Glitz and Glamour

I put my feet to the pavement,
walking these streets I push it daily
but I ain’t get paid yet, so there’s no food for the baby.

And lately, I’ve been worried for my safety
Living in the lions den, they all want to replace me.

My home’s a mess, its falling to pieces
A concrete cage that’s covered in cracks; my roof is leaking.

Weekends are the bleakest,
that’s when I weaken from all the hunger so I start selling to weak friends.

In secret, I’m scared of lucid nightmares-
Cops and canines coming to get me (they never fight fair.)

But I’m here, leading a life that many might fear-
Making a living for all I hold dear.

Promise me you’ll never make the same mistake I did
Promise me you’ll never mention this to my kid
Promise me that when I cease to live,
All of the things I’ve left behind,
Won’t rise up and plague your mind too.

Look at me, I'm just like Raymond Carver...blah blah blah

One afternoon Wes was in the yard pulling weeds when Chef drove up in front of the house. I was working on a needlepoint on the front steps. I saw Chef walking towards Wes, but he acted like he couldn’t see me. Wes saw Chef walking across the yard and stuck his hand out to shake like they always did, but Chef swallowed him up in an embrace instead.
Wes dropped the gloves he’d taken off when he saw Chef approaching and hugged him back. I didn’t want to interrupt them so I just let them be. It looked like Chef was about ready to cry so I put down my needlepoint and went inside. Two friends like that should be left alone.
Inside the kitchen I had a half pitcher of lemonade I’d made for Wes, the condensation weeping all over the sides of the glass container. Chef and Wes walked in shoulder to shoulder just as I was finishing pouring everyone a glass. Hope you guys like lemonade. None went for a glass so I put the tray of drinks down. Everything alright Chef? But Wes answered instead. Chef had a drink last night for the first time in years. Chef couldn’t even look at the tumblers I filled up with lemonade for them. Well that’s not a big deal. We’ve all come a long way. Chef we can help you. He shook his head as if I was missing the point. I put down the drinks before something happened to them.
It’s on account of my mother passing away last night. Wes nodded because he understood. I knew it was gonna happen. I wish it hadn’t. I’ve held off for so many years it wasn’t even something I thought about anymore. I don’t think this will kill me but it sure is trying its damndest to. I came here because this house was the where I first seen light at the end of the tunnel. It’s worked for you but I can’t see that it’s working for me right now. I should leave you alone, this is my problem not yours.
Wes had been nodding the whole time as if he knew. I could tell that he was ready to tell Chef what was already in my mind. You’re gonna be alright now Chef. Edna and I appreciate your helping us so we figure the least we can do is help you. This place has been fantastic to us, but we don’t think it’s the place for you. As he spoke I could see the cabin in my mind. When we first got married a cousin of Edna’s gave us a place he had up in the mountains. It’s nothing more than a few logs put together the right way. You’re a good friend Chef. I can tell you right now that if you’re looking for a place to keep yourself together, our cabin is a great place to understand what’s going on right now.
Chef nodded and put his hand on Wes shoulder. Thanks Wes, however I’ve already got a place to stay. Coming here was just another thing in a long line of silly things I’ve done since she’s been gone. Thank you for offering me your place and all but I don’t think it’s for me. Wes nodded like he understood but he reached out for me anyways. He wrapped his arm around my waist to emphasize his point once more. Have faith Chef. I’m going to be around for as long as I’m going to be around. I tell you that I know you’re going to make it because you know that what you’ve done is silly today. My offer still stands. This isn’t the best place to mourn someone the right way. Edna and I know where that place is though. If you need it, we’ll be here.
Chef said he understood. Thank you so much but you’re wrong if you think this wasn’t the right place for me. With that he wiped his face and embraced us both. I hope you feel better I said. Thank you guys Chef repeated.
Wes and I walked Chef out of the house and to his car. I’d forgotten the yard still had a big pile of weeds in it just waiting to be burned. Wes dusted the Chef off seeing as how the two had been pretty inseparable since he’d gotten out of his car. I waited for Wes on the front porch. Goodbye Chef! Wes leaned into the driver’s seat window and whispered something into Chef’s ear. Chef nodded solemnly. He patted Wes on his shoulder before pulling out. When Wes came back I didn’t ask what he’d told Chef. That was between the two of them.

