Same poems, sort of...
This is rather silly, I know, but I'm re-posting some poems here that I've done some revising on since I first posted them on LJ. The last 2 are the ones I submitted to the Berkeley Poetry Review, which I've STILL yet to hear from. I'm starting to wonder if they never received my works. Oh well, what can I do but wait?
“On Emotions in a Cold April”
Unseasonably cold breezes
Shuffling about (muffled and stooping,)
The unremarkable clouds of late morning,
Herald another day of the season of waiting.
On the hillsides of noon-gray,
Where poppies bob and sway
On flowing ripples of grass waves,
Summer and Spring lie ready, united.
On streets of yawning Queen Annes
Stretching trees and jasmine vines,
Mail is checked in cool routine;
The people, undiscouraged, live and dream.
In fogs of post-winter shade,
(Lingering for another new day,)
All is awake yet unmoved,
Sitting in queue for unlimited joy.
“Sunset Triptych”
We all watched the sunset from the hill,
Playing idle songs, picking pleasant chords;
We made conversation, but only enough.
I listened more to the subtle sweeps and fiery leaps
Playing through the Golden Gate;
I was enthralled by the flames of old and ageless desires,
Fading into continent’s-end blues.
The sun set on our bay,
We watched from our hills;
And we were close to all that surrounded us,
One group of friends that would rather be here and everywhere,
Together and one.
The sky was beautiful on the train ride home,
Silhouetting the shipping cranes, high-rises and overpasses.
I turned in my seat to see it better;
The man next to me ignored the show
And the woman in front gazed at it glassy-eyed.
Outside the scratched windows
Quicksilver puddles stood out from the black-grey vistas below,
But I couldn’t make out the figures milling about them;
I tried to see individuals there,
In each house I imagined beneath each roof-peak;
One for each pair of tail-lights.
Was the sunset peace or fear for him?
That man, resting at a stoplight, noted the amber clouds,
Another graveyard shift was starting for her,
He sat down at the television, just then turning on the lights,
While another looked up,
Wondering if his cardboard could withstand any showers;
All up in these gloriously-tinted clouds.
From the train I remembered
The word “Alpine-glow.”
Your eyes were slightly blinded by it all,
Pulling down the plastic shade seemed nearly reasonable.
Even from fifteen-thousand feet,
So much of that spark of travel had been lost with each homecoming;
Love is worth it.
You’d feared it would become routine,
And it had, yet…
From piercingly-white brilliance, spraying off of the Pacific,
Soothing orange light sublimated.
Adults had always warned you of looking into the sun,
But as with so many other things,
Cautions only lead to tantalizing possibilities;
Comfort will always be easy in those waiting arms.
The row of dimming squares of light
Diffusing through the evenly-spaced windows,
Slid along the sleepy faces of the cabin,
And warmed the anticipation of the familiar.
“Vignette: April 18th, 1906”
Never had worry sunk to such depths,
Beyond her stomach and past her soul.
The ferry was late.
Warm air, strange winds,
And the eerie stillness.
From the hill, all eyes watched the canvas across the water;
A magic lantern of red and grey,
Where solids snapped and churned.
She stood with the others,
Standing, hours of standing,
No one had sat.
She couldn't sit when he was running.
Running for the ferry, shoving, begging, wheezing for it.
Her high, stiff collar came to her attention.
Stroking the lace without feeling it,
The touch jumped to her delicate neck;
Shockwaves lashed her spine,
Imperceptible quaking in her shins.
Haze came down;
It was coming again.
Awakening into grey darkness,
Screams, deafening screams,
The house, her mother's china, the horse, the windows screaming.
She sat.
The man in the pork-pie hat seemed to take note,
And the ferry was late,
So he followed suit.
Soon the hill seemed a curious picnic.
Perhaps it was a picnic,
Given what they watched;
Entranced by the distant force
The whole wasn't conceivable.
Her thoughts played like flames,
From Dürer carvings she'd seen in the library
To those poor University Cadets:
Boys thrown into that madness;
What was left?
The house, thank God, and the dog would return,
The docks were still there, for now,
The Ferry Building stood,
Silhouetted by the burning fires of Market Street, financial excess.
But no ferry.
Perhaps a tip of Telegraph Hill spared, yet no ferry.
He wasn't gone,
He'd run, he'd live, he'd take the ferry.
It was almost late;
She'd lost track of daylight hours,
Just pulsating orange hours;
She'd have to eat soon, and rest.
Up since 5:12 AM, the moment the clocks stopped.
She needed sleep, but not as much as will.
Hope, she realized, was useless,
Everyone on the hill was hoping;
But she found will.
She willed reality, there was no uncertainty;
With the full force of her spirit she gained control,
So there was no surprise or questioning,
As out of the haze and fog,
Of fire, smoke, night, hunger, fear and emptiness,
The ferry came.
