Arem Arvinson Log

Something New, Something Old

2012-01-28T08:33:00.004-06:00

Little Eagle's RE / VERSE

A poet wonders; after the little mag publication, after the chap book is misplaced, after the anthology is relegated to the back stack of the university library, who will ever see my poem again? My Little Eagle Press has just begun a new website to extend the lives of those forgotten poems. Only previously published work will be posted, only some of the best work of some of the best poets operating today. The site is just beginning on its mission, but you'll get an idea of how good it's gonna be by looking at what's already at http://littleeaglereverse.blogspot.com . Come back often. I think this one will find a place on your favorites list. You'll always be able to get there from the links list at this blog, too. ~RM

Fishing

2012-01-23T11:13:00.009-06:00

In this strangest of all winters here in Wisconsin, where there is very thin ice indeed, at a time when it should be solid and safe, I drag out this piece I wrote back in '06:

Northern

I lead you out onto these preliminary lines
like an old fishing buddy
walking on the season’s first thin ice,
unsure we won’t slip beneath the surface,
gulping at the depth,
but certain this is the day for keepers,
gleaming in cold silver and gulping, too,
as they slip into the sky above their homes.
I coax you toward the center of this verse,
towing tools of the trade in a little sledge
that follows on faith,
bore a hole through the fragile freeze
where we wait, shiver, wait.
I try simile, metaphor, then rhyme for bait
and I talk of patience
and barely notice the nibbling of a thought,
now hooked and struggling liquid,
muscle and tooth and blood
this idea, hungry, as a lover takes a lure,
a snap, a relaxing,
and it’s swimming free –
this thing I’ll never grasp –
hooks torn from its legendary flesh,
laughter from its lips.

Smile at me, swimmer, smile at me.

~ Ralph Murre

And this morning, reading from Pablo Neruda's Memoirs, I came upon this paragraph, about a time he spent in Russia:
"The work of writers, I say, has much in common with the work of these Arctic fishermen. The writer has to look for the river, and if he finds it frozen over, he has to drill a hole in the ice. He has to have a good deal of patience, weather the cold and the adverse criticism, stand up to ridicule, look for the deep water, cast the proper hook, and after all that work, he pulls out a tiny little fish. So he must fish again, facing the cold, the water, the critic, eventually landing a bigger fish, and another and another."

BUILT

2012-01-17T10:48:00.005-06:00

BUILT
(the song of an ancient architect)

Now that I’ve drawn the dreams, driven the stakes
destroyed deserts by division and development
crammed construction into corn-fields
built boxes in bean-fields
Now that I’ve penned the plans, fucked-up the forests
for fortune and foreclosure, plundered prairies
for profit, lost the lakeshores
Now that I’ve cantilevered cabins over cliffs and
hurried highways into hinterlands
Now that I’ve populated the pines
and peopled the pristine
Now that I’ve roofed-over the rural
Now that I’ve floored-over the flood-plain
Now that I’ve blueprinted the Blue Ridge
Now that my pencil
Now that my client
Now that the mortgage
Now that the bank
Now that the zoning
Now that the economy’s in the tank
Now that your hopes are diminished
May I rest? Am I finished?

~ Ralph Murre

Attempted Allegory

2012-01-14T13:41:00.007-06:00

Aids to Navigation

On a fog-bound beach, a man teaching a boy to skip stones. And on the Western Sea, the elders looking back to this featureless shore where they hoped we would build beacons, where they hoped we would build fires in the night. Those voyagers, their little boats bobbing, cannot find the way back to the safe harbor of our Turtle Island. Something about ancient lessons, distant stars, something about mystery always repeating itself. The dusk is here. Oh, Mother, come back, I will build a tall lighthouse. Oh, Father, steer this way. And Son, skip your pebble well. Mark a channel for me if I should sail the Western Sea.

~ Ralph Murre

The photo is a detail from a bronze sculpture I saw in Buenos Aires. I do not know the artist. It seems, somehow, to work with this little poem. ~ RM

Its Flavor

2012-01-09T12:13:00.004-06:00

There used to be a popular, but bizarre song which asked, "Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?" Well, in recent excavations here at the old Murre digs, I came across the little poem shown above, which was written quite awhile back, on the inside of a chewing gum package, which must have been the only paper in my pocket at the time. For me, it doesn't seem to have lost its flavor. ~ RM

Look!

2012-01-05T19:41:00.006-06:00

Look! Out there –

just at the horizon -
the ship that carries everything
I hope for
and everything I dread.
That slow ship
that was just a dot
in the mist
seems to head this way
with the wind at her back.