A Case of Emergency

Here it comes, the splash of cold water on my face
It’s like I’m startling myself into the new day.
And who say that the sun is on its way,
when I’ve been waiting all my life,
and I can tell it’s bound to be late.
I’ve waited patiently for you to make the final move
To tell me that you’re up and that you’ll wait for me to call;
but the heavens say, you’re waiting for the fall
I know you wanna stall
Dream of things I might have said, but never meant at all.
I AM HARDLY THE MAN
That has your remedy
So when I see you sneak away today
I’ll turn and ask no one in particular if they’d like something to eat.

Night Shift

It was the third rainy night in a row, and Cruz had just about given up on keeping the office floor dry and puddle free. I wasn’t about to complain, I’d been soaked for hours and I could care less what the floor looked like. From where I was sitting, I could hear her in the backroom folding more sheets for the rooms while watching Primer Impacto, a show composed of half news and half tabloid. It had been at least 5 minutes since the last walker had come in with a customer, so I figured I had at least ten more before they would need me to open the gate again to let them out.
The news soon cut to a commercial break, so Cruz walked out with a sheet in hand and started folding it on the counter where the log book was. “That last girl looked like Carly; did she pay you up front?” I shook my head. “It’s her first lay of the night; she’ll get it to me on her way out.” When she heard that, Cruz stopped folding and just stared at me; I knew she wasn’t gonna like the answer, which is why I hadn’t said anything on my way back in. Cruz pointed at me “We don’t do that “first lay, then pay” thing anymore Carlos, these girls are gonna have to pay up front every time now, you heard Hassan.”
Last time Hassan had been here, I had to tell him about a girl that had gotten pinched while walking the streets and left her tab unpaid while she was still locked up. “No more handouts.” He’d said. “Get their money up front, or else they’ll have to do their business in an alley somewhere until they can get enough for a room.” He’d had a point, but Carly was a regular, so I cut her some slack until word got around that we had changed our rules.
“Yeah, I heard. Soon as she comes back out, I’ll tell her we’ve changed the rules, and then she’ll tell the rest of the girls when she sees them outside…that’ll equal less work for me; sound like a plan?” Cruz shrugged and went back to folding her sheet. “I just don’t want any money problems again. Let her, and all the girls after her, know that we gotta do it Hassan’s way from now on, got it?” I nodded; Cruz was just talking to get it out of her system, she was the half of me that worried about things. “So did Hassan mention anything about a raise to you, or did he just collect and run again?”
I didn’t have an answer for Cruz. I’d actually been avoiding the subject for the last couple of days because I had promised to get an answer from him, but made the mistake of mentioning the arrest and tab to him first. “I can’t give you a raise this month Carlos, that prostitute’s tab has yet to be covered and I’m still paying off that main gate we got after the smash and grab…” The smash and grab referring to a group of teenagers who’d broken into some rooms a week prior to Hassan’s visit and had resulted in him buying a automatic gate for the motel, a gate I now monitored each night to let the street walkers in and out with their customers.
“Hassan said we’d have to wait a bit because of the tab that girl left open, plus he hasn’t finished paying off that fence yet…” I could tell she was angry, but I wasn’t expecting her to take it as calmly as she did. “Ugh, I knew he’d find some reason not to pay us more this month, Hassan is such a cheapskate!”
Cruz went back to where the television was announcing the marriage of two Mexican soap opera stars and got another sheet from the pile to fold. She continued talking “At least he finally bought that fence like you told him to ages ago…all it cost him was a few broken windows and a couple of television sets!” She was right; the night that little incident had happened I’d been at my mom’s place grabbing dinner for the two of us and had come back to find Cruz still hiding under the front counter, white as a sheet. She’d been cradling the cash box and the two by four we used in the office to prop open the window, when I walked in and heard her crying on the floor. In all the years I’d known her, and all the time since that incident, I’d never seen her as helpless as she looked right then. I went out and bought a gun for the place the next day, and even though we had this fence up now, I still haven’t left her alone here since.
A tap on the window behind me told me that someone was trying to get out; sure enough I turned around and saw Carly adjusting her bra strap standing by the side door to the gate. “I’m gonna go let Carly out.” I yelled to Cruz as I walked towards the door. “Don’t forget to tell her about the money up front!” I heard from the back as the door hissed to a close.
Carly and her customer were standing by the gate waiting to be let out. By now the rain had subsided, and the guy standing next to Carly now had a bad case of the awkwards. Had he been driving I would have simply pressed the lever to let the gate open, but he was a local and probably rode the bus to work. I unlocked the smaller side door on the gate and let him out while Carly stayed behind to pay for her room. She handed me a wad of cash “Here you go; I also put in an extra $20 for whatever Lucy owed you. I don’t know when she’s getting out of lockup, but I figure can at least make it so she isn’t in the negative with you guys when she gets out.” I took the money and gave her a smile “I didn’t think I’d be seeing any of this money ever, thanks.” Carly, who wasn’t used to smiles in her business, simply waved it off. “No problem, I’ll be back in a few; it’s bar night tonight and I feel like there’s gonna be a lot of guys out there looking to settle…”
She started to walk off when I told her what Hassan had said about having to pay up front from now on. She stopped for a second, looked back, and waved that off too “Don’t worry about it; we’ve all got our pimps. I’ll tell the rest of the ladies about the change, but don’t be surprised if a couple show up without cash on them.” I let Carly through the gate and thanked her “Thanks; I’ll see you when you get back.” I watched her walk down the street and turn the corner; I wish things were that easy all the time.

