Fork And Other Poems

by Steve Lavigne

Fork and other poems

  By Steve Lavigne

  Copyright 2011 Steve Lavigne

  Table of Contents

  Fork

  It is enough

  The Last City Autumn

  Hard Science

  You ask me my favorite color

  Like da Vinci

  My most important memory

  The way of the teacher

  The 50th Anniversary

  My ebook introduction

  After midnight

  Student commentary on Donne's “Batter my heart, three-person'd God”

  Subtlety

  Driven he thinks

  Krishna Picking Flowers

  A boy is skipping stones

  The Forsaken Lover

  It's your birthday

  Love is observation

  Learning To Write

  I've been doing this poetry thing all wrong

  New Year’s Resolution

  The sandwich poem

  Fully committed

  Of Newtonian physics and entropy

  Come with me sweet

  Fork

  Eve comes -

  and my chrome tail winds up that model

  leg smooth as polished marble;

  moist lips part,

  the coming dark,

  the passing of perfect teeth

  over my sharp fork head;

  apple never tasted so good

  before or since.

  *

  Raised in his hand, I spoke of hunger, need;

  tines forged in the burning bush,

  a bright rod polished in the desert sand.

  With me he scooped his enemies feasts

  of locusts, blood tides of death;

  with me he opened the mouth of the red sea

  and fed his god an army of sacrifice

  swallowed whole.

  *

  Bleeding from a crown of tines,

  I burdened as he carried me up the mocking

  road to the hill where they dined.

  Speared, he hung limp as asparagus,

  his side spilling green,

  his head arching for one last look

  into the mouth

  of a yawning blue sky.

  It is enough

  It is enough

  the occasional orange warmth

  through closed lids

  the cold shadow passing

  forcing us to open our eyes and look

  for the lostness of being

  sandstone cut into the side of a cliff

  layers of centuries

  the dust of innumerable once living things

  now growth rings of the earth

  exposed by this wind, this rainy weather

  the soft light of new growth

  flushing from brown tufts bending toward the lake

  the misguided bobbers of fishermen hanging overhead in trees

  closing our eyes, listening, drifting

  the quiet dip as we paddle together

  the approaching shore

  it is enough

  The Last City Autumn

  The city autumn has bared her cold breast,

  Breathing in gusts, a withering of years,

  Whose call is for you dear father, brown guest,

  Who in a whirling dervish of leaves, fears.

  For cloistered, the city has left ungleaned

  A father’s true loves for city forged dreams,

  A rust of spirit turning gold from greed,

  His green life blown to fallen ember leaves;

  Blown to where turning feet on wet cement

  Churn his last lingering leaves of hope to moist oil,

  The seeds of his ash remains to a silent,

  Soft, lubricating spring of city soil,

  Where I weep not for autumn, no dying thing,

  But for you dear father and wild delivering spring.

  Hard Science

  No more goddesses and no more

  goddamn anthropologists, you say

  as we start in on the vinaigrette salads

  outdoors on the sidewalk under

  the shadows of steel-grated lindens.

  You're wearing the numen lumen sun dress again,

  and I think of how it flows and accentuates

  the planes and curves of your hips

  as we pass through the dappled shade

  of the tree-lined Triangle;

  of how you intimidate the freshman boys

  with beakers full of caustic humor

  spilling out of your tight lab coat and model coiffed hair.

  Yes, you say, but true scientific computer modeling is still years away.

  I watch intently the chrome reflection

  of your fork and the

  slight parting of full red lips.

  Even before the wine,

  I feel giddy.

  This is the week, I think.

  I will tell you how I can almost feel

  the leptons leap from your eyes,

  the spring dance of electrons in the air:

  my passionate string theory of love.

  You know, you say, the only true language

  is the language of science.

  I think science is the only

  true language of the heart,

  but my thesis stammers

  with doctored ideas, theoretical phrasing,

  and I can't formulate the facts of my love

  with any equation of the truth

  greater than me or equal to you.

