SOMEONE IN A RENTED ROOM
Someone in a rented room playing a violin
to the night, to the music itself, in tribute
to the mood and to the violinist, music
that softens against the walls and
spills out into the hallway where
someone passing listens—
someone with memories—
someone with buried tears—
someone who unlocks
another door and goes inside.
And this is not
a romance in disguise,
this is a moment
that snags against another
moment that only exists in the
imagination of this poem,
the violinist someone who died
a long time ago, unknown to
the poet but who puts him here
to fill an unhealed sadness of someone
playing a violin in a rented room.
Someone in a rented room playing a violin
to the night, to the music itself, in tribute
to the mood and to the violinist, music
that softens against the walls and
spills out into the hallway where
someone passing listens—
someone with memories—
someone with buried tears—
someone who unlocks
another door and goes inside.
And this is not
a romance in disguise,
this is a moment
that snags against another
moment that only exists in the
imagination of this poem,
the violinist someone who died
a long time ago, unknown to
the poet but who puts him here
to fill an unhealed sadness of someone
playing a violin in a rented room.
For The Tears
PERSONIFICATIONS
The Pierre Hotel, New York, 1946
(from Going Fast by Frederick Seidel)
Once again I pack up my grief in a tired suitcase
and lug it forward, inch by heavy inch, over the
wet sidewalk toward a curb which always stops me.
Why go further . . .
the question I always ask
though I have no question mark.
This is not
a formal question,
only a weary repetition.
The grief is all I have left . . .
my only possession;
it is what I need for the next experience.
I tell it to be patient,
there is another room for rent.
I will let it out there to share the view with me.
Sigh Of Sighs
THE APARTMENT CAT
The cat dreams of the nearby tree; of the flying black
squirrel; of that bird with nest-stuff in its beak; the cat
has a hundred naps a day—he is that quick—sleeping
round and black.
He is the prize of his mistress who calls him Kitty Cat.
She got around her mother after her father said no;
she got around the No Pets Allowed. Somehow, she
accomplished this. If the cat knows about his luck, he
doesn’t show it. All cats disdain luck.
The cat with his yellow eye observes; the cat listens
with his spacious ear, but wherever he schemes, it is
not very far—no matter what his wish. There is always
a compromise—even for cats—he lives on a leash.
For The Memory
THE PLACE I TRY TO REMEMBER
I cannot describe the place except for the
arched doorway with the fringed awning,
and an iron railing to a small slanted stairway
that curved into a blank wall, and a car that
was parked by the curb. I think it was raining;
the streets were shimmery, and a figure made
of wet shadow brushed by me and went inside.
The car settled into its waiting and fastened to
its reflection. The white wall-face of the building
was streaked with old rain and a wet gray light
that faded deeper into it. The street seemed to
end here—a dead-end place with no further
turnings and no one to ask where I was.
I think I was cold. The building stayed dark.
The doorway did not open again. I stood for a
long time and listened to the soft falling of the
rain and tried to memorize the feeling of this place
that had shifted forward in time—or I had shifted
backward into it—I’m not sure which was real.
__________________
THE SCENIC PLACE
Here and there were windows,
this I was told—
and mountains that had mysteries.
How can I envy
someone else’s experience
that I want to be mine, that I can relive?
If there are windows, where are they?
I have window-frame and glass,
but where are the windows.
If,
in my mind,
I go where it is inner—where is that?
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2012)
I cannot describe the place except for the
arched doorway with the fringed awning,
and an iron railing to a small slanted stairway
that curved into a blank wall, and a car that
was parked by the curb. I think it was raining;
the streets were shimmery, and a figure made
of wet shadow brushed by me and went inside.
The car settled into its waiting and fastened to
its reflection. The white wall-face of the building
was streaked with old rain and a wet gray light
that faded deeper into it. The street seemed to
end here—a dead-end place with no further
turnings and no one to ask where I was.
I think I was cold. The building stayed dark.
The doorway did not open again. I stood for a
long time and listened to the soft falling of the
rain and tried to memorize the feeling of this place
that had shifted forward in time—or I had shifted
backward into it—I’m not sure which was real.
__________________
THE SCENIC PLACE
Here and there were windows,
this I was told—
and mountains that had mysteries.
How can I envy
someone else’s experience
that I want to be mine, that I can relive?
If there are windows, where are they?
I have window-frame and glass,
but where are the windows.
If,
in my mind,
I go where it is inner—where is that?
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2012)
The Simplicity Of Water
WINTER BOREDOM
(Long Beach, California, 1940’s)
The small sea-house grew musty in winter
with its dark wood
and its just-so window shades, pulled even.
All the tourist noise was gone, and the days
endured themselves, and the nights,
and the sea rolled in and out of time
with a certain patience.
The quiet light seemed almost blue
when the day closed down
and the sea-sounds muffled against the air
like a lamentation.
