|
Far too much has been said and taught in universities during the past few decades about interpreting poems. I despise the term. Robert Frost, on being asked to explain a line of his poetry that was written in perfectly plain English, responded (paraphrasing here), "Would you have me say it in more or less-adequate words?" Let me tell you this: As it is with a novel, a short story, or an essay, whatever the reader gleans from a poem is right. After all, do you wonder what an essayist or fictionist meant after you read a perfectly sensible sentence? So who am I to tell you what you should or should not get from a poem? Read the words that are on the page; beyond that, you get what you get. Please Note: The poems in this sampler are not examples from The Raintown Review, for which I used to serve as editor. Rather, this is simply a sampler of my own work. I hope you will enjoy the poems here or that they will touch you in some special way. Harvey Stanbrough |
|
A Poetry Sampler now including the Desert Poems |
|
Good News The Pulitzer nomination came at length, Accompanied by not one ounce of fame: The poet got a haircut, but his strength, And worse, his weaknesses, remained the same; His wife remarked how nice he looked, and smiled; A kitchen drawer, left open, bruised his shin; His bitchy ex still went to court and filed; The cat went out; another cat came in. The doctor found a dollop on his lung And probed as if to drive it through his back; The coffee, freshly brewed, burned his tongue, And cigarettes went up ten cents a pack. Sonnets eluded him like good reviews; John Frederick Nims suggested clerihews. Living Poem I want to make a living poem of you, trace my lips across yours like a breath slipping from the wing tips of a dove, caress your hair as softly as the touch of a wisp of cotton across a dandelion seed or the powder from the soft wings of a moth settling on a mote of dust. I want to touch you tentatively, as if our souls might fire a thousand volts, uniting us. I want to make a living poem of you, hear your silence seeping through your breath as you sleep, peaceful in your dream your breasts rising, falling... steady, quiet... breathing in... steady, breathing out... hushed, your sleeping form a symphony of solitude, dreams and faint smiles, a poem on a sheet of gossamer that only a lover's touch could pen. Showtime So much in life depends on puppetry: the strings bring up the corners of the mouth, a smile displaces sorrow for the crowd, and no one dares look closely at the eyes.... A Nutshell History of Man Slipping across the lily pond, a frog bug-eyed a lady frog, croaked her an anthem, paddled over, crept up timidly, compared her warts with his and found his lacking. He realized at once she was the One, the other frog that could make frog-life whole and thereby settle down his mean frog-self simply by being his lady frog-in-waiting. She smiled and showed a bit of gelatinous tongue, enticing our would-be frog hero to leap, in a definitive show of frog-prowess, froglegs bulging 'neath the fading moon, his eyes on her and not the landing zone, which suddenly became a 'gator boat and into which he landed with a splat and was gigged without the slightest ceremony. II Just before the spear released his soul he wondered, wide-eyed, swearing on his warts, how life had come to this: how he could die, be spirited away from pond and pad, be rendered from his legs and tossed aside as if he'd never tadpoled up the creek, outleaped the other frogs or caught a fly, as if he hadn't fallen once too often. Consent? if a star at any time might tell us: Now." ~ Howard Nemerov in "The Consent" as stars have done the leaves and have done you, a great among the century's great bards, what use indeed have we to learn the lessons taught by time? except that we have learned, from Yeats and Frost and You, of Poetry, at once a valued lesson learned and guarded well against the stars and their moré³® Nothing has been for nothing, Laureate: your students cannot wander in a meadow without wond'ring after amateurs; cannot view a man and dog walking without a sense of partnership; a mud turtle without the bending grass; a jet descending over the Lady in the Harbor without a sense of you there in her torch. We try today, as you had done, to notice the awesome things that matter least to some and most to poets, and record the cycles of those stars in their reversed abyss; and we wonder at the easy pace with which we all step out toward that Now, and hope, in some perversion of the truth, they have no certain target specified. The Bear It goes like this: two fellows on a hike, one dares the next to rouse a sleeping bear, by prodding, with a stick of no great length; the one who hears, accepts, and, smiling broadly, perhaps a bit from nerves standing on end, approaches quietly, appearing cautious (except that he's about to prod a bear, whose goal it was to sleep and dream of fish) the stick ahead and all his hopes behind; the other, smiling broadly too, at first, even snickering a bit, no doubt because he is the one behind, sets one foot pointing firmly down the line dissecting