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Terreson's word hoard (1)


It is a seasonal thing. From time to time I go back through the old stuff. Initial intention is always murderous. Looking to find fault(s) and kill off the poem.

The thread carries some old poems managing to still hang on.

Tere

Last edited by Terreson, Feb/18/2012, 3:19 pm
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Under Waters

The enclosure to her water well,
or the sea witch work to keep her charmed,
inviolate in her inland sea, safe, still free.

Just where she stays schooled inside
the dense tangle of practiced time;
and the tutored loss she gleans
from the cross-current guardian who
gives her reason to think each
warm water emotion will betray her.

It is the certain, calculated proof
of how ship must sink in full sail, of how
love will lose its sea trout sheen, and
dream must vaporize before the coastal mount.
The anxious urge to instinct truth.

Still I stare it through.
This conquering eel of instinct truth
in whose unswivel eye
never has the generate gene
fashioned the self-contained, the
axiom so perfect.

But tell me too, you and also who
are the pulsing companion of
the dark, the bottom, the sea twin heart,
who sound it all and
sound it sensible all again.

How do I reach her? How
do I gestate the gill breath until
she can love in the lungs, until
she can wing it to the surface,
to call to me, or to no one in particular:

"if you bend me to, if you can
see me through the pushed bowl,
the oceanus sky you say is seamless,
then might I let you, I just might let you
swim inside the nutrient water well,
the atmosphere where I keep."

Terreson
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Savory


What singularly interests me
are the particulars in
the possibilities of desire.

May I sway you with
word, rhythm, even the
laying on of hands, or
the sculpting finger touch to
part the ripened, red, swollen petals
in moon drop and warm pool?

The warm pool when lively and
as rounded as
the perfect pearl secretion
instinctively seeded.

But the subject is
a certain variety of desire.
And the delivery is tender.
Just where the under urge is its
own cause for wanting
the lurid life unsated, kept
unabated, thrives in
the bottom belly distended by
all we conspire to ignore.

Did I already say I am drawn to
the wet slip, the easy slip consorting
in your company?

And just imagine
what might happen if
this decadence of emotion
aroused you to a life of your own.
In the spider's spool,
in sunlight's thread,
in September noon,
in your lifted head,
what refinement of thought
seated might give
stark ascension in your eyes.

Or you who demand in long, dry grass,
and pulling Pandora's student down,
"I will take my pleasure now."

Terreson
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Tableau Vivant

She said the design is complete,
the request comes too late,
that it is too tight to change,
happening as how any child's life weave
is long since pulled, stretched, set
soon on the breach of birth.

Needless to say
I let the matter go, as
who can ever sway or coax
a fulling sister of the threads.
Instead we drank a toast,
one for the road we agreed.
But then she suggested
we slowly drain another.
Chartreuse.

Who, then, was studying whom?

The way she warmed her glass,
how her hands cupped the green, and
the scene of her stilling all
motion in the room.
Then she who leaned in, who said,
almost imperceptibly,
"Take me home tonight."

In the morning she was gone.
I would have poached her eggs.

And startled then, certainly taken
by the sight of what she left.
In the window, on ocean shore side,
she hung the rug of a man's life.
In the night sometime
she took apart far corner threads,
doing the Arab thing;
she imperfected the weave to leave
an open end. A chance.


Terreson
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Terreson's word hoard?

I'm onboard and looking forward to the ride. emoticon
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Good, Kat. The prize would be this: entertainment.

Tere
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Summer's Bend
"I see your lips, your summer kisses,
your sunburned hands I used to hold."
           20th C. pop song
 
 
Nighthawk flies.
The pointed, sharp silhouette bird
who, I swear to you,
can cross-stitch the sky
in the pattern of her path's
high flight flutter and quick start.
 
It is how we canvass love in
the sweeting and the sour of
our germinate season.
 
She scratches in script her
pencil voice across this
latitude's late north light.
And clarity becomes her
signature mark,
what gives love over as
something larger to live.
 
This is really all I know.
Or maybe how clarity too
can summertime constitute
the sudden death.
 
Nighthawk who surveys
how the inexorable bend
in riversky time is here;
what saturates the senses while
sunstar slants southerly and
daylight leans cool, already,
the other way.

