the cabinetist | sotto voce

welcome

2004-12-30T19:21:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Cabinetist. This is part of the sotto voce tant mieux project ran by editorial director sadi ranson-polizzotti. You can find other tant mieux sites by visiting tant mieux or sotto voce and selecting from the many links there of our own and our friends. be sure to visit our home pages at www.tantmieux.squarespace.com and www.sottovocce.blogspot.com

visit tant mieux.
visit sotto voce.

thanks for visiting. to contact srp, visit tant mieux and use the Contact link from that site.

srp
autumn, 2004

the cabinetist

2004-11-29T20:25:00.000-05:00

visit the tant mieux project at www.tantmieux.squarespace.com, chosen as one of the Best of the Web by SquareSpace and a featured site. Powered by SquareSpace, written and maintained by Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti.

thanks, srp

sadi ranson-polizzotti - winter poems - the bee winter

2004-11-29T09:41:00.000-05:00

I am parched, bedrock dry.
All week I pray for rain;
some sign, the deluge baptismal
A balm that soothes
The swarm and buzz
Of the brain, head pain,
That begs to be quenched
Purified by water
Made whole and holy.
All week I read of bees.
The way they dance before
The hive, signing harvest
Honeyed sources. Even
The bees seem desperate
The queen's clover meadow
Has yellowed and dried,
Such fury in the hive.
I go to our wooden box, peer
through slated sides. It is
a home abuzz with concern.
No rain has meet our flowers,
There are no orchard apples on which to alight.
The noise of swarm other worldly,
A heated knot of bodies, the bees
dance for rain, and like me,
They wish and they will it.

By Friday we are still...
I see bodies one by one,
Brought with such solemnity
to the alighting Board, the dry
and dirty dead are carried out,
a private funeral march, I hear Chopin.
We are each of us entranced
That we hardly notice the greys
Rolling in, the rough frame of nimbus
As it passes ocean's line
and the first drops fall.
I stand in my bridal whites, my smoker
Clouding up the sky until the clouds
Spill over and the rain comes hard,
Dances on the tin roof
of the hive, of the house.

sadi ranson-polizzotti - winter poems - the bee winter

sadi ranson-polizzotti - winter poems - geometry

2004-11-29T09:38:00.000-05:00

For days now, I've turned around the garden stone and thought about the whole thing of it. I glide smooth, quick circles, an orbit around the birdbath and the koi pond, and still I see no way in which what you want to be can be. You have left out the variables, the a the b the c, the x axis and y may indeed intersect, but at which point and why? And if they do, are they even headed in the same direction? If they intersect then they are not parallel lines as is needed to sustain love. Love runs parallel, it runs a steady course and forever. You are all triangles, hard-edged and sharp. A love that would leave me raw and bleeding. The garden stone says nothing, only measures the angle of the sun as she drops from the sky, faster now, night coming down hard and all about me. The bits of it like black silks I try to pick up to sew the sky back together, or perhaps I'll tuck it away and live in perpetual day. In any event, the equation is like this; if you are in a car going thirty miles and hour heading east, and I am in a car going about hundred heading west, then in time I may pass you, provided we began our journey at the same time and are on the same road heading to destinations at the end of each. But we must have started at the same time, otherwise, we could and would, easily miss each oth

hit return - part 1

2004-10-24T20:40:00.001-04:00

On return you are cold.
Unmovable as a statue
Eyes unseeing, you point
Due East, focused on
Some other. That roman
Profile I have loved is
Unmovable. You watch
For the setting of the sun.
Your marbled skin
an Indochine sheen.
You glisten gold
yet remain inanimate.
Some prior commitment
keeps you silent,
a slippery Medusa.
I was warned not to look,
Yet some devil made me.
She and I locked in a room
Her red-brown eyes flaring.
I felt my blood run cold,
Every able muscle turn
And I was stone, grey and
Frozen. The damage
Had been done, the death-
Bell tolled. I heard my
Name in its ring,
Again and again and again.

summer 1979

2004-10-24T20:40:00.000-04:00

It was the summer of ‘79
And the radio played
Baker Street again and again
And our parents hosted
Those parties, to which
We remained uninvited,
Banished to the sidelines
We watched those sparkling
Society ladies all bright
In their silk Puccis while
Their husbands, all grins
as gin clinked in glasses
And summer was full on
And King Crimson told us
We were all “Outta sight”
All lit by Harvest moon
orange and bright. We were
banished to childhood, no
choice but to watch, so
we dove, casting blue-mirrored
crystals that marked
each plunge to the pool
and we broke the light-
ceilinged surface and took
to the warmth of the water
comfort from late summer
chill. Even our parents
Your father, my mother
Cast aside their past differences
Called a truce to their war
We knew later we’d hear them
As they made love to make up,
Our mother’s “Oh, Daddy”,
The slap and the tickle
That later we’d mimic and howl
with the all of it.

It was the summer I took
To the the high board, all fearless
backflips, forward tumbles,
ferocious in youth
You were my fearless protector,
Remember?
All those salt, chlorine nights,
How we cruised the soft boards
Watched the girls on the walk
their Bonne Bell Lipsmackers
on strings about their necks,
their pink shimmer eyeshadow
smooth and winking to the night.
God how I wanted to be them.
A full grown girl, all tits and hips
not a slip of the girl-child I was.
I was the awkward exotic,
Continental and foreign, blonded
And sun-bleached, you sister;
bridging their world and ours,
my new breast swell, perfume smell,
I blushed to the look of any boy.

It was the summer of cricket
Throb, of bicycle rides down
Hollyhocked roads, where bright
Tigerlilies waved and we charged
From the house like prisoners
Granted release and I rode
On your handlebars, perched
There on your Gladiator,
Like a small bird in the moment
Just before it takes flight.

the light hour

2004-10-24T20:37:00.000-04:00

It is the light hour.
Another day born.
Hope exists. Hear it
In leaf rustle, bird
Song. The poet
Sits alone. Hair
Tenting the page.
Each typed word
Has its place.
Her mind is stone
Sharp and bladed.
A day is eked out.
Word by word.
She fingers each
Letter. It is a language
Born of blood, celtic
Iron-rich. It is thick
With her history.
Somewhere, her
Country beats time.
It goes on without
Her. The clocks
Are set forward.
There the cafés
Speak of teatime
And half-pints.
The clouds rolling,
Slide out. They parse
The miles between
Here, there. Listen:
In the past, she sighs,
Offers sweet screams
To the air, flush with
Love in Pressigny.
The sheets still speak
Of her perfume. Her poem,
Left by the bedside,
The backward, Arabic
Slant of her writing;
It too, wishes to stay.
The old, stone house
Is pregnant with her
Language. This American
Daybreak is blank, blunting.
The poet sits alone,
Hair tenting the page
Yellow-green eyes
That turn men to stone.
Elsewhere, she smiles
At her lover.

fox hunter

2004-10-24T20:31:00.000-04:00

We are the quick and the dead.
No recognition, no kin.
You do not know me.
I am Machievelli’s dark bride
Decked out in my blacks, all
Cunning and wild. Alliances
Broken. Bitch, stone in heart’s
Place. It is cold here. I was
Raised on fox blood, visceral
and primal; you, just one more
victim. A sheep-flock dog,
lost and weak.

I have no mercy.

You are no more kin
Than him, or him. You are
Emboldened by passion, all
Lust and want. You see a fox
Cub, no threat. Such mistake.
You miss the fiery rage of
Romulus, twin-tired and weary
Warning: stand back from my
Dark den. Still, a hunter, you
Approach. Think I am tonight’s
Good feast. Want me arrow-
Pierced and leg hold, to stroke
My soft fur. It is your dream.
You are outlined against the day’s
Grey, early prey. This is the story
In which, the hunter dreams of
Campside stories, the hero and
The victory in which he outfoxes
The fox, in which the fox sees
His carotid, pulsing with life’s
Blood, the neckbone she’ll break
The Sunday wishbone snap that
Echoes, the sound filling afternoon
Air, in which the geese take flight,
The hunter’s eyes snap shut,
The cloud’s burst apart and a gentle rain falls.

october song

2004-10-20T13:42:00.000-04:00

Had he seen me coming,
my scottish face so open and blank.
Had i looked lost, proverbial deer
or dear, headlight-frozen
unmovable, requiring some guidance.
He took my arm, striaght and began
the finger loop of three threads
of different color, he chanted
a Kabbalah song and syllable sound
that hypnotized, it drummed hard
as sorrow, the sound of the day.
Each turn of know, a promise-spell
we chant the incantations, daily
deliberations that today prove hard
to bear. You too near. Each
crimson knot sharp with the ring
of your name - some strong refusal.
No. I will not say it. You
became such things, but how
arriving wrapped in grey and wind,
the autumn's chestnut tree rustle
that envelops early lovers.
I move, backing away so slowly
and watch as you recede on my horizon.

