My Birds
I started the digital birds singing
Just as the real ones arrived out the window
Mine were louder
And under my control
The wild ones served no one
Least of all me
And would stop and go
At any time
Anyway I silenced mine
To be with
The real singers of spring
Ezekiel’s Tesla
I am through with my chariot
Ezekiel said
With its wheels gleaming like beryl
Rims tall and frightening
Covered with eyes
Moving with four-faced creatures.
I want a Tesla.
April is Poetry Month. April 1 is Fools’ Day.
Be foolish and write poetry
Writing poetry is a fool’s game
Be foolish and read poetry
Reading poetry is a fool’s game
Pointless like a line without a period
Like a game without a score
Start and never stop
Not in May or December
Not next year
It is always a month
For fools like us
Buddha Bemidbar (In the Wilderness)
Moses is missing
In his place
Siddhartha sits.
Israelites are numbered
Can he free them?
The way in the wilderness
Is unpassable.
Can they pass it?
Too dark to sea
The waters give way
To dry ground
As if they were not there
From the beginning.
Walk on
The mountain next.
Alternating Current
Edison said
Man was not meant
To ride a wave
To alternate between
In out
Give receive
To breathe.
The vessel will not hold
He said
If you fill and pour
Fill and pour.
Joshu’s dog
Nansen’s cat
Might still be alive
If he were not so stubborn.
Poor master Edison
Could see so far
But only in one direction.
The Longing (When Joni Sings)
When I hear Joni sing
So early, so young
Love and longing
The longing of love
The longing for love
The love that is longing
The love
The love lasting everlasting evanescent.
The past is not more sweet
The present not more bitter.
A song to travel the sea
Shores seen and dreamed
When I hear her sing.
Sharing a Draft
Sharing a draft
Is intimate.
Standing naked is not so private
As getting dressed.
Who is allowed to see?
Faster than Flowers
These poems grow
Faster than flowers.
They must be weeds.
It may not be my favorite E. E. Cummings poem, but i sing of Olaf glad and big is a special one. It is about someone who suffers for his moral beliefs (in this case, about war and mindless patriotism), and who is punished by a range of Americans, from fellow soldiers to the president. Someone, writes Cummings, who is “more brave than me:more blond than you.” It contains the one line of poetry I probably recite the most in non-poetry contexts, to epitomize those who take a stand.
i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or
his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but–though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments–
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
“I will not kiss your fucking flag”
straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)
but–though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat–
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
“there is some shit I will not eat”
our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died
Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too
preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.
The person in the hut lives here calmly,
not stuck to inside, outside, or in-between.
Song of the Grass Hut
Gone
Gone Beyond
Gone Completely Beyond
Heart Sutra
Ben Zoma Inside Out
Ben Zoma in the grass hut
Waters above
Waters below.
What does Rabbi Joshua know?
Sekito knows
Ben Zoma is outside
Inside and in-between.
Gone completely beyond.
Note: Creating, whatever your material, can be like the proverbial dog with a bone. There is sometimes spontaneity, done and gone, and then there is the idea that won’t go away. In that case, the idea is actually the dog and you are the bone. A previous version of this poem can be found here. Who knows what the next version, if any, will look like? Not me.
Bob Schwartz 