fool and bear, the other foot, more sensible, edging toward the car. Now the grisly moment: and the stick proffered, quivering, breezes past the bear, who moans and shifts, dreaming of slapping salmon, but moans. That is enough. The fool is gone before the stick has fallen to the ground, his shoes tracking up the other's back who falls and claws his way through leaves and twigs cursing cowardice and faulty friends. The bear eats salmon, smiling in his dream. All Things May Come The narrow street at six p.m. is heavy burdened so with loiterers and bums it seems to tilt. The shadows of the high rise buildings slice the curb, and passers-by cough exhaust along the fume-choked sidewalks, soot the one ingredient that's missing from this Dickensian inner city. Churchbells chime and dowdy ladies trundle children toward the sound. Mustn't keep Jesus waiting. Waiting seems a nobler cause to some, just risen from a huddled doorway; they've learned that rushing does no good. In time all things may come to those who wait. A cop wanders past the empty stores and faces himself in a window, turns and nods You're no trouble are you? half to me, half to the air, rises on his toes and moves away with just one backward glance. The shadows lengthen quickly in an hour and usher in a chill that settles deeply, offering no solace for these streets: not a prelude to a new dawning; not a harbinger of peaceful sleep; not so much a blanket as a shroud. Intimations of the Shapes of Things Graphite remains became the world you made, And it will shorten when you sharpen it." ~ Howard Nemerov, "Drawing Lessons" ~ There is a certain Shape for every thing Despite its standing in the world, despite Its own desires or how it might appear In any ray of light or lack thereof. In ocean depths, atop the highest mount, At North Pole or at South, the equator, Along the lines of any longitude Or latitude, that certain Shape remains, And human thought has no bearing. No Matter that we name it Time and mark Its passing as if our salvation rests On nothing more than watching as it goes, Time still is greater than our endless need To mark its passage or deny the scars Endowed upon us by each quiet tick And whispered tock, assassins creeping in And at our own defined invitation: No matter that we say Deciduous When gazing upon a maple, oak, or elm And haughtily describe the lower system By our vision of the upper. Look How root and canopy mimic the other, Though one mines water and the other air! See how the two seem bound by more than trunk And somehow bound to us, as if they wished it; No matter that we call these others Beasts Then set ourselves in earnest to the task Of noting this one tic and that iota Even to defining Fur and Hair And any other traits that serve to mark Some difference between their lowly selves (Furred or feathered, as they are) and us, Whom, by extension, we loudly proclaim The more exalted Ones but never note They do not stoop to argue foolish points; No matter that we gaze in wonder, name Those Stars, assume them lovely decoration, Study them, certainly, to please That urge to showcase our brightest minds, That we can study them, can mine their secrets, Endlessly inventing bigger bangs And ever recreating our importance At center, where observers always stand: No wonder we cry out for that One God, Whom our ancestors named the Great Creator Of every Shape, certainly, but ours In His own image, in His own perfection, Whence we fell but can ascend again Per our belief in Him and His belief In us and our belief in that One Shape Whence we were formed, to which we pray, &c. All of this continues without end As far as mortal minds can comprehend These shapes, named or unnamed, in time or no. But there is a certain Shape for every Thing Despite its standing in the world, despite Its own desires (or ours) or how it might Appear in any ray of light or lack Thereof, despite your will or mine or His -- Or His -- if He is there despite it all -- II Because we've grown too fond of our own shape (This image of a mirror-hugging fool) We've grasped the pencil 'til it's gone to stub, Become a less-than-accurate rendition Of the world. We've written nothing new, Drawn-down the world and all that it contains, And whispered nothing more substantial Than graphite leavings across a once-pristine Page, leavings that even Time itself Can whisk away with its own passing. There is a certain Shape for everything Despite our brooding insolence, despite Our need to be correct, despite our need To aggrandize ourselves on this earth -- And none, sadly, is lesser than our own. Close-Up of a Beech Tree Striations fade to shades of tan and brown; serrated edges wither, fold, and crack; veins reduce themselves, orphaned and dry, but cling more tightly, stronger than their cousins or else afraid to separate and fall; and like a frail old man fearing winter the parent folds himself into himself, graying ever slightly around his branches, and wrinkling to faces in his bark as geese, flying by, announce a sadness. Breaking the Tenth, Mowing nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor's." ~ Moses, Exodus 