subtext

My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
  • About

Designed with WordPress

  • (nodes of meaning)

    by

    community, meaning, memory, poetry

    . . . edge;
    Tracing a finger slowly down the skin of words,
    crossing scar tissue, nodes of meaning left behind,
    I determine the depth of what I have to say.
    Yet, the surface contains more than I can handle.
    The storm rages across the Atlantic, waves clash
    like mountains into continents, while below fish
    swim aware of the air only as an absence.
    A foolish thing to rely on memory thus:
    I scream when alone comforted by echoes
    that return altered enough to seem no longer
    a part of me.  The difference between myself
    and the world balances upon a nebulous
    fulcrum.  The words I use provide the scale’s arm
    with indecision:  an agglutination of
    views, shaping my sense as a rasp drawn ‘cross the grain
    rips the natural inclination of the wood.
    A foolish thing to rely on memory thus,
    so we call out one to the other hoping that
    what we say will transcend our ephemeral trust:

    (from Primogenitve Folly, August 2001-April 2003) 

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • (say it three times)

    by

    community, fragments, memory, poetry, social construction, ways of knowing



    a foolish thing to rely on memory thus
    for when one repeats oneself so one forgets
    just what was said when, if at all, and then by whom,
    or if the story, you embellished so, was real,
    or simply a way to hold the listener’s ear
    then repeated, like the beating of a drum, or 
    a ritual chant, inspiring the teller – –
    you , me, some other, to believe in what we say 
    to the exclusion of all that would contradict
    a foolish thing to rely on memory thus
    the words were written in order to preserve them
    beyond the attention span of the listener
    distracted by lunch or what he saw at the bar
    the night before he sat to listen to your tale
    with all of this gravity spinning his mind off
    along tangents unrelated to what you say
    It is a wonder he can gather any sense
    from the mosaic of words that catch in his ear
    a foolish thing to rely on memory . . .
    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001- April 2003) 

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • the words

    by

    language, life, poetry, writing

    such sounds
    float around
    us as if
    we were
    inconsequential
    as a tree
    to air
    which
    shimmers
    the leaves
    like distant
    audiences
    applauding
    a constellation’s
    coincidence

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • saftey’s risk

    by

    life, poetry

    “say fear is a man’s best friend”
              –John Cale

    Caution’s warm fear

    provides comfort
    against the fire
    she foresees
    if set free;
    risk promises nothing
    beyond the possibility
    of not failing
    into a procreant world
    urgent with hope:
    stay safe, sit
    down, stay home;
    or
    ignite
    into life.
    (August 11, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • vanishing point

    by

    acceptance, poetry, sonnets

    to disappear
    from the sarcophagus
    I have built of myself
    to float like dust
    from the demands
    of friends and lovers
    to fall between the flux
    of dark and day
    free of time’s measured grasp
    to fade into light
    as if standing
    at the edge of dawn
    as if nothing mattered
    as if I were not here
    (August 10, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Subject Object Dilemma

    by

    borders, liminal, paradigms, poetry, ways of knowing

    “Subject and object are not as distinct as most people think. If the boundary separating the two isn’t clear-cut to begin with, it is not such a difficult task to intentionally shift back and forth from one to the other.”
    ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
    of course the poem is about a you
    not necessarily you but an other
    not I although perhaps me
    in disguise as a she or he or a you
    who needs someone to address other
    than a me since talking to yourself
    only leads to a narcissistic echo
    where anything said is believed
    for why would anyone lie to someone
    unless to hide the uncertainty of who
    spoke in response to whose antecedent
    points back to a first gasped syllable
    the divide between my mind and not
    particles flow in waves from all stars
    (August 10, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • what a poem can do

    by

    language, literature, poetry, storytelling, writing

    not a story
    with a simple plot
    laid out precisely
    with all markers clear
    nor any plot
    for that matter
    nor symbol
    as a guiding star
    across the desert
    of your life
    but yes always
    metaphor
    to move you
    even just a little
    from complacency
    to leverage you
    from your broken thoughts
    to translate you
    like a transubstantiation
    into a new world
    perhaps
    if you’re lucky
    enough
    to cause
    a shift
    so miniscule
    as to derail
    your destiny
    as it were
    unremarked
    for years
    and years
    until
    it arrives
    too late
    to change
    and you
    are no longer
    there
    (August 9, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • It’s Not About You, or Even Me

    by

    creativity, essay, life, poetry, process, thinking, writing

    In a graduate class with Walt Litz on the Modern Long Poem, he said that there was an occasion which caused Wallace Stevens to write each of his poems, but that did not mean that Stevens wrote occasional poems.  Obviously, there is always some event, phrase, person, occasion which causes a poem to begin in the poet’s mind, but that does not mean that the poem is about that event, phrase, person or occasion. As an undergraduate in English, we were taught “New Criticism” (although, at least, at the University of Texas in the late 70’s, it was never taught as a named form of Criticism). It was frowned upon to bring in biographical information when writing essays about poetry. The text itself was enough to write about, outside information was unnecessary if not unwanted. When I write, there is also some initiating push, which sends me chasing the words to the end.  I rarely, if ever, know where I am going in a poem. One of the thrills of writing is the discovery of the poem as I write it. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to write a love poem” or “how about a sonnet today?” I just write and then find the heart of the poem as I fall into the flow of words.  Of course, the poem is my thinking, whether I am conscious of the thinking or not at the time of composing the poem; yet that does not mean my thinking is tied the concrete of my daily encounters with the world. For the most part my daily encounters with the world are sparks which ignite my thinking into the abstract which then cause me to try to recapture the process through the language event of the poem. Occasionally, I find a poem about something more than the occasion through this process, and my world is widened as a result.
    (August 9, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • I Am. . .

