107/365 - 111/365
Last two mornings I wake to sensations of utter despair. Regret. Possible side effects of the medication the doctor gave me to fight off the pain in my elbow— so tonight I do not take the prescription, resort to a typical aspirin, standard cure for any ache.
By chance I stumbled on Joan Seliger Sidney’s poetry on-line. Her work survives, appears everywhere, whereas mine flounders, hides, lies ignored. But I contacted her—as a voice out of the past. She deserves a new poem dedicated to her.
Not yet 9.25 p.m. Trying to find a way to create a poem for my soloist, the vocalist in the Quintet series. I visualize her, channel her voice, but the phrases are not in tune yet— the frequency out of reach—perhaps a running metaphor revolving around tarot deck or Ouija board? Or maybe something from the medieval lives of the saints would work better… Christian mysticism…
OR look at a past haiku—begin with a visual from her immediate environment— her "now" moment woven with a song shown in italics… trading between the two; weaving different realities in unison.
warning, five wild birds startle
out of the underbrush.
A day with absence—
clusters of horseflies circle,
dive, rather than words
I know (now) what style of ballad to use for the secondary verses for the vocalist series. In a sense, a modern dance torch song—experimental edge while at the same time maintaining old school rhythms. Elements of modern technology would not hurt, a metaphor of the immediate computer age decorated in 30s or 40s concepts—
I like the notion of a car, or bridging distance between two lovers—or a positive rush of desire: the voice confirming the notion of doing anything for the other.
Repetition would work, a refrain in tetrameters:
“as if the wheels could only fly.”
.: airplane (on runway)
with wings stuttering wildly
in a crow’s harsh caw.
Cup of bad coffee:
watered down caffeination—
day of frustration.
a swarm of bees — Juan Bobo (idiot child) Parental figure retells persona new versions of the folk hero from Puerto Rico, but because the female persona acknowledges the stories are not authentic the poem does not try to come across as an appropriation— just a warped mirror of a reality—
Likewise I can compound a cautionary tale to a higher level:
five stanza of five syllables (once complete): 5x5
...so he sits
slack-jawed in the woods
an idiot boy
as in the stories
Tia Juana told
at night: Juan Bobo
all rough simpleton
until he transformed
to a swarm of bees...
I remember sometime ago, in the eighties I wrote a dream-reality piece with a similar concept: parental figure abandoning child in woods as in a German folk tale. Psychological violence expressed for children's literature.
The cliché stretched out,
branched off, opened small flowers,
sprouted august weeds.
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