POEMS OF THE WEEK ~ MEN'S VOICES

This week, we will hear three more of the men's eloquent voices. Michael Phan, who writes at  grapeling: it could be that, Eric Erb of erbiage, and Scott Hastie of his blog of the same name, are sharing a poem each that we know you will enjoy. Let's dive in!

(Motion)

give me the far winds that feather heaven,
that twist and tumble and clutch
autumn’s last leaf to earth’s hearth.

give me ice, and rest
and the earth chilled to silence
only seeds hear.

give me tendrils. give me a cherry’s flirty first blossoms
, emerald hills spiced with orange and mauve,
a double-winged dragonfly patient as water.

give me skies paling pink, trilling crickets,
light high as the north star,
cool red watermelon with plenty of seeds;

give me your eyes’ fire, the thump in your breast,
the wisp of your bangs,
your forefinger’s crook motion

– your vermillion lips
– your heart sharp as words

for if you give me your days

you will have mine 

Sherry: Your imagery is so rich in this poem, Michael. Just lovely.

Michael: Just a poem about seasons, and maybe keeping an eye open to details...

Sherry: And beautifully done. Eric's poem employs wonderful imagery, too. Let's take a peek.

TREETIME

I’ll try to write this in your terse speech
Upon the skin of my kin you call paper
Such a small word for the crushed pulp
Of my people. There is nothing in that word
Of the books you make of it, nor
How it is the vessel of your moments.
Nor the majesty that stood centuries
Rooted like we are in the sky,
Nose to the ground.

But these small words of yours are upside down
And backwards. It’s our branches that hold
Us fast in spirit. The matted whiskerbeard
Is what keeps us kissing the earth. The
Parts and the meaning are entwined.
The same, and not. But where was I?

In this poem of a time that ticks
In trees long perception.
What persists, what appears
In one moment, gone the next
Like deer

Most of us sleep all winter
A trick we taught the bear-clan people
Winter is as night in treetime

And the thing you call summer
We call day, in our language.
We hardly notice the strobe
Of that thing you use that word for…

If you want to see the world
As we see it, sit. Be still.
Stop tricking yourselves
With your movie-reel motion.

Though in this too, like poems
Is a truth that is not present.
Moments, when strung together
Never become water.
I know that river
It licked my toes once
Egged on by angry thunderheads

There are some poems that
Can only be discerned at night
Then their words swell and ripen
Their bitter meaning sound sweet.
This I hear in the sigh and creak of branches

Sit in darkened rooms
Run the wheels at breakneck pace
Love the lie of video.

Or if you dare, and can find out how,
Slow the footage and you’ll come to know
Each moment is its own now.

Sherry: I love this poem, which reflects upon trees - and us - so wonderfully. "Each moment is its own now" is a great closing line.

Eric: We take so much from trees, and they just keep giving.  It doesn’t seem like we take the most valuable thing they offer though.  I’ve been trying to be still, and pay more attention to things I take for granted.

There have always been trees near my home, and at this house there are two big venerable pines, and a river.  Their presence I often notice even when I can’t see them.  So our disrespect of them was prominent, and how could we ever understand a life that seems so different from ours.  It was written in springtime, when the trees were just waking up from winter, so that got in there too.  This was a gift from the trees to the humans, I’m grateful that I was able to get out of the way and let it flow.

Sherry: me, too. How lovely, to live near ancient trees and a river. Thanks, Eric. Let's see what Scott has for us today.

Sherry:

See How…

See how,

Around

The stream’s

Silvery edge,

Reflected light

Dances on the surface

Of rushing water.

Becoming

The very essence

Of life

And motion itself,

Effortlessly tapping

Into timeless truths

That, once absorbed,

Echo right back

At you

More than ever before.

And with a peerless

Reminder

That’s both soothing

And humbling

Of how,

In a single lifetime,

One could never oneself

Accumulate

Such knowing grace,

Gather up such melody,

Nor offer such endless

Nourishment.

Still here

With the chance

Of some

Sweet release though.

And, for so many

Amongst us,

Would that it were so!

To dream

That one day,

Within,

Such a river might flow. 

Sherry: I love those closing lines!