Terreson
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Interstice
"I hear you're living for nothing now.
I hope you're keeping some kind of record."
L. Cohen


The in-hand, navigational device
with LED display and backlight
gives these lat night, lat/long coordinates:
North by
48 degrees, 05 minutes and
14.7 seconds.;
West 123 degrees, 33 minutes and
24.6 seconds.
Black is skyground, her bottomless belly.
Aldebaran, the mirrored, twin brother,
chases seven sisters, and the motion is fixed.
Constellated is the beauty he will never reach.
Between zenith and horizon, radially,
thirteen satellites lock this spot, what becomes
globally positioned and memory stored.
With still there being the fielded factor
of some thirty meters, the intended error,
what graciously gives to keep in thicket
and sky bear's foraging, wildered son.

And so the township, range, and section number:
T 30 North, R 7 West, and the
surrounding square mile, 15 of 36.
That midwife to the continental abstract
in 1785 Jefferson gave
as systematic baseline right where, just how
the Ohio River pours out from Pennsylvania,
what points the way to here.
Start there and walk into the red shift sun,
or from anywhere physics' walk into the red shift sun.
Meriwether Lewis did, the salmon man who
muscled his way up the wide Missouri,
what once was wild. Harnessed in tow now.

Seaplate tectonic is the local uplift.
(And science confusing with concept
what poets neuter, say to simplify: protean nature.)
For the fierce, furious undersurge,
always the geological mother zone,
the body quake touch where she parts her legs;
here to stand on watermount lifted, smeared against,
her toehold beneath the larger, contiguous plate.
Here, and the trembly border coming closest,
what is shaky, what tautly straddles the
lower landlap, tertiary in form-time, then
glacial drift dragged, erratic in rock.

Where the north Pacific insurges, is harsh,
where Cape Flattery keeps in stationing storms,
and three peaked Olympus leans large in winter,
and the Elwha valley's door opens to unkempt interior,
while the Port of Angeles, just another town,
is orbital, automatic, stays bound
between birth, age, death and grave;

here, right here.
Oh Shenandoah. You have betrayed me.
Far away, across rolling river, where
dark night catacomb keeps my best girl captive.


Terreson
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Daytona in Three Movements
 
 
 
(Memory Seizure)
 
On my home town that
has mention in the news today,
the very thing to set one down,
to quickly, to remember how
close I came to losing the weave, or
texture of the years threading through,
insiding on days since then.
 
Once Daytona, once
the tidewater town and once again.
 
Somehow I was slated to survive
her boundary moon and boardwalk bride,
her undercurrent, her fierce surge,
per persistent pull tidal to
the leading lady's hand upon
the shell saw's cut of marks across
young, uncontaminated hearts.
 
A little brother didn't make it,
his body bleached, blanched, his
eyes as gray as graveyard marble.
Nor the better brother too
who was set upon, torn into body parts,
missed in mid-action the night
he went on fast patrol, speeding for
the swamp raised, the
phosphorescent smile of
ghostly girl said to keep just ahead, said to stay
in roadside fronds of sable palms.
 
I cannot see why it should be,
or how to comprehend the containment.
And then the seized sense of betrayal at
having survived that beachside's call
for unwieldy sons and incautious lovers.
 
 
 
(The Primitive)
 
Spatially stationed, poised,
above the beach made
of white woman sand, and of
ground down, water worried,
pastel coquina shell;
and there the drop curtain
of live oak and scrub brush,
the Florida interior
whose moist breath expands
the dark mother heart.
 
The peninsular strand that
cannot remain much longer.
Another few thousand years
at the most to host
land life's exotic tissue before
sink hole and sand bar
submerge with the dream.
It's just a liquid door, what
opens, what closes like
a two-way mirror.
 
I saw it all that day,
lifted on the seventh swell,
the gray-green, the storm,
the Nor-easter's white wave.
Kept in motional place, in
privileged position to see
the abstract overview just as
cresting collapses and
wet fingers take hold
and noon becomes midnight
and hard floor bottom bruises,
scrapes the chin until
in nano-second young
education is complete.
 
And surfer Joe who says,
"Never lose your back door, dude."
 
 
 
(The Smuggler)
 
This old man has come home at last,
the career criminal and mystic adept.
Inside from the sea, or between
the spine of beach head and tidal river,
he has made of his yard the inside village.
 
I think the instinct has to do with
his half-breed mother and Lower Creek;
he the favored child of twelve
who, on the winter night she died,
saw the flame stream leave through her window.
 
I asked what he learned on the Rosy Cross.
Love is the law he says the Master said.
 
In long light through the summer he
hand feeds the woman coon who then
hand feeds the litter she keeps in order.
He sits stooped over. He tamps a pipe. He waits.
His coffee cup is kept whiskey sweet.
And she, he says, always shows on schedule.
 