~ Ralph Murre

Between

2011-12-30T14:00:00.005-06:00

deep in the glen of winter
somewhere between this year
and that, a quiet chuckling
as clever time and stream
mock the fury of man
and permanence of rock
the joke they share
takes forever to tell
but there's no hurry

~ ralph murre

Just Because

2011-12-23T11:12:00.003-06:00

Because they're young and short
and in parents' old robes,
are they less wise, these travelers?
Because her wings are cardboard
and a stepladder holds her aloft,
is she not an angel?
Because the star is of gilded paper,
is this not Christmas?

- Ralph Murre

Post # 500; Nearing Solstice

2011-12-17T11:08:00.006-06:00

Yes, this is the 500th post here along the Arvinson Road. Heavy fog all the way, but I'd like to think that it's been a journey worth making, so far. Please have a look around the archives and see if you agree.
Now, in light of (or in dark of?) the coming solstice, I'll lay a piece on you that many have seen or heard before, and which we'll all soon be as tired of as we are The Little Drummer Boy, but a few people have told me they love my seasonal sermonette, so, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, here it is:

In Dark December

Whatever you believe,
whatever you do not,
there are sacred rites
you must perform
in dark December.
Do this for me:
Pull together
the kitchen table,
the folding table,
and that odd half-oval
usually covered
with bills and broken pencils
and red ink.
Pull together family and friends,
cool cats and stray dogs alike.
Turn off everything
except colored lights,
the roaster,
the toaster, the stove.
Cook. Bake. Eat.
Yes, even the fruitcake.
Eat, crowded around
those assembled tables
with mismatched chairs.
Reach so far
in your sharing
that you hold the sun
in one hand,
the stars in the other,
and no one between is hungry.
Now walk together,
talk together,
be together
on these darkest nights.
Give and forgive.
Light candles and ring bells.
Sing the old songs.
Tell the old stories
one more time,
leaving nothing out,
leaving no one out
in the long night,
leaving nothing wrong
that you can make right.

~ Ralph Murre

of a certain age

2011-12-14T11:56:00.011-06:00

Can we still write love poems
when the triumphs of our G.I. tracts
are more heralded
than the hunger of our hearts?
Neruda could not have written The Captain's Verses
under the gaze of nurses, but at the end of life
he said to Mathilde,
"It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
. . . I sleep
enormous, in your small hands."
and maybe that's where
the real love poem began.

~ Ralph Murre

Above the River

2011-12-08T20:14:00.005-06:00

On that slope above the Rio Grande
two cows in a New Mexican sunset
their long shadows grazing
on the last stems of daylight
our little car rolling toward tomorrow
and everything made of gold

~ Ralph Murre

and thanks again

2011-12-02T20:50:00.007-06:00

photo by S. Auberle

On a Tuesday, I guess it was, m'pardner & I rode down Deuce of Clubs Avenue and right into Show Low, when out of the clear blue Arizona sky I began t'feelin' a mite uneasy. Too many good eats, we reckoned. Tethered the horses 'n' set up camp at the local Holiday Inn Express. A sleepless night led to morning light which revealed my already ample belly swelled to about double its normal size and me, some kinda UNcomfortable.

Well, we saddled up and made the short ride to the nearest emergency room, where they shoved a tube up my nose & down my throat, which had roughly the same effect as we'd get stickin' a bloated cow -- it ain't all that pretty, but it works. Then they proceded to take a bunch of high-falutin' photos of my innards. An obstruction of the bowels 's what they showed. Surgery 's what I needed.

Now, I gotta thank some folks who made it possible f'me to be home alive 'n' writin' t'y'all today: first, the ER staff of Summit Healthcare, then, Dr. Burke De Lange & his ace surgical team, and then, the entire Summit Nursing & tech staff, all of whom must have come from up around Lake Woebegone, 'cause they're ALL way above average.

Thanks, too, to the several of you who caught wind of these developments as they unfolded and kept me under the cozy blanket of your prayers, your good thoughts, and your good vibes. Much appreciated, all around.

The biggest "Thank You", though, is reserved for m'pardner and friend, who mostly dragged me to the hospital and then hovered for a long week, like an angel with wings of light. Thank y'kindly, Miss Sharon.