Oh, and by the way. I'll be done with finals on the 17th and moving back home on the 18th. It's odd here with so many people moving out. With just John gone the room already feels so empty. This year has gone incredibly fast.
“On Emotions in a Cold April”
Unseasonably cold breezes
Shuffling about (muffled and stooping,)
The unremarkable clouds of late morning,
Herald another day of the season of waiting.
On the hillsides of noon-gray,
Where poppies bob and sway
On flowing ripples of grass waves,
Summer and Spring lie ready, united.
On streets of yawning Queen Annes
Stretching trees and jasmine vines,
Mail is checked in cool routine;
The people, undiscouraged, live and dream.
In fogs of post-winter shade,
(Lingering for another new day,)
All is awake yet unmoved,
Sitting in queue for unlimited joy.
“Sunset Triptych”
We all watched the sunset from the hill,
Playing idle songs, picking pleasant chords;
We made conversation, but only enough.
I listened more to the subtle sweeps and fiery leaps
Playing through the Golden Gate;
I was enthralled by the flames of old and ageless desires,
Fading into continent’s-end blues.
The sun set on our bay,
We watched from our hills;
And we were close to all that surrounded us,
One group of friends that would rather be here and everywhere,
Together and one.
The sky was beautiful on the train ride home,
Silhouetting the shipping cranes, high-rises and overpasses.
I turned in my seat to see it better;
The man next to me ignored the show
And the woman in front gazed at it glassy-eyed.
Outside the scratched windows
Quicksilver puddles stood out from the black-grey vistas below,
But I couldn’t make out the figures milling about them;
I tried to see individuals there,
In each house I imagined beneath each roof-peak;
One for each pair of tail-lights.
Was the sunset peace or fear for him?
That man, resting at a stoplight, noted the amber clouds,
Another graveyard shift was starting for her,
He sat down at the television, just then turning on the lights,
While another looked up,
Wondering if his cardboard could withstand any showers;
All up in these gloriously-tinted clouds.
From the train I remembered
The word “Alpine-glow.”
Your eyes were slightly blinded by it all,
Pulling down the plastic shade seemed nearly reasonable.
Even from fifteen-thousand feet,
So much of that spark of travel had been lost with each homecoming;
Love is worth it.
You’d feared it would become routine,
And it had, yet…
From piercingly-white brilliance, spraying off of the Pacific,
Soothing orange light sublimated.
Adults had always warned you of looking into the sun,
But as with so many other things,
Cautions only lead to tantalizing possibilities;
Comfort will always be easy in those waiting arms.
The row of dimming squares of light
Diffusing through the evenly-spaced windows,
Slid along the sleepy faces of the cabin,
And warmed the anticipation of the familiar.
“Vignette: April 18th, 1906”
Never had worry sunk to such depths,
Beyond her stomach and past her soul.
The ferry was late.
Warm air, strange winds,
And the eerie stillness.
From the hill, all eyes watched the canvas across the water;
A magic lantern of red and grey,
Where solids snapped and churned.
She stood with the others,
Standing, hours of standing,
No one had sat.
She couldn't sit when he was running.
Running for the ferry, shoving, begging, wheezing for it.
Her high, stiff collar came to her attention.
Stroking the lace without feeling it,
The touch jumped to her delicate neck;
Shockwaves lashed her spine,
Imperceptible quaking in her shins.
Haze came down;
It was coming again.
Awakening into grey darkness,
Screams, deafening screams,
The house, her mother's china, the horse, the windows screaming.
She sat.
The man in the pork-pie hat seemed to take note,
And the ferry was late,
So he followed suit.
Soon the hill seemed a curious picnic.
Perhaps it was a picnic,
Given what they watched;
Entranced by the distant force
The whole wasn't conceivable.
Her thoughts played like flames,
From Dürer carvings she'd seen in the library
To those poor University Cadets:
Boys thrown into that madness;
What was left?
The house, thank God, and the dog would return,
The docks were still there, for now,
The Ferry Building stood,
Silhouetted by the burning fires of Market Street, financial excess.
But no ferry.
Perhaps a tip of Telegraph Hill spared, yet no ferry.
He wasn't gone,
He'd run, he'd live, he'd take the ferry.
It was almost late;
She'd lost track of daylight hours,
Just pulsating orange hours;
She'd have to eat soon, and rest.
Up since 5:12 AM, the moment the clocks stopped.
She needed sleep, but not as much as will.
Hope, she realized, was useless,
Everyone on the hill was hoping;
But she found will.
She willed reality, there was no uncertainty;
With the full force of her spirit she gained control,
So there was no surprise or questioning,
As out of the haze and fog,
Of fire, smoke, night, hunger, fear and emptiness,
The ferry came.
Oh, and by the way. I'll be done with finals on the 17th and moving back home on the 18th. It's odd here with so many people moving out. With just John gone the room already feels so empty. This year has gone incredibly fast.