"I wonder," he asks, "if you can know
how this girl will eat her young, one by one,
when danger leaves her no escape."
 
Picture the place. The backyard
of his hidden, overgrown, Florida home;
and liquid light, what drizzles through
the unshed of wind squat, live oak trees.
There to make the pools of cool shade,
or is it pooling ponds of warm light between
the coves of dark shade, or is it instead
the blanched islands touching toe
while he draws a map in the sand
whose land he says to memorize?
 
But this is a stolen tale I tell.
Mystic and felon, the old man's mother ate him.


Terreson
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Tere,

This is a mesmerizing collection. Very rich reading here and the writing is first rate; completely in charge of the narrative; like a sorcerer casting a spell. Hope to read more,

Chris
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So very glad you are enjoying the read, Chris. Thank you for saying something.

So far I've taken from the last collection that came before Bottom City Blues, which is down in our Ateliers forum. This one is called Interstices, name taken from the poem of the same name. First poem written New Year's Eve '99. Last poem made in the spring of '02. Or about 2.5 years. 33 surviving poems in all, at least so far. I guess I was on a roll or something. Think I'll post more from the collection.

Tere
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Soma Sense
 
The way black raven calls. But perhaps
you too, my more sensible friend,
have heard the bass in his voice
when he wings it through the currents between
ridge blade shoulders of rock outcrop;
and the crevice catch his tongue turns on
while feathers like fingers deftly play
semi-tone tensions in the wind.
 
He sings an intelligent song.
But, if intelligent, what responds
is a resonance between my thighs;
the seat of where we body know
how the whole, the scent of animate tale
from slime green seamount to
conifer carpet keeps encoded
in formative field of memory.
 
Once I was a membrane, a tissue
of fish gill window in the stream.
Then I became a flying fish.
Then I traded the silver scales
to dry out. To yearn. To doubt.
While he has kept the outland son,
a kissing cousin to
the storied, dark daughter.
 
How raven who opens the back door in
noon sky when
the blue bodied atmosphere
is the excitable cell you cannot cut
or partition, not without
killing the whole to view the part.
 
Lately, that surgeon has said he needs a rest.
But you told him, sensible friend,
and raven sputtered when you said:
 
"You would do better to get laid, professor,
to sink inside the red of her bloom
big bottom until
the shudder seizes you. Ceremonial."

Terreson
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Still spell-binding. Interesting to know these preceded "Bottom City Blues," I'm so glad you decided to put them up, Tere.

Chris
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Wow, Tere, some old favorites (e.g. "Soma Sense") but some wonderful new-to-me poems as well. I am taken by "Summer's Bend" and blown away by "Daytona in Three Movement.") The transition from the the personal ("the little brother") to the universal ("The peninsular strand that/cannot remain much longer.") is very moving. The last poem in the trilogy ("The Smuggler) is excellent. Chris said the collection is "mesmerizing." Yep, the word that came to my mind is riveting. Thanks so much for posting these.
 
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Kat, I am very glad you find the poems interesting to read. Funny thing going back to older poetry. You never know what you'll find. "Summer's Bend" is a particular favorite. A slight poem I know. But sometimes the slender voice can be the more affecting. Thanks again.

Tere
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Snow Drop

When white lily shows and
raises the green of her shoulders over
the clean and crusty cut of
quick staunch in New Year's snow;
and there is no reason to think again
wildering cultivar ever can
unfreeze to reach the heart whose
habit has kept from the burst and blow,
the tendril feeling coming so close.
There and then suddenly I see
how it is too late, that
I've gone too far, that
our word wrap ineluctably warms
small snow drop's circle of soil;

and I want too much to hold her, in
sink of season holding for her.

Terreson


Last edited by Terreson, Feb/2/2013, 3:27 pm
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Ceremonial Time

"I long to blend among the waves
and never question why."
           Richard Farina


This could have been the inside coast where
she brought his sea worn clansmen ashore;
with oars at last lifted from locks, and
sail of scraped cow skin lowered and lazy.

I see here taking the lead, wading first
through stepped shelf of spent white foam;
I see her checked by throaty voice and
wing whir of nearer, black raven.

The old tale says she had no choice, with
issue of action fermented at birth;
that she must take the one inside herself,
the lunar son sworn to call on her, there
to touch what never was touched before.

She left a king's house to have him,
the proprietor for itinerant soldier;
or for one whose sinew of strength
must wax, wane, never to keep constant.
Exactly so, this she heard in raven word.