  You ask me my favorite color

  You ask me my favorite color

  and, of course, I think - present

  “eat it, wear it or both”

  I text (space) smiley face emoticon

  a simple “not eat it” the reply

  I ask again later

  and when you say

  “just to get to know you better”

  I hesitate, overcome by

  a word –yellow,

  blue,

  how to express the blankness,

  the black and whiteness

  of color

  out of context,

  out of texture

  of say lips,

  your lips

  red,

  ripe,

  red

  with the red

  of a berry dripping

  an insatiable

  evolutionary intent . . .

  “so what color do you hate then”

  your response in the space of my reply

  “Fuchsia” I smirk teeth

  sinking in without hesitation

  our eyes meet

  the pale blue of its gleam

  fading to thought.

  Like da Vinci

  You said you could write in cursive

  backwards

  and I often wonder what you write

  holding the mirror

  in my palms tilting

  it against the light -

  over my shoulder

  I see your mona lisa smile

  rising, falling

  approaching

  my reflection

  always reaching

  for

  never quite

  touching

  the you

  behind

  the glass.

  My most important memory

  and the words that seem like magic

  no longer whispering unexpectedly

  from behind my right ear-

  I so wanted to convey to you

  without greek myths or

  platitudes

  the hospital, my seeing you

  seeing me -

  our first lon
g look of recognition

  and the only line of my poem

  the taut cord between us

  and someone always placing in my hands

  a smiling scissors

  The way of the teacher

  It is amazing – their fragileness

  each flower a miracle of effort

  as they bloom and cling

  to their small clods of earth

  in a wind tossed world

  The teacher, bending down,

  always playing the gentle gardener,

  weeding and pruning

  A knowing soft faith

  guiding each flowers

  becoming

  in an overarching belief

  in the goodness

  and resiliency of life

  The penultimate hard faith

  severing the ripe heads

  twisting and lifting

  closing your eyes

  whispering to each

  one final wish

  as you let go

  and blow all that you are

  to the four winds

  The 50th Anniversary

  Shall we be comforted, cajoled, slightly amused

  or challenged.

  Shall we be bitter, recriminating, unsure

  or solid, unwaveringly rebellious

  in our certainty.

  What can tell us the way if not these things?

  And the choice -

  among the trifold, multifolded options -

  a simple

  life or death,

  growth or stagnation.

  The choice is there, has always been there,

  quietly ignored until the call to step up

  to something more

  and battered,

  looking in both directions,

  my American now, what's next and new

  perspectives flipped, skewered

  in a sweeping tangle of respect and responsibilities

  for generations a thousand years in the past,

  a thousand years in the future -

  and it was there

  I caught a glimpse

  of a truth more felt than thought

  in the painful clarity of a single technique

  demonstrated as it was meant to be

  by a Master,

  in the vision of a life remembered, coalesced, renewed -

  in a monument of tears and applause

  as One we cheered -

  the center does indeed hold

  the falcon does indeed hear the falconer,

  and all of our flying, all of our circling,

  all of our searching to the edge of our strength

  is but a means to bring us again and again

  to the center, to this place

  of all that is good and right and true,

  a timeless, honorable, unwavering way -

  golden in the brightness of our faith, our hope,

  this collective vision leading us always

  home again.

  My ebook introduction

  Insert “my” and “ebook” and take out “reading”

  in Charles Bukowski's title “poetry readings”...

  Then insert the entire poem here ...

  but change the title, of course, and I'll have to add

  some wry, seemingly off hand witty comments

  cause you know Bukowski's really talking

  about everybody else's ebooks,

  not mine, and probably not yours

  since you're reading this...

  You know, really spice things up,

  show'em I'm not afraid or ashamed

  of sweating the download numbers,

  of growing old in this invisible

  landscape

  of zero’s and one's

  this constant, thin

  web of

  unending lines

  blogging,

  friending,

  twittering...

  and say something about

  if these are our creators,

  our creations, then

  please god

  please

  some kind

  of

  reality...