The wedding

2004-10-19T14:10:00.000-04:00

I remember the day
as hot as i was anxious
eager to take you as my
husband, eyes brimming
with tears, i was your lover
and a maid, a soon to be
wife when the crowd arrived
in my small room, my army
of attendants to see what
should be done was done,
my hair pinned with ninety-
nine clips, surely symbolic
but of what? I shimmied
into my princess gown with
earrings and a necklace
you had given, my kiss-me
crimson lips primed for
first touch of lip and holy
smack of marriage. Elsewhere,
you walked and worried,
thinking of your last day
of freedom unknowing
it was this that i wanted
to give.

We would be two souls
united by a god you did
not believe in, and i thought
my belief would be enough
to carry us through, so
i entered the church, sun
streaming through the colored
glass and was sure that something
holy and above was to take
place; felt it with all my Celtic
enthusiasm, never really
knowing the hesitancy
you felt. You gave no look
to betray the inner-soul
your panic or your want
of some other. Time would
bear it out. No amount
of thurible incense would
smoke out your demons
those hidden in soul’s
Labyrinth, beckoning
and olive-sinned. No.
It was only me; your too
plump and Scottish bride,
all ginger freckles and nerves
my princess gown unfitting
sorry disappointment i saw
register in your eye, quick
blink. I paid no heed. Proceed,
said "I will" at every prompt,
Episcopal to the end, i believed
i prayed for some miracle
the one that would bear it out
and with a kiss, sealed our fate.

bitter winter

2004-10-19T14:07:00.000-04:00

All that bitter winter she was my jailer.
No more than an asiatic poppy, lethal
with her opium. she ran me ragged
until I could run no more as if
all will had left and I gave up.
For months I had refused to leave
that room, barricaded by my books
the great dead. Even when the jailer
left I was not free.
I lay in place, arm and palms outstretched
face up, I pointed my body due north
and let the biting winds of january
rape me cold.
There was nothing left to do. Once,
I thought you were mine and now
some other I had conjured had robbed
of all we had. You told yourself
I was dying and so, began
to rebuild. Each night, I listened
as the ragged waves beat the seawall.
You did all you could do. Tried to be
my nursemaid and I opened to you,
a baby bird, hungry for your love,
for some affection. A bride, I had
shed my whites, became some other,
hungry ghost, I rattled to no avail
and when the shouting stopped,
the revelation spoken all I had left
were the awful racking sobs that kept
you awake night after night in your
room across the hall where you’d been
banished, when all I wanted was your
comfort, your love. Was you.
Some demon had taken hold
charmed you with a half-hearted spell
but you believed and so… it worked.
I could not fight this foreign thing;
the language stuck in my throat.
And every day, every night neither
of us knew which was worse;
your coming or your going.
Departures and arrivals all traumatic.
What I remember most is how we both
saw that I was breakable - had snapped at last
You made me tea to make me whole,
made love and coaxed one glimpse
of life from so much sorrow.

Recognition

2004-10-09T17:04:00.000-04:00

He could have been you,
all chestnut waves, an intellectual’s
beard, the cover of youth, all poise
and pose, no thought of bride. He is
as free as you want, his sight set
on some lovely, blonde and cameo,
she who is lucky for his love, his touch.

I can see it:
her hair tenting their kiss,
how they move with such grace.
They are the day’s perfect
lovers. No thought beyond. What
if then, I had known you.
Would our glance have passed
skimmed the quick moment
recognition lacking, signals
jammed. Ships that never once
pass in the night.

ian's nightmare

2004-10-09T16:39:00.000-04:00

The whole time you are away
I cannot resist your voice. I seek
it on your message tape and cell phone.
It was all, but all ones and zeros
backed to silvered tape
I heard your motor whirr
You were broken down to mathematics,
all sharp lines and edges. Careful!
One could lose an ear.
Such code is soul absorbing, it was you,
but not you. Even your letters arrived
typed, filtered through electric servers
they hummed with your message
yet it never came through the way
it did when you wrote and the small
curve of your pen drew us as stick
figures named, Bat and Cat,
I was the C to your B, a kid sister
close behind, snotty & tearful
eager for your love,
symbiotic, i felt your dread
when you dreamt that number 7
was out to get you; chasing
through field to dark wood
and you, you woke screaming and I
held you till the numbers retreated.
Till the sands of time slipped back,
till your voice came to me and we
were united, indivisible, twin.

rainy day prophecy

2004-10-09T16:37:00.000-04:00

The rain will not address me.
It will only whisper: Elsewhere,
I fall. Secrets concealed behind
some watery shield. The brownstone
tome. Some other heart beats, pink,
raw. He is the rain’s dark
martyr and like the rain,
whispers secrets.

You are uninvited. Closed in
your lockbox. Streaks blue
the vision. Unclear. A psychic’s
half-prophecy. The clouds sheet
all. Lovers wrapped in cotton;
A mackerel sky. A fish eye, dream
of a fetus conjured by you. Conceived
by two. Lightning brights the land,
halogen white. It is blank. Blank
and soundless. Nothing left for you here.

You rise through the darkness like helium.

2004-10-06T15:34:00.000-04:00

The milk is back. As in Paris,
I am filling again with something
that must be sweet, good.
I find it as I drive, the highway
blurring, the speedometer
pricking ninety-five, the
wetness there. This time, you are
gone. I cannot speak or write
of love between us. does it bridge
such distance, love? I feel it
but know that our elastic band
can only stretch so far. Hadn’t
you once said it had broken?
By some awful miracle, we had
lost that thing that bound us
and found ourselves alone, walking
wounded, zombified by grief
the dark, swollen eyes of the lost.

I am nothing without you.
We say it is wrong to need,
to have to have, as if in having
or needing there were a choice
as if any man were truly an island.
I am an isthmus, sea crashing
on three sides, she throws her
grey silks, sucks hard and rough
leaves me raw and dizzied.

The land will not let her have me.
It has attached, the way you
put your arms on my waist
hold me firm in a gale. Your hard
ness pressing. I am all want
This is need.
Without you, I am the sea’s dark
mermaid, asleep in a fossil-curl
waiting for the risen tide,
the waves to lick, the sleep to calm.

2004-10-06T15:25:00.000-04:00

Nothing is safe from these.
They choke all. a tap root
reaching ever deeper, dives
for the source, sucks the bone
dry. Creeping vines, lies, black
white. There will be secrets
unconfessed, the penance left -
unserved, litany unsaid.
They burn bright blue, below.

A season of hell is upon us.

alone

2004-10-05T22:20:00.000-04:00

I have almost nothing.
I have everything.
Right now, your cigarette,
that wraps me in its smoke.
This perfume you offer, scented unguent
I use as second skin, a gift!
the violin, tunes I play
I keep the devil away.
The clock face is blank.
I see our reflection in the doorknob.

transatlantic call

2004-10-05T18:50:00.000-04:00

Gone are the days of atmospheric
hiss, the sound of a shell held
to the ear. Your message is clear,
too close almost, as if you were with me.
Through the jingledy jangeldy phone
you touch me. Tired, but so alive
your voice not quite enough to sustain.
Your hello, love; your goodnight darling
it’s all too close, I could almost touch you.

Instead, I hold your goodnight close.
walk to the beach where I find a shell.
Hold it close to my ear, amidst hiss,
ocean’s roar, I listen for the sound of you
Think I hear you softly signing a goodnight
song.

I shiver to the cold, carry
you home in my pocket.

2004-10-04T13:53:00.000-04:00

The questions which
you say mean nothing that
I know mean everything.
You tend to me the way
a lion tends to his females
always needing to know
where one is in order that
he may be with some other.

If then my hours are thus
knowing i will be suitably
occupied you are then free
to do those things which
we know you do, but that
you insist you do not do
because time does not
permit.

Such practical
matter it be, then where
I am provides guarantee
of hours unfettered, the
morning greys, blocked days
routine created, allowing
promise to take that thing
that you say is not
there, but find anyway:

You then, able to take
to some other, who,
in the hours now emptied
for she of whom
we do not speak explicitly
because to do so would
be too explicit, though
it is, of course, implicit.

You know that I know
and I know that
you know. Game in which
I am to pretend to
believe though, now,
we acknowledge a lie. Still,
my silence is tacit, as if
I created this
routine in order that
another may find another.
Fall to one and do such
things of which
we do not speak.

