Poetics and Ruminations

(More) Shakespeare Gnomes

 

 

 

 

Respite

After life’s fitful fever one sleeps well

Unless, of course, there’s such a place as Hell.

 

Philosophy

Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind

Unless, of course, one’s sighted and not blind.

 

Threesome

When shall we three meet again,

You two girls, no other men?

 

Divorcee

Think you I am no stronger than my sex?

Then think again, and you can ask my ex.

 

Opportunity

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

If we should find her drunk upon the floor!

 

Bitchiness

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?

I do not think so, nor was she ever screwed.

 

Copyright © Lewis Turco (Wesli Court) 2012; All rights reserved.

 

Marvell Gnomes: A Pregunta in the Form of Six Tailgaters

 

MARVELL GNOMES

A Pregunta in the Form of Six Tailgaters

 

Q: When Death shall snatch us from these kids

Will we be pestered by katydids?

 

A: Had we but world enough, and time,

You’d come up with a better rhyme.

 

Q: O who shall me deliver whole?

Must I remain here in this hole?

 

A: The weight of thine immortal shield

Requires that you remain here sealed.

 

Q: Grass withers; and the flowers too fade—

May neither stand against the spade?

 

A: Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!

I think all your repining’s lame.

 

By Lewis Turco / Wesli Court, 

Copyright © 2013, all rights reserved by the author.

For information about both the pregunta and the tailgater, please see The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised and Expanded Edition by Lewis Putnam Turco, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England (www.UPNE.com) , 2012 • 384 pp. 3 illus. 5 x 7 1/2" Reference & Bibliography / Poetry 978-1-61168-035-5, paperback.

 

 

Family Feeling, by Jean Ross Justice

Jean Ross Justice, Don's widow, sent us her new book, "Family Feeling, A Novella & Five Stories," which arrived today inscribed, "For Lew and Jean, friends of so many years, with love." Don's former students still miss him deeply, and we feel blessed still to have Jean with us and writing. I sat down to begin reading the title novella immediately. What a fine writer Jean is, so skillful in the art of fiction. The book is published by Prairie Lights Books of Iowa City, distributed by the University of Iowa Press. From the back cover:

"Jean Ross Justice’s Family Feeling, a novella and collection of stories, is a moving portrait of American domestic life of the last half-century. Often spanning generations, the stories are defined by subtle shifts in both family relationships and the ways in which we reconfigure them in memory and mind.

"Many of the stories revolve around end-of-life scenes. An elderly man is visited by his middle-aged son’s young second wife and child, whom the son has temporarily abandoned in order to tend to his dying ex-wife. A recently widowed woman faces a complicated relationship with a troubled home health-care worker who had been uncommonly kind to her dying husband. Four middle-aged siblings reconvene in their childhood home to attend to the death of their father and find themselves simultaneously children of, and parents to, their own parents.

"The unobtrusive historical breadth of the stories is remarkable. Reflecting back to Depression-era southern America from the perspective of the early twenty-first century, the characters provide us with an intimate view of the changing cultural landscape of our country. Issues of class are not merely ideological here—they are fluid and intricate aspects of fate and of soul.

"Justice’s prose is characterized by quiet humor and attention to gesture. The deeply self-reflective and self-contained narrators offer us a window into issues of aging and mortality that is real and rare. In the manner of Alice Munro or William Trevor, Jean Ross Justice’s thought-driven fiction centers on pivotal moments of action or conversation that haunt—or reverberate—for decades."

Shakespeare Gnomes Again

SHAKESPEARE GNOMES

 

Attraction

 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her womanhood, for I am merely male.

 

 

Daydreams

 

O what men dare do! What men may do!

It’s fun to think what women may do too!

 

 

Owlishness

 

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo,

It matters not a whit, to wit, nor who.

 

Falstaff’s Callgirl

 

I follow him to serve my turn upon him –

The others do not even care to con him.

 

 

Genomic Imperative

 

Asses are made to bear, and so are you

Made to bare your ass to quite a few.

 

 

Pursuit

 

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below

The waistline where I most would like to go.

 

 

 

 

MADSONG: AN OLD TALE RETURNED

 

Most lovers are good in a clinch,

They do very well in a pinch.

       They clutch a few straws.

        Loosen their drawers —

Break some conundrums? A cinch!

 

A lover's a fellow with bells

But only one clapper that swells

      And makes such a dong

      Nell breaks into song 

And then vents a series of yells.

 

A maiden must hold up her head

After she gets out of bed

      And heads out of doors,

      Joins society's wars

To show she's been very well bred.

 

"Good heavens!" the neighbors will cry,

"You're looking uncommonly spry!

      Your skirt is quite rumpled,

      Your bodice is crumpled,

And there's an odd gleam in your eye!"

