I WISH I WERE A FLOWER

I woke up so unbelievably sad today. The kind of sad that leads to dark corners and even darker...

Never mind.

Today's poem is simple. Yet in a few words, it says so much--

I WISH I WERE A FLOWER

I wish I were a flower
sitting in a field
frequented by butterflies.

Maybe tomorrow I'll get my wish...

THE BIRDMAN BLUES CLUB

This is one of my favorite poems. There's a strange parallel between the demise of poetry and the demise of good music. Sure, there are still some great musicians out there, but what happened to the Mozarts? The Beethovens? Hell, even the Charlie Parkers and John Lennons.

This poem is dedicated to them--

THE BIRDMAN BLUES CLUB

The Birdman Blues Club,
the last of its kind in this part of the city,
was empty—save six musicians and one mahogany bartender
wiping wooden counters free of dust instead of drink.

Yet the band still played—
the guitars twanged as if there were a crowd of three hundred,
the upright bass resonated deep and with conviction,
a Martin Luther King speech spoken with strings instead of sentences,
while the piano, horns and snare could be heard from two blocks away
making even sleepy Johnnie Walker wake from his repose.

Meanwhile the singer, the lead cat, the daddy of the pack,
a man so black his shadow seemed white, throated smoky words,
his once marble voice transformed into gravel,
his once trademark bellow reduced to a whisper.

With eyes half-closed, the bartender tapped his feet,
and snapped his fingers,
as he remembered better days—
a time when real music, played to real people, had a real following.

--Noah Evslin

TO THE BEGINNING

For so many years, I intentionally turned my back on the spiritual. But my subconsciousness had other ideas. It's only as I put together this online collection, do I realize how many of my poems were written about the divine. So every Sunday, I've decided to post a spiritual-themed poem.


TO THE BEGINNING

To the sea, to the sky
to the sun, to the clouds, to the heavens
to the riverstones, to the mango tree, to the grass
to the fishing bird flying high above the ocean
to the winter wind to the summer breeze
to the falling of autumn
to the infant shoots of spring,
I bow to you.

You are my priest, rabbi,
Brahmin, sage, prophet and Emersonian poet.

Through you I see creation.
Through you I see evolution.
Through you I see my chance for ascension.

From man to pig to horse
to cow to whale to fish
to crustacean to flower to moss
to algae floating on the sea feeding off sunlight.

Only through you do I see beyond all that,
to the beginning of existence—

to the silence of unstirred souls.

SUPERMARKET HAPPINESS

Supermarket Happiness is not real happiness. It represents the perishable happiness that first fills our refrigerators and then clogs our landfills.

By creating these mega-stores, we've forgotten how profound the pursuit of one object can be, which brings me to my next poem (and the title of my blog)--


SUPERMARKET HAPPINESS

How come nobody hears the crying of the rose
or the dewy chattering of the pre-dawn daffodil
shivering beneath the morning wind?

If existence could be narrowed to a solitary sunbeam
settling gently on the wingtips of a geranium,
like a newborn child being lain to bed by rheumatic fingers,
or pixie dust falling from the golden feathers of fancy,
then I think there could be happiness greater than
the supermarket variety and a reality which equals
that of a river stone being bathed by eternity.

-- Noah Evslin

TO BE OLD

For those of you frantically scanning the news for reports of my death, you can relax. I'm still here. This small recess in my 'poem a day' project was caused by a trip to my 94 year-old German grandparents whom I'll call KAISER and QUEEN MOTHER.

The trip itself was bittersweet. We ate a lot. We talked a lot. I'd like to say we laughed a lot, but that wouldn't be true. Although QUEEN MOTHER has resigned herself to the fact that she might not be around forever, and spends her days happily searching junk mail for reusable stamps, KAISER clings to life with such grim determination that I actually wonder if immortality might be a choice.

That being said, it's not a fun battle to watch. KAISER survived the Holocaust and if that horrific event didn't kill him, no microscopic disease or failing organ has a chance... But he's also stopped having fun. It's like watching a man cross the finish-line of a marathon, only to announce that he wants to run another 26 miles even though his legs have cramped, his feet have blistered and his bowels released on mile nine.

This poem was inspired by KAISER and QUEEN MOTHER.

It comes from somebody I'll call BARRY. BARRY is also living out his last years, but he's resigned to his own passing. Some people fight to the end, while others simply close their eyes. I wonder which way I'll go?

TO BE OLD

To be old,
and life’s no more
than the rattling of autumnal leaves
in a half-empty garbage bag.
And every night you go to sleep,
not knowing if you’ll awake.
and every day you say your goodbyes,
to the sky, to the sun, to the family of swans
swimming in the pond.
and every pot, every jar, every receptacle
takes on a new meaning.

--Noah Evslin

THE PENANCE OF EIGHT

This next poem speaks for itself. It deals with the agony and ecstasy of being a full-time artist.

THE PENANCE OF EIGHT

I sometimes wonder if
dripping words across an empty canvas
like a painter with a palette of punctuation,
or a sculptor shaping torsos with synonyms
is really what I’m supposed to be doing.

Perhaps I’d be better suited sitting in an office
working with a mimeograph
and laughing about dipping Dow averages
as I bite into a jelly donut,
my third for the day.