~ Ralph Murre

Thanks

2011-11-18T08:55:00.007-06:00

Thanks to The Night

thanks to the night
for showing her moon
thanks to the morning
the late afternoon
for the long shadow
that makes you tall as your dreams
thanks to the schemes of twilight
the novel and ancient ideas of streetlights
revealed in their glowing cones
thanks to the bones of your ancestors
for the little you
thanks to the dewy flower
the clock in the tower
for not taking this moment
thanks to the sea for blue

- Ralph Murre

And thanks to all of you for looking in.
Now, I'll be out of Blogland for a couple of weeks.
Later,
~ arem

EL

2011-11-15T10:59:00.008-06:00

chicago window
el train slicing grey morning
someone's life inside

~ arem

Guess what! More of my work, indeed some of my life, is featured on Poetry Dispatch! Forgive the overt enthusiasm, which is not my usual way, but this is a big deal for me. Please have a look at http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2011/11/13/ralph-murre-crude-red-boat-psalms-the-price-of-gravity/

Staggering

2011-11-07T13:23:00.007-06:00

To that ancient white-tail buck we saw Saturday, south of Manitowoc, who is almost surely somewhere else today. You touched us deeply, Old Deer. (He's hiding in plain sight in my drawing, above.)

Great Stag, staggering
beneath weight of your years
told in antlers
weight of injury or infirmity
told in your gait
come down through that grass
this light
this November light

Cross the county road
yes, yes
cross and stumble a last time
to drink a last cool drink
of Lake Michigan
of this gold and silver light
Safe home
Old Father
good night

~Ralph Murre

LETTER

2011-11-03T14:00:00.004-05:00

An Open Letter to My Grandchildren

Hi, Kids ~

I’m not sure what your parents may have told you about some things, so I am writing to set the record straight. I do not want you to grow up without knowing the whole truth. For instance, why does Grandpa always seem to want a nap? The simple fact is that I am still very tired from the hard work I had to do as a boy. You know we had no PlayStation or GameBoy. We would build stations to play, but then they invented the railroad and they took our stations for that. We would catch wild boys in the forest hoping to play games with them, like maybe checkers, but the checkerboard was still just a distant dream of scientists, so our game boys would grow up and sell insurance or real estate, and we’d have to start over.

Of course, as you know, we had no TV. The letters “T” and “V” had not yet been thought up, which was true of most of the alphabet. We just called them our ABC’s, because that’s all we had. You could call a cab, but that was about it. And cabs were too expensive, so we had to walk everywhere. No, we had no TV, but we did have radios. The trouble with those early radios, though, was that they were steam-powered. If I wanted to listen to hear the weather report, let’s say, to see how many feet of snow I would have to walk through to get to school, I needed to get up at 3:00 AM to gather wood to build a big fire in the boiler of the radio, so there would be enough steam pressure to get a report by five o’clock. At this time, the rest of the family would arise and they’d all sit around the radio to warm up, while I’d make their breakfast.

Then, before school, it was time for my paper route. I would deliver the morning newspapers to all the people of the town, shoveling the sidewalks of the elderly and looking in on the infirm, many of whom I would nurse back to health before seven by butchering a chicken and making a nice kettle of soup with dumplings, which I liked to serve with a little arugula salad on the side. When I had time, I would do a few loads of their laundry and tell entertaining stories while I packed nourishing lunches for their little children. My schoolmates and I would have a few simple chores before classes could begin, but nothing much. Re-shingle the roof if it looked like rain. Install indoor plumbing. Re-decorate the teachers’ lounge. Things like that. We’d study hard for twelve to sixteen hours and head for home, after sweeping up and mopping the floors and getting fuel for the next day’s heating.

Back at home, I’d usually eat a cold supper while doing four or five hours of homework and I’d be ready to crawl into bed right after stitching up a few quilts to keep my brothers warm.

So, now you know the way it was.

Your loving grandpa,

~ Ralph Murre

Another Season

2011-10-28T17:42:00.003-05:00

From Water

If you've slid
over frost-glazed strand
and rowed that shade of blue
past mapled crimson
in the cove she was moored,
if she rose and fell with a sigh
because the season
had grown thin as promises,
then you know, don't you,
something of life
and a little about death.
If she's cast rainbows
in the spray
and moaned with the lust
of wind and sea,
then you know something of dreams.
If you've taken her from water
and hid her away for the long winter,
you know something of sorrow.

~ Ralph Murre

I Tried

2011-10-20T13:27:00.003-05:00

I tried to read the work of a poet,
but found he was not ready for me.
I’ve put his book aside
to give him time to prepare.
Perhaps, when I next take him
from the shelf, he will have
swept up and made the beds.
He will have weeded the gardens.
There’ll be freshly cut flowers
and the aroma of baking bread.
Perhaps he’ll offer me a
comfortable chair before launching
into his long and lofty talk.