Did they slake a full moon's thirst between them?
Did they punctuate rhythmic time?

But always a king must follow his claim,
this one to overcome a son, destroy his clan.
And Deirdre then taken back, returned
by whole of fleet to sea's far side where
she split her brains, her head against a wall,
saying no man or king would own her name.

I just now heard the wedge tail raven.
In this cold of dawn his language is clear.
To become the insurge son whose life swings on
the gray green span, what your eyes take in.


Terreson


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 emoticon

---
Random Stuff
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Tensions

A close friend, the famous teacher,
classroom showman, and
restless, Faustian thinker,
delights in telling the homey fact
of how a peasant of the steppes
can build, plane, plumb a house
with the Russian, traditional axe.

Hold in hand that splendid tool
and discover working perfection itself.
Short in shaft, designed to counterweigh
the broad heavy head with edge made
to bring a tree from forest to board.

He tells too of how his
Volga basin friends point out to him
his frequent visits speak of one
in search of Mother Country.
But he is an intellectual.
And so in our body soul conversations
I tend to give him slack line, since, that
taut tension, such a matrix, cannot be split.

Myself now a deep forest dweller,
the need is to keep several axes.
By far my favorite is the twin blade head
given as a gift by this famous friend,
and for kindling cut it is perfect.
Hickory in handle, light enough to
wield in one hand while
turning sweet cedar, fir, or hemlock on
the straight lathe of chopping block.

Then there is how the double edge
curves like Cretan wings, is tempered, seems blue.
And that the proximity comes
when working through the fibrous wood.
One side to split in quick, clean motion while
the other keeps trained in close back swing
on right eye like the butterfly who
wings her way immediate, persistent.

There is also what happens in autumn.
Then she shows what it means to flutter.


Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Feb/18/2012, 1:48 pm
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Werther's New Complaint

I cannot help but suspect
a certain diminishment when
at best, poets become atonal;

when first they elect to leave
the abandon of the fire dance and
the wilder woman mutes herself.
The rhythm then of the sown seed
declared obsolete, mostly mannered.

With lyricists taking to the tarmac,
who fly for citywise notions and for
circular motion of urban enclosure.
Only there, then again to hear the
half-remembered, surfacing urge,
the queasiness tagging them.
So then to set their musical score
in some shady elm, some suburban street.

And finally stopped in round retreat,
to comfortably sit ensconced
in discomfort to communicate
the soul stretch speak of their song
on the silent screen, through the
wormhole with entryway
securing a cornerspot in cyberspace.

But I remain unconvinced, since,
still I feel the ache in the ear to hear
the sensual, sensible pleasure of
rhythmic line, breath of syllable, and
storm of metrical stress.

As equally unconvinced
in the groin I keep
by the sight and cerebral sign
of denatured, technic verse.


Terreson
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Upthread I mention as how the poems here are taken from a single collection called Interstices. 2000 - 2002. I'll post one more poem from the collection. Seems like a good poem with which to stop.

I'm considering posting poems from even earlier collections. There are four more. If I do I'll devote separate threads to each collection. But for now:


What She Allows
 
"History is a nightmare from which I am still trying to awaken."
           James Joyce
 
 
The illusion is sometimes in
a disembodied voice, the
circumstance of a glance, or the way
she may pass down the street.
 
The real is what I know best,
the familiar cinch of which
is what closes around the neck.
The fibers in the rope of
clan seed, tribal law, and then
the blood urge of nations;
and so much need in the little darlings
oldering, quick, or not yet born.
But sometimes it can happen.
 
The perfection in what your lover allows.
And for a moment the earth
swings open, the sky bends back,
the ocean surface clears to where
the catch in deep vertigo swirl comes through.
 
And stupidly, illogically, with no sense
you are persuaded that
love is more real than history.


Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Jul/27/2014, 7:37 pm
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This collection is GORGEOUS, Tere. I look forward to more,

Chris
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Thank you very much, Chris. Glad if the poems hit the spot. Your comment encourages me to post more.

Tere
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I forgot about this thread. Posted a year ago this month. That was when I started in on the chemo, which is probably why I didn't include more poems from the collection. Just reread the poem, "Under Waters". It didn't get much comment back then. But it is rich with protein. No poet in my life time has done what I can do. Sound and sense is what poetry comes down to. Sound is what seduces, and all poets are seducers. Sense is what delivers that jolt kinetic enough to pierce steel.

Tere
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