,
shrouded in foam, making
a final trek down
Tanner Creek,
will your spirit,
as I devoutly wish,
race beside me
on rocky incline,
laughing,
into the uncertain world
we made for you?
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My God’s penis is bigger
Bi_janus
By God!
I hear you think
Your God, a shower
Sports a longer penis
Than my God, a grower
My God!
My hairy thunderer
I beg to differ
When stiffer has a stunner
And shames
Your God’s member
Measured over or under
The argument is moot--
To settle
This weighty
Theological toot
Let’s kill one another
And babies to boot
Rather than
Follow Kenneth’s art
And eschew the penis
To favor appeal benign
To the heart
More merciful
Of the Divine
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I grew up in a one-parent home with a very loving and caring mother. I was never embarrassed to talk with her about sex, and she was great at keeping appropriate boundaries. When I was nine or ten we had the "talk." Masturbation was okay, in fact fun, and I wouldn't go blind. God had better things to do then worry about me playing with myself.
She was tactful and never interrupted me, although when I would come out of the bathroom after a leisurely bath, she would occasionally refer to the dangers of drowning. When I eventually talked to her about being attracted to both boys and girls, she told me she thought it an unusual but normal variant. Lest I think that all adults held that point of view, we had a talk about societal attitudes toward homosexuality.
I played with quite a few friends of both sexes and even some cousins. After all, sharing the good news seemed an obligation. Learning that girls could do it and how they did it was spectacular.
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The Boys They Masturbate
Bi_janus
with apologies to e e cummings
Poor Mom and Dad
Wonder, stuck in mild confusion
He thinks the boys not so bad
She maintains a nice delusion
The boys they come out faces flushed
From tiled rooms but can’t be rushed
The boys they masturbate
And never don’t or hesitate
For any time is ripe
When urges pop of any stripe
To have a randy bout
And make themselves turn inside out
The boys do linger nearly forever
More time for reading or meditation
And excuses make always quite clever
No need for laxative medication
Dad tells Mom they’ll be all right
For he remembers that delight
The boys they masturbate
And never don’t or hesitate
For any time is ripe
When urges pop of any stripe
To have a randy bout
And make themselves turn inside out
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Ghosts
Bi_janus
for MaNesha McGarrah
The older ones
stay in their graves
or urns or old
boxes hidden away,
uncaring that I cared
and failed.
The children come,
resurrected and
respectful
on behalf
of my need.
No crying
or pleading tantrum,
evincing
patience they
had not in life.
They remain
liminal
as if, could I reach
them, unreachable,
they might
yet be held by
fathers.
I see them beseech
while receding
from any reach
I may manage.
One by one now
they come, well
behaved
and pliant, when
perforce I call, so
that I may grieve.
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In the sixties, when my friends and I were listening to Hendrix and Clapton, I was also listening to Alice Gerrard and Hazel Dickens. These kids seem like worthy heirs. Thanks for pointing me to their work.
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Gulf storm
Bi_janus
for John
Summer
of our thirteenth year
Throned on a seawall
on the north end
of Clearwater Beach
Heating air
convects clouds
rising to be sheared
into anvils
Rushing at us
lightning tongues
seeking water's mouth
cold air and horizon obscured
look into its heart, John
The door opens
We fly from our perch
into a maelstrom
fire tongues caress
our cores
nearly rain blasted
As desert sandstone smoothed
Joined and
Washed away
How calm
The violence, loving
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A Book of Secrets: Illegitimate Daughters, Absent Fathers
Michael Holroyd's collection of biographical sketches (probably his last biography) is a delightful look at an odd assortment of interesting women connected by the Italian village of Rovello, who never meet. This group includes Alice Keppel, mistress of the Prince of Wales, Eve Fairfax, Auguste Rodin's muse, and Violet Trefusis, Vita Sackville-West's lover. The chapter "Women in Love" is a nice look at women orbiting at the distant edge of the Bloomsbury Group. Tefusis and Sackville-West are one of the most interesting lesbian couples of that age.
Holroyd is among the best biographers of the late twentieth century. Although illness has slowed his production, this book shines.
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Colin,
Thank you. Everyone should attend poetry readings!
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Hearing the Poet
Bi_janus
A poem is a sorcery of sound
reduced to type,
as old clothing
fluttering on the drying line.
I first read Yeats
when I was ten,
the cabin made and
linnet's wings.
I heard his voice
when I was seventeen,
the meter by force,
chanting the Lake Isle.
Now, I wish
every poet's voice,
chanting his song
as he chanted in room or mind
when he conjured its life,
rippled the air between us.
Scan to donate
The Poetry of Happiness
in Poets' Corner
Posted
There are days I yearn for bland, a word that has taken an unfair pejorative cast. Years ago, bland meant soothing or smooth in nature, and I suppose in one way, uniform. Of course, it's entirely possible that I'm just not skillful enough to pull off the poetry of happiness. On the poetry of the duvet, I'd have to agree with Camy. And, C, you have it exactly.