~ Ralph Murre

an old one, first published in Free Verse (#81) and then in Other Voices (Cross+Roads Press)

a thought upon moongazing

2011-10-14T14:43:00.009-05:00

my heart is about

the size of my fist

they tell me

but it holds more

doesn't let go

~ arem

Very excited to say that one of my latest pieces, "Stitches in Time", now appears (17 Oct.'11) on Norbert Blei's Poetry Dispatch in some very fine company. If you are not a regular follower of this compendium of all things poetic, you are missing one of the real wonders available on the internet. Check it out and tell me if I'm wrong. http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com

Darkroom

2011-10-05T14:25:00.004-05:00

Darkroom

I am feeling around
in a darkened room
trying to find
something sound
in my writing, art, life.
Sometimes a light
flashbulb brief and bright
illuminates the scene
but blinds the sight.
Did I catch a glimpse
of something real?
and did you see it?
and what does it mean?
and can it be right?

~ Ralph Murre

WIND

2011-09-30T11:38:00.005-05:00

Like this morning, crazy with wind

Or just the other day, the bad roads
Even that time, and maybe it was long ago
When we all danced in circles

Take last night, what you said
Take the fire in the ring of rock
Take sun and rain, finally
Pulling frost from earth. A garden

Like falling in and out and in, again
Since the beginning and until
We are very, very old and
Maybe falling in and out, even then

The seasons, I mean, the leaves
The greening and the turning to gold
The rush of it like the sea pulling
The ice and streams of high mountains

Think of that water in the Pacific
Or the rain in Spain if you prefer
Or the little cloud that you are, driven

Like this morning, crazy with wind

~ Ralph Murre

first published in Verse Wisconsin and susequently in my book The Price of Gravity (Auk Ward Editions 2010)

after noon

2011-09-20T13:34:00.006-05:00

good afternoon:

a woman in a chair

smiling her smile

~ arem

just ducky

2011-09-12T23:28:00.008-05:00

minus orange feet

it arrives at my table

a l 'orange

~ arem

I must admit that I found the original photo of the duck on-line, and the photographer was not credited. I then did a bunch of processes to arrive at the digital duck seen above. Not certain of the ethics in this sort of theft . . . but, if it's your duck, thanks! ~RM

'round midnight

2011-09-08T11:37:00.007-05:00

catastrophic

and hopeful

as midnight

what you did

or didn't

what you might

~ arem

Workers? Are there still workers?

2011-09-05T10:06:00.009-05:00

In Labor

So, you’re still working, but they let you off for Labor Day, like the 4th, like Memorial day, and you have a coupla beers and you char something on the Weber, maybe listen to a ballgame, your team still in the cellar. Your cousin Jimmy comes over with his face-lifted tit-lifted wife and the Gameboy twins.
He drives a new Infiniti. It's gray. Nobody talks about labor except that of delivering the twins and there's some talk of her working on her tan. Your dad was in the strike of '52. Also the big one in '56. All summer.
You pick some tomatoes and corn from the garden. Get salt and pepper. They talk about the food at Aquavit and Blu. Your grandpa rode the rails in '35 and '36, stole chickens. They have to go. Country Day School starts tomorrow. Your grandma was in labor in the back of a Ford in '38. There's a union man talking in the park just a block away. Nobody listening. A skateboard goes by. The plant will close in 3 weeks. You fall asleep in a plastic chair from China, juice of summer harvest on your chin, a few clouds gathering.

~ Ralph Murre

Your Barred Window

2011-09-02T09:06:00.004-05:00

In This Prison

I would be a blade of grass
near the wall of the yard
moisture of tears would nourish me
and I would give you my green

or a sparrow on the ledge
of your barred window
you wouldn’t need to feed me much
a few grains of your thoughts
and I would chirp
tales of the outside world

or a blue notebook
in the corner of your cell
I would offer a white page each day
and I would hold what you say
‘til you’re ready
to tell everybody else

because I don’t think you’re the type
to do much writing on the wall

or I might be a hacksaw blade
baked into chocolate cake
or a giant yellow bulldozer
carelessly left in the cellblock
ignition key in place

or maybe I would be the day
they realize their mistake
and set you free

~ Ralph Murre

An old one, first published in Free Verse and subsequently in my book Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press 2007).

Locked

2011-08-23T11:51:00.010-05:00

Learning Fractions

The urge to unite – beyond the biological,
beyond the congress that continues the species –
can be explained: there’s shelter and comfort
and good cooking and conversation.
Division is difficult, though, never mind
the cold feet. The becoming one-half of
what was one, the undoing what was done.
Parceling out the goods and goodness
fifty/fifty, or drawing and quartering
the bookshelves’ perfect order. The music –
my Unchained Melody, Your Cheatin’ Heart –
no, that was mine, this yours.
An old copy of Que Sera, Sera.
Now close and lock the doors.