Scott: I regard the over-arching theme of my work to be a personal investigation into the positive potential of the human spirit. This I think is clearly evident, running through most of my poems. Not that I believe my work can ever be said to be some sweet pastoral panacea, because it never shies away from pain or suffering – and is prepared to also explore the darkness, as well as the light and, crucially, the fundamental significance of their inter reaction. This being, to me, the absolute axis (the truly dynamic and crucial interdependence of the light and dark, of joy and sorrow, of love and loss, in the grand Romantic tradition) and that key notion of duality which I hope still lies solidly at the heart of my work and my approach.

I remain determined always to be challenging enough to try and reach deep into the core of the meaning of the human experience - although I do readily accept that, as my work has developed, then my voice has also become more reflective and spiritual in its emphasis.

I have aimed, at any time in my career, to always be as simply expressed and as readily accessible as possible – For me, this is a vital component of all my work to date. And it is here that you can also hopefully see how simple often short line length structures also play their part – though still carefully shaped for emphasis, controlled rhythm and musicality that lifts key passages, enhances meaning and always looks to carefully and lyrically draw the reader towards the concluding climax of any piece. The success of which for me is always a critical consideration and the key litmus test of success of any particular poem. Hope you enjoyed See How!

Sherry: I did indeed, as well as your process for writing it. Thanks for sharing, Scott.

Well, my friends, wasn't this a treat? Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing your fine poems and thoughts with us. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

POEMS OF THE WEEK - MEN'S VOICES: ERIC, BJORN, AND NICHOLAS

This week, let's listen to the voices of some of the men in our community. We selected poems by Eric, of Erbiage, Bjorn, of Bjorn Rudberg's Writings, and Nicholas V., of  intelliblog. Take a break, pour yourself a cup of tea, and settle in. We hope you enjoy.

BRICK HOUSE

there is a me in here
…                         (somewhere)
between the mind, the ego, the inner child
those are the bricks. i’m looking for the house

                    *****               *****

Sherry: I was very taken by this poem, Eric, recognizing that you are on the seeker's journey. I love, "i'm looking for the house." I suspect it is close by, behind a few bushes. Smiles.

Eric: There has been so much growth in my life in the last two years, and it really has been wonderful and a tremendous blessing.  One of the difficult pieces of this though is I'm really not liking who I was.  I used to have an opinion of myself that was not shared by very many people. This was painful to realize but it does explain a great deal.  It’s so easy to get lost in that. 

My wife's counseling practice incorporates a Mind-Body-Spirit framework, but all these things, they are just elements.  The self includes all of these things, that little voice in my head that says I'm not good enough etc., but the self is more than the sum of these parts, the way a pile of bricks becomes a house.

This is probably way too much for a tiny little poem, it came out kind of stream-of-consciousness.  

Sherry: I love your explanation. We all have that voice in our heads that says we aren't good enough. Our life's work is to silence it. Thank you for sharing, Eric. 

Sherry: Bjorn recently wrote a poem that seems to answer Eric's first poem rather beautifully. Let’s take a peek.

Moccasins

You crave a house;
a garden with a stately oak,
a library
a place to rest.

Walls you build with thoughts,
and windows form from dreams,
the roof is tiled with friendship;
so keep your gates unlocked.

In winter you need warmth
that only love can give.
while summers could be
sea-breezed far away.

But if your fancy is
for mansions, moats and turrets
you have to leach the land,
cut the trees,
dredge the bluffs
and crush the dreams of others.

Your house should wear its moccasins —
never boots. 


Bjorn: I wrote this poem based on a prompt on houses. I often try to find another meaning than what’s obvious at first. I see “developments” of housing, how we as humans absorb nature and expanding. The area per person is constantly increasing, and fills out our small properties. I feel that there are no limits to the needs of humans for space, and we do not mind trampling the toes of others.

At the same time a house is a wonderful place. We need it for warmth and company, we need it to meet our guests. I dream of houses that blend and are part of nature. I want houses that invites nature in summer, and shuts the cold wind out in winter.  

I also feel that we need houses that we are ready to leave. We should not grow roots unless it’s needed. Maybe houses should have the soft soles of Moccasins rather than making deep footprints like the boots of mansions. 

Sherry: I so agree about the heavy footprint monster houses leave on the landscape. I much prefer small cabins and cottages, tucked among the trees, not set on a scraped-clean lot - enough space, no need for thousands of square feet. I love this poem, Bjorn. Thank you so much.

