an hour...

i would have kept you for an hour
a special one far from dawn
stirred from a dream of your touch
to touch you with my dreams...kept you

for just an hour, when Sun makes
a flame above water, and the end
of a day near you, becomes a play upon skin
salt breezes and a taste of night

an hour, as fall heavy eyes
after so much laughter, yet never enough
loving and yet wanting, once more
then to find your eyes in darkness
by my dwindling sight, to know
the meaning of sweetness
and the overwhelming promise of...
"good night Love..."

lost...

it was lost in a sip of wine
a miraculous thought, an envy
of a sage moment, the lightning flash
of deeper revelation

forgotten as the eye follows
a curl of smoke, betrayal of unfelt breeze
involving as spring streams over smooth stone
shaping rocks and rivers

yet I know it was there
a shining impulse, nerve electrics
the lower brain divulgence
to higher brain sophistry

it was a picture i think
one i never saw, but made up;
one where your lips make a smile
as you watch me find your eyes

and completely... lose my thought

Excerpts from Manuscript-2

V. Time and life perspective

This is another area that seems obvious yet it bears mention here because it is usually missing from the poetry and song lyrics we would typically be exposed to in the current period of our culture. The perspective of time: that we are what we presently seem to be but far more of our lives may be in the past or future.  When one looks at a woman do you see her as a sixty year old slightly bent and grey or d we also see or wonder what she looked like at age sixteen or 25?  Perhaps for many this thought does not occur. Perhaps it occurs only in connection with close relatives- mother, sisters, and grandmothers.  Or maybe they noticed it in a movie like “Titanic” when we meet the heroine as an older woman, then relive a fabulous romance in the height of her youth and physical beauty.

           

Photo

My eyes paint a memory
of this woman

lovely face
long dark hair and bright smile

her sleek and angular body
athletic, slender.

She looks over her shoulder
life in wide dark eyes
slight almond color skin in golden embrace
and behind her, a canvas
sunlight upon sky blue ocean.

One day she will be old
and no longer in outer beauty,
sun and  sea air will hurt her skin;

but she will look over her shoulder

into time
and remember

when my mouth was dry
and my eyes went soft

at the sight of her.

This poem “Photo” takes that perspective, it was actually inspired by a photograph of a friend, Zayra Yves, a book cover photo—but it was really about time.

There are encounters between people that hold the possibility of seduction, for me it occurs often in dance, the nature of the meeting- the way each person might be on a search for far more than a dance.

 

Strangers dance

Pressed close until we swirl

float in body heat, a give and take

sweetness and warm close breath;

you- imprisoned there in your shell,

me in mine as well- we struggle

as all things must to truly touch.

All the while, I am here and there.

You are in my hands yet lost to thoughts

to moments without me.

 We dance as strangers bound by chords

connected by driving beats, yet this pause

in passage of night rings so true

give all to a moment, give life to a wish

lend spirit to be tied like a string

and broken by a rush of wind, when leaving

Poetry

by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

translated by Mariza G. Goès

I spent one hour thinking of a verse
my pen does not want to write.
Yet, it is here inside
restless, alive.
It is here inside
and does not wish to get out.
But the poetry of this very moment
overflows my whole life.

This is a marvelous translation of a very powerful poem by Drummond, a capsule of a life in a sense.  Of time and timelessness, we can speak of the self this way. We can know little and yet know what matters most is a moment of understanding.  That we can have a desire, filled with what we think is vital whether we can express it or not, we can know it.

Such amazing insights here from this brilliant man.

nearby stars

I missed the last flower
a bold pink blossom, bright
like a face in love with the Sun
beaming in the life-giving beams;
drinking today's warmth from an ancient star.

Missed the last...
was I busy, preoccupied
with thankless details of the day
Did I forget we owe day to precious night
and night to lessons of love
that have come to us from nearby stars-
in the deep gleam of her care,
the glow of his affection-
and the way they made us flower.

I missed the last blossom of this last season.
I will have to remember it now- forever
precious in the night...