 

Her sweetheart sneaks out the rear window,

Acts like a weed in a windrow,

      But he will return,

      Though his mistress may burn,

For she has been labeled a bimbo.

 

Lewis Turco

All rights reserved.

 

 

Midlife Crisis

 

Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem, "Midlife Crisis."

Russell Atkins 88th Birthday Party

Faheem Khabeer and Russell Atkins

 

 

Russell Atkins: On the Life & Work of an American Master

Russell Atkins (Author), Kevin Prufer (Editor), Michael Dumanis (Editor)

Dear Lewis Turco,

I have read your online article about Russell Atkins [see elsewhere in this blog]. I just thought I'd let you know that four of us in NE OH have managed to locate him in a nursing home --accused of dementia, but I gotta say, a LOT more with it than a lot of the folks who put him there. I am a poet who knew Russell from the CSU and PLGC workshops when I last lived here, back in the 1980s, and was sorry to see how he has been shuffled around. So two of his former Karamu students, another former Cleveland poet, Bob McDonough (who now lives near Ithaca), and I have taken up visiting Russell; I've been taking pumpkin pie and banana bread, talking to him, and, with the other three, making plans to pressure the staff to take care of some of his concerns (like get his phone working). 

Bcause I knew him and used to give him rides home and liked him, because he is a poet, and because he has the same name and birthyear as my dad, I have just felt it incumbent upon me to make these days of his life better than they have been. He happened to mention to me (apropos my mentioning my dad's birthday) that his birthday is Feb. 28th (one day from my dad's!!). So Bob and the two former students are planning a small party for him on that Friday. If you would be willing to send a card or call with greetings, please email me, and I will send you info on how to do that.

I have photocopied your article for him to read. He remembered you fondly. No matter what they say about his memory, he remembers every poet he ever met, even me, who only gave him rides and hadn't seen him for 30 years.

Thanks,

Diane Kendig

 

We have a party set up at the nursing home on Thursday, Feb. 27th for his 88th birthday. (Russell has approved and put in his favorite cake request.) Birthday cards can be sent to

Russell Atkins

The Grand Pavilion

24613 Broadway Avenue

Oakwood Village, OH 44145

 

Diane Kendig

 

Thanks SO much, Lewis. I visited him twice this week. One of his old friends has found a copy of one of his operas and of Free Lance, and he is looking forward to next week. We're supposed to have a HIGH of 12 degrees that day, so we will hope to make it warm inside.

Diane Kendig

 

Lewis,

It [the birthday party’ was a smash! In the middle of yet another Ohio winter blast, 15 people made it in from West Virginia, NY, and the wildest ride, Cleveland. I think Russell was touched by the care after months of being alone and unknown. His newly appointed guardian showed up for a nanosecond, and the staff stopped in. Russell loved getting caffeinated coffee (two large cups), and the cake, from an old bakery in my hometown, was what he ordered (vanilla cake with chocolate frosting--chocolate Fudge. mmmm.) People recited a few of his poems, a few spoke informally but movingly about his influence. (John Donoghue spoke beautifully on that.)

Now we hope to move on to literary issues, and then I would like to have a second event AWAY from the nursing home that would focus on his work, various poets in town reading it for him and to him.

But I am also caring for my own father, trying to get my own writing done. I have just been nominated to read at the 2016 poetry festival in Nicaragua and am working with a translator on my latest book of poems. And blogging.

I attach a photo of all the guys at the party. (The women were in a second photo shoot: Bruscella Jordan, me, Zena Zipporah, and Sharan: writers all, as were the guys). They are (Back, l to r:) John Donoghue, Norman Jordan, Bob Donoghue (who initiated the search for Russell), Mustafwa Shaheed (one of Russell's former students), John Stickney, Yaseen (the other former student, both of whom found and visited Russell first) and (front l to r): Fahar, a student currently at CCC, Russell, and Yaya.

I know Russell got your mail. He had been reading birthday wishes, which came before we arrived, and when I asked him if he wanted to read the cards that people brought to the party, he said, "No, I like to read them in my room alone."

"Ah, recollect them in tranquility?" I responded.

"Very Wordsworthian, Diane," he responded right quickly. "I never cared much for him. But he did get off a few good lines."

"And is that one of them?" I asked.

"It is." I am not so sure he always felt that way, but now, with some more pleasant things to recollect, he seems to enjoy the tranquility. He sometimes forgets and repeats recent things, like my father who has a certain amount of dementia. But he is far from Alzheimer's or personality loss. Everyone appreciated his quick wit and memory, and his calling on us to remember places, people. A good afternoon. Thanks for asking.

Diane Kendig

 

Back, l to r: John Donoghue, Norman Jordan, Bob Donoghue, Mustafwa Shaheed,  John Stickney, Yaseen AsSami; front l to r: Faheem Khabeer, Russell, Yaya.

