--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, "coronaborealis444"
<wdestiny44@...> wrote:
>
> "My role in society, or any artist's or poet's role, is to try and express
what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a
leader, but as a reflection of us all." ~John Lennon
>
Yes as poets we don't write to people as much as for them.
Steve
ANSWER TO A FOOL
Pardon our makeshift memorials
our clusters of burning candles
our awkward flowers & balloons
Forgive our clumsy piles
of cuddly stuffed animals
We're not looking
to drive death away
Just adding our shoulders
to help carry the load
We don't know it's impossible
Inside my wordless questions
search for words to answer
but even words are casualties
Don't you know the answer
to a fool is silence?
Steve Toth
NOW WHAT?
The year you see
circling the drain
is the last one on its way out
Can you blame a year
for what happened
while it was passing?
All the year did was
supply the time & stand back
We chose what to stuff it with
I took a bath
in polluted water
I washed my body
but it didn't come clean
I tried to do what
my fellow inmates told me
but I must have
washed my body
in a polluted stream
Whole oceans don't satisfy some
but for others a breath
of fog is plenty
Infinity is nothing & vice versa
Never count on the end
of a world to bail you out
When I was a kid
I was always dying to play ball
Now what are we dying for?
PLAY ON WORDS
Sunlight plays on the water
as a song plays on the radio
You can play ball with the bosses
or play it by ear
as you play for time
Play it cool or play the fool
but play it through till it's all played out
You can play a part in a play
& if it's autobiographical
you might even get to play yourself
Other people's memories play
tricks on me but there's still no
consummate poem just poetry getting through
rereading & rewriting one's life
making a total work of oneself
Play on words let nothing stop you
if you are truly at play
& not just playing us all for suckers
this feeling of linguistic intimacy
& verbal invincibility will spread
Maybe words are no longer content
to merely describe things & events
Maybe they're creating their own as we speak
That we are all cunning
seems both accidental & inevitable
Maybe words do generate wild stories
the way reality once generated words
& every word is writing its own thesaurus
but no matter how serious the subject
there will always be wordplay
Steve Toth
Here are three haiku about the rape victim from India. The government did not want her name released, but her family did in hopes that her death would be of help to other potential victims. It's a lot easier to forget a crime with no name or face.
LAST THING I REMEMBER
Last thing I remember
it was the first thing this morning
Just one look did I take your way
& suddenly nothing else mattered
Like the sun on the rise was I
delivered out of fear & hope
Sometimes I'm a rare flower
made entirely of birds flying
in formation migrating to
your sanctuary for the winter
Other times I'm the first shoot
of spring growing right to you
Suddenly your kiss puts a
sizzle up & down my naked fire
Words get mixed up with fog horns
& come together in your warm embrace
Even my pants are racing my lungs
to see which will catch my breath first
What have you done with my body?
Where are you taking my life?
Your feeling leaves the trees green
Your love breaks my heart out of jail
The music you slip in my head
is playing with that crazy beat
Steve Toth
It turns out that the poem "Success" was not written by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It was written by Bessie Anderson Stanley in 1904. She entered it into a poetry contest and won first prize of $250.
The link at the end of the poem gives the story through contact with Bessie's great granddaughter.
Here is the poem as it was originally written by her.
Success
He has achieved success
who has lived well,
laughed often, and loved much;
who has enjoyed the trust of
pure women,
the respect of intelligent men and
the love of little children;
who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
who has left the world better than he found it
whether by an improved poppy,
a perfect poem or a rescued soul;
who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty
or failed to express it;
who has always looked for the best in others and
given them the best he had;
whose life was an inspiration;
whose memory a benediction.
THINGS TO DO WITH WORDS
The word is out
Things that seem to be at odds
are often working together
To read a face
start learning to recognize the like
in the unlike
Things are made clear
by their opposites
Double up with laughter
or pain as the moment demands
The age old longing
of humankind raises its sleepy head
searching the morning for ways
that words might gain some
real power over what is happening
Now is the time to make our move
Shouldn't knowing a name
give you some kind
of influence over the named?