This poem evokes the sense of someone missing from our lives and the feeling that a hole has been left.  Love that can mean so much that we miss someone in a way that can be felt. This could be romantic love or the kind of love we call friendship.  When I wrote this my focus was on the idea that there were many people who were missing and my thought was –had I missed them?  Had I been away, tied up with so many things- which I could now not remember- and failed to pay attention to people I cannot now forget.

VI. How to be:  Formed or Free

A Short Discussion of Forms

There are forms of poetry recognized often from much earlier times.  Recognized by a loosely formed group of people who study and make pronouncements, but more important by writers who develop certain styles or methods. There may be in excess of fifty (50) widely recognized forms_/ reference to online source and I will only touch on a few here that have a special connection to love poetry and writing a love poem.

The forms we will discuss here are the Triolet, Sonnet, and the Villanelle

The Triolet is a simple arrangement of eight lines in rhyme.  One line is repeated three times, thus the name- TRIO-let.  The First line becomes important, because it is three of the eight lines.  The repeated lines also called refrains, can add to an effect like the chorus of a popular song, with each repetition, a new meaning or idea.  Also, with each repetition there can be a seamless fit and flow of ideas. Each repeated verse not only fitting in logic, but in a poetic sense smoothly blended into the arrangement of words. This can be done with sounds, rhyme, and meter- the way the words are read in a rhythm with preceding lines.

saudade e a lua  

she stays-- listens to each and every word
floating upon velvet darkness alone
no wish forgotten no whisper unheard
she stays, listens to each and every word
confused tides of life, loves and passions blurred
An austere splendor, untouched on her throne
she stays, listens to each and every word
floating upon velvet darkness alone

come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
that reach deep in faith to hold  her lover's face
the miraculous glows of ebony skies
come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
fragile feelings beneath a thin disguise
search clouds and comet-fall, for one embrace;
come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
that reach deep in faith to hold her lover's face.

Like the Moon that passes ever onward
there is no return to nights gone by
as time and love in an unkind accord
like the Moon that passes ever onward
not one lost drop of want may be restored
where faint mysteries and lost legends fly
like the Moon that passes ever onward
there is no return to nights gone by

by Howard D. Moore, originally published on

All Poetry under the pen name- Peteskid.

Another Place

When moon made flame upon water

a slow flowing river in the night

my eyes found glows of  worthiest stars.

When moon made flame upon water,

came a wistful dance of shimmered light

as if on wings in an ark of flight.

When  moon made flame upon water,

a slow flowing river in the night.

  In words and rhythms, hearts race like drums;

at petal’s edge, a night flower of heat

the sounds of night make background hum

in words and rhythms, hearts race like drums

when tomorrow takes a second seat

to songs of  passions, to an inner beat

in words and rhythms, hearts race like drums

at petal’s edge, a night flower of heat.

 A watch upon the present space, merges

an inner wish to be another place

wants and touches in alternate surges

a watch upon the present space, merges

as present joy and  expectation diverges

a Moon rise recalls another distant face

a watch upon the present space, merges

an inner wish to be another place

Sonnets

 Sonnets are an old form of songs. Verses arranged in a set pattern

with a set number of beats per line which come from the syllables and emphasis on them as read or spoken aloud. There are many types of sonnets defined by rhyming patterns and syllable counts, and arrangement of verses. The two major types might be the Shakespearean sonnet and the Italian sonnet. Both have fourteen 14 lines but the patterns differ. The Shakespearean sonnet has usually alternating rhymes, written as ‘a-b-a-b’ where lines “a” rhymes with a, and lines “b” with b.  The end is a pair of rhyming lines called a couplet.  The idea is to write in  four line stanzas, to introduce an idea, explain it, then make a change and in the end – a summation.  The Italian sonnet has six lines in a group followed by eight in a group.  The basic idea is to show something in lines 1-6, then make a change and show something else in lines 7-14. The change is called a volta- Italian for ‘change’. Both types are to be written in Iambic meter. This is basically like sounding like a metronome:

the WALL of TIME is LONG and COST-ly MADE.

