This is a very straight-forward derangement (if such a thing is possible) of Amy Clampitt’s “The Edge of the Hurricane.” The source poem seems particularly apt given this year’s Atlantic hurricane season. (You can view the source poem here.)
Hurricane of the edge
Mangle and wring, drench — trample also —
can levity again yet notice? Serving
laundry as white-bleached moon, single; up hangs
nightfall, away. Packed wardrobe, cloud-bright, ends day: the debris of fouettés,
twirling in, upstands gales. Sibling fading and brightening, shade leaf lacewing
flying, footprints’ liquid fripperies — vaporous gusts point young
by crossed clearness of windowpanes. Mediterranean overhead opens
to begin transparencies, rinsed all afternoon by passing. Keep cumulus
Caribbean flounces of dark mud pieces, torn rain of tambourines, and lariats
with winds careening the wheeling.
Here is a somewhat tongue-in-cheek trace poem of D.H. Lawrence’s “Moon Memory.” (You can read the original here.)
When the fog rises in a student’s mind
grey and clammy, as in the green shadow of a copse
pooling together, and sticking to his skull –
then the tranquil, ordered thought-world
exists no more, nor ever truly existed;
this thick grey dullness
oozes, and drips seeping, drifting sideways, muggily against his skull,
on his thoughts that are verdant forest within him.
And through the sticking of the grey sponge of the fog
furry creatures enveloped plunge inward and grow dim
in muddy gloom of torpor, leaf-enveloped torpor
in the sleepy, sludge-ridden blockage of ordered thought
that has left the woods in pea soup, even in daylight.
For today’s poem, I picked up the nearest book, turned to page 17, and wrote down the first word, every seventeenth word after that, and the last word. That gave me twenty-two words, which I divided into pairs, each of which provided the first and last word of a line. Poetry by number?
remark on the way we hold
the line, with only perhaps
a faint idea what happened before
but maps were never
for us: they weren’t
something we turned to
I have no answers—I
can only stand here,
doorway agape, while she
prays to every foreign god
I’m the one to make it so
This is a derangement (an exercise from Wingbeats II) of a fragment from Edna St. Vincent Millay.
No more the broken bird beats
golden; the once-ivory box is
spoken: all your words are lovely.
Restore the secret of earth:
chemistry shall never talk
but of your music.
– from Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Memorial to D.C.: Elegy”
Today’s post is traced from D.H. Lawrence’s “Peace.” (Click here to see the source poem.)
Purpose is waiting around the block
Purpose, creamy purpose dissolved.
My life will only find purpose
when the cafe opens.
Secret, penetrating coffee,
secret as rush hour traffic,
swimming like a lovelorn mallard up the river against the tide.
Buildings, parks, cars,
always in the soft haze of coffee.
Buses inches from the corner,
and the corner just yards away from the coffee shop.
Purpose dissolved in creamy coffee around the block.
Within, deep brown coffee, always with purpose
till it opens subtly, inviting the day;
to race always through veins,
warm creamy veins.
Call it Purpose?
One of the things I (re)discovered during Lexington Poetry Month this year is how much I enjoy playing around with poems. To capitalize on the momentum and habits I’ve built up in the last few weeks, I plan to continue writing and posting daily.
In support of those intentions, I found a lovely new graphic for the month of July. I didn’t have time to paint anything since yesterday, but my daughter gave me permission to use a coloring page she made this summer.
Today’s poem is a derangement of Langston Hughes’ “Blue Monday.” (Click here to read the source poem.)
Back to the grind
Down you get, surely. Monday,
blue and old, that down-you-get Monday
will deny you anything of use.
But Sunday and Saturday sport
that-a-way. Make it late, I’ve done ate,
and working to go
Here’s another exercise from Wingbeats II. It’s called a pojack, and it involves hijacking another poem. The victim of my effort is Emily Dickinson’s “A Man may make a Remark” (no. 952).
Click here to view the original poem.
Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.
A bear may make a waffle
in itself a marvelous thing
that may prove the source of enchantment
in hidden nature seen
Let us cook with skill
let us explore with love
mystery exists in the woods
before it exists on the stove