No Reply

2004-10-02T14:26:00.000-04:00

I am stiffened with fear.
The old dark funk still
echoes with the words
of the brilliant, the loved.
What could I possibly
contribute. At last,
I have only these few
words, dear. This after
so many, so lovely.

I find myself blank.
We let the all of it
get away.

Never once will you sit
where I sit now,
an acolyte of apostolic
succession; I who keep
alive the chain. Touch
the shoulders of the past.

There will be no response.
You lay quiet and coiled;
A viper. A sting of words
ready to spring, but not
this time. Sweetness
has left.

My words are met with silence.
Silence and the tinsel
smell of dynamite
in the moment just before
silence deafens.

this poem first appeared on Blogcritics, October, 2004

The false prophet of autumn

2004-10-02T14:24:00.000-04:00

She is the perfect dupe
a simple foreign rube.
She of attitude and accent.
Your gimmick of the moment.
A pure and perfect acolyte,
she spends her days lighting
candles, whoring on your altar.

I always knew you were no atheist.
Your tastes run too catholic.
The hum-drum predictability
of sin and absolution. Still, you
never repent. You are your own
perfect prophet. Groupies gathered
at your feet.

They hang on words
that mean nothing, drink your
blood of Christ Kool-Aid, kneel
for a glimpse of their two-bit
idol, their mouths in expectant
Os. They sing allullujah glories.

Hush now! I see you descend
A false prophet walks among us!
Everybody, Amen.

death flag

2004-10-02T14:22:00.000-04:00

the pills are white, pale blue
such soothing colors.
Why did nobody tell me:
death is not black, but a
palette. A pastel promise
of relief as you give up
each belief.

There is no turning back.
The decision is made.
Death's handmaid, you know
your art cold. The lockbox
combination. Guard it with
your life.

The day has not arrived.
You wait for some occassion.
A safe distance. No savior
in sight. The knight has fallen.
All you see now is death,
a horse charging at you, white.
White, white and furious.

I'm

2004-09-27T21:10:00.000-04:00

I’m not the one you thought
oh no you figured it out you
thought but ho, you were
wrong to think, such thoughts
they steer off course,
a car I once crashed
but on purpose, a field,the cows
look curiously on and I sat
head to the wheel and sang
my mourning song. the long-
held tears sprung forth, well-springs
fresh Spring is about to appear
they say, and all I can think
is the truth that I know that
in the greening of trees, more
hearts will die, the month of May
a fade day. There’s nothing
nothing at all to recommend
this mindset. It bangs, bleeds in
a contusion that nobody sees
as it seeps throughout the skin
and the grass flows mournfully
southward to a town i once
was in, where I felt it all would
begin. It didn’t. Or wouldn’t
our couldn’t. One of the n’ts
that suggest You have failed.
The car idles. Coughs its exhaust.
Nothing has changed, except
now spit tire mud, stuck in a field
No help, no person in sight. Find
a phone box. The line will be busy.

You have been warned.

you're

2004-09-27T18:09:00.000-04:00

sweet, untouchable, marble
and solid. it’s always to you
that I turn. you’re a fast-pace
runner, streaking joy through
my street, your bicycle wheel
click-clacking the play card we
pegged on your spoke. remember,
how we spoke on the roof, drank
tea. remember that? remember me?

you’re the touchstone, the reference
the referee, always with some sage
wisdom, your old Cherokee
blood turning in your vein
versing down your arm, the steel
plate that says, Someone here
died. When you died, I died too,
I felt it, felt you leaving shouted

No! and you returned as if by some
magic incantation I had conjured
you home. Touch stone, never leave
say you’ll always be with me.
Twin, thin, greyed and lovely
cousin, brother, lover. I turn
to you, in the night, in the day
light I sway and when I fall it is
you who is there to break it
as if you know I would shatter
on impact.

you’re the one,
the number one fan, the one
who always understands the sparks
that light so bright to you they
are the Champs Elysees, they say
all roads lead to Paris. I see you
biking fast around the columns,
lighting up the night.

for i.d.b.

this is now

2004-09-27T18:08:00.000-04:00

There is always someone,
one who wants to smash,
crash their way to the heart
rip the sides, a fetus tearing
its way, it pushes hard against
the sides, the pain of it crashing
to your core like a wave
on Winthrop beach. I am sucked
by your current. I succumb,
give in, give over and fall
to the water, waves washing
over me. I can taste the slick wet
brine of weed and sea. I’m
no mother. No, not me. I am
only an apparition. A vision
you once had of such fertile
goddess, white-breasted and calm.

I had you going.

I am a hag, dried up. A prune
that geezers go for. It’s what
they want. What they make
their peace with. Not i. never.
I will never give in to this image
of what I should be, what I’m not
have you forgotten who you deal
with. Napoleon’s bitter sister,
twisted brain, the ankle sprain
the life that contrived to keep me
alive when though I did not want
it. though I crawled to the basement
and coiled tight with my blanket
and took your lock-box pills
sleep washed over me like warm
milk and I was good again.
But I rose, leaner but scarred yes.
Others looked in shock but not i.
I beared myself with no affect.
It didn’t matter. it didn’t matter.
I was risen, I had been at death’s
door and he had pushed me back
with such force that I knew he
felt something for me beyond
a simple rejection. There was
passion in that push, by God I
felt it, I did. I did.

Never underestimate the power
of not having. How it causes
the brain spark, the lark’s song
the mourning dove who sings
each morning her gentle
coo that so mournful; she has lost
never found.

This is life. This is how it is.

call home

2004-09-27T18:05:00.000-04:00

Paris, September 22, 2004

In three hours, Paris will simple be
and we, we will be gone, our tea cups
dry, our linens stacked, bags packed.
We leave, the heart of the bed faintly…
still… of love. We journey home to a land
that even now is still foreign.
Still, my tall and pale tapers
burn, waxed and white with holiness
They spark from Notredame to Sacre
Coeur, bridge our return, we go step-
-to-step, arm hooked in arm this park,
this air, this sky, this day, this path,
this Paris, this place that we now
call home.

redirect - france

2004-09-24T10:49:00.000-04:00

Because of the sheer volume and subject matter of the France project poems, i have given them their own link and section of the sotto voce at www.tantmieuxparis.blogspot.com

The France poems represent a diversion from the work that has come before in both subject matter and the way in which it is handled. The work here on that you will find by following the above link reads more like a chant or an ancient spell, often repeating rhyme and words to specific effect that leaves, hopefully, a lasting impression, rather like a litany or vesper chant. For two weeks, details of the journey were recorded as they occurred. The work is at times incredibly joyful, even euphoric and hopeful, and other times a contained and concise anger that has boiled down to a hard lump that sticks in the throat. Whatever the case, the goal of each is to get the heart of each moment, regardless of subject, and find that jewel. That is what the best poetry strives to achieve, and whether or not i have accomplished that in the France poems or in any of these poems, it is always the goal as it is, no doubt, for every poet. Whether we succeed or fail, it is in the trying and the "leavening" that we find our satisfaction. We carry ourselves through the day with the rhyme and meter of each poem, carrying ourselves in step with the best poetry's hypnotic chant. it is what every poet strives for, and whether i have accomplished that here or not, i can say with absolute certainty that i have tried and that each day, i continue to hunt for these small and precious stones, dust them off, label and mark them, present them for you here.

To read the France poems, hit this return to www.tantmieuxparis.blogspot.com.

a bien tot

srp
copyright, september, 2004

2004-09-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

eiffel

immigrant's song

2004-09-10T13:39:00.000-04:00

All these years to get here:
point of departure at the point
du jour and I am steeled as
an Olympian before the first dive.
Legs and arms tight as high-
tension wires, thick veined marble
of my skin, and if I peeled it back would
it reveal the metaphysical under-
pinings of me?

We’ve scrambled shores-edge,
shored the edges up, just in case
we find ourselves awash in a past
we never wanted to be part of.
My uncles still visiting Chinese
brothels, marrying the just-of-age
girls in plaid skirts who tend pubs
in Marlybourne. The flea-bit dogs
just looking for a scratch, my grand-
parents looking for the same and more
to escape the Labour hell, pin their
hopes, instead, on America. On me.