A short while ago, Nicholas wrote a bittersweet poem we enjoyed very much. Let's read:

SWEET BITTERNESS

The wine you offered, Love,

Was ruby-red, sweet muscat;

A fine vintage with a rich bouquet,

A velvet taste that lingered on the palate,

But the aftertaste, so bitter!

The kiss I took from you, Love,

Was fragrant, fruity, dulcet:

From lips so red, and smiling,

A kiss so freely given, remembered evermore,

And yet the aftertaste, so bitter!

Your softly-spoken words, Love,

Honeyed, soothing, like balsam!

My ears unstopped, to hear, to listen,

Words full of harmony, like music

But their echoes, a cacophony.

The soft caresses, Love,

We gave each other liberally,

Cloud-soft, candied, pleasant,

Soothed away all pain, healed all wounds;

And yet, they left deep aching scars in their wake.

You are a sweet bitterness, Love,

You enchain us all with gossamer,

You wound with feathers and you heal with thorns;

You nourish us with mellow poison

And we starve when we have surfeit of it.

Love, you’re contrary, and your steadfastedness

Betrays all trust, punctures all boats of hope;

You lift us up to heaven, only to dash us down to Tartarus,

You give us strength, only with silken threads

To captivate and weaken us, making of us in our death, immortals.

Sherry: Love does all of those things, brings us the sweetest of joys, and the depths of sorrow. But we wouldn't be without it! This poem resonates with me, Nicholas.

Nicholas: My poem “Sweet Bitterness” looks at the contrariness that love is: Feelings pleasant and heady and heavenly mixed as it were with those of melancholy, disconsolation and hellishness. If one is in love, there is the sweetness of honey, but also the sting of the bee. Love raises us up to the sky but in the same instant may cast us down into the darkest of abysses.

Sherry: That it does. Thank you for sharing it. 

There we have it, folks: houses, moccasins and the bittersweetness of love. And us, enjoying it all. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

POEMS ON GRIEF: BY ROBIN, ERIC, LEE SAN, AND BJORN

Today we are featuring four from-the-heart poems written by Robin Kimber, our beloved Old Egg, who blogs at Robin's Nest, Eric of erbiage, Lee San, known to us as dsnake, who blogs at Urban Poems, and the inimitable Bjorn Rudberg, of Bjorn Rudberg's Writings. Each of these poems travels straight from the poet's heart to ours. I gathered them together so we can reflect on all that life comprises: love and joy, loss and pain. Because I know we wouldn’t trade our greatest joys and deepest heartaches for anything.

SINGING THIS SAD SONG

Late evening slowly darkens
I love our walks in summer
The day's air now cool and clear
Skies darken, the stars come out

Twinkling lights take charge up there
Croaking frogs still like to shout
Your soft warm hands safe in mine
Fireflies flash as we pass them by

Moon peeps from behind a tree
For nightlife and us to see
Now lighting up your beauty
You let me taste your soft lips

But I wake up having dreamed
Singing this sad song of you
Pretending you were still here
As you always used to be


Sherry: So beautiful the dream, and so sad the awakening! Beautifully done, Robin. 

Robin: My wife and I were great explorers of the countryside and forest in search of birds, as she was an enthusiastic birdwatcher. She was always hoping to add one more Australian bird to her life list. This found us is in some odd places, such as dark forests with the trees whispering to us but not letting on where the birds were, and clambering over rocks on beaches which others shunned, looking for migrating shore birds. And even wandering around rubbish dumps and tips, where other birds, not having a rotting odour problem, searched for food as we ticked them off our lists holding our noses. 

The forests, however, were our favorite with the unseen call of birds requiring our total silence, sitting still to see if they might approach, and the delight when they did. This was especially so if we moved not a muscle and came up really close.

So I have many happy memories doing all these things, with the forest the most beautiful and romantic of them all.

Sherry: So lovely, Robin. I can see the two of you sitting there, waiting for the birds to visit. Such lovely memories you have! How you must miss your beautiful wife.

Eric speaks of a grief I am familiar with: the grief we tap down, especially as children, when we are not assisted in our grieving. You will see why I resonate so strongly with this fine poem.

