the flavor of my quark

more poetry

mona — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 04:22:42 GMT

Okay, I know no one reads this stuff. But luckily, I am not discouraged. Heh. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I always knew that when your feedback mellowed to a shade of apathy the dust would settle into strictly tentative places I guess I lacked those particular skills to ascertain just why you’d actively avoid these colors naturally, I was tinted optimistic then (you’d think I’d learn) so I’ll coat my emotions in Teflon and in half of a smile and move about fading back into the obscurity of the merely ordinary and sip my every hour with a trace of tears 05 July 2008

Sensual Poem

mona — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 05:03:33 GMT

A little sensual poetry for a Monday. How to be erotic without being blatant... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ stir Up to my hips in metallic gem-light seeing dark eyes feast silver streaks was that your heart going by? Up to my ache in wordless seasoning tasting more than skin-salt and liquid moon foam was that your soul I savor? Up to my lust in satin aroma inhaling much more than essence of sequined man-tides is this where ecstasy perfumes? Up to my sanity in startled “oh!” uttering more than clichés melody in key of vowels is that the secret sung in swallowed “yes?” Up to my smile in seamless grasp pulling more of you inside than body buttered obsession did you give warmth your name?

A slice of time

mona — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 01:46:20 GMT

Here's another terzanelle. It was written (surprisingly) quickly when I saw a man place a bouquet of white roses on the stoop of an abandoned building. I wrote the poem when I passed by the building a week later and the roses were still there. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Still Life on Stairwell He placed the roses down with so much care, their breath became the sunlight, fading green, which left a tender shadow on the stair, and gave a final stroke of tourmaline to soft, forgotten petals, velvet white – whose breath became as sunlight, faded green. I pause to mourn – no fragrance reunites me, in my bitter tea-stained reverie, with those forgotten petals, velvet white. I know that future’s roses, meant for me, won’t keep that heart of green and drip with tears. I slip back into tea-stained reverie. He walks away in ashen atmospheres, the light shrinks from those blossoms, now sad gray No longer white and green, they drip with tears. The wilted stems and ribbons swept away, where once he’d placed those roses with such care the light shrinks from the blossoms, sad and gray, and leaves no trace of shadow on the stair. 14 Mar 2004

Meanings

mona — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 03:25:21 GMT

When I was given the word "still" as a title to write with, I immediately came up with three different definitions in my mind. The first thing that came to mind was the adjective that suggests lack of movement. The second thing I thought of was the adverb suggesting always...continuous-ness. And the third was the noun that suggested a vessel in which liquor is distilled. So here is what sprang from my fevered brain. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ still I. holding onto the breath I should have used to tell you your words paint upon my monotonous sky a crescent moon spilling fog onto skyline’s jut but I wait exhaling so softly water doesn’t know II. in case you missed the way my hair insinuated itself and don’t recall the taste of rosemary I’ll untie me from your cerebellum reminders are forthcoming here I am III. nothing to do but condense comfortable conversation heat pull the moist leaving essence 25 Jan 2004

One more sonnet

mona — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 04:13:53 GMT

What the heck... I think Shakespeare's birthday deserves yet another sonnet. (And I'll be almost caught up to my "one poem per day" promise for April.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Freeze-Dried Sonnet As if the darkness of your eyes could show a way for me to trap the voice of pain, and set in amber life’s imbroglio for me to hide, so only you remain. Jars of my desire, well preserved – formaldehyde-postponed in its allure, patient in the hope that I’ve reserved for packing up my soul, in honey-cure. Repentance never froze a single urge, but kisses stir emotions long left stored. From suspended animation will emerge warmed and soft – adventures unexplored. A trophy, not of conquest, but of art – A taxidermist version of my heart. 29 Dec 2002

Another Sonnet

mona — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 04:06:19 GMT

Another sonnet for the Bard's birthday. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shadow Theater We live, as many do, within that space where footlights end, and audience begins. The fear lurks, unrelenting, in that place, too close to catch the actor’s disciplines. Tentative in spotlights, under wraps, I seek the hand of moonlight’s puppeteer. Stage fright fills imagination’s gaps where props behind love’s curtains disappear. Your words betray the secrets sought in silence. The eyes of all observe your crucial scene. A soliloquy of gestures in defiance of direction, daring me to intervene. Returning, where we comfortably consume The space between the curtains and the gloom. 25 Jan 2003