A swallowtail, a monarch, ready to
aggregate, immigrate and Yes, take
it all on. We’ll leave behind our bland
British Cortina, ,white with a red vinyl
interior that every summer stole
the top layer of skin from the back
of my white thighs. And here we are,
in America, land of dreams, where
the streets aren’t paved with gold.
Where we can be anything, teenager
of the world, petulant and loud
buzzing with the promise of the new.

midsummer dream

2004-09-09T11:55:00.000-04:00

As usual and of course
the flowers are in bloom:
jasmine, tiger lily,
the hollyhocks we planted,
tall soldiersby the fence,
the rolling sweetland
breathing hayfield
and earthand

for the first time, I feel alive.
Cousin, brother, lover,
hair and eyes like mine,
meet as the day
wanes the moon wax,
the cricket throb of night
and two strong hearts
beat the warrior drum of love.

come friends | summer dinner party

2004-09-09T11:47:00.000-04:00

Come friends,
let us eat and drink
while we still can.
while we are still young -
ready to draw forth
the light, the soft, saturated
candle that flings
its scent unto the night.
Let as laugh at things
preposterous and speak
of times notorious,
those of which we are
remembered.

How far we have come, friend
through years we thought
would never end;
through times of strife
and different wife;
of hardship and happiness both.
Tonight we'll suck
life's marrow
From deep the pallid
bone indulge each
the other in story
in tone and tome sublime,
draw forth the rich a
nd claret wine - it runs
between our teeth, '
warms the throat,
the heart, brings
us full-circle to the
start the place that
tells of youth and foolishness.

How little we knew then.
He said, To be young
is to be sad
to be young is to be high.

So, friend, do not look back:
look forward to the light.
Think not of slight,
of nights once dark.
Instead, eat now
the bread sup on soft
communion wash back
with wine the sin.
Record this moment
for posterity;
capture rich the night
on silvered film;
those clips that flow
behind us streaking
tinseled ribbons through
the cool september night
the late summer cloud pass
the wild jasmine in the garden
the silver in our hair,
the children at our feet,
the bright laughter,
words we string together;
these things that say:

We are here.
This is now.

sadi ranson-polizzotti written after the dinner party on September 4th, 2004. This poem is dedicated to all who were present.

summer friends

2004-09-08T13:01:00.000-04:00

Summer visit

Come friends,
let us eat and drink
while we still can. while
we are still young -
ready to draw forth the light,
the soft, saturated candle
that flings its scent unto the night.
Let as laugh at things preposterous
and speak of times notorious,
those of which we are remembered.
How far we have come, friend
through years we thought
would never end; through times
of strife and different wife;
of hardship and happiness both.
Tonight we'll suck life's marrow
From deep the pallid bone
indulge each the other in story
in tone and tome
sublime, draw forth the rich
and claret wine - it runs between
our teeth, warms the throat, the heart,
brings us full-circle to the start
the place that tells of youth and foolishness.
How little we knew then. He said,
To be young is to be sad
to be young is to be high.

So, friend, do not look back:
look forward to the light. Think not
of slight, of nights once dark.
Instead, eat now the bread
sup on soft communion
wash back with wine the sin.
Record this moment for posterity;
capture rich the night
on silvered film; those clips
that flow behind us
streaking tinseled ribbons
through the cool september night
the late summer cloud pass
the wild jasmine in the garden
the silver in our hair, the children
at our feet, the bright laughter,
words we string together;
these things that say:
We are here. This is now.

tropical depression

2004-09-08T11:19:00.000-04:00

she arrived like a gale
with no advance warning
all high winds - a deluge
she spit tropical depression
soaked our every thing.

What had we done wrong?
Had we forgotten
to batten down the hatches
Build the heavy dam.
There was no point really
How could we fight nature?
What will be will be, you said
And i, like any good sailor,
would try to ride it out,
I would go down
with my vessel, both of us
broken, while you pulled
taught your sails to the wind,
skimmed the sea's surface
and rode through the night
clipping fast her deep
waves as if you two were
working in concert,
you accepted her fury.

It signified nothing, I knew,
as I crashed, soaked and limp,
was beaten against the seawall
a small piece of driftwood
you would teach me my lesson.
Sand the rough edges,
Smooth the hard knots;
until i became
the shape of your desire.
An ornament on you shelf.

the cabinetist | sotto voce

2004-09-06T22:23:00.000-04:00

the cabinetist | sotto voce

tropical depression

2004-09-06T22:08:00.000-04:00

she arrived like a gale
with no advance warning
all high winds - a deluge
she spit tropical depression
soaked our every thing.

What had we done wrong?
Had we forgotten
to batten down the hatches
Build the heavy dam.
There was no point really
How could we fight nature?
What will be will be, you said
And i, like any good sailor,
would try to ride it out,
I would go down
with my vessel, both of us
broken, while you pulled
taught your sails to the wind,
skimmed the sea's surface
and rode through the night
clipping fast her deep waves
as if you two were working
in concert, you accepted her fury.

It signified nothing, I knew,
as I crashed, soaked and limp,
was beaten against the seawall
a small piece of driftwood
you would teach me my lesson.
Sand the rough edges,
Smooth the hard knots;
until i became
the shape of your desire.
An ornament on you shelf.

audio blog - hear aloud Twin & Contrition

2004-09-03T16:25:00.000-04:00

Hear audio blog readings of poetry on sotto voce from the book The Cabinetist. More poems can be accessed through our sister site, tant mieux at www.tantmieux.squarespace.com

http://sottovocce.blogspot.com/2004/09/audio-blog-hear-aloud-twin-contrition.html

rush hour epiphany

2004-09-02T16:20:00.000-04:00

The rain keeps all things anonymous.
The black umbrella shields, rubber skins,
all pass without word. Without incidence.
If this grey keeps up and you don’t arrive soon
I just might have to explode.

But when you arrive you arrive,
and it’s as though all the pigeons turn around
and head for their rooftops and all the stockings on my line
come unpegged in a final break for freedom
to Paris where they’ll dance the can-can.

But you arrive.

Your face still suntanned,
hair curling from beneath your hood.
Yes, my memory is accurate.
You are lovely.

twin

2004-09-01T17:44:00.000-04:00

lit.org
newly published poem. please visit http://www.lit.org/view/17312 to see publication of "Twin."

for nine months
I knew only you.
we of same egg and primal brew.
still now I feel the ache
of the whole now halved.
recall how we rode silver
horses quick through bright
acres of stars and night
broth, before the force the blood
-rush ripped you from the womb.

we had never heard you cry.
I lived as you died
saw other mother
with her blue Madonna tears.
her grief knew no bounds.
the heart is not satisfied with half.
I drag the memory of you,
a boiled wool coat I can’t shake off.
she said, “The poet must die
so that others may live.”
who then is the poet, Caleb.
Do I live as two? My vain,
crude words running
currents through the heart
they seek to shock to life,
each worda measure of
your eye’s milky lid
as you turn to the light,
bear the inky
eclipse of your iris,
half revealed as each
word spews sparks electrical
as it skids fast to the horizon

www.sottovocce.blogspot.com
www.cabinetist.blogspot.com
http://tantmieux.squarespace.com/
http://www.lit.org/view/17312

rewind

2004-09-01T17:15:00.000-04:00

you wish you could
rewind. go back to
that day, hour, minute,
split-second cloud pass
before you kissed her.
because for so long
your lips have known
only mine, explored
the hallowed places
of my once sacred
body. communion of
two. i want my love
to absolve, be the balm
holy unction that cleans
the false heart. it’s strange
how a stranger can
draw near. a flimsy
web, blown crooked
by the wind. i can see
you there. the horrible
sight of your mouth
meeting hers. i want
to reach through the day.
stop you because i know
that you’ll be sorry. but
i can’t. but know this;
that i would use my body
to rub the whole thing
out, lay my hands on and
heal this gentle, tender
marriage. this ill, frightened
love. do you see
what you have done?
can you feel the tremor?
my heart as it breaks,
breaking each morning
with every break of day.

funeral for a friend

2004-08-31T19:00:00.000-04:00

funeral for a friend
for b.s.
Let us turn our wet winter
blacks to the wind. Close our ears
to the funereal din. Someone
muffle please the bell's heavy
clapper, let this toll
be one of silence.
we've no want of joy today.

Let the flowers not bloom,
nor the moon wax heavy.
Let the skies remain mauve grey
let the rain be our baptism.
please, let’s not speak of heaven
there is no comfort on this day.
Permit us to believe it is not he
we lower to the course and heavy
earth. Let us know his soul has left
risen to the light.

So, put away the polished silver
and pack away the fine, bone china
Leave the clocks uwound,
no chimes to fill our sound.
Remove the ribbons from your hair.
One of us has died.

love's whore

2004-08-31T17:10:00.000-04:00

only love’s whore
can know the quick one-
two of the heart. she knows
of black hemorrhage, the thick
blood that curdles, flows
backward through the valve.
Remember seas crossed
how you shook in your deckchair
how your eyes looked at nothing.