~ Ralph Murre

and now, a story

2011-08-18T09:31:00.003-05:00

The Language

So this medium-sized black bear walks into a bar (Lyle’s Dugout, just behind the ballpark, on 17th) and the bartender asks, “What’ll you have?”, and the bear, Lucien, orders a shot of blackberry brandy and a Hamm’s beer chaser. They get to talking, the bear and Rod, the bartender. Small talk at first, sports mostly. It depresses Lucien, who is upset about teams named for animals, particularly The Bears. The Cubs. He hates Chicago anyway, especially since a cop once roused him when he was trying to hibernate in an underground parking garage down near the Art Institute. “You’ll never catch me in that town again,” says the bear, “at least not in autumn.”

Rod sympathizes, being a Packer fan, but warns under his breath that his boss was born and raised in the Big Windy, and will tolerate no talk against it, no matter your species. “He threw out a lion just the other day for a remark about Mayor Daley. Hmmm . . . I dunno which Mayor Daley.”

“Well, I’d better drink up and get out then,” says Lucien, but Rod explains that Lyle’s in the back room, doing his books, and couldn’t hear over the music anyway (a polka, In Heaven There is No Beer, by Frankie Yankovic). He returns to polishing a few glasses and the bear moodily nurses what remains of his draft. Eventually, he asks for another round and says, “Tell me Rod, your people came from where? Poland maybe, Germany, the Czech Republic?”

“Oh, ya. Danzig, or Gdansk, or whatever the latest bunch in power decides to call it.”

“And you can speak the language?”

“No. Hell no. A dozen words, maybe. My grampa and gramma, they came over and they could speak a coupla languages, but no English. And then my pa, he wanted nothing to do with the old ways. The war and all. Nope – of course, I can cuss and ask for a few kindsa food – but that’s about it.”

“Yes. And you’ve got kids?”

“Five; mostly grown. And two grandkids already. Here, I got pictures.”

“Any of the kids know the language at all?”

“Just my daughter, Katrin. She learned in college, and then went to the old country for a semester. Looked up some family. There’s a lotta books . . .”

“That’s just it,” Lucien sighs deeply, as bears will, “there are a lot of books. Yours is a written language, rich in literature. You can skip a couple of generations and your kids can just go back to it any time they want. Learn it in college. Get credit, even.

“A bear, on the other hand, has only an oral tradition with which to connect. In this part of the world, we too felt the pressure to fit in. A lot of us chose not to be jailed in game preserves. Eventually, we stopped telling the old stories in the old language, and now there’s almost no one left who can teach our children, and many want to learn, want to say ‘I Am a Bear!’, but haven’t the words. A sad thing, and like you and your father, I am partly to blame. For too long, I tried to deny my Ursine nature, my very Bearness.

“Ah, but I gotta go,” says Lucien, standing to leave after a long pause, “baamaa pii.”

“Ya, later,” answers Rod, wiping another glass, “do widzenia.”

~ Ralph Murre

Quixote at Sea

2011-08-10T10:28:00.006-05:00

photo by S. Auberle

So, after too many years off the water, but still thinking of myself as a sailor while riding my faithful motorcycle, Rozinante, I find a boat with the name Dulcinea emblazoned on her shapely stern. She's for sale. I buy her cheap. Last few nickels; a fixer-upper. I fix her up. All as it should be.

Together At Last
(a tale of quixotic satisfaction)

The moments are all around us
Momentous moments monuments of moments
In the water on the water of the water
My Dulcinea and I through the thick of the thinning moments
Sailing white on dark days and shadowy in sun
Ahhh the beauty and richness of our poverty
The wealth of our watery soup
The flavor of it in my little tarnished spoon

~ Ralph Murre

Sour Grapes?

2011-08-06T15:46:00.011-05:00

Contestant

And at times in my heart there is a music that plays for me.
~ J.P. Donleavy

Yes, you too? You’ve heard it? Sometime snare of drum, penny-whistle, nickel-plate, quarter-note? Hum a few bars of a new tune; bring in a viola d’amore to this baroque adagio – unbroken, unbeaten, to play a song for a new season. It may be as well not to enter a poetry contest, a dance contest, a salon d’art.

clean-shaven young man
harsh light of the arena
the expectant crowd

Is it treason to suggest that in his condition blind ambition is deafening the inner ear? Competition is not improving the species, but robbing it of its art? Is it wrong to think that if he listens, if he hears that music deep within he can begin, at last, to write the score, to pen a few notes on a clean page? Is it outrage to suppose that not everyone has heard this rhythm, not everyone goes dancing to the same beat? Wooden hearts clicking like castanets for clay feet?

