Cooking Up a Storm, er, Form

There was something about the dizain,

It suited me down to the ground. 

It is not the case with the trimeric.

(I keep wanting to call it turmeric.)

It suited me down to the ground,

the dizain. But the trimeric puts me in mind

of ground-up spices – or, I suppose, ground down.

It is not the case with the trimeric

that my mind rises lightly to the challenge 

like a perfect syllabub. (Syllables are not to be thought of.)

I keep wanting to call it turmeric,

and to take ship for the spice realms

to acquire more flavour, or even a whole new recipe.


Written in response to a form challenge at Poetic Asides.
Sharing (July 2017) with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #364

The Advantages of Poetry

Be faithful to your calling.

It will not desert you.

(You will doubt this at times,

when it seems to take leave of absence,

but trust. It WILL come back.) 

Poetry won't keep you warm

on cold nights,

but will help you celebrate

those who do

(every coupling 

a secret threesome)

and console you

after they depart.

It might not make you rich

but you'll think

your poverty's worth it.

You'll always

have someone to talk to.

Poetry is not a partner

who'll dump you after just one dance.

Poetry wants to go home with you.

And if you can't dance,

poetry will teach you.

Poetry will happily 

get wasted with you –

and in the morning

you'll both look worse for wear.

Later, though,

poetry will help you straighten out.

If the power goes off,

you only need a candle

and some kind of notebook

with keyboard or pen.

You can do without TV

or someone else's novel.

It won't feed you

but it can make you forget about meals, 

and any other hunger or thirst 

except the ache for perfection

of word or line.

No matter what goes wrong,

no matter how helpless you feel,

there is always this to do.

And when everything's right

and beautiful

and buoyant,

poetry enables you

to hold the moment a whole lot longer,

then to return for more.

(With poetry, there is no such thing

as being too greedy.)

Poetry doesn't care

about fame and status. 

You do –

and it may or may not happen –

but to poetry it's simply irrelevant.

You want someone to read your poetry,

someone to hear your words.

You're allowed to want that; it's natural.

And there will be those who do.

Cherish them, even if they are not many.

But know, as well,

that if you stand outside and speak your poetry,

be it in a shout or a whisper,

the trees will hear, and the air.

When you read your words over to yourself, silently,

angels and spirits will stand at your shoulder

reading too, noticing the pictures and the music.

And when the words are nowhere but in your mind,

God perceives them, who put them there.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #310

A Long Marriage

We were promised to each other

before I was born.

Perhaps I understood this

even in the cradle. I knew it 

when I was seven and,

in my infantile way, embraced you 

as one who had the right.

There were some who told me

I could not aspire so high.

By my teens they suggested

you were fickle, and would never

be a good provider – 

I would do better to treat this

as a mere casual flirtation.

But I knew it was a true betrothal,

a deep affair of the heart.

I knew that I was incapable

of ever forsaking you, no matter

what other loves might intervene.

As I knew that you, despite mysterious 

absences, would always return to me.

And so it has been. We've both

had other paramours, even other 

true loves. There are times, still,

we need our space apart – for play 

or solitude. We no longer consume

each other lustfully. We are old friends.

Yet we are all in all, faithful unto death.

Take my hand, Muse of Poetry.

Press your lips to my heart.

There are still some songs 

to sing to each other, 

some dances in each other's arms. 

How surely, now, we move together, 

closer than ever, inventing new steps.

For Poets United's Midweek Motif: Marriage

Always the Writing

Always the writing writhes
to be born and flower,
pushing up through a dark
ceiling of earth.

Always it pounds in my blood
wanting to break on you,
on the reef of your hard body,
explosive as tides crashing.

The writing is rhythms that swell
and will not be gainsaid.
It pushes, burrows, surges, leaps.
Hammers and shrieks. Weeps. Begs.

After the blind climax, the ebb
has the panting of breath,
a giant wave receding.
I am its point of calm.


Written 1988; posted here now in response to dVerse Meeting the Bar: Volition and Velleity (which raises the question of whether poetry is wish or enactment).

First published The Nonsense of Living anthology by The Aardvarkers.
In Secret Leopard (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005)

Occupation: Poet

... exercised in the still night 

when only the moon rages ...

— DylanThomas

I've spent my life this way —

sitting up late at night on my own 

with the moon and the darkness, 

making poems

through school and university,

marriages, children, pets, 

friendships, jobs, travels,

in sickness and in health ...

Now that I'm old and alone

contemplating what's to come,

I see it will be the same.

Why would it change?

Half-dozing at my computer,

envisioning solitary nights

up late for the rest of my life, 

absorbed in the making of poems,

I hear the voice of my late, dearest love

call as from a long way off 

his eternal encouragement: 'Yes!' 

and I become light.

Poetic Asides April Poem A Day Challenge 2013, 2: 

a dark or a light poem, or one of each. This is both in one.

Also submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #90

Always the Writing

Always the writing writhes

to be born and flower,

pushing up through a dark

ceiling of earth.

Always it pounds in my blood

wanting to break on you,

on the reef of your hard body,

explosive as tides crashing.

The writing is rhythms that swell

and will not be gainsaid.

It pushes, burrows, surges, leaps.

Hammers and shrieks.  Weeps.  Begs.

After the blind climax, the ebb

has the panting of  breath,

a giant wave receding.

I am its point of calm.

First published The Nonsense of Living anthology by The Aardvarkers

In Secret Leopard (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005) available from Amazon or through www.nissen-wade.com

This is an old one I've resurrected especially for the dVerse Meeting the Bar prompt: write about poetry. See also What I Build and Working (3)

What I Build

What I build with my hands,
my dexterous fingers moving
to make it visible,
I also create with my brain:
finding the words,
placing them down like blocks
to form a structure;

weaving around the struts and rafters
ideas — the scent of jasmine,
the breath of a melody —
and images — stars
glowing from darkness,
deep red roses
starting to droop in their vase....


30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 22
Prompt: A poem about building or creating something by hand.

Yet Another on Yesterday's Prompt

Working (3)

I didn’t want the beauty
that draws attention to itself,
making you gasp to notice
its brilliance and intricacy.

I wanted transparence,
words clear as glass
but unsolid like air –
you’d fall right through them

into the poem itself
its essence,
the meaning beyond
even the most perfect words.

Yet now I’m disconcerted,
contemplating uneasily
these very plain and spare
phrases that move through me.