Grahame Green Quote Tom Delmore Poem

Graham Greene realized early in his writing career that if he wrote just 500 words a day, he would have written several million words in just a few decades. So he developed a routine of writing for exactly two hours every day, and he was so strict about stopping after exactly two hours that he often stopped writing in the middle of a sentence. And at that pace, he managed to publish 26 novels, as well as numerous short stories, plays, screenplays, memoirs, and travel books. He said, "We are all of us resigned to death: it's life we aren't resigned to."


The Smell and Taste of Test

This morning has
The smell and taste
Of a math test.
The one you know
You already failed.
The air holds no empathy
Only Mr. Fortier who knows
Long before you entered
You flunked. Compassion
Is a wind that never rested
On my weary shoulders
But drones as a hornet
Outside the rain spattered
Window.

Chosen

Back in July I went on a PRH Retreat in Port Townsend Washington. We were asked to go out and be chosen by a tree. I had a hard time with this because I am good at choosing beautiful trees, but one that would choose me? I followed no path and saw many trees that I liked. As I approached one a branch nudged my shoulder. I kept walking but then decided to turn around. It was amazing! If I could have climbed inside of it I would have. We talked, hugged and had a wonderful time. Yesterday I was walking my dog in a ravine by my apartment. About a third of the way through I saw a huge bird take off in front of me on the trail I thought it was a hawk. It landed in a low tree not far from me. It was a Barred Owl, in all its splendor! I had 3 minutes to chat sound and praise the universe for being chosen again. The bird considered me in a way that i could not ignore.

Quote: Naruda Poem: Tom Delmore

Naruda:" All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are."



Radio Jesus

Out on the coast
Christian radio stations
Come in loud and clear.
Modulating
Over several waves
As if
Walking on agitated water-
Held up by hymn and verve
Could save.

A savior among static.
The smell of salt
Rotting vegetation.
He says: Come rest in me
Broken crab, razor clams
Shattered sand dollar.
Listen
For the word
So wet to bring them
That much closer
To the undertow of salvation.
Amen.

Quote and more Boxing

I am continuing with my boxing poems again this week. These poems and a few others will be part of a collage that i am putting together.
Thanks for the comment last week. Always good to hear from people.


There is no excellent beauty that hath not strangeness in the proportion. From Hermitage Journal Blog




The Sweet Science

On the ropes is where
You find him trying
To fend blows and jostle
An opening with his head.
The bell now more important
Than the round. The bikinied
Girl carrying the numbered sign
Had blurred by the fifth.

On the ropes is where
He was trained
To avoid, and no rope-a-dope
In his repertoire.

Move, move, the corner
Shouts, his legs wobble
Like the recipient of
A first kiss of a lover
Except for the blows.

His ring expectations
Have never been so narrowed-
Ali standing over Liston.
His vision now vertical, not
In the stance of a champ.

Quote: Edgar Lee Masters Poem: Tom Delmore

Edgar Lee Masters said, "How shall the soul of a man be larger than the life he has lived?"

Pugilist at the Transit Center

He has a face like a boxer
But I could not say he boxed.
Chiseled and boney where blows
Would blossom red. The ears
Have yet to attain vegetable shapes.
Maybe a peek-a-boo puncher-
Floyd Patterson; except white.
A welter weight- quick
Guessing here, since he’s just standing.

When he moves his butt
Over thighs and calves
Not anticipating a blow-
But quick to be in motion, a leg
To lunge. My words
Activating this languorous lad
As I spar in the distance.

Quote Ferlinghetti Poem Tom Delmore

Ferlinghetti said, "Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained."









Edward Curtis

When you died
The box camera
Would not fit in
Your casket.
Certain that your dreams
Could be held in
Sepia toned photogravures.
Just one more wax cylinder
For heralding angels was a silent
Plea.

Among Nez Perce you
Caught shadows on glass
And dressed warriors
Out of time. So much apparatus
Your troupe
Outnumbered the tribe.

In debt you photographed
Jewels embedded in eyes
That no one could purchase,
Just a people a language a time
Fading away.

When they buried you
A shelf should have been laid
Round your body
Formed of your exposed
transparencies.

Quote:John Hollander Poem: Tom Delmore

John Hollander said, "I want my poems to be wiser than I am, to know more about themselves than I do."


You’re the Weeds

It was a frustrated phrase
The end of the line.
A step not to take. It came
After much agitation,
Like plastic covering furniture.

When mom went speechless
She fumbled the ledge
For the beating stick. One half
That was aggressive
Was not as strong as the half
That wanted to leave it be.


She would become a Martha Graham dancer
With a prop. Flying around the dining room
To pantry, and kitchen, my twin
And I knowing she could only catch one
Or get tired and give up.

I look at my aging face
A scar below my left eye.
Is that a consequence of escape
Or choreography?