You were never glorious,
glowing warm the way
the loved are. You’re are love’s
dark twin. The fetid sister of want
who never gets. Your love has lost
the way. Turns from the black,
brooding quay. It's the garrote
that tightens. Twists the heart
until it breaks, leaving no
room for reply. Swallows
death white and small
breathe deep the sea air,
this is your birth right after all.

The last thing you see is his back,
proud and turned defiantly
against you, the wave of
his hair, silver-grey sucking
in the light, he draws the sea
mist to his lungs, looks to
the shore, his strong, soft
profile bearing a secure smile
as he prepares to begin again.

mid summer dream

2004-08-30T15:02:00.000-04:00

As usual and of course
the flowers are in bloom:
jasmine, tiger lily, the holly
hocks we planted, tall soldiers
by the fence, the rolling sweet
land breathing hayfield and earth
and for the first time, I feel alive.
Cousin, brother, lover, hair
and eyes like mine, meet as the day
wanes the moon wax, the cricket
throb of night and two strong hearts
beat the warrior drum of love.

allons y

2004-08-29T18:49:00.000-04:00

one of the pigeon french poems

Ce’st tu que je recherché
Par ou, I seek you out
Je vive in these reflects
Tremousse and alight. A flight
Qui va a Paris, par la
Will we make love, amantes
The petite oiselets will gather
Near the white fenetre
We’ll courrons down the rue
For deux semaines a Paris
Une chambre avec a view.

geography

2004-08-29T18:27:00.000-04:00

you dog howls at my moon
yet it pays no attention.
Runs the usual cycle of wax, wane
drawing with it the phosphene tides
that lick every exotic coastline
your palm trees bend to my banks
blowing soft greens to my slated blue.

contrition

2004-08-28T17:55:00.000-04:00

How little you know of contrition.
The humble self-discipline that turns
boys into men, makes them humble
giants, colossus. Instead you sulk, petulant
child, refusing any sin, any betrayal
of the heart.

You tell me it’s possible to fuck without loving,
I think, to love without fucking.
You prove each a thousand times
Suck the wafer that will lead to autonomy.

I could show you a greater love
a love of exception and inclusion.
the sacrament of marriage
in which these two exist,
two willing acolytes, we light
the thurible coals and breathe
the air of fiery frankincense.
do you not yet know that one can be
both virgin and whore
your lover, your mother

for every time you turned away
I took the sacristy and sought
absolution strong and pure,
a balm to soothe my dark heart
raw and ripe with sorrow.

in this dream you do not fall
to temptation. You see the slick
oils of medusa, putrid and
suffocating to the last. Nothing
you want is there.

I prayed some miracle
of transubstantiation
that would reveal me as I was
the once-pretty bride, pale
and ginger in the late-Spring light.
we would begin again.
make love for absolution,
lick clean the sore wounds
shed the soft tears of holy
water as we fuck away the years.
until it is done: until the heart unfurls.

twin

2004-08-28T17:22:00.000-04:00

Twin

for nine months I knew only you.
we of same egg and primal brew.
still now I feel the ache
of the whole now halved.
recall how we rode silver horses
quick through bright acres of stars
and night broth, before the force
the blood-rush ripped you from the womb.
we had never heard you cry.

I lived as you died
saw other mother
with her blue Madonna tears.
her grief knew no bounds.
the heart is not satisfied with half.

I drag the memory of you,
a boiled wool coat I can’t shake off.
she said, “The poet must die so that others may live.”
who then is the poet, Caleb. Do I
live as two? My vain, crude words
running currents through the heart
they seek to shock to life, each word
a measure of your eye’s milky lid
as you turn to the light, bear the inky
eclipse of your iris, half revealed
as each word spews sparks electrical
as it skids fast to the horizon.

chopin's fugue

2004-08-28T16:58:00.000-04:00

Why these days of body
Seize, body piss. Bite the belts
Silver buckle and suckle life
From leather as you fall
Your face pall green pistachio.
Painted epileptic you know
Of worlds divine, sings unseen
By others, always seen by you.

First you rose, palms and soles
Alight, you flew closer seeking
Light, the sun’s hot rays
Bubbling your wings hot wax
A double-dutch burner of treachery.
Onlookers gather to see this saint
- Joan of Arc - who takes one
For the team every time.

It had to pass. That moment when
The crowd cried and clapped for encore.
After all, you were born to this:
It is your birth right, a solemn vow
You never took but accepted nonetheless.

They jeered as you began your steep descent
your eyes wet with the galaxies,
stars that glowed soft
in their milky-white orbit.
You fall as one disgraced,
your quick descent through the night,
your ears full with the sound of
Lilting hallelujahs and dulcet Amens.

night falls fast

2004-08-27T14:40:00.000-04:00

This near stranger,
near to you, your body
crushed against
hers, beating a fury
you cannot reconcile
Eros, domesticity. After,
you rest, the window
cracked, breathing the gray
city streets. You avoid
her gaze, the same way
you will refuse to meet
mine, Monson slate, questioning,
the moment of reckoning,
the lost afternoons,
the awful blush that colors cheek
when you dare speak her name
the one that feels hot
on my tongue; burns tip
to palate. A name that surely
you uttered in the long, winter
months, before my mouth
formed the words.

Who is she to you? This
ordinary woman. She who
evokes hallowed passion.
Who have I become?
Redrawn by your hand
erased in a moment,
so simply and cleanly
as if i ceased to exist.

How do you take her? Pushed,
firm against brick walls just as
you held me firm to the stone
of the episcopal church as the rain
was a deluge one night in the Spring.
Is her taste quince and pomegranate,
bitter winter fruit, Do you stroke
her hair, wipe her tears, whisper,
‘shhh…all will be alright’
Who are you with her?
The lover your dare dream
Shedding heavy cloak of
husband, a word you’ve come
to despise, your marriage slips
fine sand, runs quick
through your fingers.

At home I count the stars
They fall, one by one
darkening this autumn sky.

~ sotto voce ~ | grand mal: strange love | journeys as a cancer patient

2004-08-27T12:40:00.000-04:00

~ sotto voce ~ | grand mal: strange love | journeys as a cancer patient

In The Heart of the Afternoon

2004-08-26T13:35:00.000-04:00

I remember the gentle tap
Of my shoes on cobbled stone
On the linden-lined street
That led to the brownstone
Where we’d meet.
The balmy July air, heavy with pollen
And mowed grass. The auburn-silk skirt
You loved, the way it blew soft about
My legs as I moved closer, as
The afternoon came closing in around us.
How the desk clerk always smiled,
So complicit, as he led me to Our Room
Knowing soon you would arrive.
How nervously I’d wait, legs tucked,
Reading glasses on, hair in loose bun
As I pretended to read but thought
Only of you.
How the white curtains flapped,
Danced at the open window
And the muffled sounds of the city
As it spun all round us, while we
Were held still in its palm.
The Anjou pears we ate, perfumed juice
Golden trails that trickled down our chin.
The way you made me laugh so hard
I would say, “No, No!”
As I tried to catch my breath
How we talked, me reclining on ginger-
Freckled flank, inhaling the sweet-savory
Spice of your skin. The way your mind
Spun quick and bright connections
I could almost see the spark of each synapse
As it fired, fired, fired.
How every sigh was Hallelujah
Every word but a part of a greater
Litany of lovers. How alive
I felt then! How beautiful
And vibrant: Snapshot of
A woman in love.
Each kiss and caress a renewal
Of the spirit. Each Goodbye
An Amen.

But what I remember most:
The raw February day
I knew we’d reached the end,
Felt my heart splinter, a brittle
Glass cathedral, and the only sound
The gentle tap-tap of your shoes
on cobbled stone, as they carried
you away; as they carried you home.

2004-08-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

crane

Deer Summer | Poem

2004-08-25T13:21:00.000-04:00

Still I can see it. Only
on certain nights. This
last as i passed a maple
shaded garden saturated
moss green in summer's
definite twilight. Remember:
how you pulled me to you.
Your sure-quick smile drew
me to your orbit. I came
closer than ever before.
Your kiss was like the first
your touch, the last. Only.
The way you tasted of
earch, rich and heady. I
wanted only to resist, instead
fell deeper through the night
soft to your sacred garden,
face flushed, body rising
filling from the first, i felt
myself grow fertile, thickening
as we mixed as you loved me.