20:17 machine and I, together at the hip, making the outward appearance that I'm in charge, albeit of a friendly partnership. My neighbor mows his lawn in comfort, kingly, sitting, riding as I strain and sweat and shove. "To get my exercise" I say, then smile and covet, for the briefest moment, my neighbor's ass, or rather its location, seated as it is upon the throne of his machine, whirring beneath him gaily, measuring the world to one trim height. Resembling Uranium Resembling uranium, she glows, enticing in her natural element but dangerous as well. She'll melt your eyes and leave you quivering in a foolish stance, for you had thought your body fit for hers. Wisdom comes to some, who realize some radiant things are better left observed. They learn too late, their hands and senses burned, that, like uranium, she was never meant to be discovered, captured, or confined. Schoolhouse, circa 1893 No easy matter, bronzing these sad rooms in words, adobe walls emotionless and mute, their paneless windows gaping, shocked that Death crept in so quietly. Coarse weeds huddle in the corner by the door, still creaking on the one remaining hinge
that wind and time have yet to rust away. The Question of Poetry for R T The thing crept upon her, dawning broadly on a world pre-darkened by regret, sad songs and illnesses. Romance had been her calling both in and out of books, God knows, both in and out of her able pen, but poetry crept upon her anyway, the words arranged in lines of metaphor, leaving her thrilled and stymied, grateful and distraught, more questions than answers in its mysterious wake. She flings herself at darkness, illness, striving to prove the night a short-lived eclipse, or else a minor, temporary ache whence she will awaken, well and whole; but all too often rises to find herself alone among confusing walls still strong and high, a maze of rules and lines, a maze with no way out except the question asked, the answer culled, the darkness framed and written. On a Clear Night, the Moon turns a lighted face to earth and smiles, slipping quietly across the night, snuffing stars and twinkling others on, content to momentarily eclipse those distant, greater lights, as if it paused and tipped a hat, then moved along again, to the urgent business of the night, lighting the evening for the lovers below and mysteries on mysteries reveal themselves beneath the glowing face: a girl sighs yes, a boy fumbles his way to bliss; two others, holding hands, vow forever, certain the odds were meant for lesser hearts; two others speak in halting tones, dividing children, things, amazed at the relief. We spin, the stars adjust, the moon goes down. Reportage The anchor thought the blunted truth better: the mouth moved, said the officer had "died of suicide" instead of saying he'd killed himself, which was the truth no matter how it played across the teleprompter. He "died of suicide," and that is all -- although without the "rendevous with death" or other dramatics -- still, a tidy lie against that tortured mind, that spirit flailing at the final twist of an unravelling rope. Finals Their bodies move more slowly than they used; the whirligigs that swung to rock and roll now drag to blues and jazz, a symphony of stressed-out bones and mistuned muscles, flecks of thoughts of might-have-beens and old what-ifs, and errant brain-born signals of decay to which nobody pays the slightest attention. What little sight left to them is locked firmly on their own infirmities; their ears record their own dismay, shortcomings, longings, hatreds, spites and all the rest; and each complains (but none waits his turn, and each more loudly than the last complainer) of the common symptoms, unwittingly piecing together the symphony that was the focus of the bitch-fest at the first. Arthritic fingers point and counterpoint the blame for degeneration, death, &c., and their owners fret and feign the end of time publicly, then hide away in closets with bibles, cramming for the last exam. To a War Protester for Lynn Cutts, and for Captain James R. DeVore, USMC How odd that she should ask me for a poem that might explain there were no enemies, no heroes, and no villains in that war, that underneath the uniforms were humans, and no one on our side or on the other knew hatred, spite, or righteousness -- just fear. And how should I begin? Should I say Faith in god, country, and corps were stripped away when Digger's face exploded next to mine? Should I describe the hot, incessant rain, the mud that splattered up from falling men, the M-16s that jammed with every round? Can I, in adequate terms, hope to describe the agony of pleading, bulging eyes that knew my lies were nothing more? Can I relate the sound of arms, legs, stomachs, ripping off or open, and the feel of hot, moist bits stinging my face? Can I communicate the stench of fear, the silence that precedes a concrete hell, (one you can touch and one that touches you, not the one the preacher talks about) the taste of sweat that runs into your mouth, the pus that coats your blistered, rotting feet? I think not, but the hardest to convey is that