Poetry on a Monday

Been holding this one for a couple of weeks...the mindset is right, though.



I’ve never tasted a caramel
In the midmorning sun,
Whose cool embers
Give way to waves of warm butter
Poured over lips,
Adorn milky velvet,
Savored,
Indulged,
Melts into a rich mirth of nectar.

Sating flavors linger heavy on the tongue,
Promise more than the day can hold.

Poetry in the raw.

That's right...two Wednesdays in a row! Let's hear it for lit night! Let's try a bit of applied haiku tonight. This one is written today, published tonight. How's that for efficiency?




Slow burn. With a taste,
Beaujolais glares trickle from
Dark fermentation

In thirsty vineyards,
Carefully hidden, tended
To lush excesses.

Your riddle entwined,
Veiled in the blithe tannins of
A transient smile

Awash amongst the
Steep nose, frail legs of the glass
Of Dionysus.

POETRY!!!

So...blogger still won't let me format properly. Fuck them...here is my latet poem (in leiu of my larger poetry project) without the proper formatting (imagine each lower case line indented 5 spaces).

(Note: I wrote this last night while half inebriated and mostly asleep. I polished it up today)

A flash,
A fount
of inspiration,
of feline paradox,

Where a question
is an invitation
And a front of naïveté
a snare of better thinking.

Where youth is a hindrance
and a necessary medium
For tiptoe graces,
For telling faces
and a question
and answer,
unbelieving.
Sonata.

Where I masquerade,
and proceed to cavort
With probability,
With mirth
and retreat to the sideline.

A vision,
A dream of entropy

Where words hang heavy,
bored
And a question
is an invitation to our dance
Of glee
I lead
In three
we waltz

And curiosity
Springs me from the limbo
Of a higher purpose
in a flash.

Dreams and the Like

The morning that began "Winter Storm 2009" I fixed breakfast alongside Tammy and listened for the first time to Bruce Springsteen's Working on a Dream album. I had read through the lyrics sheet when I had arrived home the night before, an uncharactaristic move for me prior to listening. However, I had stayed up until midnight (quite an experience for me these days) to purchase the album and drive home in one hell of a sleet storm to assure I would have it during what I predicted to be multiple days of being homebound. I've been meaning to write about the album ever since.

Many longtime Springsteen fans have had a reaction that can be best described as tepid to the new album. I think I've finally figured out the reason. Bruce, probably more so than any other artist recording today has mastered tying an album around a concept. Up until Working on a Dream, fans had been spoiled with album-long novellas chornicling the need for liberation, the burden of liberation, the Reagan 80's (twice!), he breakdown of false love, the solidarity of true love (or as true as it gets), the plight of the downtrodden in an increasingly affluent nation, 9-11, and The Bush Administration, to name most of the concepts. Springsteen fans seem as likely to be literature fans as music fans. And that's where Bruce throws something of a curveball.

Working on a Dream is still based around a concept, but it's much more of an aural concept than a lyrical one. Hell, Good Eye has three whole verses (and calling them verses is pushing it). But the song is a rollicking good time. WoaD communicates much of the same positive vibe as Lucky Town. But Bruce does so by playing with a happy sound, instead of just happy lyrics. A certain loose playfulness is reflected throughout the disc. Admittedly, the lyrics are some of his simplest, but that's part of the point. (Ironically, many of the Springsteen mega-fans hype up "The Wrestler" as God's gift to songwriting, but the lyrics are no more striking than many of the other songs). A quick blow-by-blow:

Outlaw Pete: Admittedly, I still don't get this one yet. It's been very hard for me to chomp off 8 minutes of attention to dedicate the listening that it needs.

My Lucky Day: A pretty basic fast-paced Bruce single. Solid, but nothing outstanding.

Working on a Dream: A much more bold statement than the preceding song. That's probably the reason why the album is named for it and not the former. I can actually feel myself looking forward to this song. The album as an analogy for life. The point is in the Working, not the final product. Perhaps I'm reading too much in, but I think Bruce wanted to communicate a less polished feel to this album. Less slick, not as coherent. All we can really do is work on the dream. Will we ever achieve it? The working is the achievement.