climbing the stairs alone
an oddly-dressed man speaking
another language

~ Ralph Murre
Sure, it's just a case of sour grapes, isn't it? After all, three pieces of my short fiction just went without notice in a competition. Yet, I'm not sure . . . earlier this year, I served as a preliminary judge for a prestigious poetry contest, and realized that someone with something truly original to say - or with a truly original way of saying it - would have a very difficult time. However, I put such a piece forward and it wound up winning the contest. So, am I putting down the idea of arts contests? No, I simply don't think they do much to engender the creation of anything new, and I think that's largely because most of the entrants don't want to take risks. Someday, we'll get into the discussion of the NEED for anything new, the NEED to take risks.

To Your Health

2011-07-25T09:04:00.004-05:00

Love strong and fierce and long as you can;

the heart is a muscle, and needs exercise.

~ arem

Weighty Issue

2011-07-14T11:01:00.004-05:00

The Price of Gravity

How much of this life do we own?
Payments are always coming due.
We are the ones who signed the papers,
but there’s something more,
there’s something that can’t be helped.
You and I look different
than we did in morning light.
Now we wade in lead boots
and gather no speed
away from this dead center,
or toward something brighter.
Which is to say away from here,
where the embers have dwindled.
Which is to say we can fly only
with the creatures of dreams,
if we can fly at all.
The dreams will become family,
the dreams will become clan,
scattered like dust among stars
in the cages of our ribs,
in the cages of our cries,
in our breath in the night.
Sometimes the dreams may be of falling
and cold earth rushing to us,
but, travelers now,
they’ll call us travelers,
amid the dust
and the stars
where we’ve known the dark eclipse,
and we’ve flown with
those creatures of dreams
between galaxies.
We won’t be in lead boots
once we’ve started to dream.
We’ll no longer make payments
on things that hold us down.

This is not the end of this poem --
something pulls at us forever.

~ Ralph Murre

This piece was first published in Iconoclast, and subsequently became the title poem for my latest book. (Auk Ward Editions 2010, littleeaglepress@gmail.com )

Reminder: as with all the graphics on the site, you can see the drawing in full-size by clicking on the image.

Inside Passage

2011-07-01T20:57:00.006-05:00

I’m not saying heart of darkness, exactly,
but there is an un-named river descending
from a midnight in each of us,
an unlit flooding where no one dares.
There is an hour the bell does not toll.

~ Ralph Murre

Midnight in Paris

2011-06-20T18:59:00.009-05:00

Woody Allen (at his best) asks if every Golden Age leaves the taste of brass. Where would you have rather been? And when?
My Here and my Now are gold enough for me, but see the show; you may not agree.

and give us this day

tomorrow and tomorrow

a moveable feast

Almost

2011-06-06T12:26:00.001-05:00

As If

It’s almost as if this Grand Canyon
was opened by my Colorado
flowing through your Arizona,
as if busloads would come to see,
as if they’d fly in from Asia
with cameras.

It’s as if your Sierra watered
my Truckee, your Smokies
generated the power of my Tennessee,
as if my Kitty Hawk meant something
to your sky, your salmon
to my sea, my unparted sea.

It’s as if our waters, in their mingling,
defied laws of nature and physics,
as if we’d be running
through each other forever,
your Jupiter reflected in my dark surface,
my hands cupping a little drink of you.

~ Ralph Murre

At This Pub

2011-05-23T13:13:00.002-05:00

the little gods

serving justice and injustice

from unmarked taps

~ arem

Sharp as Want

2011-05-09T23:36:00.010-05:00

Never So Proud

I’ve never been so proud of Little Eagle Press as I am today in announcing the publication of Sharp as Want, a bright book which combines poetry by Jeanie Tomasko and photo artworks by Sharon Auberle.

When I began the press a few years ago, my goal was to publish books that married verbal and visual art, to treat both forms with equal respect, and certainly not to to have the art in a book to simply illustrate, but rather, to take the reader/viewer to a place of delicate balance that can only happen, I believe, in that space between two complimentary works. This goal has never been better achieved than it is in Sharp as Want, the work of two brilliant women at the top of their game. Take for example:

All Souls’ Day

what I mean is how
do you say bird in a northern tongue
how do you say keep (from) sleeping

how do you say want
as in all poems carry want

how do you say wings of the snow petrel
can show you how
to weep

how do you say
wings want weep

how do you carry want

to carry your memory
is not heavy, is nothing
like heaviness

heavy is the heron
after it swallowed the fish
as big as its back and it could not lift
but only move its weight inches above the water
to the shore across the marsh

not because I believe
you carried anything

what I mean is how
do you say that shore across
if you don’t know the way

~ Jeanie Tomasko

~ Sharon Auberle

Here is a book of love and loss, death and desire, and love regained. Here is the second book to receive Little Eagle’s R.M. Arvinson Award. Here is a book you should own. You can, you know, by sending a check for $18. ($15 + $3 for S&H) to Little Eagle Press, P.O. Box 684, Baileys Harbor, WI 54202, or, by chasing down either of the book’s contributors.