This is iambic pentameter, there was a time when some people in England thought this was the way to write all poetry.  The idea spread over time like a viral media on Youtube today! People, and this is usually a scholar who wishes to be popular among those he thinks of as superior- added iambic pentameter to nearly every kind of poetry.

My experience in American English is that no one speaks this way unless they are reading old English style poetry. I think the scholarly basis for adding this to anything other than the few classic forms that contained it, is extremely weak and presumptuous, in essence a case of snobbery.  It adds little in beauty or flow, it adds needless difficulty to writing poetry and helps explain why poetry is less popular today than other media that frankly- and personally-  speaking are simply poorer versions of poetry- like rock music and Rap. This sonnet, “Sonnet Style” is basically done in Iambic Pentameter, it resembles old English in word choices and rhythm, a classic style.

Sonnet Style

In pallid poetry of evening tides

when even seas begin to pause and slow

upon the rolling touch and giving glides

like loving hand, in passion's ardent glow;

in silver splendor of lowering night

finds reflected glory shimmered fair

and moon becomes a bright bold lights

'neath every whirl and swirl of softer air,

and there I find stars like a woman's eyes

full of mystery and concealed invitation

and dreams becomes the purpose of the skies

mood magic, captive of yet lovelier creation.

Time defies rise of day, and night lingers so

moon might finish its dance, love and shadow.

The idea of the English or Shakespearean Sonnet is to build to the end, the couplet that gathers knowledge into a summation. Shakespeare often put a bold flavor on the first line too, many of his sonnets are remembered by the first line.  This sonnet, Sonnet number 39 deliberately leaves a vacuum in the beginning, it is an apology but it was meant to set a mood.  It speaks to the audience and identifies that we are writing here to an idea of an ageless consciousness, mankind’s eternal aspect, the idea of the eternity conceptualized in the Gods we have made.  We give animus to things- the moon, the dawn, mountains, and deserts, oceans…so many things and here, it is the eternal night, enlisted in a mission of romance.

Sonnet Number 39

And pray be patient kindly lords of night
forgive the hold we have on setting day
so great the joy in fading rays of light
when blue and darker skies embrace the bay.

As setting sun invades the ebbing tide
a glow descends of changing care and finds
no dreams forgot no loving wish denied
as shining water teases playful minds;

A pale and winsome moon has grown so full
and softly loves her dark and longing eyes
while kissing sands and tides beneath the pull
so softly murmur love to balmy skies.

Oh moon afar come touch her in the night
with whispered wishes and my loving light

The Villanelle

This was written to honor a young writer that I knew, who died of perhaps the stress of life and talent as much as anything else.

Last call…

And now, I think he might whisper,
the hard edges rounded away,
so that every one would hear

in growled stances, his truths laid bare
without pretense or grand display.
And now, I think he might whisper

like summer storms that fill the air,
in a deep and insistent way,
so that every one would hear.

No passing burden, this ideal of care
at times grown sunny, or dark and gray;
and now, I think he might whisper...

Molding his love open without fear,
to hold so boldly, dared to say-
so that every one would hear-

life's not walled, some simply appear
as night to blind us, cloud the day.
And now... I think he might whisper,
so that every one would hear

snowflakes in the sun

It is a moment like any other
the first-- the last, each
as we reach for breath, thought or cigarette
it comes, it passes

we are each part of a fantastic scene
a mosaic of billioned life, each segmented
into stopless action these moments

each in its own experience
unique snowflakes of existence
each in the cumulus cloud of life
 the old with the art of time
engraved upon their lamb soft skin
and the children who turn the pages
so much faster, see so much more and less
of the scenes and meaning, yet grow
warm and familiar in the light we teach
until they begin reach by volition,
pause the clocks others set, disdain the second bell,
when rebellions and volcanoes pour from their mouths
and they begin to teach the teachers

the eternal riddle of time:  that
each moment is a snowflake...
in the burning heat of the Sun.