Never had we been so primitive
close to all that is good.

esplanade tears

2004-08-24T14:33:00.000-04:00

I have fought, and I have lost
Confronted every demon, each new
Woman you drew close. So long I tried
To be the shape of your desire;
Sweet and soft and dulcet.
Instead, I flail, I fail.
am lost, never found.
What now, then, with such grief,
wrapped tight in my tissue,
the wet ball with which I curl
My constant companion.

Tonight, I sit by the river on our bench
The Esplanade alive with city workers,
Executives, rushing home to bright like Sexton,
I cry my tears to the Westbound cars,
I cry my sorrows to the East.

Once, I was loved by a boy
Who made me scented tea
How the building lights twinkled
How full of promise then.
I guard the evidence, velum bound
- all a golden afternoon.

I can tell you: once I was young. Once
I was beautiful, and once I saw the city
Come alive, as I came alive within it and I
Knew what it was to love and to cherish,
I was invincible and strong and never
Once did I think that time would catch me.
That I would be here tonight, weathered
And worn, tired and torn, almost an old
woman who sucks the life out of memory,
Who can say with conviction: I may be
Nothing now, but once, just once, I knew
What it was to be young, to be beautiful,
To desire and be desired, to ache with such
Sweetness.

Medusa in Oil

2004-08-23T13:00:00.000-04:00

Slut, she imagines herself
In riches. An Indochine seductress
Oiled yellow skin on which men
Will slip. Spit, fingers greedily seeking
A thing they cannot name. Teats hang
Flat, as pastry bags, emptied of their
Sweetness. Nursemaid to the wounded,
Seeking tales of woe - of wife. Green goddess
Of war, her cunt dripping with envy.
She’ll Even the score.

He tells her of some other
How he’s losing her to death. Ever The
Lover, she seduces with her gifts of piss-
Water tulips, cheap hallmark condolence,
He’ll accept with slippery kiss. Watch
How he struggles in her oil black eyes
Seeing himself there, a king he once
Despised. He falls to her fecund dark
Hair, the only solace her can bear.

She will take it as it comes; any pain,
Any fury. Better to be a thing used,
Than left on the shelf. In private she
Mocks the wife’s high-holy purity
Episcopal bitch. Imagines her sickly stiff
Limbs unable to wrap about him
Yet this Gauguin-esque cunt, blinded
by her snakes. Knows nothing
Of this wife. Assumptions unreliable.

She is a force unwise to question.
She who shatters things outlived
things thick and foreign
Jars from once-vacationed lands.

How silently rage awakens,
Her white body moving quiet
From the sickbed. Calmly she hurls
her tight and coiled rage
against blank, emotionless
walls. Knowing this thing,
will splinter and break. See now
The dead rise; she is alive after all.

This poem first appeared in Adagio Verse Quarterly

tiramisu

2004-08-22T17:28:00.000-04:00

When it rains, as now
I love to watch as you
Placid, determined, turn
Down the sheet – cream velum – Take
What is yours, giving me the most
Gentle of love, honeysuckle
You give me sweet
Tiramisu. My shoe falls
Soundlessly, and I come…
Closer.

church help

2004-08-22T16:31:00.000-04:00

Frank, who used to work
at the church, holding the door
escorting the homeless to tuesday
night suppers. at least that's what
we think he did - he got fired.
or let go, or some euphamism for
Go. Now. Out. We don't want you.

See, Frank, he's smart, but crazy too.
And had this tendency to tell the
truth at inappropriate times
outside the confines of the confessional.
So when Father X appeared in his hand
made cassock, fitted just for him from
Paris, Frank clapped his hands and said
Tacky Tacky Tacky

And we all knew he was right.
We'd known it all along. Father X
with his shiny French loafers and
linen-white collars hand tailored
and who floated into vespers on a
cloud of Eau Sauvage, and not one
of us congregants, acolytes prayerful heads
had the nerve to say
Tacky Tacky Tacky

Frank says, All these people
EAch thinking separate thoughts
And that, he says, is what separates us
from cats and dogs. So ... he's
going to New York. New York!
He says, Hey, If i can make it there
I'll make it anywhere!
And the phone number he gives me is
Pennsylvannia 6-5000.

the necklace

2004-08-22T15:37:00.000-04:00

The Necklace

A rose-rich candle breathes its
scent to our house, the white
folded linens, hold our history,
and the palest blanket of snow
has fallen, white-blue,
like typing paper. Thin crepe
of my skin, luminous and scented
as a deep-throated jasmine, your bare
feet as you cross the rich oriental, cup of scented tea,
bergamot and gleaming. Fresh-scrubbed,
shower-damp are we. The dress, the suit,
laid out, matte black, shoes patent leather, the arc
of my seams now straight. The small, perfect
button of garter I snap into place,
and smudge soft azalea across on
lips, the smooth stroke of the brush
across honey-colored hair, gently pinned
in hasty bun, I anoint each pulse
with precious liquid; chypre from the discreet
black bottle, the powdery scent that permeates my
every thing. “Will you get my zip?”
eyebrows raised, a Please, and you oblige,
then hook the fine garnet necklace,
a gift from years past, given
on a raw Autumn day, which you brought
while I waited on the old oak sleigh-
bed, beneath the sloped attic ceiling, I wore
nothing but a sheet and I listened
to the sounds of children playing
in the schoolyard nearby,
as the sun slipped, gentle, and gave way
to the night, as you re-appeared, then closed
the clasp about my neck and each garnet
burned with promise and I gave myself to you, again
and again and again, as the shop-keepers drew
shut their heavy gates, as you opened me
up, so at peace, I rested my head on the coiled
hair of your lap, the gold filament laced
with the spice of your skin, warming
my cheek as I fingered
each garnet in turn
silently repeating simple prayer
on each stone,
That every promise remain true,
that it always be you

life in twilight time

2004-08-20T10:14:00.001-04:00

Life in Twilght Time

*you can hear the live audio blog of this while you read along if you want by going to www.sottovocce.blogspot.com and selecting #1 Audio Blog "Life in Twilight Time"

Who woulda thought the half-life
jive-life single-live would be this
and more. Not what it’s cracked up to be
The door knocking the phone ringing
with insistent visitors who want to
comfort and the console the half dead you,
the half-dead me, and if you’re not dead
yet well, here’s a lover to
suck your life-force, your elan-vital,
your light, your cosmic and not so cosmic
energy, your Virgo purity and
impurity. To take it all and run
while you lie on the bed or sit
at the desk half-stunned
always knowing that it would come to this
This end, where you are now.
Your only friend a small white pill
that promises relief in twenty minutes
from This Domestic Bliss. You’re a writer,
a virgin, a whore, a sinner, not a saint
and though you’ve tried to
walk the road and head toward the
Light you find yourself Always,
But Always, shrouded in darkness.
A hairshirt, a cloak you
want to throw off.

You: eyes like mirrors, and see-through
skin; a small fragile thing that breaks
with every break of day.
.

The Cabinetist | sotto voce : August 2004

2004-08-20T10:14:00.000-04:00

excellent poetry = check out archives....

thurible dance | buzzwords uk | poem

2004-08-18T22:13:00.000-04:00

Thurible Dance

The bottles stand abandoned
Their black lacquer surface
Painted with a ghost veil of daily dust
Churned to the air from the nocturnal
Pacing, the somnambulist’s dance.
What use now for perfume
That of oakmoss and claret; that which
I once brushed through my hair
But a part of a ritual as I prepared
Myself for you, knowing the great
Power of memory and smell.

When we made love, the fire-auburn
Strands of it flew; a private halo of fire
Marking our passion, tossing their
Incense to the world, as a thurible
travels its high arc, breathing
trails of frankincense,
That bless the air with holiness.

How vivid the memory:
The long and fragrant waves
That fell about your face as I
Leaned to your kisses, my summer
Lips parting, accepting your
Communion. Two supplicants
Seeking faith, we fucked for absolution.

In the church across the park, I heard
My bell toll, the sound of it rolling
Across the river I knew so well
And a holy man kneeled,
Whispering prayers for my soul.

http://www.buzzwords.ndo.co.uk/ranson/thuribledance.html

elegy for a poet | for virginia

2004-08-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

Elegy for a Poet
for v.w.

Someone must bleed.
There must be one who dies
so that others may live.
She's says it's to be the poet - the visionary.
And as the poet dies, others will see
the meaning of their life.

It's not true, you know. Never is
such simple equation. Yes,
someone must bleed, and yes,
it will be the poet,
but by his own hand - the other hand
will bleed, spilling wine-rich life
as he draws the darkness out
a point from nothing to nothing
releasing all that was thick, was coiled
unsprung at last, spilling from
the vein where bitterness, sorrow
have lived. The same arm that once
reached to another as if to say Please
but the words fell like chinese pick-up
sticks. Yes, Virgina, someone must die.
We have seen those others, lips
smacking as they gossiped
how they could not comprehend.
They grow fat on our blood,
drag our name through the mud.
We become casual cocktail party
conversation, gritty and dry and bled
of wit. Even now, we aim to please,
as if death were somehow unsatisfactory.