NOTE: Bruce Hodder has posted a review of Sharp as Want on his fine e-zine. "the beatnik". See it here: http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/2011/05/review-sharp-as-want.html. Thanks, Bruce!

Sincerely,
~ Ralph Murre

Franz Liszt, b. 1811

2011-05-02T16:59:00.009-05:00

The master, brilliant pianist Anthony Padilla, and a bunch of his about-to-be-brilliant students. Liszt, mostly, what with him turnin' 200 and all. Y' shoulda been there.

rainfall

2011-04-27T06:27:00.004-05:00

and the rain is the sea

and that drop
clinging to a lock
of your golden hair
in this mist-laden glen
was the tear of a fisherman’s wife
and that one
on the leaf of the thimbleberry
will rejoin the ocean
where it floated a ship of slaves
and this one
on the arbor vitae
once washed the wounds of Christ
and carried canoes of Lewis and Clark
and this one
on my streaming brow
carried the fishes eaten with the loaves
by a hungry multitude

and the sea is the rain
and the Adriatic is lightly falling
on our roof as we love
the Pacific wetting the soil of our tomatoes

this rose
in a little vase of the Mediterranean
is for you

- Ralph Murre 2005

from my first book of poems, Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press)

unusual fare

2011-04-21T18:51:00.011-05:00

public sculpture in buenos aires, artist unknown to me

I Thirst, He Said,

and he knew the dimensions of thirst
are not measured except by drought,
are not fully understood but in places so dry,
vinegar is more likely than water.
(A sponge of vinegar, lifted as sour offering
to the King of the Jews, hung against the sky.)

The dimensions of suffering, he knew,
are not measured against the bodies of gods --
these lengths and spans are known by flesh,
known by woman and man.
(His mother there, who bore this life,
and saw it taken again.)

I thirst, he said,
and the divine became human
and the human became divine,
as the day darkened
in an eclipse of immortality;
morality lesson played out.

I thirst, he said,
and he knew the scope of feelings in me and you
are not gauged against the heavens,
but by desire for what is given, and spoken
in words not ethereal, but earthly, and real:
Hunger. Want. Thirst.
I need. I feel.

( Rain, too, falls from on high,
but must evaporate, someday,
to rise again, though we may wonder why.)

~ Ralph Murre

This piece was written last year, and was presented as one of "The Last Words", in company with six other poets and a chamber music ensemble playing the work of Haydn.

travel agent

2011-04-19T17:54:00.004-05:00

at the microphone
there’s the professor
the professing of poetry
with a lack of poetry
in the professing

then, carapace she says
and says it again since
she loves repetition and
then, carapace she says
(there, I said it again)

and I am off
swimming with sea turtles
at sea in a warm Caribbean
and thanking the professor
for my little vacation

~ ralph murre

small-time

2011-04-11T08:38:00.003-05:00

on this table

where the marked cards are dealt

we play the game

~ arem

cutting at the dark

2011-04-05T12:17:00.002-05:00

In the Night

2011-03-25T08:02:00.010-05:00

In this one, my father's big, dark workhorse and I are waiting for my father. I hold the bridle and try to keep the restless horse in place to be harnessed to his labors. There is someone else, or some other horse or dog that I do not know and never look at directly, so I don't know if that's important to the dream or not.

We are in the house; the horse, the other, and I, looking out the windows with increasing concern for my father, because he's very late now. We're on the second floor, not in one of the bedrooms, but in a big room at the back of the house, which overlooks the whole farm. I apologize for the delay to the horse, who I seem to know very well, but has no name. He whispers something to me in English, the horse does, but I can't make it out at first, because I didn't know he could talk, but then he puts his big nose and mouth right up to my ear, which I find comforting, and the horse says, "He's not coming, Ralph, but it's O.K. It's O.K., Ralph," he says, but I can see he's worried, too. The horse has to go out to pee and can't stand still any longer, so I finally let go of him.