Happy Birthday, Will

mona — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 04:04:33 GMT

In honor of Shakespeare's birthday (he's 444 this year), I am posting a sonnet (Shakespearean, of course) I wrote in a fit of mathematical ecstasy. I will go read Hamlet... or watch the movie. Please celebrate in your own customary way. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Science of Patterns The order of the colors, prism bent; The fractions in a chambered snail’s shell; Statistics buried, called coincidence; The chemical recall of asphodel. So water congregates to build a cloud and droplets marry heavy, forming rain; With Spanish moss’s chaos-patterned shroud To respirations measured fill and drain. Honeycombs, whose architects are bees; The icy veins in alabaster’s skin; The march of leaves up eucalyptus trees; The oscillating song of violin. An ocean wave will roll in, uninvolved In differential equations it has solved. 30 Oct 2003

More fun with poetic forms

mona — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 04:15:30 GMT

The terzanelle is yet another form I like to play with. It's similar to the villanelle in that it uses repeated lines, but this one takes the middle line of the stanza and it gets used as the last line of the next stanza, so the rhyme scheme changes each time. And the final line should be the last line of the first stanza. It's like putting a puzzle together... the hard part is making sure it makes sense. And this one just barely does. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Subatomic Terzanelle In orbit, strewn with waiting, patient protons, With you beneath – unaware my anxious hover. Beaming light, my kisses touched like photons, And quantum flux in wavelengths of a lover, Are positively charged in spectrum’s hope. Beneath my hungry stare and anxious hover, Add neutrons, and my heart’s your isotope. Creating radiation, banish dark – So positively charged in spectrum’s hope – Infecting every flavor of each quark, Until they shake in subatomic lust, And create that radiation – banished dark. Adding electrons to your nuclear husk Can ionize your will to spark a fusion. They’ll vibrate you in subatomic lust Swirling in subnuclear confusion. In orbit, strewn with hope and patient protons, Ionize your will to spark that fusion – Lightly, as my kisses, touched by photons. 15 May 2003 * Note on the image above: Electronic signatures produced by collisions of protons and antiprotons in the Tevatron accelerator at Fermilab provided evidence that the elusive subatomic particle known as top quark has been found. (Image courtesy of Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory)

Because I wanted to use "hieroglyphics" in a poem

mona — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 00:40:11 GMT

Another villanelle. So they're fun to write... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ encryption I found the definition of “beguile” in places where your blush would hibernate amongst the hieroglyphics of your smile It dawns on me, I cannot reconcile so I repeat until my mind can conjugate and still see definition in “beguile” I grasp the implication, pause a while let meanings there unfold, as I translate the wondrous hieroglyphics of your smile So let me take a lifetime to compile the essays that your eyes communicate expand my definition of “beguile” into vocabularies versatile (hard-pressed for me to ever understate) and solve the hieroglyphics of your smile A scholar of the context of your style and expressions as your eyes deliberate I find the definition of “beguile” inside the hieroglyphics of your smile 30 Aug 2004

Another Monday sonnet

mona — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 05:34:28 GMT

A sonnet for Monday. I have a theory that writing form poetry is (for me) a sort of exercise. I think sometimes that I write better with structure because the form itself (with its rhythms and rhyme schemes) keeps the left side of my brain occupied so my right brain can actually create. Kinda like giving a child a toy to play with so you can finish up a chore. But it's just a theory. I could be way off base. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Abstract Impassioned portrait sketched in words of lust, Enticing me to reconsider all. It traces doubt with grey upon my trust And intimations hide behind the scrawl. Relinquish every preconceived intent, And paint my face with violet crystal tears. I cannot take them back, so I relent, And let the brushstrokes cover all my fears. The sharpened edges blur with every hue - Impressionist emotions, tinged with red. I dip my fingers lightly into blue And dare to replicate those things unsaid. Kandinsky never could imagine these Colors of my heart’s geometries. 13 Jun 2002

Because sometimes, it just is...

mona — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 04:55:40 GMT

I can't think of anything to say about this one except it was easy to write. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ tectonics all the rocks insistent in their geology couldn’t be still enough to buoy my being when your smile slips off my shoulders and tickles in tendrils eroding with insist pull the alarm and sound for the majesty of darkened entwine lifting until scream pushing until ahhhh and never letting silent knowledge of my love fracture

just because I like the sound of the words

mona — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 01:11:51 GMT

I got the title of this one from an Emily Dickinson poem. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Prodigal of Blue neon slithers art deco edges into greyhound bus familiar startle sunsets from the 12th floor forgotten with touch drop curl the purple flowers were bubbles in the oxygen of wonder you heard the aria before dinner I was incandescent marigold 14 Mar 2003

