reading daddys poetry

On reading daddy's poetry there's a certain sweetness here.

A policy of nerve shattering; of life

like black grass growing. Like the suns

light rocking you still. Like that

Mississippi witch of optic flutterings

that hold your shoulders down, half asleep. He

must of meant to stop before the children

came fourth. Before the big headed boy.

Before the girl with acne sprouting,

who made Paul her favorite Beetle. But Poems

of a shouting, of a 

screaming  Geechieness 

as pure as a Joe Bubbles piano top tap.

One he titled "the butterflies" yet

not the regimented yellow-bulldozing of Dickinson 

where a zillion un-knived wings

waif up into clouds or

basically do anything to squeeze into

a spinster's a*s. But the butterflies of

Virgil who after agriculture

was slain, made false lashes out of

their uncurled wings. By the wind

and rain he may have meant

that the storm combs thru you

as if your hair was a porcelain sink of hay.

And the person who reflects the you

of now, not the one secreted along

by the silver of mirrors or the bullshit of

image-rage. etc. will never be free.

Since he died a poor man, I think these were love poems

i've been reading while fingering the torn leather cover.

So by tree he means that inside of every man

there is this grunting person who resembles corn.

And by flower he means that outside of every man

is a woman who tills the stamen of the gardens around him.

And by hostage he means that men are only so

after all the giant Allah's of the world

pop the pupils of their youth

onto the land of foreboding

like a giant

zit.

Reviews

[Nipplegrinder]

This is how I would like to write someday. This is a fantastic piece. I have no other words.

[h d e rushin]

so sorry for the delay in my response.....i lost so much of my harddrive only to recover part of it. thank you so much Nipplegrinder for those kind words my friend....dana

[Dara]

I found this piece mesmerizing and each line filled with deep meaning. I will need to keep this one to read over and over to have it all sink in. Simply stunning and a wonderful tribute to your dad, the poet.

[h d e rushin]

thank you beloved for those kind words...../dana

[CD Campbell]

At first reading, in all of your poems, I'm always amazed how you are able to grab the audience immediately and bring them kicking into your world. Yeah, I don't always get it, but I stay dazed the whole time. I believe it's the use of old and new metaphor that's hypnotic.

I think of all the things my dad, me, or my brothers could have been if it wasn't for alcohol and sadness. In a way I give thanks for it. My dad was not a poet, but he was a terrible alcoholic, though a good man if that makes sense. But since his death a number of years ago, I am still judging and weighing his actions. I just try to remind myself that he came from a long line of pain and the love of booze just kept getting passed down from one generation to the next.

Your poem really struck a chord with me and I am glad that you continue to write. CD

[h d e rushin]

thanks CD. They were all good men. Hard working honest people who just happened to drink too much. I understand it now more than ever. I think, looking back, that he tried to write poetry in between his desire to drink. Was he good? I don't think so, but even bad poetry is sincere..(Oscar wilde). We have so much to learn from the lessons that our parents learned. So very much....dana

[Diane]

Wow, that was pretty great! Kinda speechless.

[h d e rushin]

thank you my love for those kind remarks....dana

[Diane]

Welcome :-)

[Beccy]

Discounting the size of one's wallet, (an irrelevance really,) No-one really dies poor and everyone, and I mean everyone, has poetry inside them. It's part of the natural rhythm of life and deeply embedded in our genetic blueprint.
Sadly, and far too often, but as is the confounded way of things, bills, kids, work and a myriad of other life diversions get in the way and the thoughts inside are never articulated; and even when they are, it is not always the case that their true meaning is fully understood. No matter, if you leave something behind, even just a trace, then the mark is made and you leave the world a richer place than it was. This is striking poetry.

This is striking poetry and reminded me that some years ago now, my father wrote a quite lovely poem about my mother, so for me, your words strikes a particular chord.

Beccy.

[h d e rushin]

so true, these words are my love. My dad, the alcoholic that he was, could break away from his sorrow long enough to be a poet. that is the magic of inspiration I believe. When we have to break away from the awfulness of ourselves (or that which we see in others) to muse about the particulars of this world. Always your kind remarks leave me humbled....dana

[Veronica Parker]

a zillion un-knived wings
waif up into clouds or
basically do anything to squeeze into
a spinster's a*s.

Did this just happen! Dickens in a whole new light! I've never thought of her quite like this! Nor have I given much thought to who might one day read the words I put onto paper. Great writing.

[h d e rushin]

I was being silly. Or perhaps, silliness had become the light in which Dickinson's world and my own could pull themselves closer. But if you read her poems long enough, you get the impression that she was too being deliberately gentle, even girlish, at the sacrifice of meaning. Her meaning, not the meaning derived from our feeble reading of her. She was so fabulous. Thanks for those remarks my love and for stopping by to visit me...dana

[Einstein Noodle]

damn! i was so hooked by your title because i have 4 children that i hope they will one day sit down and read my poetry ..the the dad in your protagonists life is not such a shining example ..and this line
"that hold your shoulders down, half asleep. He
must of meant to stop before the children
came fourth........"
puts a nausea in my stomach and raises up the anger over such deeds and failures in responsibility...accountability ...
i so admire your voice dana! you are so real in your expressions ... :) :(
E.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i am mesmerized...you know i would like the Dickinson part..."regimented yellow-bulldozing" :)))
the tree the inside of man, the flower the outside...and that woman who tends our garden or gives up on it and plows it over.
yes, sometimes our existence does seem like a giant Zit that others would like to get rid of ...

and our poems that we leave after us...love poems or hate poems? lamenting the pain? or glad we had it long enough for it to make us write.
j.

[h d e rushin]

thanks brother....funerals, and more funerals have kept me away for a while....I wrote a million poems in my head but couldn't write them down. Thanks for those kind words my friend....dana