A garden of grief

She'll look in my eyes, bless her so
For my loss and my pain to show
But those corners are not dark enow
For my tears to flow

By the time grandma died
I'd learnt to shut that off
Shut down my heart
And silently laugh it off

But deep within me there was
A black fist, holding, squeezing.
Stashing it all in there.  The loss
Remorse, unworthiness.

So sweetheart if you want to know
Where my tears go
Watch me dig my garden
In my sweat my tears do show

the spade cuts into earth, mother
Sweat glistens in the dark heat
Ill turn the earth to inter my grief
This is why these tomatoes are so sweet

Eric: I grew up across the street from a zoo.  The lions would wake me in the summertime with their roaring.  Not common in New Jersey.  It didn't happen that often, for the noble beasts were quite lethargic. I think that this is what happens to grief.  We take the wild thing and lock it up in a cage.  We hide, deny, ignore.  By we I mean I, I'm just hiding behind that.  

Well I went all Casks of Amontillado on my grief, so when my grandma died I didn't feel a thing.  Which only compounded my grief, and that black fist got a little stronger.  What finally broke me was my cat.  She was around for my formative years, in the cellar or outside mostly, as mom was allergic.  The cat and I were sometimes in the same place, but mostly it was more like an orbit.  

So when she passed, we put her in a cardboard box, and I dug a hole in the back yard.  I put the box in, everything was fine.  But the first shovelful of dirt caved in the cardboard box, and I just crumbled.  Tears streaming, arms trembling with each shovelful...  It's a wordless thing, felt in the body.  So I'm afraid I can't say much more about grief, except a footnote:  I forgot about that incident with my cat for many many years.  And I'm weeping again now.

Sherry: I absolutely know that feeling, Eric. As a child, my coping mechanism was to numb my feelings. As a single mom, I had to stay strong through many losses. In 2011, my wolf-dog died, and I cried for seven years - all the tears of my life.

Thank you for sharing such a long-held grief, in such a beautiful way. Sigh.  And I can't believe you lived close enough to hear lions roaring! How amazing!

The following poem by Lee San, about the loss and grief of losing someone  beloved, really speaks to our hearts. When love is that deep, the grief lasts long. Let's tiptoe in to take a look, for this poem is very tender.

TEDDY BEAR

another year already?
your teddy bear sits
alone
on the dressing table
among the combs and cologne.

today i was at the temple
offering incense to you.
silent
i have not heard your voice
for the past two decades.

the man staring back
from the dark glass
has aged.
you may not know him
as the one you had loved.

a mynah lands on the
aircon unit outside.
looks at me
perhaps to ride the rain
perhaps to see me weep.

image from pixabay

Lee San: It is my honour to have my poem ‘Teddy Bear’ featured.

This poem is about grief, and perhaps how to cope with the memories of a loss. I wrote this in the memory of my late spouse. She was a brave and lovely soul, and to have lost her after only some short years together is something quite hard to take at first. The teddy bear in the poem is one of her possessions.

I wrote this poem a couple of years back, and it stays put in the Blogger drafts until recently when I took it out to check for grammar and punctuation for posting. Anyway, I was too busy to post anything last year.

This poem is what may be called confessional poetry. I think most of the poems in my blog are of this type. This poem is quite short too, which is how I usually like the length of my poems. And yes, there is a certain form in the structure of this poem.

Sherry: It is very beautiful, Lee San. How very sad to have lost your young wife so soon. A deep grief for certain. The lines in the poem that say, were she to see you now, she wouldn’t know you really struck me. Yet, looking through the eyes of love, I am certain that she would. 

Thank you for sharing this beauty of a poem with us, Lee San. 

When I read it, I recognized that Bjorn’s poem “Spoon-Feeding Mother” would be the perfect poem to feature alongside it, since there are so many ways to lose a loved one, and Bjorn is living one of the hardest. Let’s read:

Spoon-Feeding Mother

when parting came slowly
as words you forgot
or when you were lost

we thought we had time
to listen to music
to read or to dine

we never could tell
   you
      goodbye

now when you’re silent
and we still cannot tell
but we wait
we spoon-feed you soup
and wonder
if you’ve already left.

Sherry: This is such a heartbreaking way to lose your mother, Bjorn. I am so sorry.

