See Homonym, Will Travel

An Old See-Sea Saw

I have a theory.

Writing you while
missing you here
has been a love lemma,
a homonym dilemma:

I want to tell you
a homonym joke
but it’s in the telling

Y’see can’t write it —
just sounds fishy and
sounds like “c”

But, just mind sailing
on an ocean of love, um

I’m on a “c”-food diet

C note a telling thing
losing voice, joking that
I’m on a “c”-food diet

everything I see I eat
except seafood, Y not

sail home
do tell
see?

Counter

This is a composite or combination of reject poems from 2019 from various alter-egos. I think it has good enough transitions to work. Maybe? I don’t know. I’ve been talking to myself and for now we think so. One of the many was called “Counter” I think, but it’s interesting that there are many “counters”: one who counts, encounter, counter-intuitive, countertop etc. Hmm, encounter from Latin roots of “in front of” sort of hides where the idea of calculating or counting comes from. Where you can see something, you can count it, or meeting it can lead to a confrontation or fight.

Countertop

Counter-intuitive that
I would search for souls

if I am alive to
be the mockingbird, he

who counts the day as nightmare
to search for souls to count
to search for songs to sing

Am I one or none
undefined
unloved
the counter

or do I have a chance
to learn my own song to

make it possible that
you will see me fly to
see how my eyes shine
when your love is staring
when your look changes

but it is needed that
we need a lot of things to eat
like the food of love and

I’m hungry for you:
I want a chance
to respond with
more than a
comfortable touch, and
let us soak up more because

you are invited to attend a formal dinner so
wear your public face but
come naked

英语研究:探索道格拉斯·吉尔伯特 的英语诗歌。

道格拉斯·吉尔伯特 (Douglas Gilbert) 的诗歌用英文读起来很有趣。它广泛可用。英语中的复杂句子可以提供诗歌所需的元素,因为从句和平行结构非常灵活。

Love Inheres a Romance True

With Leora once
I felt a deft embrace
of luscious touch, and
then she left, but

Her love inheres the day:
the wind and the birds
tweak her sayings for
a philosophy nested away

Yet her love inheres the day:
she is warmth and
her light is the delight that
inheres my laugh when

remembering her yet
on an unforgiving night,
the winds are calm in frights
and the birds do die if
the sun won’t rise inherently

She Had Been Left Behind

Oh congressman, my congressman,
my daughter had been left behind.
She had a ticket and a passport

I’m home alone with soiled gloves
and a rake. My garden is full
of dead flowers and fake stones

(Oh say keep a tally)
Away,
my nephew, 12, and others
were in the Panjsher valley

Yet,
I’m safely home in America.
Thank God. Maybe I’ll plant.

My garden, near a brook is full
of dead fish and snakes. A
professional gardener will
fix all debris and aches, because

there is a quick mourning façade
to a replacement lawn, and
like an oramental lawn pawn, my
landscaper has delivered sod in
a metal shipping container.

Heard
one cousin passed over
the Panj River into Tajikistan,
one to Pakistan, one is
somewhere in Mazar-e-Sharif

I’m home, but the others
were part of the club:
“of those who wanted to leave.”

The brook near my garden
is overrunning; a flood
has swallowed the house

Word that many are shot.
My nephew, a leftover
is buried in a
metal shipping container
so the satellites can’t see
any of those tiny mass graves,
and neither can I, nor can a proper committee.

Oh congressman, can’t you see that
my daughter with ticket and passport
has been left behind, and can’t you
see by dawn’s early light that

she’s been stoned to death.

Unbidden Dickens In September (Draft 1)

A Lady left behind in the rubble
a woman left behind near a school
a girl left behind as a slave.
Two Septembers.

Once a warning, and
a strike back.

Next time, a leaving with
the Emperor’s dishonor:
Americans left behind

A Dickens of a time,
a tale of two elevens.
A tally of sin not permitted.

September 11,
Emperor Joe bides his time
while his merchants of spin
weave a cloth of obfuscation

The count of his sins, no,
a tally ban instead.
The Emperor wears a mask.

Some have a natural immunity to lies,
some succumb to a reign of terror

Except for ‘un règne de terreur’
Truth has a head

In a public square
a hickory guillotine waits

dickens, Dickens, and hell,
a trounce ran out the clock
“Hickory Dickory Dock”

=====

Unbidden September 11 (Draft 0)

Unbidden Dickens

A Dickens of a time,
a tale of two elevens.
A tally of sin not permitted.

September 11,
The Emperor bides his time
while the merchants of spin
weave a cloth of obfuscation

The count of his sins, no,
a tally ban instead.
The Emperor wears a mask.

Some have a natural immunity to lies,
some succumb to a reign of terror

Except for ‘un règne de terreur’
Truth has a head

In a public square
a hickory guillotine waits

dickens, Dickens, and hell,
a trounce ran out the clock
“Hickory Dickory Dock”

Unbidden September 11 (Draft 0)

Unbidden Dickens

A Dickens of a time,
a tale of two elevens.
A tally of sin not permitted.

