The Culturatti

Acquainted With The Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat.
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over the houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

For a while I considered this poem my anthem; when I first moved to Toronto I spent a lot of nights out wandering the streets, exploring, getting ideas, writing poems about my discoveries. Lots of great memories.

So, while this poem is pretty simple and doesn’t say much (but also says a lot, which is the hallmark of Robert Frost), I’m posting it for sentimental reasons.
03971semajmeopcco

I Will Make You Brooches

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Man, I love this poem. I’m not a huge fan of a lot of free verse because it just completely disregards rhythm, and the musical quality of poetry is one of the major things that sets it apart from prose; ergo, I like it when a poet writes with that in mind, and when he/she does it as well as R.L.S. has done here, well, what a treat.

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Late Hours

On summer nights the world
moves within earshot
on the interstate with its swish
and growl, an occasional siren
that sends chills through us.
Sometimes, on clear, still nights,
voices float into our bedroom,
lunar and fragmented,
as if the sky had let them go
long before our birth.

In winter we close the windows
and read Chekov,
nearly weeping for his world.

What luxury, to be so happy
that we can grieve
over imaginary lives.

There are things this poem does which I like, and it does them well, which is why I like this poem.

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Instrument of Choice

She was a girl
no one ever chose
for teams or clubs,
dances or dates,

so she chose the instrument
no one else wanted:
the tuba. Big as herself,
heavy as her heart

its golden tubes
and coils encircled her
like a lover’s embrace.
Its body pressed on hers.

Into its mouthpiece she blew
life, its deep-throated
oompahs, oompahs sounding,
almost, like mating cries.

This is an awful poem, but I’m posting it simply because I can’t figure out if it’s intentionally trying to be funny or not.

Your thoughts . . .? 03971semajmeopcco

The Circumference Of Blue

umbrellas simultaneous
on Tuesday’s first downpour
of the rainy season,
we meet already acquaintances
and glide the streets of Kobe
where even the newest maps are old

you tell me
the earthquake festival
has been delayed on account of

…………………………….. my house split in two

but look!
here come the high school marching bands
kneeing moist skirts to the sun

……………………………… and all along the street the dogs barking

the drums
arcing over crowds and crab sellers
cause the gaps between our toes to tingle

……………………………… we survived, my family and I

this faultline string of pearls
sewn so tight with stitches of railway lines
seems a patch ready to split sometimes

here the sea consoles

…………………………………. the archipelago

………………………………………………………….. of memory

Naomi Okabe is an unpublished poet of my acquaintance who spent the last four years jiving around Japan, India and various other Asian locales before returning recently to Toronto. Besides poetry, she also dabbles in music and video/installation art (look for her at the upcoming Nuit Blanche). This is my favourite of her poems.

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Deschutes River

This sky, for instance:
closed, gray,
but it has stopped snowing
so that is something. I am
so cold I cannot bend
my fingers.
Walking down to the river this morning
we surprised a badger
tearing a rabbit.
Badger had a bloody nose,
blood on its snout up to its sharp eyes:
. . . . . . . . . prowess is not to be confused
. . . . . . . . .with grace.

Later, eight mallard ducks fly over
without looking down. On the river
Frank Sandmeyer trolls, trolls
for steelhead. He has fished
this river for years
but February is the best month
he says.
Snarled, mittenless,
I handle a maze of nylon.
Far away –
another man is raising my children,
bedding my wife, bedding my wife.

Raymond Carver is one of my favourite poets, and this is my favourite Raymond Carver poem, so obviously it’s right up there at the top of my list; as you can see, it’s for extremely good reason. (more…)

Summer Solstice

the light stretched and tangy, up on its horse
and riding through the ripening meadows,
buzzing the leaves and the birds
who’ve been at it for hours.
Light that in its excess has become something else.
The way Cranberry Falls is so frothed with runoff
it doesn’t look like water anymore.  The way you look
from a hill’s hightest point, your head full of chlorophyll,
heart shucking winter like a clayload of guilt,
like pollen with its open fire policy
compensating loss.  You exceed yourself,
tanked on the light and the birds
who’ve been singing forever.

I read this today and thought it was just perfect. meopcco03971semaj

Poem To Be Read At 3 am

Excepting the diner
On the outskirts
The town of Ladora
At 3 am
Was dark but
For my headlights
And up in
One second-story room
A single light
Where someone
Was sick or
Perhaps reading
As I drove past
At seventy
Not thinking
This poem
Is for whoever
Had the light on

There are some things I definitely don’t like about this poem — the first being that it refers to itself as a poem. Poetry — excepting maybe hip-hop — is the most self-referential of the creative arts, and it tends to get really annoying when you see it done repeatedly, as if I need to be told that I’m reading a poem, or treating the poem like some decorative gift-box instead of an attempt at poignant self-expression. (more…)

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I admit this is a bit of a cop-out for an Occasional Poem, given that this one is so famous; however, famous poems are kind of like famous treatises on quantum mechanics — not many people have read them, so it’s never a bad idea to share. (more…)