Bjorn: The background to this poem comes from the experience with my mother who is the victim of dementia. A couple of years ago she was still living at home and we thought that she managed, though sometimes she was a bit confused, as she lives in another town I didn’t get to visit very often.

Things got worse and we were happy that she got place at a good nursing home. At first she improved and we could visit and go for walks with her, but after a period of illness she ceased to talk and cannot walk any longer. She is bound to wheelchair and has to be fed.

Sherry: Dementia is such a long goodbye.  Our hearts go out to you, my friend.

Thank you, gentlemen, for your stirring and beautiful poems and the sharing of your experiences. And for continuing to keep coming back to Poets United. We so appreciate you! 

I am sure we can all relate to these poems on memory, love, loss and grief. We hope you take away something in your hearts from the sharing. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Life of a Poet - Eric Erb

Today we are zipping across North America to drop in on one of our newer members, Eric Erb, of erbiage, who lives in New Jersey, USA. We are looking forward to getting to know this young man better, so pull your chairs in close. The coffee's on me!

Sherry: It is lovely to be visiting with you, Eric. Would you give us a snapshot of the poet at home?

Eric: Thirty-seven miles north of Princeton, N.J., in a venerable old home by a small river, piled up on a stone foundation, my wife and I make our home. With two chickens in the yard.

Sherry: It looks lovely. And chickens, too! Would you like to tell us a bit about your childhood? Is there anything, looking back, that you think contributed to your becoming a poet? Were you exposed to poetry as a child?

Eric: The words first enthralled me as my Uncle Tom unfurled them, reciting Jabberwocky from memory, spinning the tale of Falling Rock, (the ghost of an Indian chief who did not like road cuts scarring sacred land), or laying words down on the family scrabble board, with grace and aplomb, invariably coming in second. Shel Silverstein I vaguely recall as well, my mom reading to me at bedtime.

Sherry: Such wonderful memories. When did you write your first poem?

Eric: There is a slip of paper surviving, where I wrote "they have cities and tables". I was five at the time and honestly have no idea what I meant by it, but I count that as my first poem. I began writing in my high school math class to try to escape. Carried that through into college, where I was involved in the literary magazines, Sheaf and Four Walls, both as contributing author and editor. A creative writing class was somewhat helpful, but it also exposed me to people who had real talent, and it left me feeling like a fraud. After college writing dried up to almost nonexistent, save for a few inspirations when I met the woman who would become my wife.

The blog Erbiage began in 2015, when I could no longer deny my urge to create. NaPoWriMo was a huge inspiration in April 2016, even featuring one of my works, and I have been writing daily since, finding great community at Poets United, dVerse Poets Pub, and others.

Sherry: I am glad you returned to writing, Eric, for you have talent. What led you to choose poetry as your means of creative expression? What do you love about it?

Eric: The richness of poetry is fascinating, the way the words can move beyond their mere intellectual meaning and begin to convey the feelings and parts of our experiences that are beyond words.

Sherry: Well said, Eric. How did you discover the world of blogging, and how has it impacted your work? 

Eric: The impact is huge. I first started the blog as a way to keep track of my work. It took a bit to really get going, but there came a point where the words were unstoppable, and I could barely type fast enough to lay out the ideas that kept welling up within me. But, like most things, it continues to grow and change.

I've noticed patterns in my work as my voice develops, which is intriguing. But above all, it has given me hints as to how much more there is. It's one thing to sit in a room and write poetry, but another when you work with others, either as audience or even co-authors, then you begin to co-create, which is, I think, an important part of being in the world, and bringing value to it.

Sherry: You have expressed that so well. Let's take a look at a few of your poems, shall we?