still more verse

mona — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 01:42:48 GMT

Some more sensual verse. I love it when writing turns out to express things just the way you want. In this case, I wanted to be appropriately subtle and evasive. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ elements of nearness pour yourself >> into my lovescape listen >> while I intone the vowels >> of your secret name let me spread >> my verisimilitude >> to your soul’s scrutiny magenta savory and smoother than cello inhale your sibilance and I’ll exhale favor after corrugated favor I have capacity >> beyond your shadow’s glint so tap into >> isabelline implications no one is looking touch warm start ruffling the silences >> that can’t be pulled >> from your tongue’s softness reach into >> the crook of my comfort nestle in >> rapturous silver >> meant for taste your voice tickling >> deeper than oboe your eyes >> striking ripples >> in lost-teen-angst yesterdays irrelevant hoping to >> laser into the midnight >> of your eye-crinkling smile I know your touch >> at stocking’s edge write, I say... >> just write don’t think >> of my aphorisms only let me fetch >> one more constellation >> from icy silence awaken to my >> juniper pleadings and inspire the >> piquant spice-green >> knife-edge >> courage hidden >> there yes... right there

some fun verse

mona — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 23:45:06 GMT

And a little bilingual scribble for today. I got a title suggestion from a friend who said he was learning to dance. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ aprendo a bailar necesito los zapatos that can hip your eyes this direction whipped mambo served calientado frosted in frenzy bedroom your way to doblado step back (two three four) let el hombre lead (seis siete ocho) blue into cushion mareado unstiffen press into escuche and before you know it bailamos 9 Mar 2003

April 15 haiku

mona — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 06:25:56 GMT

my dear accountant the IRS doesn't want blood it just wants your soul

Since the weather's cooled a bit...

mona — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 01:24:40 GMT

A little tribute to November. A bit melancholy for spring, though... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Colder Season Watching November ripen with each thrum thrumming of river and heart in sullen, sad-love-song, crystallized ways. The sky can’t manage to be cheerfully blue, and, frankly, stopped trying weeks ago when October dissolved. Now with darkness being a mere formality, you take time to trace out our names in faded sequins and reconstituted rhinestones. When incantations become merely talking to yourself, wretchedness accumulates and shoulders take on permanent shrugs of surrender. Lastly, you sleep when spoken to. So they take you somewhere mint green, without the benefit of petunias. 7 Nov 2005

Catching up

mona — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 01:15:44 GMT

I know I meant to post a poem a day, but with the newest show, my weekends are taken up with getting stuff done around the house. I haven't been at my computer (except at work) since Wednesday. Sorry about that. I will post a couple a day to make up for it. I love villanelles. Here is one I wrote and played a little loose with the repeated lines. But it's my poem, so I can do that. Besides, it works. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Absorbing Invisibility I sit in camouflaged desire, repressing fevered whirlwinds, becoming shade as you require. To dim the violent purple fire dilute until it’s crystalline, and wait in camouflaged desire. Add grey to brazen red’s attire; suppress her strut in softer skins, in paler shades, as you require. Hush the lute, and stow the lyre, dampen strings on violins. I’ll listen, and conceal desire. I’ll paint with words that you inspire disguised in shrouds of discipline and faded, as your needs require. Awaiting signals, I retire, patient in the blues I’ve thinned. I wait in camouflaged desire a paler red than you require. 13 Feb 2003

Another peek into my mind

mona — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 03:40:16 GMT

Here's a really old poem. It's one of the few I still like. Seems I've always been obsessed with Dylan Thomas... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Unsoundwaves There are no violins on the moon; and no nightingales. The purpose of innocence remains to be discovered in the splintered remnants of peanut-butter memories. So, take my hand while there's still time. We can't compete with mediocrity. And, screaming, the wounded secret provides an anticlimax for some celestial drama. And the sandman is waiting under the marquee; but that isn't my name in lights. I saw a cloud move like this once, unnaturally, like a stream of my thoughts. I hurry to catch up with you. You tell me I write nothing like Dylan Thomas. Unknowingly, you've stuck a grudge somewhere between my shoulders, and white things seep into my line of vision. I wish I had your purpleness back because you're listening to me now, and I wish I had more to say. Well, Dylan Thomas could never write like me.