Certainly my wallet would thank me,
and so would my stomach,
for one can’t live off poetry alone,
and rustic living soon loses its romanticism
once the white coat of winter falls from the rack.

But then why am I out here, sitting by the pond,
watching the speckled swan swim circles in the water,
and the gray-haired grandpa feed popcorn to the pidgins,
while I scribble sad nothings into a notebook of nocturnes,
and brush perfumed petals off the lapels of my coat?

Who knows? Perhaps I like to punish myself.

Or perhaps I’m incapable of paying the penance of eight,
that unpalatable price of prosperity.

MOTHER AND CHILD

I've always been fascinated by the work of Michelangelo, especially how one individual could be so divinely talented. The fresco on the roof of the Sistine Chapel is amazing, but it's his 'La Pieta' which is truly sublime.

This is the only work of Michelangelo's that he ever signed. If you look closely at the carved leather strap going from right to left across Mary's shoulder, you'll see his name written in block print.

Why did Michelangelo sign this work over all others? I'll let art historians try to figure that out. What I'm interested in is his inspiration. How did he know what he'd find in that perfect block of marble ? Which brings me to my next poem--


MOTHER AND CHILD


The sculptor touched the large block he was to carve,
Carrara marble, the best in the world.
It was dawn, the time of day when marble awakes,
and man must judge the quality of the stone—

“Il marmo e sano,” the sculptor murmured,
“The marble is sound.”

Inside the white rock, a thousand voices cried out:
Venus, Apollo, Dionysus and even baby Cupid—
all speaking eloquently,
all begging for existence.

The sculptor listened to the stone,
waiting for their arguments to cease,
waiting for the right sound to emerge.

As the sun rose on the second day,
the sculptor heard a woman crying from deep inside the block.

He touched the marble delicately before falling to his knees.

“Yes,” he whispered reverently, “I thought you might be here.”

-- Noah Evslin

FIRST MAN TO THE MOON

My father read a book of mine recently and accused me of not writing all the poems. "This can't be you," he said. When I asked, "Why not?" He answered, "Because some of the poems are written by old men, divorced men, young children...and you're none of those things."

I smiled. Although he didn't compliment the poems exactly, he still gave me a great compliment. It means the poems were believable.

The following voice belongs to a man I've nicknamed FRED. FRED is in his early fifties. He works as a middle manager somewhere. Fred isn't unhappy necessarily, but like all people he wonders if he could be happier. If I met FRED, I think I'd like him.

FIRST MAN TO THE MOON

Using the humming of autumn insects as my excuse,
I put on some clothes and walked into the garden.

It was raining slightly, a falling veil
rather than a tattoo of drops, but it was sufficient
for my terrycloth robe to feel scarcely enough.

And despite the sleeping of the streetlights
and the darkness of the night,
I had no trouble finding my son’s metal tricycle
left unattended on the sidewalk

After a cautionary glance towards the house and the street,
I lowered myself on the slick plastic saddle,
and as soon as I figured out how to propel myself forward,
the rain disappeared and so did the garden,
and notwithstanding two knees to the nose,

I again was Neil Armstrong—first man to the moon.

--Noah Evslin

CHEAP WINE

This next poem expresses some of my angst regarding the current state of poetry. We have great poets out there, but nobody is reading them. They are forgotten. I shudder to imagine what will happen when the neglected poets of the world finally stop writing.

The world needs poetry more than ever. It's the language of the universe. Of creation. Of love.

CHEAP WINE

The poet is an organic recorder,
a two penny transcriber—an empty goblet
waiting to be filled with intoxicating words.
He is a cheap wine, offering brief euphoria
for those willing to partake—but he’s also
the morning hangover and nausea—the
twisting sickness in the stomach that
occurs whenever somebody tastes
the acerbic bitterness of Near Truth.

That is why, more often than not,
the poet is left on the shelf,
forgotten and dusty, idly fingered
by many, but ingested only by drunkards
and college students.

-- Noah Evslin

TO DERRIDA

This poem deals with my frustration to inadequately describe with words the picture that is in my head. I titled it TO DERRIDA after the famous French deconstructionist Jacques Derrida. I don't always agree with his writing, but we both share a similar passion in regards to objects, language and meaning.

TO DERRIDA

I want to work in the absence of words,
to write poetry that is not to be read but felt.
For with words we can only get so close,
trembling on the edge of something that is real,
And pregnant with life—but never falling over
like a white-winged bird or a stone slipping off
its dust-filled perch and falling, ever falling,
feeling the wind against its granite surface
and smiling in the small hard way that rocks do.

I want to work in the absence of words,
and feel the wind against my face.
I want to create living, breathing objects
that stay breathing even when the lights are out
and the cardboard cover casts my creation in shadow.

I want to work in the absence of words…
but alas, like a blacksmith creating horseshoes
out of fire—words are all I know.

NIGHT

This first poem is titled NIGHT. I thought it would be a good first posting as it represents the Japanese aesthetic of Mono no Aware or "beauty in the sadness of things."

I hope you enjoy it. If not, I've still added another poem into the collective consciousness and that can only be good.

NIGHT

When darkness is at its deepest,
black on black on black on black,
when all but the streetlamps lie in shadow
and shadows lie in sleep,
sadness settles softly
over the snow encrusted streets,
and the streets themselves are silent
save the falling of the sleet
and the single spinning siren
wailing in defeat.

--Noah Evslin