Extreme datacenter

A great big block of a building with no features save for its edges

A handleless door every fifty feet or more, no visible entrance

One lone handle, pulled, leads into a tiny chamber, too small to lay down in

Electromagnet unlocks, door opens into a lobby space with security behind thick plexiglass

After approval the next portal opens into airlock, one must close, trapped,

before the next opens, onto conference rooms cubicles and vending machines

And still we are not in the belly of the beast, not yet to the meat of it, no

The final palm print reader opens into the warehouse of ideas

47 types of pipes overhead color coded and labeled accordingly

Rows and columns of cages constructed one by one by twenty two or more

Cooling units larger than my first apartment blasting through ductwork

fit for jacks nemesis, constantly blowing to keep their charges cool

Whisking away the heat of processors crunching through their code

In each cage, racks upon racks of stacks of servers some cloaked in chaotic

jumble of crossed cables colored like skittles candy

Others orderly, a huge investment in cash and effort, blue lights blinking

Wiring chases neatly stuffed with power on one side, data flowing on the other

Fifty thousand computers or more storing analyzing and serving up information

This is where we house the cloud, there is no cloud! It’s someone else’s server!

Fed endless electricity by duplicate generators about the size of a seven eleven

Tanks of diesel lined up like the docks in Linden new jersey feed the monsters in their zoo

Everything about your actual life it can possibly collect,

Everything you company does, every problem every triumph, in the cage next to you fiercest competitor

Your friends, your likes, who you’ve unfriended and after a brief AI analysis, why

And your entire digital world, your playground your escape, your bank accounts

It’s all here

Eric: This was featured by the NaPoWriMo challenge in April of 2016. The challenge that prompted it was to write a long-line poem. At first I found it very difficult to do but, once I began, it just started pouring out. This is about a real place.

Dove and pine

Alight! Alight! My dove, and write

Make your mark upon my heart

Imprint your feet upon my soul

I’ll be your roost when daylight fails

Catch your cooing in robust sails

my dove, my love, my pretty bird

Alight and let me hold you

through the cold and bitter night

Let’s make your nest here embowered

Above the springtide flowered

I’ll whisper songs of zephyr’s race

And hide you from the moons cold face

Soon you’ll need bring seeds and worms

From nearby fields and earthy berms

and so your generations turn

Tell your tale of enlighting

So write, my love of

A light

Eric: Oh what a tree must think of the birds? So often these ideas are gifts. I'll often write just before bed, and really try to let go into the work, to relax and let the words come out. Sometimes it works!

The Instant of Art

The master sits,

Patiently.

Fresh parchment,

prepared.

Three of us,

perched.

Our curiosity,

Piqued.

His brush,

Poised.

The moment hangs in the air,

So palpably Now.  The contemplation

Of the empty vellum

The viscosity of the ink

The intention in his spirit

Flows unto the page

Until a single mark is made

Razor sharp and precisely laid.


Eric: This is about the moment of writing, when the vast infinite possibility of an empty page comes crashing into a single path forward, when Something is called forth from Nothing. What a world it would be if Art was a spectator sport?

First Flight

sticky wax collected from the ears of ten thousand bees

feathers of every bird save the ostrich

balsa canvas sinew

atop the cretian cliffs

with the wings strapped to our backs

from point spinalonga we set out

across the sea, to catch the wind

the culmination of fear as we left the rock

Minos’s men not far behind drove our last steps

the sea beckoned but the wind would not let go

we left the rushing waves below

elation victory success then washed over me

not even fathers words could catch me!

as he called his son, the sun called me

ever onward, ever upward


Eric: Oh what human doesn't look to the sky, the stars? Icarus and his father escaped the king of Crete by making wings and soaring across the sea. What must that have felt like? This was an attempt to depict that. And despite the warning, we still strive to climb higher and higher. 

Sherry: Such a wonderful collection of poems, Eric. My favorites are "Dove and Pine" and "First Flight". Your imagery is really wonderful. I love the wax from the ears of bees!

What other activities do you enjoy, when you aren't writing?

Eric: I have far too many hobbies and crafts, woodworking, blacksmithing, gardening, cooking, event planning.

Sherry: Interesting pursuits. Very cool. Is there a cause you are passionate about?

Eric: My cause is the personal growth of each of us, facing the underlying fears and feelings of worthlessness which keep us stewing in the same miseries over and over.

Sherry: Yes, it is good when we climb up into the light of self-worth. That is the journey. Is there anything you would like to say to Poets United?

Eric: What a wonderful community to foster growth and learning. Write often, and comment on others' writings. Thank you all for reading m,y work, and helping hone our craft.

Sherry: Thank you, Eric, for this wonderful visit. It is good to get to know you. We look forward to reading more of your work in the months ahead.

Wasn't this an interesting visit, my friends? Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!