Shouldn't calling someone
you love's name make them look
no matter how far away you are?
In other words things make sense
until you think about them
In English there are few words
with only one definition
& those have countless connotations
Aren't words just ideas
all dressed up in letters?
Each word is a memento
reminding us that words are things all right
just not the things they say they are
Steve Toth
I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching
my mind with my mind,
and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,
and it's not even noon yet.
In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in
on minute, and the longest
was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an outdoor cafe and order a glass
of Sancerre, smoked trout with roasted potatoes and baby
carrots and a bowl of gazpacho.
But I stayed and learned to name my thoughts, so far they are:
wanting, wanting, wanting,
wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, judgment,
sadness. Don't identify with your
thoughts, the teacher says, you are not your personality, not your
ego-identification,
then he bangs the gong for lunch. Whoever, whatever I am is
given instruction
in the walking meditation and the eating meditation and walks
outside with the other
meditators, and we wobble across the lake like The Night of the
Living Dead.
I meditate slowly, falling over a few times because I kept my
foot in the air too long,
towards a bench, sit slowly down, and slowly eat my sandwich,
noticing the bread,
(sourdough), noticing the taste, (tuna, sourdough), noticing
the smell, (sourdough, tuna),
thanking the sourdough, the tuna, the ocean, the boat, the
fisherman, the field, the grain,
the farmer, the Saran Wrap that kept this food fresh for this
body made of food and desire
and the hope of getting through the rest of this day without
dying of boredom.
Sun then cloud then sun. I notice a maple leaf on my sandwich.
It seems awfully large.
Slowly brushing it away, I feel so sad I can hardly stand it, so I
name my thoughts; they are:
sadness about my mother, judgment about my father, wanting
the child I never had.
I notice I've been chasing the same thoughts like dogs around
the same park most of my life,
notice the leaf tumbling gold to the grass. The gong sounds,
and back in the hall.
I decide to try lying down meditation, and let myself sleep. The
Buddha in my dream is me,
surrounded by dogs wagging their tails, licking my hands.
I wake up
for the forgiveness meditation, the teacher saying, never put
anyone out of your heart,
and the heart opens and knows it won't last and will have to
open again and again,
chasing those dogs around and around in the sun then cloud
then sun.
NOTHING IS UNCONNECTED
Without the gray wolf's presence
their prey the elk's
reproduction rates got out of hand
With all the extra mouths to feed
the grass no longer
had time to recover from
being consumed & sapling trees
stripped of all their bark withered
instead of grew
The resulting lack of vegetation
meant the whole habitat
was changed from lush to barren
leaving migratory birds
one less place to stop & rest
Is no place on this planet
pristine anymore?
We've witnessed day dwellers
transforming into nocturnals
just to coexist with us humans
To an educated mind
nothing is unconnected
What are we doing in our skulls
sitting here with so many brains?
Are we not like a pronghorn appears
somewhat overdeveloped
in speed & agility
without an extinct cheetah
in hot pursuit?
Steve Toth
Hi Steve:
Playing catch up in reading your poems. They are welcomed heart tugs. Isn't it
time for another book to be put together?