Queen of the Supermarket: I could write a blog on this song alone (and have considered it). Possibly the high point of entire album, a simple story of love from a distance. But for those of us that have experienced this, the best presentation of it I've seen. The song is quinessentially Bruce (lyrical longing, regret, appreciation), just set in the mundane suburbanite setting. Even the f-bomb at the end is not only appropriate but necessary. A matter-of-fact delivery is elevated by the power of the word to match the music in the background. A wow moment. And I could go on...

What Love Can Do: Pretty basic Bruce stuff again. I might be more appreciative of this song if it didn't follow Queen of the Supermarket. However, in it's current spot, it just seems like a digression. It does serve as a fast-paced bridge to the next track, though

This Life: This track channels Roy Orbison unlike anything I've ever heard in Bruce's catalog. Needless to say, I love it.

Good Eye: The rollicking blues number mentioned above. Probably the best evidence of the underlying point of the album.

Tomorrow Never Knows: Warm and fuzzy Bruce? So you have it. The use of trumpet in the background is especailly nice. Nostalgic, airy, a bit light in the lyric. But a great contrast to the previous track

Life Itself: By far the best of the "Bruce" songs on the album (in other words, those that would fit in on almost any of his albums). He knocks this on out of the park.

Kingdom of Days: A valentine of a song. Bruce at the happiest I've heard him...ever. But not sappy. Just gleeful. The lyric says a bit. the music says more. His voice, however, says volumes about the level of contentment he's found in life.

Surprise, Surprise: Gleeful to the point of being silly. But an appropriate follow-up to the track before (and certainly a great anti-setup to The Last Carnival). I hear a lot of early Beetles influence in this one.

The Last Carnival: The tribute to Danny is poignant and appropriately literary. the fact that it's a de facto tribute to Wild Billy's Circus Story is off-the-wall brilliant. The ending bugged me a little at first, but I've since come to reconcicle with it. One of the disc's best.

The Wrestler: The writing is a bit basic, but the performance is the low-key, desperate, and fading setting the song screams for.

In short, Bruce has finally recorded a disc that's for popping open a bottle of wine, cranking up the stereo and taking an emotional adventure with the brain OFF. No need for the head in this one. The music points the way. Let the mind sink into the heart and lose yourself in it.

Of course, that's against everything Bruce stands for, right? He's the thinking, songwriting Dylan-in-waiting, right?

Meet Bruce the musicianm Bruce the composer, Bruce the charmer.

A Case for Crane

Well...so the travelblog didn't work out that well. Not only did I not have much if any readership, but I neglected to keep it going. I do, however, have some more pictures of the house that I intend to post at some point.

I also intend to gloat mightily about winning not one but both of my fantasy football leagues this year, ending years of frustration.

And I'm currently wallowing in tangled thoughts of the draw of "real" music...loose, dirty, organic music. But those thoughts still need a bit of sorting out.

And, besides, tonight is Wednesday. And Wednesday means lit night.

About a decade ago, I wrote a paper for a high school English class about the poetry of Stephen Crane. I can't remember how I became familiar with his poetry, but I remember trying to expose as many to it as possible. I remember sharing his work with a friend and poet I've long since lost contact with. And I remember posting works of his as away messages and such over the years.

And yet, its been forever since I've read any. Hell, I don't even own the book I gave as gift (which only avoids being an unforgivable atrocity because I had read all of the material in the book. But tonight, I say we take a look at a few of Mr. Cranes poems. Perahps, in the new year, they can give us all a new air of persepctive on the world we face.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;"
But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

I seem to recall Chris Egbert was a big fan of this particular poem. I'm sure that says something about him...or maybe more about the poem. I really should contact him.

In heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.
"What did you do?"
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.
This one stayed a small way behind,
Ashamed.
Presently, God said,
"And what did you do?"
The little blade answered,
"Oh my Lord,
Memory is bitter to me,
For, if I did good deeds,
I know not of them."
Then God, in all His splendor,
Arose from His throne.
"Oh, best little blade of grass!" He said.

This one has always stuck out as a great example of what Crane does so well: Take a poetic idea and tell it in a matter-of-fact, alomst unpoetic way. If tried to emulate this on many occasions, to mixed results

I walked in a desert.
And I cried,
"Ah, God, take me from this place!"
A voice said,
"It is no desert."
I cried,
"Well, But --The sand, the heat, the vacant horizon."
A voice said, "It is no desert."

One of my personal favorites and a doorway to a great expanse in the consideration of perspective.

A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

If I'm not mistaken, this is the one that got me interested in Crane's poetry. As efficient as it is extravagant. Let us not forget our humility...

Dimanche Gras

The Sunday sun rises slowly over Toronto...something to do with it being North, I suppose. Today was a simple day. Fat Sunday in the Great White North.

After some orange juice and a bit of reading, Tammy and I walked down to the beach, as the Weather Network (note: NOT Weather Channel) informed us that neither the sunshine nor the warmth (about 50 degrees F) would be lasting long.

Snow and ice run until the give way directly to sand and surf on the north shore of Lake Ontario. The wind was furious this morning. I assumed this blowing was the normal state of things in the city and possibly attributed to the poor state of the Maple Leafs over the last few years. Apparently, though, such a breeze is quite unusal in the area, causing accidents, bridge closings, and other assorted consequences.

It sure made the lake choppy, though. Not that it seemed to bother these ducks:

After the morning sojourn, it was time to prepare the Fat Sunday feast! A trip to the store yielded baked ravioli, maple baked beans, and piorges.

Football abounds with the last of the playoff positions decided (including a Philly-drubbing of the Cowboys, which made Fat very happy). Most importantly though, the streak ends and yours truly wraps up not one, but TWO fantasy football championships.

Beef stew simmers away in the kitchen as I write this, so I best get to it. Above, check out the dining room (unused thus far, as is customr on Fat Sunday), and the quaint front sitting room.

The preview of the house will continue tomorrow as I cover...well, whatever we end up doing tomorrow.

Tune in then and find out. Same Bat-Time. Same Bat-Channel.

Hockey Night in Canada

Day 1 is complete. Actually, Day 1 and day 2 are complete, in a disjointed half-assed sort of fashion. And we are in Toronto. And by "we" I mean Tammy, Fat, and myself. The other prospective Canada travelers all backed out. Not that we need them to have a good time. Just some Alexander Keith's and Hockey Night in Canada.

How did we get here? In two dstinct parts. First was the evening shift, last night's run for the border from Crestwood to Windsor, douchebag capital of North America. Seriously, Windsor is just a place for every college kid that isn't old enough to buy alcohol nor cool enough to join the Pikes to come get drunk and find chicks to get intimate with, where the definition of "get intimate" is take back to the room, get her blood-alcohol level higher than her IQ, and have your way. After all, it's not a mistake if she can't remember it, right? Not that the girls aren't doing their best to look like a

Boxing Day special walking down the street in mini-skirts and scoop-cut shirts in 40 degree (F) temperatures and rain.

But hey we made it a Boxing Day (they celebrate that up here) to remember, with the Hawks on the TV in a sports bar and a trip to the Aardvark, ending with a well-deserved night's sleep.

Picking up in the morning, we have breakfast at a McDonald's that doesn't have biscuits (at all, everything's a McMuffin or a bagel) and hit the road in FogRace '08. I never considered that rising temperatures could actually cause snow to porduce fog but, alas, there it is! A dicey drive across the piece of Ontario between lakes Huron and Ontario, and we finally reach Toronto, to find our beautiful house for the week, where we've settled down for that most sacred of Candian traditions, beer and Hockey Night in Canada.

O Canada, indeed.

More to come in the following days.