Oh My Darlin

Oh my darlin, oh my darlin
Oh my darlin, Clementine
You have gone, but not forever
Somewhere out there, you must hide.

Rolling over, rolling yonder
Clementine, you never cease
Missing zest, and missing laughter
You’re alive still, I believe.

Oh I miss you, how I miss you
When the seasons start to change
Clementine, fruit of my labors
How I wish you’d never strayed.

When you ripen, and you grow up
On my door you’ll knock someday
Let me in mom, let me in dad
I was lost, but found again.

Oh my darling, oh my darling
Oh my darling Clementine
Let me hug you, let me squeeze you
Till the juice runs down my leg.

I Don't Wanna Know

You tell me that you got a mind of your own,
And you don’t really mind that I’m gone,
Well guess what baby girl?

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
is you bitchin bout your new boyfriend
And how he can’t compete,
or how you never feel complete
I know you think I’m sweet but

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear,
Is you bitchin bout your disappointments.
Leave me be,
Remember why I had to leave?
Maybe cause I never made your MVP...

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is “Listen baby, have you gotten over me?”
The answer's maybe,
And if you persuade me
I’ll laugh a little less
Before I ask “Are you crazy?”

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is “This is all your fault!”
It took me all of seven days,
and all of seven ways to repel you
And now I think its only fair I tell you...

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is you askin if I miss the old days.
I know its hard to believe,
But you are a bother to me,
Why do you bother to speak?

(I don't wanna know)

The last thing I wanna hear
Is you asking bout my new girlfriend.