September 11,
The Emperor bides his time
while the merchants of spin
weave a cloth of obfuscation

The count of his sins, no,
a tally ban instead.
The Emperor wears a mask.

Some have a natural immunity to lies,
some succumb to a reign of terror

Except for ‘un règne de terreur’
Truth has a head

In a public square
a hickory guillotine waits

dickens, Dickens, and hell,
a trounce ran out the clock
“Hickory Dickory Dock”

*Ace-book Doesn’t Allow حقیقت

******SHIP

The poly-unnamed are stranded
in Stanislovskyville, because
You-know-who is senile, and
the Steak Department
won’t let butterflies
leave the grill-way in order
to fly away,
to come home to
you-know-where, until
for a surreptitious tally ban
all the sunflowers are beheaded
and a gardening plan is executed
with all the laurels for Stan like a
hardy comedy of unseen horrors
with surviving young flowers incognito

The Need To Say (Draft 1)

I always wondered if
you kissed my gifts, ’cause
you really needed them

Tulips for you when I was blue
so you wore the blue dress for me

You tickled me and needled me
’cause you loved my laugh
your two lips often said

And too when you were blue
I almost gushed a thought to you
I never said, but

I love Fontina cheese for melting
and on a lily day, I

made you a lasagna
and you said
there were layers to the fragrances
of Parmesan, of provolone, of wet flour
creaminess to mascarpone, though you
thought I said
mass car pony, and
I had oregano and basil
but I couldn’t buy you
a pony or a car —
only a heart race
at a pace of joy

But now you’re away
and I’m in a cold place

And you always said
I’d share a space
with Santa Claus
at the North Pole

I’d love to see you again
just for a laugh and a pony ride.

Cooking Gyros For Swat Valley (February 2009)

Cooking Gyros For Swat Valley (February 2009)

I made several versions of this in 2009. At that time I didn’t know how bad things would get. It was based on an article in the New York Times about the Swat Valley in Pakistan. It seems odd now. Apparently in hindsight, different parts of the government were both for and against the Taliban. They wanted to placate the US and have an anti-India position in Afghanistan.

The February 19 version includes references to President Barack Obama and Richard C. Holbrooke, Special Representative for Afghanistan and Pakistan or special envoy.

Cooking Gyros For Swat Valley (February 2009)

We used to be
the Switzerland of Pakistan
many orchards
much fruit
much minding.

In my mind I see
the mulberry trees,
see much fruit, the
plum of the valley
minding apricots, damson
cracking walnuts like jewels
minding a fig leaf
a grape, the jujube
minding these and the olive tree
in my dreams of Swat Valley

We thought
like fruit flies
insurgents could be thwarted
could be swatted

In exile, an
Obama for peace
seemed hopeful,
one making pieces of harm
come together in compromise

Oh the strutting about,
the grazing on tables where
all the world’s a
Joe Biden stage, confused
the size of Delaware
the size of Swat
valley of rotting fruit.

Stand up for Swat Valley
the Switzerland of Pakistan

The Taliban
have kidnapped
my Father, and

from New York in refuge
I work to earn a ransom; the
flowers of my Swati meadows
are in my mind, my eye

Oh Pakistan,
for every truce I die,
while Richard C. Holbrooke
fiddles with Sharia at the door.
—————
For some reason on February 21, I took out the specific references. I suppose, at the time, I didn’t think it was that relevant. And maybe it’s a smoother poem without the names. But now it’s startling to see Biden in the early version. This is the revised plain version:

We used to be
the Switzerland of Pakistan
many orchards
much fruit
much minding.

In my mind I see
the mulberry trees,
see much fruit, the
plum of the valley
minding apricots, damson
cracking walnuts like jewels
minding a fig leaf
a grape, the jujube
minding these and the olive tree
in my dreams of Swat Valley

We thought
like fruit flies
insurgents could be thwarted
could be swatted

In exile, my
restaurant work is a meditation
chopping lamb into chunks
into pieces, coalescing
thoughts for peace
charcoal broiled
hoping coalition forces will
bring a peace home, but I
am mashed chick peas
and tahini: the skeleton of
the sesame seed, fallen, my
kernel floated and crushed
feeling pasty, stuck in New York
rolling out an unfamiliar phyllo flat
with pistachios and honey sadness.

Oh the strutting about,
the grazing on tables where
all the world’s a
thoughtless stage, confused
the size of Delaware
the size of Swat
valley of rotting fruit
and war.

Stand up for Swat Valley
the Switzerland of Pakistan

The Taliban
have kidnapped
my Father, and

from here in refuge
I work to earn a ransom, the
flowers of my Swati meadows
in my mind, my eye,
the charcoal smell of my
burnt house wafted in a nostril

Oh Pakistan,
for every truce I die,
while every envoy
seems to fiddle
with Shariah at the door.