Transit of Venus- trilogy

the calculus of certainty
upon a rotating spin,
a speck in space and time
such vast circumstances
reduced to the precision of man-made clocks;
we see beyond sight
reckon beyond our reach, measure
vague ponderables--
reason is a lever, long enough
to heft the weight of time

and Venus

so few days apart after so many years in wait
love and loss, heart filled, heart empty
when life is a day glowing like the Sun
from rise to setting , to the spike of light
wisped away,  last hiss of a candle
pinched to blackness by the sea.
When you sit near stars that love us from afar
when you are Love, when I want you near
yet you are distant and the end of day
comes to clear the slate I have been given.
When you travel across the space of my heart
and life lifts away, into the space of
mysteries without solution
when you are yet Love, and I
am soon gone;

and Vee-nus!

a name so old, it bears the face
of forgotten Gods, when
ruins were young, when an ancient word
finds new dark-skinned divinity, those curved stone
statues blush envy.
On pavement filled by busy feet in day,
quicker steps in neon red night and
Latin beats, rappin'- booty shakin’
blue jean seams stretched to the point
of sheeeeer delight!
When a smile is a deep invitation, ohhh so fine
in the haze of wine and smoky laughter
She is Love in store-bought hair, half a skirt
deep mascara stares and flirts, a stroll
that melts the Saint within man
and waist moves that mans-up the boy
Muse-ic makes the hips roll, waist
revolve- an orbit of bends and side- to- side  slides
a blouse that wears only part of her…
She is a certain kind of Love for few who dare
for every wish of  tropical air without cares
oblivion becomes  a thing far, far beyond
some hours, some sweet sweat,  heavy breaths,
and wanting…“Venus…Baby…”

“come step cross the flo' with me…”

 read by author:

http://snd.sc/L3SJFQ

Excerpts from Manuscript

This is just temporary

an excerpt from an essay I did on poetry  for a few friends to see

VI. Images or metaphor

Many enjoy poetry that has hidden meanings, often completely indiscernible to me, couched in metaphor. Reminds me of the Simon and Garfunkel song Sounds of Silence:

Like a circle in a spiral,

like a wheel within a wheel.

Never ending or beginning

on an ever spinning reel 4/

 This example is not a metaphor, the words ‘like’ and ‘as’ typically bring a simile, a comparison of things that share some quality. A problem for me in reading this kind of poetry is that often there is no metaphor, not in a poetic grammar sense.  Instead a context or a situation in which readers find resemblances to other things then assume they are metaphors. Langston Hughes, one of America’s great poets and writers, was a master of placing complex ideas into metaphors that would likely be remembered by his readers. A metaphor can do this: become a simple phrasing of a complicated idea, none more excellent of an example than his masterpiece- “Dreams”.

Dreams

by Langston Hughes  

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

These are classic examples of metaphor -- which I will quickly define here so that this discussion can be easily followed -- as this: a metaphor is a sentence using the verb “to be” that converts one thing into another thing, which in the real world would be impossible.

 In the Hughes poem “Life” is converted to a “broken wing bird”. Later, “Life” is converted into “a barren field” and then extended to “a barren field covered with snow”. Excellent metaphors, using the verb “is”.  Many find metaphors that are not as clear; they come in the context of a story or a scene.  Some are not in any technical or grammatical sense a metaphor.  Quick example is the famous Villanelle by Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light….”

I have seen scores of readers leave comments about this famous poem.  They frequently discuss the metaphors in that villanelle when in strict form there are none. I think Thomas knew what a metaphor was and chose not to use it.  In a form like a villanelle, I have found it becomes difficult to do much with a metaphor- to extend it or define it. Instead, Thomas used brilliant imagery and asked profound questions.

There is a popular belief that everything is a metaphor for something else, one which I cannot begin to accept.  It cancels-out the few instances that a skilled writer might use a metaphor.  A well used metaphor can express --in a short set of words-- what might need many, many pages.  Is the “good night” a metaphor for death? Perhaps it may be so to many people but not likely in this poem.  First, it is not impossible, I mean by this that when we die we no longer see or so we think. It is possible that we sink into darkness. A metaphor should be clearly impossible, like - life is a broken wing bird. If death were a metaphor then it would be that “good night”, I think it an unlikely way to see death.  Many people claim to find metaphors that do not use the verb “to be” and this too has created a class of things- I call it a presumed metaphor. In grammar a verb or subject can be understood, unstated. I would not argue these sentences with implied subject and predicates can indeed be metaphors.