Rambling

mona — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 02:55:40 GMT

Some verse written in a sitting-in-a-sunny-window-inspired ramble. I love to interrupt my stream-of-consciousness occasionally, usually with another stream. (Edited to say: Every other stanza's supposed to be indented, but I can't seem to get it to do that. Bleah. If anyone has a suggestion, please send me a message.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Book I’m Going to Recommend was on the free book shelf at the coffee shop by the river >>> would you order a soda… or just water? >>> and the maroons and daisies of this day might become softly muted I recognize the author from, of all things, the television >>> would you recognize him as well? >>> how could this lapse in my rose-colored protocol conquer your smile? I open the nearly-torn cover and out drops a photograph of white-shirted man with skinny tie and his head resting on the jawbone of some poor dead jackass >>> I imagine you’d strike that pose…and >>> even the chrysanthemums growing on my stony side would wilt in breathlessness the photo was labeled “Live Faust Die Jung” >>> you’d see the fun in this >>> and it would plunge me back into the fragrances of “what if” and the back was signed, “Sorry for the lateness in getting this CD to you. Things have been a bit twisted.” >>> “What CD was it?” you would wonder, as if on cue, >>> and I take the violet-shaded way around this time A page was marked with a ticket to the Grand Prix of Monterey for June 7, 2002. >>> how often would we really look at the world in cellophane hues? >>> and would you have had time to read this before the race started? I’ve stopped halfway through the book ending each chapter with what I’d imagine you’d rant if I could only tell you >>> and you’d look at me with that flash of hush >>> and I don’t >>> because you already know

Sonnet Monday

mona — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 01:12:33 GMT

Monday seems like a good day for sonnets. Here's an old one I wrote when I finally figured out what I was doing. Besides, we all need a little romance on Mondays. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Simile for Your Kiss The full moon took its time, and then my breath Away as I saw clouds reveal its light; Then gave me pause as when our lips first met. I gasped in recognition -- pure delight. Remembering your kiss, your touch -- that smile Stopped my anguish at a moment’s crest As liquid silver was my truth. And while I memorize your touch upon my breast. And, stopping me with white, the water mist Reflects the singing moon as tarnished fire. Just where my breath had paused before your kiss – That same soul-filling memory of desire. Mixing milk then bronze into the vial The moon is metaphor still in your smile. 26 Sep 2002

Sunday and time to play...

mona — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 21:24:00 GMT

Some fun free verse. A friend gave me a title and I ran with it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copacetic Persuasion I tango to the ask in your twinkle resist? not when we fit together like finger to texture regret is for the cup not leaking with serendipity luck beckons with python poker-face and I’ll mambo until romance’s roulette tells me otherwise

Another form to play with

mona — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 16:18:03 GMT

Today I'm going to dive, yet again, into a poetic form. It's a simple form called a villanelle and it uses repeated lines to its effect. The first and third lines are repeated at the ends of stanzas and again as the last two lines of the poem. The middle lines of each stanza rhyme with each other, and the other lines rhyme as shown. The most familiar poem that uses this form is Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night". While I have no delusions of being Dylan Thomas, I have written a few villanelles. This one was written while reading an old magazine in a doctor's waiting room. The magazine had an article about a group of people who bought tickets right after the first moonwalk to the first tourist trip to the moon. Evidently, the tickets are still valid, (or they were when the magazine was published) and I jotted down this ode to patience and optimism. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Waiting Room Rapture waits in time I’ve loaned to festivals in a “maybe” past. My trip to the moon has been postponed. I sigh in spectrums under-toned, with passions held in color-fast while rapture waits in time I’ve loaned with interest. I am unatoned until I surrender up, at last. My trip to the moon; it’s been postponed. Tranquil in the seconds owned with minutes counted, softly passed in rapture. I have time I’ve loaned to one collecting fees, disowned by passing title. Yet all’s surpassed: my trip to the moon has been postponed. In patience, which has been condoned, I hold my tickets, business-classed. While rapture waits in time I’ve loaned. And my trip to the moon has been postponed. 13 Jan 2004

Romance, or something like it.

mona — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 23:41:38 GMT

I wrote this one day when I had just stepped down off of my soapbox, ranting about Valentine's Day. The short version of the rant is this: I think Valentine's Day is ridiculous and a waste of time and romance. If you can't say "I love you" 365 days of the year, why bother to do it only on one day? And I would much prefer to have a romantic gesture on a random day when I didn't expect anything... Anyhow, June 12 became an unoffical romantic poem day for me and a group of poets. Here is the first one I wrote. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ June 12th This time last year was river-fed and angular was stirred by crystal zephyrs was your smirk in my brain’s scrapbook was meticulous merriment was drops gathered in word sponges was crabgrass between my toes was how I’d imagined you’d smell was the ratcheting of crickets was the aching rise of pitch at the end of your sentence was time slick with the artful varnish of optimism was the grain of your beard crumbling beneath my breath was toasted foolishness was our absurd valentine 12 June 2003