We fail even in this. But words echo.
You see the poet, Virgina, can never
really die. We write, we write -
We write so that others may live.

The Recognition

2004-08-18T20:38:00.000-04:00

The Recognition

Oleander, fothergilla, with its white
bottle brushes, gardenia, forsythia, common witch,
Hazel, with her lemon-lime eyes and sheets of shiny
hair. You point, northeast, ‘She lives over there.’
Later, when the clock hands have made their sweep,
I rustle through the leaves, heap after heap
to that northeast corner, push back branch forsythia
I’ve never seen a real witch, lonely Hazel with her cats
she watches the sun slip as she sits on her porch
swings, I, crouched by fragrant laurel,
mountain gardenia, fragrant soldiers protect me,
breathe opiate-essence to the heavy, wishing
air. Then I see her, freckled pale gingersnap
hair, camouflaged against her house, she waits.
The distant dark woods draw in the night.
Hazel’s hands at her side, she is summoning the curtain
of mauve twilight, that drops a bolt
of silk. The sun slips, canned peach, behind the hills,
out of reach.The crickets thrill, I draw back,
the tangible loneliness too real. From fragrant bunker
comes the sigh of recognition in whispered heavy
hush. I rush fast, pushing forward through the dark
as the branches slap my face, and the moon cackles,
mocks, as my blood runs down my leg, as i run
faster faster to outrun this awful fate.

still beating as I try to outrun my fate.

Mourning Dove's Dervish

2004-08-16T13:26:00.000-04:00

Watch :
how carefully
her instinct is exacted.
predatory, protective
she builds nests, fused
with the refuse of others
she who collects
horsehair, feathers, strands
of weathered tinsel, the silver
glints that catch the eye. Watch
how she leans, her curved
slope of breast against
the rough hewsn mud.
She spins quick circles
smoothing the black rough
to velvet soft, where eggs
blue and fragile will rest
in next bound of bound spit
with curves that match exact.

Salvation

2004-08-13T15:24:00.000-04:00

This happens every time:
the fool awaits an explanation
a flutter of the eye;
for the cards to come down,
the ghost given up.

It’s a midsummer’s, midwinter’s
midautumns dream that for once
the fool won’t keep waiting.
Or perhaps that bright stranger,
Mary Magdalene
will stop on the road. Utter words
redemption, forgiveness, absolution.

Neighbors mulch, first frost soon
the apricot hibiscus you bought
waits silently and for what.
It too has stopped blooming.
It waits for signs and salvation.

We turn our leaves tightly
and the winds of passing cars —
always passing — toss their road grit: ignorant
moving forward as people should, and they do.
Curled in leaves and self-hate the
ever-fool wishes never, not once, to wake anymore.

Let tonight's frost be the last.

2004-08-13T14:43:00.000-04:00

prop

The Proposal

2004-08-13T14:31:00.000-04:00

How could you just move here
and say, on a wet Summer’s
day, Marry Me. All Cary Grant
with a sideways smile and a pinch of
Redford thrown in for good measure.
That Wife, that House that Life, that Thing
that eludes you also follows wherever you go.
Funny how things work out when they don’t.
You — You want what? Apple pies,
Children’s smiles, a garden of Hollyhocks
a Friend and a Lover who’ll understand
and Understand how she will
be pulled by our Ouija Board self
always and in conflicting directions.

Is it a relief or a panic
to be forty-seven and alone.
The known alone better
thank the unknown: the occasional
dish on the side that you
slide so easily-thank-you-ma'am
onto your platform bed while
she keeps on her platform
shoes and that’s all. That’s all.

You don’t know what love is.
And you want Somebody —Anybody
to show you. But you’re looking in the
wrong places. Yes, Love
the mosed misused, misunderstood,
and loaded word cocked and ready to shoot.
And if I held it to your head

Would you know what love is then?
Or would you stammer uh-hum
politely and back away from the one clean
and ready-to-shoot pistol you met.

And when her love is removed
that threat of true passion
you fear so much
Where will you be?
I mean, besides the coffee shops, bookstores,
antique dealers, teenage squealers, mama pata
all Dutch. A Dutch treat, and of course
Being Careful Among the English
where will you be?
In the flat open land
of the fertile Midwest
where a sound travels
unblocked and pure for miles.

You won’t hear it. You will wait,
cross-legged, a psuedo-guru with his
groupies and the only sound I cry
is Enough!
whispered across the fields
of grain, across the backs of cows
and around the sinuous silos - one voice
tries to reach you and it says Friend

ode to "Lo"

2004-08-13T14:16:00.000-04:00

she dances fast in the twilight
jazz swirling as she wiggles, winding
narrow hipped, bud of breast nipped
a fantastical jive as evocative as silly.
so unselfconscious. Thick auburn
plaits tipped crimson that flash
sway with each emotive thrust.
How can any man resist such dance
One so contrived for his pleasure.

by contrast, the wife, she of bosom
plump, thick waist and curling lip
such monstrous exaggeration. Is this,
he fears, what nymphets must be?

he pushes the thought back.
thinks instead of his Lo. She of
dewdrop and beach scent, tawny
on the underside with velvet down
of peach. Imagines that place
the damp hollow of her neck
blank space between the plaits
that surely tastes of quince
where soon he will lick, flick
she will tremble, ripen. Soon know
the exultant rush of the first bud
of Spring as it gives itself over,
-- surrenders to the sun.

2004-08-12T13:37:00.000-04:00

srp

2004-08-11T13:36:00.000-04:00

afternoon

2004-08-11T13:34:00.000-04:00

october

October Apple Picking

2004-08-11T13:33:00.000-04:00

The apple tree’s smooth
knotted limbs out-stretched
golden skin of fruit beckons
it aches to be climbed.
I turn my face, apple-cheeked
to the sun, balance foot
on silver bark and move upward
through the branches, with a grace
that surprises this once young
body, poised on illness cusp, I move
as a child, unafraid, stretch
seeking after fruit, secure
in tree’s palm. Perched
between two worlds,
the vinegar-leaf scent of Fall.
I have escaped the world
and its rules, wish to shout
triumphant, “Hah!”
Again the world is new,
the view undulent rolling
hills, corn glisten gold.
From such grand nest, horizon
blends forever. Here, I could
escape the bell’s toll. Mark,
your eye seeks mine, seek
and find, blue marbles, you
marvel at my prideful glance,
utter fearlessness, all for two
apples. Perfect, near, they fall
to the small of my hand. You
smile. I know nothing else
matters. Now I am here.

2004-08-11T11:06:00.000-04:00

image 8.11

2004-08-11T11:04:00.000-04:00

8.11

grand mal

2004-08-11T11:00:00.000-04:00

http://grandmal.blogspot.com/

Working Girl

2004-08-10T15:59:00.000-04:00

Partnership agreements,
level fields and books
I thought I’d never read.
I am sharing a subway car
with men at least twice
my age but with briefcases
at least twice as small
And me, I feel like the tallest-
short girl in the car who still young
has traveled into orbits I never
knew existed
when I stared at the Parliament
blue sky from a London
council-flat window.
Orbits, whole worlds, where I
can be a waif, or curvaceous in my
black tights, hips switching as
I walk from my sphere into yours.
I am a cat on the prowl, Pissing
and chewing and spitting out
your double-diplomas. Me —
the one you said never Could.
The one you said would be Plain
and the same and the same
as our Yorkshire cousins.
Pouring pints into half-wits
who’d father our children
and with a clip, Keep the Bitch in Line.
Well it’s high time now and my time now
and time and time again and Yet —
One person stops towing the family line
and that’s it: You are free as a sparrow
soaring on the first breath of Spring.

2004-08-10T11:38:00.000-04:00

so, sally can wait,
she's knows it's too late
as they're walking on by.
her soul slides away
but don't look back in anger
i heard you say. (oasis)
s

2004-08-07T14:50:00.000-04:00

So This Is How It Is

2004-08-07T14:46:00.000-04:00

Oh Christ, here we go. I can see
your eyes arcing skyward again
that look on your face, the one that
says you think you’re so much smarter
than the rest, than I, and you’re entitled
because of your suburban and privileged
middle-class roots that told you so.
Your deep freeze Connecticut
and heavy sauced family dinners.
The trite and cheap romantic interludes with
A blank foreign exchange student as you , oh
So deeply listened to the Stones, like this was
So, so fucking unique when really
It’s a scene played in small, white towns
Just like yours but only more.

