Ezra Pound Manifesto

The passion’s free without pentameter.

The word, more than the sum of all its parts.

Oppose the cosmic poet’s well-worn phrase.

Descriptive hue; green, sunlit energy.

Free, open verse: eternity’s white space.

The spirit: forlorn faces in a crowd.

Imagine death: ghost-blossoms on a bough.

MVC-005Sphoto by Jacqueline Casey

911 Ceremony

9-11_evacuees_2
9/11/01 New York City WORLD TRADE CENTER TERRORIST BOMBING PARK ROW AFTER 2ND BUILDING COLLAPSE © TRICIA MEADOWS/GLOBE PHOTOS, INC. © 2001 K31459

Our face denies emotion with our stance
though years of suffered loss bring no relief.
Today we view the gas mask with a glance
as firemen-stunned among the Tower’s grief.
Our calm defies the hurt within recalled
that day we ran through dust as panic stings.
Our hair turns white remembering their fall
that day when ashes flew our feet had wings.

“There May Be Dragons”

Photo by Jacqueline Casey

There may be dragons in that soul-less flight

where harpies;  hovering aloft her bed,

born of a spell that chills the wicked night

and winters in her heart some unknown dread.

There may be dragons in the hate-filled gloom:

a whistling as the icy wind now drones.

As thundering is heard; impending doom

may crack the branches of the empire’s thrones.

Oh, seek to know the reason they are here.

The slow roll and the glaring eyes proclaim

love’s mated with a devil’s crushing leer.

There’s mystery; their birth is foreordained.

There may be dragons in the frozen night

as all those kingdoms hold their breath in fright.

 

(this poem influenced by “Game of Thrones”…)

 

 

The Hankering

field-of-dreams

“The Hankering”

Then suddenly September rain comes down.
The green peas whisper to the thirsty corn:
“New seasons yearn before your silk turns brown.
Some nameless hand will bend you one dark morn!”

From Miller’s Pub, our hero drains his beer.
His dream: to leave this red-clay country life.
But not before the dinner bell will steer
a thirst and hunger back to waiting wife.

“Oh, Maudie, do ya hear the crushing claim
of wind that rushes through our restless stalks?”
Old Maud is deaf; can only feel the train
that shakes and rattles dishes as he talks.

The railroad curves avoiding corn and peas.
The train sweeps, weeping past old Walt’s disease.

 

The Surfer


Oh, Jon:  he owns that blue green tunnel’s sway
before bold nature casts him from the sea.
He’s god and for a moment has his way.
What man resists such magic brevity?
The moment flows and swift the water flies.
Around such power one might turn away
but surfers are committed as they ride
momentum’s wave.  There is no turning back
from beauty of the sea’s bold shining glanceWarren Wave
a heavy hand that turns the mighty wave.
There’s climax and a mystery’s romance
for man who will forever be its slave.
Acceptance gives the surf its final spin
as glorious as when that dance begins.

“He’s Back”

Snow“He’s Back”

The rustle of cold colors whirl and shout

and in their dance, a warning to revere.

A halo’s on the mountain tops about

and breezy waves of solemn shades appear.

Soft yellows made among gray clouds, aloft

and whisper to the shiv`ring wintry scene:

“I am the cold, blue howl that bellows oft

and scurries down your icy, trickling stream”.

Then comes insanity; bold groans below

among  the forest faces painted white.

I hear the branch’s thoughts that break; bestow

a heaviness of heart in fading light.

Here burns the ghost of winter’s bleak return;

repetitive, yet for our souls we yearn.

For My Friend, William

Green LilyPhoto by J. Casey

“For My Friend, William!”

Oh, William, others now have ‘attitude’.
Your sonnets broken into Flarf and sent.
The Moderns make more humble pie of you
Some call your ‘summer’s day’ a simple vent!

Oh, William, where must soulful poet step:
avoidance of all passion voids true love!
They know not of pentameter, those shleps!
Or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.

Now, rhyme, they say, a harried gambler’s chance.
Throw words, wired,  juxtaposed into the air.
The heart, then, not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, all poet’s share.

“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each write through the other like a hawk.

 Yesterday’s mention of “Flarf” poetry led me to write the above.)