The house would creak
and brace itself
against whatever force was set against it.
To live by the sea in winter
is a lonely waiting,
too cold to stroll by day,
too gray its colorless dimension.
I was too young to love it then.
That would come later.
Tonight I think of that small house with
a sweet remember—the safe domestic hum
as I bided my time to be gone from there—
the quiet rustling of the rooms—
Living On The Fourteenth Floor
PLACE OF HARSH LIGHT
Here, light follows light in a
blaze of blindness. Do not look.
She is not for your eyes, even though
she tries to seduce you with her distractions.
If you look, she will break into stabbing images—
multiple apparitions that will release her destruction.
Still, you pursue her—your eyes on fire and bleeding.
_____________________
SLEEPLESS
do the dark now
do the dark
the way you do it
squeeze in the music
from the next apartment
slip the light under the door
fade the carpeted footsteps
that go by in the hallway
free the creakings in the wall
outside
the puddles shine with rain
the streetlamp studies them
car-doors slam closed
and voices say goodbye
the moving hours are the same
do the dark now
make it right
the moon is bright
do the dark now
say goodnight
Here, light follows light in a
blaze of blindness. Do not look.
She is not for your eyes, even though
she tries to seduce you with her distractions.
If you look, she will break into stabbing images—
multiple apparitions that will release her destruction.
Still, you pursue her—your eyes on fire and bleeding.
_____________________
SLEEPLESS
do the dark now
do the dark
the way you do it
squeeze in the music
from the next apartment
slip the light under the door
fade the carpeted footsteps
that go by in the hallway
free the creakings in the wall
outside
the puddles shine with rain
the streetlamp studies them
car-doors slam closed
and voices say goodbye
the moving hours are the same
do the dark now
make it right
the moon is bright
do the dark now
say goodnight
Not All That Frail
WHEREVER THEY LOVE
After Couple on the Shore, 1906/07
(Painting by Edvard Munch)
Always goodbye—wherever
they love—no way to return.
The melancholy beaches
are lost to winter now.
They remember what was true:
the dark gulls overhead—
kept afloat
by slow, untiring wings.
The gray world moves
in endless white waves
that try to cover what is lost.
There is no other—
no other anything they want and
cannot keep. So they embrace—
with every tender, vanished place
reclaimed, in resurrected love.
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2013)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ALL THE PLACES YOU HAVE BEEN
—Joyce Odam
It was a map,
blue, folded,
till the creases
cracked
and the detail that was there
was only guessed-at now
a cracked map
made of crayon and arrows
and a red word
marking where.
______________________
Joyce Odam has left us with some eerie images of life in lonely old apartments, and we thank her for speaking to our recent Seed of the Week: Lonely Old Apartments. Our new Seed of the Week is an ekphrastic one, courtesy of Joseph Nolan of Stockton:
After Couple on the Shore, 1906/07
(Painting by Edvard Munch)
Always goodbye—wherever
they love—no way to return.
The melancholy beaches
are lost to winter now.
They remember what was true:
the dark gulls overhead—
kept afloat
by slow, untiring wings.
The gray world moves
in endless white waves
that try to cover what is lost.
There is no other—
no other anything they want and
cannot keep. So they embrace—
with every tender, vanished place
reclaimed, in resurrected love.
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2013)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ALL THE PLACES YOU HAVE BEEN
—Joyce Odam
It was a map,
blue, folded,
till the creases
cracked
and the detail that was there
was only guessed-at now
a cracked map
made of crayon and arrows
and a red word
marking where.
______________________
Joyce Odam has left us with some eerie images of life in lonely old apartments, and we thank her for speaking to our recent Seed of the Week: Lonely Old Apartments. Our new Seed of the Week is an ekphrastic one, courtesy of Joseph Nolan of Stockton:
Go wide, go deep! Get those metaphors out of the closet and imagine a criminal hiding out in the woods, or a family snuggled in against the cold. Note the smoke: is that a chimney with crackling firewood, or an old man smoking a pipe on the porch? Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.
This Thursday night (1/21) from 7-8:30pm, El Gigantic presents An Evening with Catherine French online at Zoom: cccconfer.zoom.us/j/9348057923/. Hosted by Danny Romero; open mic to follow. A Sac. City College program.
And Friday at 6pm, Jennifer Pickering and Georgina Marie will read online. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/jennifer.j.pickering.9/posts/10217741181953292/.
This Thursday night (1/21) from 7-8:30pm, El Gigantic presents An Evening with Catherine French online at Zoom: cccconfer.zoom.us/j/9348057923/. Hosted by Danny Romero; open mic to follow. A Sac. City College program.
And Friday at 6pm, Jennifer Pickering and Georgina Marie will read online. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/jennifer.j.pickering.9/posts/10217741181953292/.
______________________
—Medusa
“I think it was raining…”
—Public Domain Illustration
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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