We are free to do as we agree with our language; it grows every day in some unexpected way by usage. I don’t mean to be restrictive here because I think in the end it matters very little. It is enough to appreciate that there are definite ways to make a metaphor and that readers may find them where not intended. Either way, whether one actually makes them or not, there will likely be some who will praise the metaphoric depth! My point is that I think this is a widely misunderstood element in poetry and writing more generally.

Images

I think there is a sense among many editors and writers that metaphor is a higher calling than images in poetry, that metaphor is a more artistic style. I think this comes in part from a too loose idea of what a metaphor is.  But there is no scale or measure, the writer is free to use metaphor or imagery as his or her talent might lead them.  I write haiku and have spent many hours trying to capture an image in as few as three or four words. For me there is nothing more desirable about metaphor, although I quickly add that a well designed metaphor can replace many paragraphs of writing and deliver a message with great impact. I have chosen a short poem translated into English from Spanish written by Octavio Paz.  I think this was a most difficult poem to translate and the job was done well here, the basic feeling has been delivered in English.  Paz connects images like a chain and in each link of the chain the image has a different quality.  This is a technique I admire and one that serves the poet well:

“a rose drips morning dew; morning-wet leaves on shoes.”

Exerpt from

Listen to me as one listens to the rain

by Octavio Paz

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say…”

Uses of imagery

Words can paint a picture for a reader; leave an impression that might never go away.  For me, there have been verses that not only stay, but become places on which ideas and values are built. There is a great power to words that render images for a reader. Take as an example a single line from a fantastic writer, William Carlos Williams :

“It is at the edge of a petal that love waits.”

For me, this was a lasting image one that not only found a home in my thoughts but became a foundation for many ideas, many ways to express feelings in poetry.

Edge…

there was a scent of bloom
in warm night air, as skies
made turns of clear and cloud

moonlight came bright then seeped away
I chose to stay, there on the cusp
of a sudden storm.

In distance, lightning flashed
thunder murmured; its voice
not clear, indifferent to this dark shawl.

Nectar-dipped brushes painted the wind,
raised to my notice as it touched another sense
small hair on skin and now my vapored thoughts
as if waiting for a bubble to burst
having risen from a depth in me,
the feeling simply remained
within this still flower before dawn

frozen in a moment so beautiful
and so plain,
now a bridge to morning
a pendant dew drop suspended on the edge
of a petal of time.

By Howard D. Moore

originally published under the pen name-  “Peteskid”

Sometimes a poem can make someone see another point of view, imagery can do this- help someone see the importance of another person’s ideas when they might be quite different from their own view. Here in the poem “Small voice” is a different set of views on manliness, the stereotype of the strong male.  Once denied to men of ordinary stature, and then denied to men of unassuming personality, the male image has grown in U.S culture. From brute strength to strength of character, a kind of strength that can be displayed by everyone, regardless of sex, age, physical attributes and the like.  It is more than sex-neutral, it is gender shattering, yet, and there are many who cling to the traditional role plays- to the ‘he’ stronger than the ‘she’.  So this poem is about that dialogue, when she found him to be unmanly.

Small voice…

My soft voice, you say;

when a roar is expected, too gentle.

I stand in a veiled tense of tenderness

and your eyes judge.

I do not wither 'neath your gaze, did you notice

my eyes at yours; and in drizzling rains,

I still walk empty streets searching

damp city air for my freedom.

And when lightning flashed

those hot summer nights, and heavy air

teased our bare skin; I did not flinch,

but taught you to count to thunder.

When howling hurricanes come to strike down

walls holding the sea, and skies turn in seeming anger 

staring down gasping life; when evil crosses

the doorway, in the pitch of darkness

I stand there too,

commanding storms with my whispers,

promising never to leave your side;

standing with my small voice

breath and faith near your ear,

and my ever quiet whispers

close to your heart.