ride home, that flight out of Japan: the leggy flight attendants (their sad eyes), the absence of all fear, and then relief, the tires screeching down, a jolt or two, a hurried reluctance in mouthing last goodbyes. The eyes negate the need for words, and then the ramp! America! the scent of home, the dream, the picket fence, the house, the job, the girl, the kids, the moms, the dads, the dogs, the cats, the bikes, the cars, and hair! But no: someone throws blood and calls me Murderer. How odd that she should ask me for a poem that might explain there were no enemies, no heroes, and no villains in that place, that underneath the uniforms were humans, just like those who carried protest signs. How odd she didn't know that on her own. On Compassion Under Fire Three feet away, I saw the death mask settle on his face -- on what was left -- and my shoulders slumped, my head jerked right, a lump the size of god settling in my throat and chest, my gaze frantic, racing, racing across the paddie to the taller grass, then to the treeline, to the million trees and leaves from which the shot had come. Nothing. I glanced again, rose slowly, slowly, looking at the field and at the mask and back and moved, the lump still resident but choking less, across the intervening yard to settle, like the mask, around my friend, to cradle him and whisper It's all right and try to keep him calm and help him die quietly: Please don't give me away. Lullaby This will kiss you softly on the cheek, caress your hair, as if a gentle breeze had lightly brushed its lips across your own. This will practice sighing as it longs to hold you near its core, to calm your fear and push away the darkness. This will bring water, soothe that tickle in your throat, calm the thunderstorms that rage outside, smoothe the sheets and let you rest awhile. This will lullaby you tenderly, wake you with a gentle song, and hush the morning sun to quiet overtones. This will practice smiling on your lips and in your eyes, will slip a perfect day into your calendar. This will rise to stretch with you each morning, lead you in to dreams then draw you back to face the world; yes, this will touch you softly on the cheek. Southern Comfort One day he sat to write about Comfort and all the proper things it would entail: his comfy cottage-house; his picket fence; a clothesline stretched out back; and his good wife, bending to her basket, hanging linens (his and hers, their daughter's and their son's); two pups; a rangy cat; a parakeet; and evenings spent before a cozy fire. But he awoke: the cottage-house had burned, the picket fence had melted, and the clothes line had snapped, as had his wife, both pups, the cat, the parakeet, and both the kids -- something to do with volatility and how the volatile should never try to live a life inviolate of stress -- then he snapped too, and everything was fine. |
A Prayer
Give me room to move, a spot of land nobody else would want, a little water, a faithful horse, my carbine and the night deep in the Sonoran where my roots run through the sand, where nobody knows or cares I'm breathing, where nobody reads foolish lines about foolish topics -- love, grace, peace, war, heaven hell and all the rest -- where I can rise to greet the scalding sun, where I can work in cleansing heat, and where I can sleep without a blanket and without remorse. Give me the strength to live a silent life, a heartbeat muted so it goes unnoticed, and the stealth to sidestep liars, friends and others who would plan my every move; a long trail out and a short trail back to the Sonoran, to my house of stone where my soul resides. Give me room to move, a spot of land nobody wants, and in your own good time, the wisdom to know it's time to let the horses run, squint a final time across the desert, close up the house and settle into sand. Defense Mechanism I Walking through the desert after dark -- but walking, not stampeding, absorbing god, observing all that is and pondering what has been, dreams realized, and what has not, fantasies unwritten, hearts and promises unfulfilled -- no fear intervenes of mechanisms for the defense of flora, fauna, or for the gentle Sonoran, sloping broadly, heat to warmth, stone to hearth and home: II The moon lights his way, smiling softly; the cacti know him well, retract their spines; the creosote and sage repeat the memory of their lovely scents, guide him along; a distant wren warbles a good morning long before the sunrise lights the sky; and coyotes flank his path, unwarily walking with him in the native Way as spiders, desert rattlers, scorpions, and gila mosters whisper magic clues. III Home is home, residing in his dreams pure and hot and cleansing, pure and hot but waking is required for yet a while and life is what it is: he shovels snow and scrapes ice and tries in vain to scuff a little dust into the air to settle on his boots, any time of year... but there is no dust. There is no sand no purity, no heat, and home is home residing in his dreams in magic clues. IV At his desk and every waking moment he strives to remember that refrain -- life simply is what it is and he is