It's Been Too Long

It's true, I abandoned Gooseberry. Sometimes there is only so much room on the plate. Anyone up for a revival? Say yes. Here's a start, not mine but a favorite:


Steady Now

Although things vanish, are what mark our vanishing,
we still hold on to them–ballast against the updraft
of oblivion–as I hold on to this umbrella in a world of rain,

of heavy wet greens and grays dissolving into a new
atmosphere, a sort of underwater dulled electric glow
off everything, the air itself drowning in it, breath

thickening, growing mold. Yesterday I felt the smell
of grass greeting me as across a great distance, trying
to tell me some good thing in an underglaze of memory,

some forgotten summer trying to speak its piece. It is
the way of things and it never stops, never calls a halt–
this knocking and dismantling, this uprooting, cutting out

and digging down, so tall oaks and honey locusts are
laid low and drop to earth like felled cattle, shaking
the ground we’ve taken a stand on as if it were a steady

establishment, a rock of ages to outface ruin itself, not
the provisional slippery dissolving dissolute thing it is–
which we have against all the evidence set our hearts on.

~ Eamon Grennan

straying . . .

Since there doesn't seem to be much conversation here, I've decided to start a new blog to showcase some of my recent works and thoughts. If you are wondering why I call it "the autobiography of flapjack sally," well, you'll just have to come investigate:

http://flapjacksal.tumblr.com

I hope you will read and comment. It was nice.

It begins quietly; it goes unnoticed

It begins quietly; it goes unnoticed
for a long time. Oh, these little deaths
that come to us in dreams, what cabinet
is there to hold them? Even the silkworms,
who are sensitive, I’m told, to human emotions,
go on spitting their strong fibers in mulberry trees.
And if the birds seem preoccupied and restless,
isn’t it always so? The insects all going without
knowing where they’re going to?

Now, the sirens are only heard going elsewhere
with their unmistakable slackening of pitch and panic.
No one notices because they have forgotten the word
here. There is only there. No one comes to visit,
as everyone is going, or else waiting to go.

revision

Antiope

I found a road that walks me to the sea,
and no one stops me. They know
my shame will keep me
from running.

I find a high rock to stare from—my heart
beats “distance, distance”, out
over the uninterruptible,
hushing waves.

But the nearer waters are so clear. How
can the water bear it? To be seen
straight through to her purple
spines, to every tossed
stone?

Something anyway

Trying to catch up, trying to write. Any thoughts at all are appreciated. Many thanks and hello



And then the discovery that to keep going is the thing itself.

The sun spreads out over
morning buildings.
Yesterday was the kind of day
where the moon showed up
in the afternoon
and made friends with the clouds,
so that a translucent strip of gauze
ran across its cheese-pie face.

All day we were identifying
the major world continents in loosely
formed bodies of air that shifted
between the greater ruling powers of earth,
and caused a stir in the park
when Russia covered up the sun
for a whole 5 minutes.

Oh these days, when
the manifestations of summer
saturate everything so that the moon
was just a beautiful pale rock
floating like a fingernail in the sky.

Maurice Manning reads for the Cortland Review

Have you heard of Maurice Manning? If not, I hope to convert you with fifteen minutes of pure pleasure dipped in an accent that sounds like a dream.

The wristwatch of Casey Jones

or,

how the earth learned to tell time


Like the first blood to flow
through the delta’d veins
of a giant slumbering dream:
the first trains

carried prayers—
let me never be found
to be falling down—cannonball
between far-flung towns;

afternoon could be so wide
it gave no sign
of breaking;
before we had watches

nights be so unbroken
we knew no more
than earth knew
what course our globe was taking.

The engineer
of the iron horse
rode high behind
the sweeping pilot,

into the darkness
his six-pipe whistle like Orpheus
sounded; we set our watches
by it.

In loco moveri:
Aristotle’s phrase, describing movement
by change of position
in space;

in time
we call it progress,
unreeling a schedule clear
to the horizon-crease,

and up the skies:
Casey Jones
always got her there on the
advertised,

outbellowed cows
to clear the track. His whistle,
familiar Tennessee to Mississippi,
began softly,

rose, then doubled back
to a whisper. His own watch
stopped at the time of
impact

Skull crushed,
the coroner said,
his right arm
sundered.

Suddenly,
at 3:52 AM,
the 30th of April,
1900.

Reports begin to sound
both too much
and not enough like strings of
numbers.

Ole 382 approached
the town of Vaughan;
26, 72, and 83
waited on the siding

but a scorpion tail
of four cars curled
onto the main line;
a flagman

at 3,000 feet
went by unseen or unheeded,
flares at 800, 500,
at eighty

miles per hour,
the airbrake and whistle as Casey
glimpsed the No 83’s tail
just three hundred feet shy.

The fireman,
who at his engineer’s urging
jumped to safety
remembers Casey

quite happy
at the progress The New Orleans Special
Fast Mail Train was making:
making up time

shoveling on coal
pouring on steam Casey said,
“old girl’s got her dancing
slippers on tonight”

Not a passenger was hurt.
The engine later was repaired.
Only the good engineer and
his time-piece

stopped;
in the embankment
on the track’s
east side

the imprint of the headlight,
boiler, and wheels
were visible each to the spoke;
and when these disappeared,

corn,
scattered by the wreck,
grew, each summer, for years
in the memory of the nearby fields.