On National Poetry Month: "Woman as Muse/ Man as Dog"
This is intended to be a somewhat continuing series in honor of National Poetry Month. I intend to post this series two or three times a week throughout the month of April with various themes.
The theme for this offering is, "Woman as Muse/ Man as Dog."
In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.
With that, let's continue the series with...
Woman as Muse/ Man as Dog
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And put out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
-- Robert Graves
She Tells Her Love
First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corsetand I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
-- Billy Collins
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.I want to tell you
simply that I love you--
though you are "dead"
& I am still "alive."Suicides & spinsters--
all our kind!Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.-- Erica Jong
Dear Colette
The last time I saw richard was detroit in '68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe
You laugh, he said you think you're immune, go look at your eyes
They're full of moon
You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you
All those pretty lies, pretty lies
When you gonna realise they're only pretty lies
Only pretty lies, just pretty liesHe put a quarter in the wurlitzer, and he pushed
Three buttons and the thing began to whirr
And a bar maid came by in fishnet stockings and a bow tie
And she said drink up now its gettin' on time to close.
Richard, you haven't really changed, I said
It's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head
You got tombs in your eyes, but the songs
You punched are dreaming
Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet
When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
Oh and love can be so sweet, love so sweetRichard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on
And all the house lights left up bright
I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody comin' over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days
-- Joni Mitchell
The Last Time I Saw Richard
Volition
by
Justice Putnam
In a sanctuary
Of her own making
Waits the gilded
Monarch brightly robed
Who serves whom?
A castle wall
Can be breached
But her heart
Can never be
Conquered
After all
This is
The land
Of choice.
(Astoria, Oregon 2000)
Enough is Enough
by
Justice Putnam
ya ever get tired
of someone whining
that their big ass
had nothing to do
with the hurt?
do ya?
and do ya ever get tired
of someone moaning
that they've never
been this hurt and
it's worse than
all that came before?
do ya?
well
i for one am
i'm tired of it
because
how many times
does the same line
get used
for each perceived
conquest
that flew out the door?
and how can this
special one be more
special than
the previous
special one?
or the one after?
answer me that.
it's like a guy
i knew in L.A.
he told me once
he always picked up
the intellectual chicks
(his words, mind you)
at the art museum.
he asked if i
wanted to also
well
i begged off
because
if that was
the best it got
i figured
i'd curl up
with an ancient
author instead.
(San Francisco, California 1998)
The Lone Dog
by
Justice Putnam
It is said
That if you
Throw a rock
Into a pack of dogs
The one that is hit
Barks the loudest.
But I have to tell you
I am a loud dog
But not of the Pack
I am the individual
Surviving
By my wits
By my ability
To adapt to
The situation and
Accept that the
Given
May not be enough
I don't act out of impulse
I knew the rock
Would be thrown
But my survival
Depends on
My abilities
By my experience
And analytical prowess
Does the Moon
I howl to at night
Have power over me?
I suppose
It pulls at the
Oceans.
Does the
Hunger
I constantly
Feel have
Control?
The answer is obvious.
Is the two-legged animal
With the whip and leash
God?
No
God
Is much
More mysterious
Much more Powerful
Much more the
Provider
Much more the
Taking Away
God does
Speak to me
Yes
God speaks
To a loud
Lone dog
God doesn't
Speak through the
Pack
But to me
Personally
You could say
I have a
Personal
Conversation with
God
But not of
Words
God is
Much more
Mysterious
Than that
So I pray alone
For what
God and I have is
Personal.
I figure
It's the same with
Everything that has
Soul.
(Los Angeles, California 2001)**
Arctic Dream
by
Justice Putnam
Come across the desert
Up over the sea
Through the Bering Strait
Where the seas freeze
(Come on, baby
Have an arctic dream
With me.)
Put down the palm fronds
In the Polynese
Tack into a
Northern westerly breeze
(Come on, baby
Have an arctic dream
With me.)
The frozen tundra
Aurora's eerie glow
An igloo house
Where we can go
(Come on, baby
Have an arctic dream
With me.)
(Kodiak, Alaska 1980)
She Looks Familiar To Me
by
Justice Putnam
I've seen her serve tea
In Hawaii
Pour an oil slow massage
In Denver
Her henna painted foot
On a Moroccan
Mosaic floor.
A walk through
The Tenderloin
In latex
A North Beach
Dance behind glass
A motel neon
Fading on a
Red door.
(The streets of Portland
The booths of Amsterdam
The canopies of tapestry
In Bangalore)
She hides tears
Of memory
With a touch
And a fragile
Invincibility
Yet
She looks
Familiar to me.
(It's not because
Of fantasy
That I see her
In the places
That I go
But something more
Recognizant
As family
A survivor-sadness
And a strength
On the road.)
She hides tears
Of memory
With a touch
And a fragile
Invincibility
Yet
She looks
Familiar to me.
(Dijon, France 1996)
She Leaves The Gypsies
(Howling at the Moon)
by
Justice Putnam
My baby's got
Such a sweet disposition
She'll stop traffic
In Paris at noon
She might take
A little Basque vacation
She'll leave the gypsies
Howling at the moon.
My love is like
Some sweet libation
The kind you drink
At some Left Bank Rue
She'll take you
Way past intoxication
One glance at her
And you begin to swoon.