It’s not your fault, though, that you think
Of this trite crap as love, float on some flat
Lake of honeyed dreams, waiting to be saved.
We are rarely original. As in sin,
We’re so ordinary in what we do and how
We do it. Come on, just wake up.

You saw it every day.
The way the husbands came
And went, coming into some other in their
Stinking pad in the city, where they drove
The hour and a half to work, and made distant
Awkward calls home about having to work
Late. The way you play the scene out now.
Your mouth repeating the litany of lines
That formed a web around your childhood.
It’s second nature, after all. Like all of us,
You’re a product of your childhood, but did
You miss class on the day when some of us
Learned that it didn’t have to be that way?
That we had to stop screaming like infants
At our parents and pointing the finger and
Giving the finger to anyone who disagreed
Because we had to learn to grow the fuck up
That if our actions sucked because we had
Sucked or fucked or snorted or smoked,
These sins were ours; at least we had that.

Instead, you’re still mourning all this shit
You never had. The love lost, the prize ribbons
Given for the ephemeral accomplishments
You’ve got a row of them on the wall
Does it help you now? Did it ever help at all?
It’s a thing to fall back on, you say. At least
You have that. But I’ve seen you fall flat
On your back, and rarely, though I love you,
I have to say, it was to some solid work. No,
Love. I watched as you fell through the twilight
Post-haste, you skin shedding grace as you gave
In to gravity and landed on a yellowed
soiled bed that you denied even existed
a place you’d been with various others,
as the bed, all of whom denied, you lied
of their very existence.

Did they know, I wonder
that they ceased to be alive? That it was not
up to God whether they thrived, died, that it
was you all along who defined the thin marker
of being and not being. How casually fascist
that others can exist only if you feel their being
significant to the situation, and lord knows,
if it means losing one for the other, life you will smother.
No problem. Did you think I couldn’t smell
Couldn’t tell, the blank look and stench
That clung to your face like war paint. I wanted
To meet her, just once, to say
Bitch, how do I Taste?

You always figured it was I
The jealous romantic, some figure out of Bronte
Marinating in thick jealousy, writhing with love’s
Exquisite pain, a country doctor tending to her
Ophelia pale skin while as he applies the leeches
Because we all know that love must make you bleed.
Shit, honey, if it don’t, it ain’t real. And in this
Fantasy, you’d be off in some dark corner
In the shade of majestic maples, pulling some
Thrift-store black cloak about you, wrinkling your
Forehead like you’re so fucking tortured, while
Resting in your arm, at the same time, is some
Ugly chic with a bullshit name like Mercedes
Who says, Darling! (pant) what’s wrong! And
Ever-brave you force a smile – small comfort for her.
Quick, avert your eyes to the too-grey skies
And think sticky icky romantic thoughts of us two
Days ago, sitting on the seawall and reading bad
Freaking Poetry, as if any of it mattered.
As if we both didn’t know this shit was shit. And that
Was it. As if I had ever wanted to be something
Just a thing that in time you tire of using. In time,
every white jug is replaced with another.
That’s how it goes – These are your lovers.
Plain, and the same and the same and the same.
Slight differing features, the plain plain jane.
Each in turn becoming the incubus
That seeks to murder me in dreams.

2004-08-06T22:49:00.000-04:00

summer fruit

Summer Fruit

2004-08-06T22:45:00.000-04:00

Once, during a blue moon
I showed it to you, and you fed me
Foreign fruit. Peeled back the skin,
We drew in its sweet and feral scent.
I closed my lips around your offering,
My tongue parting the delicate fruit
Seeking the ripe velvet center.
Offering kisses I would return.

I had never tasted mango
You had never seen the moon blue.

Outside, a pale mackerel sky
Swam circles about the moon
I made a wish to the yew tree
That later you would take me.
Close your lips around my offering
Your tongue parting delicate fruit
Until you found that velvet center
And I would ripen in your mouth
Offering kisses you would return.

Winter Hunter

2004-08-06T22:40:00.000-04:00

Always there is snow. Always, near
the river, in our winding Back Bay.
Always, your soft hurried step
As you glide on smooth soles trekking
The soft-powdered streets. You move away
“An errand” you say; Place quick dry
Kiss on my forehead. The Wife so bled
Of anything you could want. She sits, hope
cradled on her lap. On her lips a silent Stay.
Purposeful and dark, a hunter you thrust
Yourself to the crisp night air, navigate fast
past blank-faced commuters, your dark coat
open, defiant to the cold. It flies, lifts its silk
to the air. Glistening wings I knew you had.

It is never me, the cause of this blood-rush.
The red-hot flush of new desire. Fresh blood.
There is always some other. The changeable
She, who lives in shadow. Who casts clichéd
spells of chypre and spice. You run down her scent.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

For years I will see this.
The way your walk holds such grace.
And though it is me that you leave
I still fall in love with your step,
Admire your head-forward determination
Pushing hard through the night, to her high-
Ceilinged room, where you’ll watch as she falls
Quick to her knees. Ready to worship
At the altar of her god.

2004-08-06T22:12:00.000-04:00

civil war in private

Civil War, In Private

2004-08-06T22:04:00.000-04:00

Has your pain subsided?
Was it pain at all?
Or more a mere absence
-- a feeling denied.

Selfishness is tumorous
Propelled by the engines
Of slick, oiled desire.

So tell me love,
Have the houses all burnt down?
The villages been sacked?
Women raped, children dead.
Have you given just desserts?

The country that I am
Is no longer arable
Farmers toss their hands
To the air, streaming frustration
And the sheep-flock dog knows
Not what to round up.

2004-08-03T15:47:00.000-04:00

The Contract

2004-08-02T13:41:00.000-04:00

He is a man of science and precision
He of measured manner and tone.
Of empathy and patience, of patients,
Of which I am one. Eyes etched silver-gelatin.
He sees all: scrubs in, never really
Scrubs out. The dead, with their sick-sweet
Smell, they haunt him. His wish then,
To keep me alive. He of gentle manner
And alabaster hands, of logic and of reason
He who outwits death; hunts every cancer.

Control: It’s even in the cut of his suit.
The sharp, starched folds, an undercover agent,
He is my guard and protectant, who runs
at every electronic beep, the drip-drip of IV,
harbingers of life, of death, of need. You feed
me deep-throated narcotics. If I die, what law
did you break? You fear it as much as I.

Later: I waited in your stark
White office, perched on the cold metal
Table, skirt hiked, I rolled down my tights
To where the wound is, am half done, then with quick
Simple knock, you enter, interrupt, but stay.
Stand before me, so close- a hair-thin line between us.
But these are not places of modesty. I lean forward,
Legs dangling, caramel hair falling, as I slip
the black silks off ginger-freckled legs,
and know that in this stance, we look like lovers,
my head bowed just so, the way you stand.
This is unplanned. A confluence of events,
a private ballet that leads us to now.
And when I rise, recognition,
double-blush, the room’s quiet hush,
we say nothing, but look to my tights
tossed hastily to the floor: Not the tidy folds
that should grace the chair by the door. Something careless,
more visceral; a heart skips, synapse crackles, tries to define
this slippery, dark thing that defies
every logic. Forget all you’ve learned.

You have been in me, but always,
I was asleep. We are Patient and Surgeon;
our contract is tacit: You need to save, I need saving.
So I walk the line between this life and some other
- -- unspeakable.
It is a push-pull tango, a dance of fight and resistance.
How many times have I surrendered
And you dragged me on my feet,
My body arcing in such exquisite pain
that my cheeks bloomed deep crimson
And I cried for every sorrow, for every lost part,
And you smiled because my red-hot flush
Told you the blood was still moving.
That you had saved me again.

2004-07-19T09:29:00.000-04:00

mark

2004-07-19T09:26:00.000-04:00

la vie plus vite; plus douce

2004-06-01T18:05:00.000-04:00

I have been thinking
Of that day in May
When you told me the words
That I longed to hear
I love you, I want you – always.
Now, three years later
I am more in love with you than ever.

If you wanted, I would rest
in your arms - with you and a soft, fat cat
In an old house, beneath the sheets
On a great brass bed and I would touch
your skin, spun of cream silk
And swim in the blue-green
Of your eyes while you offer me
Those kisses soft and kisses strong.

How many times have you told me
I love you, I want you, and only you
And I, always I am stunned
Like that bright day in May
When you took me in your arms
And my heart trembled, like always
that of small oven-bird, she who
rests in your heart,
follows the same road as you.