 

Bruscella Jordan, Diane Kendig, Zena Zipporah, and Sharan Paul.

Thousand Dollar Thumbs

Another fine poem chosen this week by Maine Poet Laureate Wesley McNair:

Take Heart: A Conversation in Poetry: Thousand Dollar Thumbs

Edited and introduced by Wesley McNair, Maine Poet Laureate

This week’s unusual love poem by Robin Merrill of Madison features a pair of damaged thumbs. Though the poem looks back on a happy marriage, Robin writes that she gave it to her husband after just one date. “That took more courage than I’ve felt since,” she says. “But new love makes us crazy brave, right?”

Thousand Dollar Thumbs by Robin Merrill

 

You cut the left one off with a table saw.
Good doctor sewed it back on. Called you lucky.
Next summer, the right one got gobbled up
by a bear trap. Took twenty stitches to repair it.
Driving home, your father coined the pair:
your thousand dollar thumbs. I didn’t know
these stories the first time I felt them,
left one bigger than it should be and crooked.
right one shrunken and hard as a knot,
scarred up like maps my fingers followed.
Ugly and perfect, your thumbs traced out my spine.
Callous caress so extraordinary, call me lucky.
Now our grandkids hang off them, unaware of their history.
Now morning’s clumsy thumbs fumble shirt buttons.
But I am here to help you. Call us both lucky.

---

Take Heart: A Conversation in Poetry is produced in collaboration with the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. Poem copyright © 2005 Robin Merrill. Reprinted from Laundry and Stories, Moon Pie Press, 2005, by permission of Robin Merrill. Questions about submitting to Take Heart may be directed to Gibson Fay-LeBlanc, Special Consultant to the Maine Poet Laureate, at [email protected] or 207-228-8263. Take Heart: Poems from Maine, an anthology collecting the first two years of this column, is now available from Down East Books.

Review: Dialects of the Tribe

 

 

Dialects of the Tribe: Postmodern American Poets and Poetry, by Lewis Putnam Turco, Nacogdoches, TX: Stephen F. Austin State University Press, www.tamupress.com, 2012, 336 pp., paperback.

Obsession: Sestinas in the Twenty-First Century

 

Obsession: Sestinas in the Twenty-First Century by Carolyn Beard Whitlow and Marilyn Krysl, with an Afterword by Lewis Turco

 

THE OBSESSION

 

Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem The Obsession:

 

Last night I dreamed my father died again,

A decade and a year after he dreamed

Of death himself, pitched forward into night.

His world of waking flickered out and died —

An image on a screen.  He is the father

Now of fitful dreams that last and last.

 

I dreamed again my father died at last.

He stood before me in his flesh again.

I greeted him.  I said, "How are you, father?"

But he looked frailer than last time I'd dreamed

We were together, older than when he'd died —

I saw upon his face the look of night.

 

I dreamed my father died again last night.

He stood before a mirror.  He looked his last

Into the glass and kissed it.  He saw he'd died.

I put my arms about him once again

To help support him as he fell.  I dreamed

I held the final heartburst of my father.

 

I died again last night: I dreamed my father

Kissed himself in glass, kissed me goodnight

In doing so.  But what was it I dreamed

In fact?  An injury that seems to last

Without abatement, opening again

And yet again in dream?  Who was it died

 

Again last night?  I dreamed my father died,

But it was not he — it was not my father,

Only an image flickering again

Upon the screen of dream out of the night.

How long can this cold image of him last?

Whose is it, his or mine?  Who dreams he dreamed?

 

My father died.  Again last night I dreamed

I felt his struggling heart still as he died

Beneath my failing hands.  And when at last

He weighed me down, then I laid down my father,

Covered him with silence and with night.

I could not bear it should he come again —

 

I died again last night, my father dreamed.

 

 By Lewis Turco

 

From The Gathering of the Elders and Other Poems by “Wesli Court,” a.k.a. Lewis Turco, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2010, ISBN 978-1-932842-43-2, trade paperback, 115 pp.

 

Phoebe and the Tooth Fairy

          This is my 10-year-old granddaughter Phoebe reading a poem I wrote for her. The other day she decided she was going to disprove the existence of the Tooth Fairy. She took her loose tooth out on the sly (apparently) and put it under her pillow without telling anyone about it. The next morning she announced, "The Tooth Fairy doesn't exist!" Phoebe was minus a dollar, but her family was nonplussed, which was what she wanted.

          A while earlier, she had written a story which I read. It sounded an awful lot like the fantasies I started writing at about her age, but I never wrote an ending as good as hers, which I think is great:

          As a scientist, Phoebe has devised a successful experiment to disprove the existence of the Tooth Fairy; as a writer, she has devised a story ending that is symbolically wholly adult, and she is an artist as well -- the top image is hers:

          Needless to say, I am amazed by Phoebe's talents, and I'm as proud of her as I can be.