Another poem

mona — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 07:50:53 GMT

So here (as promised) is another ghazal I wrote. It's a bit late... but technically it's still the 3rd of April... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dictionary of Rogue Verbs I conceal meditations of that subjective tense from myself, where clues of why your syntax may be indifference to myself. I fasten onto your way of conjugating my ache until I become the persuasive phrase you’d gauge innocence in myself. When I can pen your hair into gold, the lucrative emerges, but your daunting ease drains silver from the eloquence of my self. Stretch taut my desire over the copper of your framework’s embrace, and in esteem’s calligraphy – stained to permanence through my self. Parchment-ready for prurient brushes with the ink of glances, I inhale and find in the thesaurus of confidence: my self. 9 Jan 2004

An introduction to the ghazal

mona — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 04:57:28 GMT

Okay... a warning. I am going to get all literary and pedantic on you. If you want to skip all that and just scroll down to the poem, it's at the bottom. I don't mind if you do. If you don't want to read the poem, then why'd you click on this in the first place?? heh. Here we go: A few years ago, I discovered a wonderful adaptation of an ancient form into English. The ghazal is a form of Persian poetry originating in Iran in the 10th century A.D. It is originally written in Persian or Urdu. I have included a lengthy explanation of the form below, but if that doesn't interest you, (as I said before) you can skip to the poem at the bottom. To summarize, I will draw from a book I have and condense from a lesson by Agha Shahid Ali. *************** Here are the basic points for writing a ghazal in English: A poem of five to fifteen couplets. The name rhymes with "guzzle." No enjambment between couplets. Think of each couplet as a separate poem, thematically and emotionally complete in itself. Once again, ABSOLUTELY no enjambment between couplets -- each couplet must be like a precious stone that can shine even when plucked from the necklace though it certainly has greater luster in its setting. What links these couplets is a strict formal scheme. This is how it works: The entire ghazal employs the same rhyme and refrain. The rhyme must always immediately precede the refrain. If the rhyme is merely buried somewhere in the line, that will have its charm, of course, but it would not lead to the wonderful pleasure of IMMEDIATE recognition which is central to the ghazal. The refrain may be a word or phrase. Each line must be of the same length (inclusive of the rhyme and refrain). In Urdu and Persian, all the lines are usually in the same meter and have the same metrical length. So establish some system -- metrical or syllabic -- for maintaining consistency in line lengths. The last couplet may be (and usually is) a signature couplet in which the poet may invoke his/her name in the first, second, or third person. The scheme of rhyme and refrain occurs in BOTH lines of the first couple (that is how one learns what the scheme is), and then in only the second line of every succeeding couplet. The first line of every succeeding couplet has no restrictions other than to maintain the syllabic or metrical length. There is an epigrammatic terseness in the ghazal, but with immense lyricism, evocation, sorrow, heartbreak, wit. What defines the ghazal is a constant longing. This is what a ghazal looks like: Couplet one: ---------------------------------------------rhyme A + refrain ---------------------------------------------rhyme A + refrain Couplet Two, Three, & so on: --------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------rhyme A + refrain Here are some opening and concluding couplets of Shahid’s: Example A: I say That, after all, is the trick of it all When suddenly you say "Arabic of it all." ……………….. For Shahid too the night went quickly as it came. After that, O Friend, came the music of it all. Example B: What will suffice for a true love knot? Even the rain? But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain. ……………….. They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these? No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain. Example C: Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight Before you agonize him in farewell tonight? ……………….. And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee— God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight. *************** Did you get the gist of it? I know this is full of a lot of pretentious-sounding vocabulary and poetic jabber, but it is a delightful form to play with. I discovered that I stretched my creativity a lot when writing with this form. Here's my first try at it. (Tomorrow I'll post some later tries...) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ghazal in ¾ Time Rendering my words into songs may, from the dance Kiss damp orange music pulled away from the dance. We touch as though we knew the absence of roses. Touching again, we move in disarray from the dance. I wipe a tear from the page where you are drawing, Stringing lines to remove the bouquet from the dance. Though you spoke to me of afters, not of nevers, We move through green laughter as if we’d pray from the dance. Overwhelmed by the frost on your kiln-fired brow, I discern the porcelain sobriquet from the dance. Reaching into the marigolds between us, think: How the weather takes a holiday from the dance. Loosen your frown, unbutton your anxieties; Let this lover remove all dismay from the dance. Jan 2003