Perhaps this was the end that discussion or the beginning of a far more meaningful dialogue about personal strength which depends on nothing except the size of the will within each individual.

In a quiet night…

the spells of silence work well enough
to suspend the roll of time, thought
comes to life as vivid places, voices
blend with sounds I speak to me;

in a quiet night,
the past rehearses a better ending
to notice the start of the next play.
The regrets seem deeper, the joy
more intense, yet expectations fill me

in a quiet night.
Wandering across the world I've made
there is always a destination: horizons,
coming dawn, in sweet moonlight; the steps
take me to love, treasured end of a journey -

and to you, there in a quiet night.

Imagery: The woman who is not there…

This is a favorite theme for my writing, and for many I think for whom love has been a long search.  A long search is a sign of futility to some, but to the poet it is also the watermark of an heroic soul, a lover of love; one who is a champion of a cause more vital than the ordinary things of life.  The woman who is not there, or the man who she wishes for, perhaps creates from the salvage of disappointment.

night drive…

watching one thing

as a thousand things pass by

each brings a thought, memory

Ideas sprout like a flower garden of neon

sprinkled by imaginings.

I speak to one not here

joins me when driving

like the empty place next to me

suddenly filled by my wish--for her.

When each neon blade

becomes a grassy swale

combed by fingers of winds;

bright flowers lend a sun dance

send perfumes to fill air.

In a language I invent

one between her ‘many’ and my ‘few’

we travel to a place less important

in time that matters little for anything else

by a touch of her hand to my face

and how I whisper into her palm...

this is the first kiss of the evening

When someone is missed, absent in a physical sense, the poet can fill the absence with thoughts, after all, we spend our entire existence in thought; in a sense, it is the world in which we really exist. All of our experiences from a quiet moment of meditation to falling out of an airplane with a parachute are experienced and repeated in thought, in the endless dialogue from self to self. Love is no different, and the poet can find a wonderful opportunity to show how absence is another way of being together—in thought.

above the noise

I missed you and the Moon
at the end of a world-soaked day

drenched in wasting minutiae
of other folk's woes, and tired then
I paused when the journey home
seemed unending, and fate
was a giant's hand swatting me fly-like
pushing away a twig in a stream

I missed you and the Moon

as afternoon curled inside evening
even as I pushed the wall of time
begged it to stop the vise to close
and something shoulder tapped my turn
to upward eyes to squint into
pale blue and wispy cotton, wind shredded
canopy that held...a soft golden shoulder
in silhouette upon a bed of blue,
as if  to whisper entre nous she'd glanced

and then, just you were missed.

So I stood above the noise and crowd
spoke softly, aloud...and told how much.

Imagery also makes the other side of this difficult question. There is more to life than sweetness and light, other ways of seeing any event or encounter and other ways of expressing feelings. Here is an example of the idea of change and whether it is always welcomed.  Many people use a way of thinking, a way of speaking that grudgingly accepts even the best of circumstances.  It makes for an interesting balance in perspective. Let’s see if you agree.

 

 

Warning signs

There were warning signs everywhere

painted passions on a collision course

and time ticking away like a fuse.

High sounding words and reasons

wouldn't warm the bed.

Whispers from empty pillows

made haunting echoes;

and so it began,

sighs and whimpers, sweet tones and subtle touches.

There were warning signs before the eyes

but eyes needed to be open

not half lidded and misted, focused on blank wall;

even bells and whistles

had the qualities of winds and birdsong.

Still there was all of the experience

fore warned by frequent falls,

no fear when we are in an embrace

we think it is a swoon,

loon call on a glassy lake

echoing off the pines.

There were warning signs everywhere,

and still they found goodbye

can be an awful burden in the morning.

beauty...

Gather even scant pieces, one finds

a picture more complete than it seems

pieces of us, mere bubbles in a dream, adorn

like trinkets on a tree-dance on winds

to catch the eye, and make the mind a pilgrim-

a journey to a forgotten place, one sees a face

reflected like sea and sky, only  later to know;

it was I. In vast imaginings come certainties

we can simply be as beautiful 

as we allow ourselves be