Anselm Berrigan

Bio

Anselm Berrigan was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1972 to poets Alice Notley and Ted Berrigan. Although very little is mentioned of how much time he spent there as a child, it is known that soon after his parents moved to New York City where his father found work editing various art magazines and books. Over time, Anselm has given his parents much of the credit for his early education, naming then as one of the primary reasons he was able to read by the age of four. Of these years, very little is talked about, other than the death of his father Ted Berrigan when he was only 10 years old.
It is possible that for his own motivations, Anselm chose not to talk about the impact this had on his upbringing, but what is known is that he got along fairly well with his stepfather (British poet Douglas Oliver.) Anselm also mentions that early on in his education, he would read the poetry of his own parents (particularly his father) in an attempt to understand them better. Academically driven, primarily through the efforts of his parents, Anselm attended New York’s famous Stuyvesant High School where he soon found himself reading and writing more than he could ever have thought himself capable of. Although initially a shy and quiet type, Anselm ran track his junior and senior year, making friends and enjoying their company at school more than the actual education he received there.
In 1990, Anselm attended SUNY-Buffalo where he took up working for their school newspaper. That paper, which came out three times a week in a circulation of 12,000 people, is credited with producing some of his first works of poetry. Originally a reporter for the paper, Anselm began to feel limited by the kind of writing he was doing for them, so he began keeping a notebook where he wrote some short fiction as well as his first attempts at poetry (his first poems being written his second year at college.) Following this, he completed his MFA program at Brooklyn College where he met and studied under poet Allen Ginsberg.
After completing his program Anselm moved to San Francisco, California where he didn’t know a single person, in an attempt to center his life on poetry. Working odd jobs where he could, he fell into the poet community out there continuing his writing until he found work as the artistic director at The Saint Mark’s Poetry Project in New York in 2003. He was artistic director there until 2007 and he is currently working as the co-chair of the writing program at Bard College MFA program and is a professor at Wesleyan University.

Works Written
On the Premises, 1995.

They Beat Me Over the Head With a Sack, 1998.

Integrity & Dramatic Life, 1999.

In the Dream Hole, 2001.

Zero Star Hotel, 2002.

"Pictures for Private Devotion", 2003.

Some Notes on My Programming, 2006.




Moods

Fast-
(All his thoughts come at you real fast)

Fire escape slashes feet dude
But thanks for the intro to nudie
Mags & staying all day sitting

To be pointed in the direction
Of acid nail-biting and told to go
& to go, sad, away from the repeating
-Opening to “Jim Brody”

Questioning-

Who cares?/I should have been, but I was what, thirteen?
-“Jim Brody”

Do I argue for reality’s underpinning to dissolve?/Is faith in stability preferable to the truth?
-To manage the inevitable with aplomb”

Do I feel like an animal staring up at the dental light?
-“To protect my piracy”

Structural-
(He makes use of the structure in which a poem is written to convey message and purpose. He will either write a poem in a long thin (like a newspaper) column, or he will write in “wisps” or other such structures to emphasis the shape and structure of his writing…examples include):

“To Protect my Piracy”
“A true account of talking to myself on the #4 line”
“Ode to the Paranoid”

Rambling-
(In his column style poems, he usually finishes the sentences he starts on one line, in the second or third line after it.)

I answer horn first time
For weeks from can & say
"In the study with a leadpipe"
To Graham & ask him if he's feeling
Flexible. I am feeling Shelley
& an outline. Red lines over black
-“The Pursuit”

Closure-
(Oftentimes his poems are built so that you always find a form of closure at the end, if not a tie-in comment referring to an earlier statement he may have made within the poem)

I answer horn first time
For weeks from can & say
"In the study with a leadpipe"
-Opening to “The Pursuit”

My leg. I want you autonomy
In the conservatory with a candlestick
Where I will be just and mild
and free and wise.
-Ending of “The Pursuit”

Style
Anselm Berrigan doesn’t consider himself a student of any particular movement or style. It should be noted however that his father (Ted Berrigan) was a member of the second generation of the New York School of poetry. Anselm does admit that he read his father’s poetry early on in life and that following those years he started to get a sense of where line breaks and other important factors to his writing should be. His mentor, Allen Ginsberg, is a also a well known beat era poet. Beat era poets tended to write more about their rejection of American values, experimentation (with drugs and sex), and freedom. Not too many of these things filter into Anselm’s style, however bits and pieces of all of these influences to show in his writings. Because of the various poets that he has come into contact with, his style is so varied and unique to him. What can be noted is that stream of consciousness is a regular writing style he implements, as well as internal dialogue.

Fellow Poets

Anselm Berrigan is a real hard artist to pin down in terms of impact because he is simply too young. He is 36 years old, which puts him on Earth for quite a bit, however, in the world of poetry he still hasn’t put in enough time to have other poets specifically name him as one of their influences.

Anselm has recently admitted to being influenced by his own father’s writing (Ted Berrigan.) What started as an attempt to get to know his late father a little better, became a study in poetry for Anselm when he began piecing his own poems in a style very much like Ted’s. Ted (who did meet Frank O’ Hara) Berrigan and his spur of the moment, stream of consciousness style definitely appealed to a younger Anselm who was attempting to make his way into the world of poetry, and the conversations that he holds in his mind (and later writes down) become real mental exercises when you sit down to try to follow along.

Anselm has also mentioned that he took a liking to poet and author Langston Hughes. Although Hughes’ style is very much tied into his Harlem, New York years, it form is very much unique to him. Langston’s poems are often based on the rhythms and languages of the contemporary blues and jazz, not necessarily something Anselm emulates, but he does show cognizance of. If anything, Anselm often knows what the rhythm for the way people read his poems will be, and he writes and breaks lines in ways as to read contrary to that.

Works Cited
http://epc.buffalo.edu/ezines/alyric/berrigan.html
http://www.coconutpoetry.org/aberrigan1.htm
http://www.chicagopostmodernpoetry.com/aberrigan.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Langston_Hughes
Berrigan, Anselm. Zero star hotel. Edge Publishing Company, Washington DC. 2002

The Lost ones

I seen the reaper creeping right around a weeping widow
She’s crying cause her husband lost his way and then got lit up
I gave her my condolences and left them in the middle of the services,
cause nervous is the feeling that I get,
when I’m that close to death-
I know my time is near, but I still have regrets.

Sometimes I walk around and I can feel just feel what you mean
But what about the other times I’m guessing in between?
I’m lonely, like the first man before he got Eve-
and she was the most beautiful thing that he’d ever seen.
I wish it wasn’t hard for me to sit here and believe
that relief is what they’ve earned and now they’re waiting there for me.

What does it mean?
What does it mean?
Look inside yourself and tell me whether it’s a dream.
What does it mean?
What does it mean?
I wonder what’s in store for us when finally we leave?

Poet Page

Bio

Frank O’Hara was born June 27, 1926 to Russell Joseph O’ Hara and Katherine Broderick. Although born in Maryland, his parents soon moved and Frank’s early years were spent in Grafton, Massachusetts. In addition to the move, he attended St. John’s Preparatory school in Shrewsbury (Worcester Diocese) which his father approved of (himself having attended the nearby College of the Holy Cross.)

From an early age it became clear that Frank had a love for the arts, an interest he pursued in the form of music. A fan of contemporary music, he studied piano at The New England Conservatory in Boston for three years (1941-1944.) Following his graduation from high school, Frank put his musical interests aside and joined the Navy to serve as a sonar man on the “USS Nicholas” in the South Pacific and Japan. Following his service in the war, Frank made use of his GI Bill and attended Harvard University where he resumed his musical interests.

Frank initially majored in Music at Harvard (for he never did stop playing the piano) however the visual art and contemporary music of the time pushed him to explore other modes of expression-namely- poetry. He began writing impulsively during his spare time (a method he would prefer above all others for the remainder of his life) but it wasn’t until he met fellow poet John Ashbery that he began getting his works published (The Harvard Advocate being the first to put him on print) and taking his work more seriously. Following his early successes, Frank would change his major from Music to English earning his bachelors from Harvard in 1950, and his masters in English from the University of Michigan a year later.

After earning his masters in English, Frank would move to New York City where he found work at the Museum of Modern art (first working at the front desk, and later becoming assistant curator.) During this time, Frank also found work as a reviewer for “ARTnews Magazine” and began gaining considerable attention as one of several “New York Movement” poets who were working together at the time (many of them having been introduced by Frank to one another.) The movement would go on to take a major hit July 24^th, 1966 when Frank O’Hara was struck by a man driving a beach vehicle (some accounts read Jeep, others say dune buggy) on Fire Island. He died at the age of only 40 years old, and was buried at Green River Cemetery on Long Island.

Works written in his lifetime

A City Winter and Other Poems. Two Drawings by Larry Rivers. (New York: Tibor de Nagy Gallery Editions, 1951)

Oranges: 12 pastorals. (New York: Tibor de Nagy Gallery Editions, 1953; New York: Angel Hair Books, 1969)

Meditations in an Emergency. (New York: Grove Press, 1957; 1967)

Second Avenue. Cover drawing by Larry Rivers. (New York: Totem Press in Association with Corinth Books, 1960)

Odes. Prints by Michael Goldberg. (New York: Tiber Press, 1960)

Lunch Poems. (San Francisco, CA: City Lights Books, The Pocket Poets Series (No. 19), 1964)

Love Poems (Tentative Title). (New York: Tibor de Nagy Gallery Editions, 1965)

Moods

Catchy-

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally…

-The opening to “A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island”

Wet-

Wet heat drifts through the afternoon…/We are sick of living and afraid that death will not be by water, o sea…/selfsame pools of trefoil…/when the summer’s gong of the day and the night slithers towards their sweat…/do they mistake these fresh drops for tears?/

-“Ann Arbor Variations”

Alone at night in the wet city…

-Opening to “1951”

…that proud cur at the garbage can in the rain…

-“Homosexuality”

Wanting-

“It’s a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world.”

-The ending to” Homosexuality”

I understand the boredom of the clerks…/do you remember?/ You have left me to the sewer's meanwhile, and I have answered the sea's open wish to love me as a bonfire's watchful hand…

-“A City Winter”

Instructive-

Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies…

-“Ave Maria”

I’ve got to tell you how I love you always...

-“Morning”

Run your finger along your no-moss mind that’s not a thought, that’s soot.

-“Song (is it dirty)”

Internal-

I know so much
about things, I accept
so much, it's like
vomiting. And I am
nourished by the
shabbiness of my
knowing so much
about others and what
they do, and accepting
so much that I hate
as if I didn't know
what it is, to me.
And what it is to
them I know, and hate.

-“Spleen”

Style

Frank O’Hara was a member of the New York School of poetry. Drawing off of the contemporary art of the time (which itself was feeding off of the surrealist movement) the NY School of poetry tended to be best described as light, observational, and with a tendency to be written in a stream of consciousness style. Beginning in his college years, and continuing for the rest of his life, Frank preferred to write his poems on the spur of the moment. As a result, many of his poems tended to sound like outright conversations with himself. In “Personism: A Manifesto” Frank O’Hara stresses that he isn’t the biggest fan of things like rhythm or assonance, and that for something like poem-writing it is best to “…just go on nerve.” Reading his writings it is clear to see that this is the approach he took to his own poems, as well as those of fellow NY poets.

Fellow Poets

Ron Padgett is a follower of the New York School of poetry, although he was too young to have been involved with the core of Frank’s NYC poets. His style is very reminiscent of Frank’s internal conversations with himself, and he regularly addresses the reader as a part of his internal decision making. His poem “Night Jump” is a clear example of the different parts of Frank’s writing that most interest him.

“Night Jump”

At night Chinamen jump
on Asia with a thump

Who but Frank O’Hara
could have written that?
and then gone on to speak of
love and something he calls grace.
To start out so funny
and end up with mystery and grace —
we should all be so lucky.

Fellow Poets

Frank O’Hara was influenced by French Surrealists the likes of Raymond Roussel. Roussel himself was a French poet and novelist who did not gain much attention until after his passing. O’Hara as well as many other members of the NY school favored wit and humor for which Roussel was known for in his own writings. His works were packed with double meanings and regularly made use of this in his own verses.

Frank O’ Hara was also influenced by the French poet Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud. Rimbaud himself was part of the Decadent movement in France which stressed themes like sexuality, liberty, and (of course) decadence. His writings impacted on the younger version of O’Hara who was trying to decide on writing or music during his college years. Although it is not explicitly mentioned when Frank came out about his own sexuality, it is known that Rimbaud’s history is very much tied to that of his mentor Paul Verlaine with whom he had an affair (that scandalized many fellow Parisians.) Quite possible this poet’s own writings about his relationships and coming to terms with his own experiences may have initially attracted Frank to this style of writing as well.

Works Cited

Feldman, Alan. Frank O'Hara / by Alan Feldman. Boston : Twayne Publishers, c1979.

O'Hara, Frank, 1926-1966. Poems from the Tibor de Nagy editions, 1952-1966 : A city winter, Oranges, Love poems (tentative title) / Frank O'Hara. New York : Tibor de Nagy Editions, 2006.

www.frankohara.org

www.poemhunter.com

Elena

This is a poem that I read in High School once, and I swore that must have been written about my own mom. This is the kind of poem that makes me wish I were a better writer...

My Spanish isn’t enough.
I remember how I’d smile
Listening to my little ones,
Understanding every word they’d say,
Their jokes, their songs, their plots.
Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos
But that was in Mexico.
Now my children go to American high schools.
They speak English.
At night,
They sit around the kitchen table,
Laugh with one another.
I stand by the stove and feel dumb. Alone.
I bought a book to learn English.
My husband frowned, drank more beer.
My oldest said,
“Mama, he doesn’t want you to be smarter than he is.”
I’m forty,
Embarrassed at mispronouncing words,
Embarrassed at the laughter of my children,
The grocer,
The mailman.
Sometimes I take my English book
And lock myself in the bathroom,
Say the thick words softly,
For if I stop trying,
I will be deaf,
When my children need my help.

-Pat Mora

Sestina/Big Top

On to the grounds, following the bustling crowd;

I make my way to the center of it all, the razzling, dazzling big top!

Slowly but surely, I get round to my seat;

Never once taking my eyes off the center ring.

Tonight is the night of their final performance!

And I aim to capture it all in my gaze…

The lights begin to dim all around, and the collective gaze

Settles on the center ring, where the crowd

Awaits the ringleader, to start off the performance.

Not one to disappoint, he comes out, spinning like a top

He stops right at the center of his stage (the ring)

And bids everyone to their seat.

“Tonight, you might as well bid farewell to your seat,

As you’ll spend all this evening in awe on your feet, please gaze

If you will, on the westernmost ring!”

And everyone looked, as their eyes began to crowd…

Not the bottom by the nets, but the trapeze at the top!

As the audience finally spots them, the acrobats began their performance.

And what a performance!

Flipping through the air, grabbing at legs, or taking a seat;

Such daring jumps and deadly leaps, surely nothing else could top

Their aerial feats. My gaze

Was entranced (as was that of the crowd)

Until a sound signaled the end, it was a bell we heard ring.

As the acrobats left, new acts entered the ring

Clowns, fire eaters, and animals all joined the performance.

Everything looked amazing, but it became too big of a crowd

Too hectic, too loud, so I got up from my seat.

Though try as I might, I couldn’t take it all in one gaze

Too much action in this space, each one vying for the top.

At last, from left, to right, from the bottom, to the top

The show slowly stopped and brought it back to center ring

The ringleader thanked us and dismissed us once and for all, my gaze

No longer in a daze, now etched with the nights performance

Acts, tricks, and animals, all had me at the edge of my seat.

Still now, I can see it… if I just listen to the chatting of the crowd.

Wenderoth/Shelley

“The most unfailing herald, companion, and follower of the awakening of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution, is poetry.”