Best,
Sharon 444
--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, "Steve Toth" wrote:
>
> PLAY ON WORDS
>
> Sunlight plays on the water
> as a song plays on the radio
> You can play ball with the bosses
> or play it by ear
> as you play for time
>
> Play it cool or play the fool
> but play it through till it's all played out
> You can play a part in a play
> & if it's autobiographical
> you might even get to play yourself
>
> Other people's memories play
> tricks on me but there's still no
> consummate poem just poetry getting through
> rereading & rewriting one's life
> making a total work of oneself
>
> Play on words let nothing stop you
> if you are truly at play
> & not just playing us all for suckers
> this feeling of linguistic intimacy
> & verbal invincibility will spread
>
> Maybe words are no longer content
> to merely describe things & events
> Maybe they're creating their own as we speak
> That we are all cunning
> seems both accidental & inevitable
>
> Maybe words do generate wild stories
> the way reality once generated words
> & every word is writing its own thesaurus
> but no matter how serious the subject
> there will always be wordplay
>
> Steve Toth
>
ANSELM
The first time I met Anselm
he had called me in
to his office for a meeting
I had submitted
a small manuscript
& figured this
meant I would be accepted
into his workshop class
We talked a while
about something or other
then he got out
my manuscript
& handed it
back to me
"I can't really
tell anything
by reading these"
he told me
"I probably should have
picked you but
then I'd have to
say no
to somebody else"
For some reason
we both burst
into laughter at this
but his was
deeper than mine
more like a roar
Walking home
I didn't feel rejected
for some reason
I felt kind of up
like I'd just
had my class & my future
was before me
Anselm Hollo 1934-2013
Steve Toth
TOMBEAU
When a poet dies
something must be done
with the physical body but the
true tomb or tombeau of a poet
is constructed by other poets
The words of the living
bearing the weight line by line
of carrying the dead poet home
The dead poet silently
calls out for tribute
but the living must be
true to themselves & their visions
The truest criticisms
are in what you take with you
& in what you use later
to make it look easy
There are many approaches including
an expression of gratitude & praise
such as Mallarme on Poe
or even the continuation
of a contentious disagreement
like Auden on Yeats
Gautier's volume was completed
with the help of 83 contributors
Every tombeau is a collaboration
between two strong voices
both a destroyer & a preserver
The interests of the dead & living
are not likely to coincide
The history of poetry
is littered with such choices
using one word over another
Steve Toth
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailorÂ’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
LOVE POEM 14
They told us love can't last
but repeated use
has yet to wear ragged
the fabric of our love
Don't they know when
you're in love you're in God
because God is love?
When a coin is being flipped
most people call either
"heads" or "tails"
Very few call out "edge"
& even fewer
call out "edge" & win
like I did with you
You have aroused my happiness
May the vultures descend
& pick my bones
clean of any flesh
that doesn't long for you
We intoxicate intoxication
Love gets high on us
Steve Toth
AT THE BUS SHELTER
Loaded with groceries
we sit down in the bus shelter
A man with a long beard
is sitting with a space between us
when a large young man
comes asking if he can sit down
"Who's stopping you?"
The other man answers gruffly
The young man starts
cussing a blue streak
& kicks his shoes into the street
The grey beard slips away
but we sit quietly
trying to ignore him
for a few minutes
until our bus arrives
He turns & punches the glass
over my head
with the heel of his hand
"You know you two
are probably my best friends
I love you both
Shut up
You're a couple of assh*les
F*ck you
Now I'm really mad"
I whisper to Sheila let's go
let`s go & we do
to the right down to the corner
We figure with his shoes off
in the street he won't
be following us
& he doesn't
for about a minute or so
Then here he comes again
cussing a blue streak again
His pants start slipping down
but he keeps ranting
Then his underpants slipping as well
but he has another pair under those
With his pants down around his ankles
we make our move
I look but don't see him trailing after
just as the bus pulls up
The driver says the cops have been called
& are on their way
but they don't arrive
The bus runs in place
waiting for departure time
As we drive off
We see him there on the grass
lying facedown
with his arms stretched out
over his head
Pants & underpants off to the side
Dead to the world
Steve Toth
ANIMAL MAGNETISM
I used to be buffaloed
but now I'm bugged
I used to be goosed
but now I'm badgered
I used to ape
but now I duck
I used to pussyfoot
but now I lionize
I used to grouse
but now I worm my way
I used to crab
but now I ram home
I used to scapegoat
but now I eat crow
I used to get your goat
but now I play possum
Observe the animals
& they will show you
Pay attention to the birds
& they will clue you in
or listen to the earth itself
& it will inform you
even the sea creatures
have tales to tell
Steve Toth
On a gray day, when the sun
has been abducted, and itÂ’s chill
end-of-the-world weather,
I must be the sun.