  After Midnight

  There’s a bluebird

  in her heart

  that wants to drink whiskey

  and go whoring

  the lazy susan of her giving

  all the live long day

  fearing apples

  in corners

  skin sagging and folding

  the lazy susan of her giving

  all the live long day

  her geometric listing

  a side

  to side veering

  the lazy susan of her giving

  all the live long day

  relation ships

  passing

  horizons mirroring

  the lazy susan of her giving

  a bluebird singing

  always singing

  midnight,

  oh my midnight

  all the live long day.

  Student commentary on Donne's “Batter my heart, three-person'd God”

  Alas, batter my heart three-person’d couch,

  For you have been spilled, stained, slept, sat upon,

  Moreover burned, bared, even spat upon;

  Your comfortable soul the only vouch

  Of days past spent the steady burdened mount

  For three Silenus-like generations.

  But where, oh, where are the venerations

  That welling from our eyes should burst in fount,

  For in its one-button grief hanging like

  A sighing mother’s sorrow for lost sons,

  It cries we three for piety be done,

  Even the cruel Fate cuts but once. So hike

  It high, boys! Throw it to the curb from thee;

  It lies not ours, but simple garbage be.

  Subtlety

  It hit me over the head

  Yosemite Sam style

  root tooting red flame double buckshot

  lifting us off our feet

  is even more so

  than reanimated corpses shuffling ever onward – mouths

  dripping, limbs dragging

  on the menu screen

  drama children sports lifestyle all channels

  Have I ever picked anything other than all channels?

  Sharks The History of the Universe The Perfect Pot Roast

  commercial and I half turn comments slipping down

  the corners of my mouth – my sleeve wet

  The cat at the edge of my vision

  one paw raised – looking out the window screen

  Driven he thinks

  Fate has a face

  Like a need

  Round knobbed and turning

  Love is a grace

  More like speed

  Red tipped n’ flaring

  Hope in no place

  the road's creed

  lines yellowed blurring

  Krishna Picking Flowers

  Every love is sorrowful,

  each pretty premonition, false or base,

  yet when I hold you in my arms,

  Krishna with his joyful, living embrace,

  folds in my psyche beyond time or space

  till all in all becomes one shining grace

  in this, this simple seeming place

  where I love nor fear any harm.

  A boy is skipping stones

  A boy is skipping stones

  On the wash of a deserted beach;

  His stooping figure glides and scans

  For flattened eggshell shapes in reach;

  He’s whistling pensive tunes of childish loves,

  His gentle spirit moving like a coupling of doves;

  His gathering grip, a brood of green thoughts,

  To ripen with vegetable passion in the sea.

  The Forsaken Lover

&nb
sp; A broken tulip in mid-spring,

  my limp petal draped on your hand,

  feel my moist silkiness spread on your skin,

  my glistening redness, cragged yellow, black;

  lift me to your lips like a brandy glass,

  sniff the sweet whose scent must soon fade,

  feast all your senses on this fallen man,

  for having once been broken, he decays.

  It's your birthday

  and I slide open

  the door

  of your single purple poof

  hiding that redhot

  red skin

  birthday suit

  in the too too hot shower-

  my lit candle sparking

  in the spray

  of turning

  ski sloping shoulders

  slaloming hips

  the fresh powdered oh

  of steaming wet lips

  pausing,

  pursing -

  your long lingering wish

  almost as surprising

  as my trick candle sputtering

  back to life again

  Love is observation

  Love is observation -

  the abstract made real, the now made timeless.

  It’s shapeless fire, formless air, caressing water,

  in a becoming of earthly shapes in turnings

  of being reformed:

  a becoming of we, the earth and a living universe

  in an infinitely sumless world:

  an ultimate unification

  with an eternal

  being ever reborn.

  Learning To Write

  My little marks in spectral thought

  Lie pulsing bare before my stare,

  A tearing ink stained grip of white,

  Crying for eyes in their glare.

  And like the light, they creep on feet,

  Unmoving in a screen porch front,

  Awaiting answer from a blushing sweet,

  Unanswered and unwaiting love.

  I've been doing this poetry thing all wrong

  I've seen

  in her poems

  tight little words

  high-speed frame unfold

  popping open

  perfect and whole

  quick unfurling flowers

  of surprise,

  recognition,

  delight.

  But this poetry thing percolating