Friday, July 26, 2013

beatidude Carl Mayfield ~ Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 'All the Way Up'

an especially necessary early morning's yawped beatidude of poetry becoming: mister master Carl Mayfield's multifarious Blank Looks and Read Agains...

Blank Look #819
  no post card
  can do it:  
            mountain peak
            knowing where to stop

                           Only witness
                           to behind the knee kisses -
                                  the scented candle

Blank Look #137
  I hold a begonia
  up to the light

  no, all the way up

cold wind--
   the daffodils

Blank Look #186
                                     hearing the finches
                                     singing at first light
                                     means we've come
                                     through, too

Wife's knees
   spooned into mine. . . .
sound of the house doing nothing

beatidude Carl Mayfield's current chapbook (including some above Blank Looks/Read Agains plus! Many Others) is
                 Modest Proposal Chapbooks (#24)
                       an imprint of Lilliput Review
                       Pittsburg's Don Wentworth

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen         

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

yawping beatitudes of poetry becoming - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary early morning poems...

from the last post, Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, to this, Coyopa's longerish and quite wonderish Sometimes A Wild God -


Sometimes A Wild God            by Coyopa              

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.                          
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles around his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides...
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
'I haven't much,' you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it's fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,                            
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox.  You cough.
Oh, limitless space.  
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour from your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fist on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
"Why did you leave me to die?"
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn't know how.  I'm sorry.'
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer...
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart...
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black hair.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear sits by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

next, early morning beatitudinal yawping of poetry becoming from master mister Carl Mayfield

so, will
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                 

Sunday, July 21, 2013

yawping beatitudes of poetry: Judith Partin-Nielsen... Coyopa, Carl Mayfield, and a Courtney Love manifestation

'yawping beatitudes of day becoming' - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary poems... and, I realize they weren't for me to write (well, ok, a somewhat ego-soothing way of saying 'couldn't have written') -

three of these yawping beatitudes: Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, Coyopa's Sometimes a Wild God, and a poem (plus) from Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 by Carl Mayfield (love this dudearoonie)

and we begin, in this post, with Poetry Everywhere, by Judith Partin-Nielsen...

Poetry Everywhere
                                           for Courtney Love
"I wrote poetry everywhere
on the walls, on his shirt
I wrote poetry everywhere"
I couldn't stop
at night on the sheets in our bed
in my sleep, in my dreams
I wrote poetry everywhere
on my face like war paint
(stirring up all kinds of trouble)
I wrote poetry on the table cloth
in Jax's Fish House
a haiku surrounded by wine
glasses, white napkins, red brick,
walls, green fish - tiny dots of
blue light hanging from the
ceiling - Nick Forester eating sushi
at the next table
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote in books that
didn't belong to me, past due,
checked in, checked out,
on posters at the coffee
house, poetry notes on golden
peeling bathroom mirrors
surprise tanka on the
toilet seat
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote poetry on the stairs
seven steps to the landing
turn left.  Six more up to your room.
Listening to the blues, Muddy Waters
wailing, sitting on the floor
eating dates, drinking white wine.
I wrote poetry everywhere.
You made a pass, I didn't notice
better to keep writing poetry
Flat on my face, flat on my
ass, flat on my back
just keep writing
poetry everywhere

see you in a moment
in Coyopa's beatitude

ayaz daryl nielsen                  


Thursday, July 4, 2013

this nation's birthday: sacred texts under stars, among fireflies - robert wooten, joanna m weston, caroline simpson, michael conner, carl mayfield, p l wick, dorothy mclaughlin and giovanni malito

us, and fireflies, beneath the evening's stars...within, the sacredness of this nation's birthday (of these United States) accompanied by a few sacred texts of poetry within the hearts, minds, and loveverliness's of all whichever/wherever paths and poems are truly ours...

blue-velvet dusk
the evening star 
nestled in thereness                            michael conner
                                                                      tahoka, texas

                                Venice Prayer
caroline simpson                  
goztepe, turkey               Why do I crave the fog,
                        a softened silhouette?
                        Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
                        in layers of mist that soak and sink;
                        Immerse me in damp whispers
                        and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,
                        bright, crisp stars twinkling above.

shades of moonlight
the difference
she makes                                      joanna m weston
                                                                    shawnigan lake,

                                             cardinal beaks grown close
robert wooten                             with mating in the dark path
raleigh, north carolina                   he gives her the seed               

                 old crow and I
                 laughing, cawing as
                 we meet once again                 crows by a lone crow
                                                                            fort collins, colorado
                                                                            senryu, ayaz 

whistling from the talus
a mountain flute ensemble      
                                                    p l wick
                                                                     empire, colorado

                                            the sound of the wind
                                   clearing a path for itself
                                     through the trees
dorothy mclaughlin
somerset, massachusetts

           What I wanted -
           well, dust is quick to forget
           the busyness

                                               carl mayfield
                                                               rio rancho, new mexico

                                          on the lake
                                          listening to the loon
                                          after it's gone

                                                       giovanni malito
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                                              


Wednesday, July 3, 2013

soon enough, everything! the poetry of a. l. wright, of Pat Prine, plus, editor as tank commander and ninja

And this especial morning (as it is, above) loverly and embracing 'everythings'... 
including some mistakes of this editor...
yet! a morning breeze, the rising sun and my assistant Frosty (Famous Cat Who Ran for President and who is actively participating in 
a sleep-in across the middle of our desk) inspire, even insist 
upon an early morning attempt 
at amending mistakes...

Am delighted to share with you two poems by a. l. wright whose poetic inspiration often comes from walks beside lake Michigan, from 7 year old son Malachi, from a love of visual arts and whose poems I accepted some time ago, misplaced somewhere and, fortunately, was re-reminded of their necessary existence:   

My Name Is Called

A door opens
And I

My name is called
And I have gone

For the one
Who seeks me out.


                                         Paper on my desk
                                         Becomes origami bird
                                         Silently chirping
thank you, a. l. wright

and, whose poem is this?  I mis-listed it as one of Pat Prine's in the bear creek anthology (which is still somewhere near completion):

  He strains
to pee -
  the old hound

Pat Prine is one of my most favorite poets, and here are two that are hers:

standing guard
in the children's playground
a green rhinoceros

                                     Happy Birthday!
                                     Dad's old flannel jacket
                                     still hanging in the closet

plus! mistakes by this editor are often, I'm told, of unique interest -

two examples -

first picture, the notion of self as 'tank commander'  
(kept falling off/out of tank) - 
second picture, a belief in my super-effectiveness as an almost invisible ninja...                                           

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen