X Poems

These are poems sent to me by X. Excuse me X if I got the format wrong, but I had to reformat all the poems as the hotmail system fucked them all up. I particularily appreciate Butane Ligher, After the Walk, and the drip, but they are all excellent in my opinion. I used the Lonliness poem to enhance one of my lessons on Catcher in the Rye.

When Poetry Confronted Me

"Do you remember me?
I was there when you looked,
and moved, a tear cascaded down your face.
You were looking straight at me
like a child mystified by the presence
of something that can’t be placed.
You were so shocked
that your heart thundered
as I entered your being;
and ever since
you have had me with you,
so thank you!" X



Autumn Leaf

As far as you go is as far as you belong
as far as the search for some reassurance
don’t seek it
just circle like a hawk
and gyre into the center of the whirlpool of existence . . . X



For My Pad > >
When I come home >
there's absolutely nothing >
but objects that keep me company: > >
there's the bed I left undone >
and the open book's expectant page >
and a silence that nurtures >
the ideas it conceives, > >
there's the bill I haven't paid >
and what I have to do tomorrow >
and what I dream to do >
and the fact I need to behold > >
for it is in this given realm >
I can best perceive things, >
in the company of solitude >
where all seems possible. > > > >

For my Butane Lighter > >

You son of a bitch, >
you let me down >
when I most needed you, >
when I needed the warmth, >
the reassurance and brightness >
of your presense, >
of your purpose, >
because that's all it comes down to, >
purpose that doesn't need >
to explained, reassured, >
but executed. >



Hermit Crab Song >> >> >> >> > >
It’s painfully obvious I must change,
I must go, in order to securely return,
so once again I show my true nature,
my weaknesses, innocence, and core,
but that’s when I am most vulnerable
that is when spirit and temperament are obvious to the world’s predators,
but if I remain I will truly suffocate,
so I unfasten my calcareous garment
and show my true self to the world
under a cold silvery full-moon eve,
but not for long for I must conceal myself,
lest I become misunderstood. >> >> >> >> > >










After a Walk >> >> >> >> > >

Thoughts, feelings, emotions,
form a semi-precious string
that stiffens the flow of existence.
Visions, vistas all along make it clunky and desirable: >> >> >> >> > >

The old man walking,
sees the edges of the blue sky,
how confident young birds are,
how the clouds careen one after another,
unique in strength and motion, darkness, shininess, heftiness. >> >> >> >> > >

This old man who has no illusions
or who doesn’t dare have any,
sees the cut grass
and the neatness it brings to the surrounding spaces
he travels for therapeutic reasons,
feeling empathy for users,
for frightened stray dogs
which he has never harmed that squirm away from him,
searches among the twinkling constellation of coins in his pocket
for two shiny worn out keys on a flimsy hoop,
enters his flat with his hat on,
looks for the peg,
hangs his shirt,
folds his pants,
and looks at the clock. >> >> >> >> > > >> >> >> >> > >> >> >*********** >> >> >> >> > >

Loneliness >> >> >> >> > >

In this crowd
hundreds of heads bob
like tulips in Holland’s summer wind,
each one a similarly unique gesture,
each in accord with who knows what. >> >> >> >> > >

I look around and see we have nothing in common:
They are remote among each other,
dying flowers in the urn of the world
who assent in the wind. >> >> >> >> > >

But I will not settle for vase or garden
I will sprawl my thorns in the wasteland
and rename myself over and over again
until precious death acknowledges me. >> >> >> >> > > >> >> >> >> > >************* >> >> >> >> > >
The Drip >> >> >> >> > >

The drip of the faucet
pings like a string,
little high pitched plucks,
as if they were made
with a tiny hammer over thin filed copper. >> >> >> >> > > >> >> >> >> >

The old man is sitting
listening to the drip go pluck,
plick like a mockingbird,
is it the drip or is it the birds? >> >> >> >> > >

But it is too early,
birds must still be asleep
dreaming of worms and fetching twigs,
is it too early or is it too late? >> >> >> >> > >

The old man reaches for the glass of water,
his body warns him >> >> >> >> > >
the leaning is too hard,
is it too hard or is it too easy? >> >> >> >> > >

The drip brings him back,
The glass of water is shattered
into a glassy bloody puddle,
so he listens to the drip, is it plucking or piercing? >> >> >> >> > >

The answers are not given,
they are searched one by one like an unsettling drip
making the surface of water
become a living instrument. >> >> >> >> > >

The old man kicks the bucket
because his tired of the infernal repetition
of the everlasting drip keeping him alive,
is it alive or is it avoiding death?