where he is for a reason. Beyond the Masks from and for Gerald Whitefoot St. Clair, just a man and now they've gone...." ~ Howard Nemerov in "The Companions" Before we lost the gods or sight of them and let them fade away beyond the masks that separate their world (the world) and us, we knew there was a line between the sea and the coral resting there; between the stream and the rocks that line its bed; between the liquid and the bowl; between the fruit and the seed; between the void and the atmosphere; and between the music and the flute. We heard the gods in creaking branches, in the touch of rain, and consequential gatherings of birds, their flappings tuned perfection to the ear their song an invocation in the trees, whence they would rise as one to form a sign then turn this way and that, as if on signal, before they settled to the trees again to talk excitedly among themselves about the gods they'd called, whether those gods would visit them and us ever again. II I walk with you to look beyond the masks, to see us as we were before The Fall, before we lost the ears to hear the gods in everything, before we lost the eyes to see the gods, the sense to know their worth. I walk with you to taste the sweet mesquite, the silence layering the land, the music trickling down the Rio Penasco; I walk with you to smell the dusty sage just before it rains, the joyful sage just afterward, and to know a god made the difference; and I walk with you to learn to count the threads in mescal, listen for a blessing on the wind, and watch a single grain of dust settle gently on a yellowed blade of grass. III Before we slipped beyond the masks, the gods guided us, beheld our gangly stride, our awkward gait as if we hadn't grown into our feet. They watched us flail about, feigning all the while a certain status, lifting ourselves even over them until we couldn't hear them when they spoke and so they fell silent. But now I walk with you to hear them creak in juniper, see them hunched beside the craggy rocks, and know that we and they are of one heart, the rhythmic heartbeat of the Law of One as if they'd never gone, as if we'd never turned our backs on them in our headlong rush to leave ourselves behind, our rush to be who we are not. But now we know: We listen to the earth and to the gods. We hear them and we see them peeking at us. They slip across the window pane at night, they whisper softly just outside the door, and sometimes, when I've been well behaved, they rustle dust in moonbeams on my desk. Grace He sags, bent beneath her search for grace, believing her the One, believing her words, her gentle touch, her smiling eyes, believing destiny has led him here, believing destiny has brought him home finally to rest in grace, to rest in truth and love, within her supple arms, believing in her angels, believing most of all that she believes, that she would stand up for herself, that she would stand for him, for them, for truth and love and grace, believing she would never sacrifice him beneath her search for grace, beneath a long, sad goodbye, believing she, on finding grace, would never let it go.... Reflexions on a Dream There is no sandy ranch, after all, except in memories, rusted fences, and weathered wooden signs whispering of days gone by. There is no sandy ranch, no Sonoran heaven 'neath the bluffs rising grandly over the San Pedro, no peace and god no solace, just regret for the storm that's passed... just regret there is no reason for another line. To Luna in the Late Afternoon Songbird II III True Love & Other Lies Request Heartwood even whether I can move at all... Sitting on the porch in the morning or afternoon or evening -- anytime really, as long as the day is soft and quiet -- facing southwest, I pretend the Sonoran is only a grain of sand away, my foot touching sand that touches sand that touches sand and so on 'til it touches the sand in the Sonoran, where my soul resides, if I have a soul at all. II III IV Tell Me About Mexico Dilemma Angels Actor Prologue Rejuvenation It's time to reconnect some frazzled ends, unbend a few warped planes, demagnetize a short in my long circuit. No robot, I, but in dire need of maintenance; I need to spark a reconcilliation of my soul and fire, nearly extinguished by this funny, filthy world. I've come full circle to the Necessity -- a Need, no small desire nor pouty-lipped request -- of full rejuvenation, an overhaul, electrical, mechanical, and chemical, so this rusted spirit might yet shine again. |
Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico in 1952. He joined the US Marine Corps at 17 and retired in 1991. He graduated Eastern New Mexico University in 1995 and currently lives on a farm near Pittsboro, Indiana. His work has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, a Frankfurt Award, and the Inscriptions Magazine Engraver's Award. Harvey works as a full-time freelance editor and regularly presents workshops on fiction and poetry at writers' conferences around the nation. Any inquiries regarding permissions or his editorial services, workshops, or books should be directed to h_stanbrough@yahoo.com