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, “A Defence of Poetry,” 1820

“Your employees are beautiful-they do not have authority. Even the manager has no authority-if pushed, he will just call someone, who also has no ultimate authority. It's extremely pleasing to recognize this fact-one feels so fairly situated in the teeming absence of authors. At Wendy's, one writes not from an author, but to an author, a sleeping owner who will never wake.”

-Joe Wenderoth, “Letters to Wendy’s,” July 31, 1996

It’s hard to think of poets as people, who do in fact, share the same base thoughts and urges that someone like myself would have. Its definitely a lot easier to imagine poets as wispy, almost airy, subjects who are exceptional at expressing emotions on a higher (more lyrical) plane. For that reason, a book like “Letters to Wendy’s” not only surprised me with its subject matter, but its manner of presentation. Bold and as candid as a direct doorway into his mind can get, “Letters to Wendy’s” is an excellent example of how poetry covers familiar ground so dynamically, readers can’t help but do a double take (or two.)

Whether change was his goal or not, Wenderoth made excellent use of Wendy’s (although it could just as easily have been any similar themed institution) to express opinions that may or may not only apply to him. Written in a style that may not necessarily be considered “traditional poetry” his form of expression does fit Percy Shelley’s understanding of what poetry is and should do.

One need only read a few pages of “Letters to Wendy’s” to find a statement that fits the criteria of being “the expression of the (his) imagination.” His language can be rough at times, but when you also take into consideration that Wenderoth (like many other poets) use a language that “…is vitally metaphorical…” it becomes easier to reinterpret the meaning of some of his statements. Finally, in entries like that of August 2^nd, 1996, where Wenderoth doesn’t anchor his thoughts to Wendy’s at all, it becomes ever more clear that his writings and observations are meant to highlight and express those feelings that the subjects of his discussion may not be able to (or conscious enough to) explain by themselves. Such is the talent of Percy’s poet or “…hierophants of unapprehended inspiration; mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present…”

While a surprising departure from the type of poetry I am used to reading, Wenderoth (by occasionally sticking to the baser urges of man) has given voice to something that may not have been spoken for otherwise. In doing so, according to the opinion of Shelley, “Letters to Wendy’s” has fulfilled the same need that created poetry.

Workshop-Poem/ Wake up

You never heard of me,

I don’t think it’s absurd of you

to wonder why my worries

never bothered you before,

but I,

would fall apart

without the presence of a heart

so I could love you for your flaws,

applaud your triumphs

and your glories;

Don’t ignore me,

I’m your fellow man,

Brother, sister, biggest fan,

tell me when you plan

to understand

we’re only human,

presuming,

you care enough to love us all

then do it.

Put yourself where others stand

and learn what life is, through it.

Magnum P.I...don't make me laugh

Dear Tom;
Mr. Brawny hides from no one, much less a third rate moustache like yourself. As I’m sure you already know, over the years I’ve built a paper towel empire based on one very simple concept…and that is: NO ONE MESSES WITH MR.BRAWNY, EVER. While it’s not the catchiest of slogans, it served me well in 1974 when I first began selling disposable paper towels, and it serves me well to this day. It is most unfortunate that you never took this statement to heart. Since 1980 you’ve been nothing but a stain on my counter, a spill on my hardwood floors. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am today, earning every single hair on my trademarked moustache. That’s right, trademarked Mr. Selleck, trademarked a full six years before Magnum P.I hit the air. You can whine and moan all you want, but no amount of letter writing can overcome the simple fact that my moustache is hardier, cleaner, and a lot more recognizable than that wispy little feather duster you call facial hair. You should stop wasting my time Tom and take a real good look in the mirror… I’m just like your career…I’m not going anywhere.

Sincerely;
Mr. Brawny

PS: Mr. Clean? He’s got pretty boy muscles, gets in shape to go raving but couldn’t swing a sack of doorknobs to save his life……pretty interesting choice of legal counsel, Sally.