I must be the one
to encourage the young
sidetracked physicist
working his fatherÂ’s cash register
to come up with a law of nature
that says brain waves can change
the dismal sky. I must be the one
to remind the ginger plant
not to rest on the reputation
of its pungent roots, but to unveil
those buttery tendrils from the other world.
When the sky is an iron lid
I must be the one to simmer
in the piquant juices of possibility,
though the ingredients are unknown
and the day begins with a yawn.
I must issue forth a warmth
without discrimination, and any guarantee
it will come back to me.
On a dark day I must be willing
to keep my disposition light,
I have to be at the very least
on stray intact ray
of local energy, one small
but critical fraction
of illumination. Even on a day
that doesnÂ’t look gray
but still lacks comfort or sense,
I have to be the sun,
I have to shine as if
sorry life itself depended on it.
I have to make all the difference.
FEELING ALIVE
When the temperature falls
you can see your breath
billowing like you're steam driven
Then again as it warms up
your breath will no longer be visible
but that doesn't mean
you've stopped breathing
Why does the line I'm in start moving
ever slower while
the other lines keep moving right along?
Unless I switch lines
then the one I left instantly accelerates
& the one I switched to
stops altogether
People who make scary movies
say people like to get scared
because it makes them feel alive
& they'll pay to feel that way
We humans are the only animals
who take their instinctual fears
& turn them into amusements
Steve Toth
And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home.
Journeying god,
pitch your tent with mine
so that I may not become deterred
by hardship, strangeness, doubt.
Show me the movement I must make
toward a wealth not dependent on possessions,
toward a wisdom not based on books,
toward a strength not bolstered by might,
toward a god not confined to heaven.
Help me to find myself as I walk in other's shoes.
(Prayer song from Ghana, traditional, translator unknown)
I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.
He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.
Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression —
he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.
Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.
He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.
CONSIDER
Overlooking the ocean
we take in everything
as far as our eyesight reaches
How good it is
not to be sold anything
They say the moment
death touches you
nothing is yours anyway
but consider a few things
dying has done for me
You see I used to be plain dirt
but a plant sucked me in
then a human ate me in a salad
Now here I am writing poetry
which is making love with words
I may not be ready
for darkness to overtake me
I may not be ready
for defeat to overthrow me
I may not be ready for torture
I may not be ready for mutilation
I may not be ready to cease to exist
I may not be ready for rotting
but I'll bet I'm ready
for you my love
The single worst thing
that can happen in the life
of a contented caterpillar
is what you might
call a butterfly
Steve Toth
LOOKING FOR A POET
When you were little you wanted things
Then you learned to point & make noises
but that was indirect & too easily ignored
Therefore you started learning language
so you could ask for things by name
& before you knew it
you couldn't even think without words
Where can you find a functioning poet
in case something needs expressing?
Is reading words to pick up information
like watching pieces of wood float by
to learn everything about a river
except how fast the water goes?
Are things best known by their opposites?
What can words tell you about
something as personal as your own death?
When words get done with death it sounds
like nothing but an out of work actor
hired to play the part in a skeleton suit
who beckons you with a boney finger
Come take a look into
The
Mirror
which
Flatters
not
When you `re digging a hole for yourself
words crowd around like hungry gulls
but when you're feeling something wonderful
nary a word comes to mind
Well wash my mouth out with language
Here you are looking for a poet
but stumble instead upon a human being
Have you ever been reading a poem
like this one & then suddenly realized
the poem is talking directly to you?
How did this morning's amazing insight
turn into this evening's tired cliché?
As for language I can take it or leave it
or dish it out & I can stop any time I like
Steve Toth
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