    by

    desire, doubt, identity formation, metaphor, poetry

    (a self-portrait)
    watched as the mirror distorts the page
    through which I observe as I write these
     words in this notebook before I sleep
    my escape as a rationale for dissection
    from angles askew to a direction I’m in
    the relative motion deploys my illusion
    so yes and yes and yes again is given
    to questions never asked aloud only
    imagined in conversation not allowed
    parallel trials’ debated possibilities
    enacted within inner questions
    which reflect back answers I desire
    a refracted notion implied by minute
    intricate inlays between convulsions
    of my mind and yours and hers and his
    (August 8, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • disambiguation

    by

    communication, language, life, liminal, poetry

    “the sounds pronounce an older utterance out of the shadows”
                            -W.S. Merwin
    from misdirection voices emanate
    just beyond comprehension
    echoes of some other speaker
    along distant cliffs’ edges
    near emptied city squares
    some where other than where
    we turn in hopeful expectation
    of a lover’s warm embrace
    we can’t hear each other truly
    the words we share stand
    muffled in the dazzled sound
    playing a newer distraction
    in this day’s perpetual crisis
    we miss the nuanced pleas
    for reconciliation and fall
    to the floor forlorn and silent
    (August 7, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Modesty

    by

    acceptance, i ching, life, poetry

    “who am I to blow against the wind”
                –paul simon
    no need to define yourself
    with pointless proof of authenticity
    you’ve been there studied that
    bow your head set to work
    the fruit will grow on its own
    your task is to tend to the weeds
    (August 6, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • exit strategy

    by

    identity formation, life, poetics, poetry, sonnets

    he eyes escape routes just in case he needs
    more than his stealth to propel him away
    from the inevitable two questions
    where have you been and where are you going
    which wait like snares to trap him in mistakes
    of grammar and syntax when he explains
    in a manner that can be understood
    by those who do not live inside his skin
    wiser to control the words he allows
    into his world to shape the way they see
    the fool he appears to be as he walks
    about the space they think they share with him
    safer to pretend he is one of them
    while keeping his eye fixed upon the door
    (August 6, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • (on the edges of conversation)

    by

    borders, communication, conversation, language, life, liminal, poetry



    From across the room, we lurk
    a hunter scanning the field from the forest’s edge,
    half-heard among conversation:  a phrase,
    a word inserted with a sneer or laugh.
    We move touching a hem,
    a hand gracing a sleeve, brushing
    a wisp of hair at the base of her neck.
    Like the lead of a fine dancer,
    direction rarely detected, we mutter
    mumble, whisper, repeat our cultured
    and polished phrases, pearls embedded
    in the ears of swine, as it were – –
    Clichés collect like silt shifting the river
    from its course, a change of subject
    a topic on the edge of dialog, an ideal
    clotted.  Communal nods of understanding
    self-righteous and self-deceiving
    suffocate dissent in a miasma of acquiescence.
    Who is that speaking from the shadows?
    Who is that laughing in the dark?
    No need to fear the angels dancing on the periphery.
    No need to listen – – the words slip out,
    tentacles probing night’s water for food:
    a dream, a thought willing to be used.
    We will not be found.
    Our voice is not in the garbled sounds.
    What drives the Gulf Stream?
    What breeze blows here?
    Currents in the stratosphere
    bring the storm to shore,
    an Iago dropping bon mots
    like grapes in the mouths of kings.
    These are not secrets.
    The obvious has no need to hide.
    It’s there like air.
    Breathe.
    Listen for the sudden intake of breath.
    We are here whispering along the edge.


    (August 2001-April 2003, from primogenitive folly)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • (identity)

    by

    early work, fragments, irony, life, meaning, memory, poetry, ways of knowing


    a foolish proposal  to rely on memory thus
    to put trust in yourself so much so
    that what you collect of your experience
    is allowed to become all you are
    but then  there is little else
    books – – testimony of the dead
    and of course biased 
    toward the literate
    friends and relatives
    so lost in their own unfoldings
    to truly help in your interpretations
    of the sights, sounds, and tactile impressions
    you have attracted since waking
    much less since birth, what with all of the vague
    causality spinning off tangents like bubble  chamber’s particles.
    tenuously draped across a single nerve
    stretched tight like a violin  string
    upon which we play our song –  –
    Beliefs clot about us casually – –
    shadowing the past in a more appealing light
    Therefore:  a foolish proposal to rely on memory thus

    (August 2001-April 2003, from “primogenitive folly”)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • too much time inside

    by

    life, paradigms, poetry, summer

    a first shadow
    crosses the floor
    a late afternoon
    forerunner
    of night
    but for now
    the sun too
    still leaks
    into the room
    I read obscurely
    enough to think
    of other aspects
    beyond my now
    until
    overwhelmed
    I fall back
    into sleep
    (August 2, 2013)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…




«Previous Poem Next Poem»
  • Subscribe Subscribed
    • subtext
    • Join 407 other subscribers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • subtext
    • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
%d