My baby's not
Afraid of Tradition
Just watch the seditious
Way that she moves
It's not that
She waits for consummation
She wants love
And a whole lot of truth.
My baby's got
Such a sweet disposition
She'll stop traffic
In Paris at noon
She might take
A little Basque vacation
She'll leave the gypsies
Howling at the moon.
(Montmorancy, France 1994)
So Very Late
by
Justice Putnam
Pardon moi
Monsiour
S'il vous plait
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
Pardon moi
Monsiour
S'il vous plait
Je ne suis quand Americain
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
The night is cold
The winds blow late
The train pulls loud
The Bells toll late
The roses
Are still blooming
In a broken vase
(And she comes
To see me
So very late.)
Pardon moi
Madame
S'il vous plait
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
Pardon moi
Madame
S'il vous plait
Je ne suis quand Americain
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
The moon may
Be shining bright
But it is sinking late
The waves are
White thorns
Roaring late
The lights
Of the city
Stab the night
So late
(And she comes
To see me
So very late.)
Pardon moi
Madamoiselle
S'il vous plait
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
Pardon moi
Madamoiselle
S'il vous plait
Je ne suis quand Americain
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
Je ne suis quand Americain
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien joue
Je ne suis quand Americain
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle
(Alameda, California, 1999)
Rendered Speechless
by
Justice Putnam
I was asked
To describe
Her
And as I
Began to
Speak
A cascade
Of images stifled
My attempt
At speech.
Perplexed
My questioner
Stared at me
And in
My reverie
I stood silent
In a universe
Of her.
I thought
Of her stature
And I thought
Of her grace
I thought
Of her directness
And I thought
Of her face.
I thought
Of her hands
As she held
A delicate plant
I thought
Of her smile
As she whirled
In a summer dance.
I thought
Of her kiss
And I thought
Of her embrace
I thought
Of her bearing
And her slow
Majestic pace.
As I thought
Of all these things
And so many more
I struggled
To speak
About
The woman
I adore
And how in
My heart
She is
A woman
Beyond compare.
When I was
Finally able
To speak
My description was
Ever so
Succinct
I summed it up
Completely
When I stated simply,
"She has red hair."
(Point Reyes, California 2004)
I'm Way Gone
by
Justice Putnam
I'm sometimes monastic
But I'm not a priest
I just feed the birds
At the towers of ivory
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
I got a gift
Of roses
The thorns were removed
But that fragrance
Without that pain
Is just not the truth
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
I kissed a girl from Kyoto
I kissed a girl from France
We all played
Wet at the
Industrial dance
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
I've slept with some
Older women
Some young ones too
But talk of loving me
Or me loving you and
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
I got my sin
I got my poetry
I got my transcontinental
Blasphemy
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
Mama sang some Beatnik
Daddy drove real fast
But Grandma
Always took me
To the Early Mass
I'm sometimes monastic
But I'm not a priest
I just feed the birds
At the towers of ivory
(I'm gone
yeah man
I'm way gone
I am so gone
Yeah man
I'm way gone)
(Valley of the Moon, California 2003)
A Simple Kiss
by
Justice Putnam
If it were to rain
And the streets become
Streams a'flowing
A simple kiss
Upon your cheek
Would light a thousand suns.
If the wind were to blow
Up slanted avenues
Around crowded corners
Down city hillsides
Across even
The plaza
Of the Musée d'Orsay
A simple kiss
Would just
For a moment
Calm
The tempest
Of the
World.
(Montmorancy, France 1994)
Josephine
by
Justice Putnam
Josephine
Josephine
I'm pleading
With Josephine
Taking the steps
Down to the sea
Somewhere along
The coast of Normandy
Where the white
Fossil sands
Churned turbulently
Where men rushed
Into battle
And died violently
Whose last
Dying breath
Was to plead with
Josephine
Josephine
I'm pleading
With Josephine
Could be
The grasslands
Of the Sioux
No matter
Which side
They were on
They were all
Thinking of you
Could be in
In the South Pacific
Or the Persian Gulf
An Indonesian jungle
Or an Arctic hut
Could be in a
Manhattan penthouse
Or a cold water den
We'll all grasp
At that last
Bit of hope
In the end with
Josephine
Josephine
I'm pleading
With Josephine
Josephine
Take me
Home
(Cherbourg, France 1997)
** (From: "The God Debate- a dialogue between Tom Paine and the Carthaginians" © 2001 Justice Putnam and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen; and also appeared on verse 3, "The World is Mine" from my son's fourth CD, Judgement Time by 50 Tramp Dawg and World Wreckards Productions 2002)
© 2009 Justice Putnam
Fleur du Sel Musique
and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen
I'll be around for a little bit, then I'll be back later.
April 16, 2009 11:46 AM | Reply | Permalink
Have to go but I'll check in now and then.
April 16, 2009 12:19 PM | Reply | Permalink
I'm back!
April 16, 2009 5:52 PM | Reply | Permalink
she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love
were all that was left
of her
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
as everything
continued just
as
she had written it
-- Charles Bukowski
"Carson McCullers"
April 16, 2009 9:46 PM | Reply | Permalink
Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.
Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.
How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To your manufactured fantasy.
But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.
This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.
This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.
Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.
From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.
-- Octavio Paz
"No More Clichés"
April 16, 2009 10:00 PM | Reply | Permalink