It's time for supper already. Someone's getting supper, probably my Aunt Norma. I bring chairs to the table; a normal wooden chair for myself, a large green chair for the other, and a very heavy and very large canvas director's chair, which I cover with a coarse blanket, for the horse.

Something is rattling at the side of the house and the other and I see that it is my father, climbing a tall ladder to the window, which I push up, so he can get in. The ladder ends a little below this window, so I reach out to help. I say, "Dad, you're very late, it's time for supper, come in." Now he looks like an actor who looks very much like my father. He's just smiling at me when it hits me: "Oh," I say, "you can't come in, can you?" And my father or the actor says, "No," sees that I'm afraid and says, "Don't worry, it's very beautiful out here. Look." He is wearing no clothes and smiling broadly and the world out the window is, indeed, very beautiful.

The actor playing my father slowly backs down the ladder to join an actor playing my Uncle Clarence, though he doesn't look like him. He's also nude, but it all seems normal and good. They stroll off toward the horizon, the naked men, looking this way and that at the trees and those long sunbeams like in children's books, and the flowers. They seem very happy, these actors who are playing my father and uncle, and I don't worry for them.

I wonder where has the horse gotten to and who is the other and where is supper? And why didn't they get Bert Lahr to play Uncle Clarence, since they looked alike?

~ Ralph Murre

Please

2011-03-20T16:03:00.012-05:00

Bitte, Por Favor, S'il Vous Plait

In the language of your country, do you have a word for that moment when you walk off a cliff and stand in mid-air? Is it the same word for that moment after you say, "I do," but you wanted to say, "Wait . . . WHAT was the question?" -- Do you have a word for the color of the fabric of that day someone first says, "don't," or, "you can't," or, "we shouldn't."? What is your term for that season, short or not, between love and hate (if it comes to that); for the season that follows desire? What's your word for the heart that survives? What do you call one that doesn't?

~ Ralph Murre

Go now (yes, right now) to Mike Koehler's blog >> http://onehandarmands.blogspot.com/2011/03/ralph-murre-and-me-trading-stanzas.html to see our own little "Braided Creek", with thanks to Harrison and Kooser.

Also Note: Lou Roach, writing for the excellent poetry journal, "Verse Wisconsin", has reviewed my latest book, The Price of Gravity. You can see what she had to say at http://versewisconsin.org/Issue105/reviews105/murre.html

Look Again

2011-03-14T11:55:00.006-05:00

sometimes

look behind you

but

get over it

~arem

aw, shucks

2011-03-03T19:42:00.005-06:00

Well, strange as it may seem, and for reasons beyond my grasp, I've been selected poet of the month at the excellent website Your Daily Poem, and I want to offer my sincere thanks to Jayne Jaudon Ferrer who so ably puts things together over there. I hope you'll have a look at http://yourdailypoem.com/ , where you'll have to click on a tab called, obviously, "Poet of the Month", in the upper left-hand corner of the home page. I answer a few questions which have probably been keeping you awake for some time.

My good fortune aside, you'll want to become familiar with the site, anyway. A poem-a-day. All kinds. What could be better?

~ Ralph Murre

Horsefeathers

2011-02-22T10:57:00.006-06:00

Whose is the madness, then --
the simple fool?
The follower into the dark,
or the leader?
The begger?
The banker?
Believer or atheist,
reader or writer,
pauper or pope?
The half-empty pessimist,
or the one filled with hope?

~ Ralph Murre

My drawing, above, was originally done for Mike Koehler's excellent book of poetry, Red Boots.

Room with Red Walls

2011-02-14T21:01:00.003-06:00

The Way the Light Shines

The way the light shines
through Vermeer

on a Dutch afternoon
a girl with a pitcher

of something cool
and sweet I’ll bet

The way the boys
in the low sloop

laden with the smell of salt
look through Winslow Homer

The way the stars see
through Van Gogh in the night

The way you’d come
right through

me painting you
in your room with red walls

The way water-lilies
make love to Monet

~ Ralph Murre

first published in Verse Wisconsin, and subsequently in my latest book, The Price of Gravity

Flamingos del Norte

2011-02-07T12:23:00.003-06:00

The Sky is Full of Bluebirds

but not everyone can see them
so they think it's just a blue sky,
and at night, when it's all crows --
well, you know.
And early and late
come the cardinals and flamingos,
but don't try to explain that
to just anyone.
There are gray birds, too.

~ Ralph Murre

first published in the calendar of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets

Filmore, Wisconsin

2011-01-26T08:15:00.005-06:00

Back at St. Martin's Church,
ours was not a god of subtleties.
Our god, whose name was Gott im Himmel,
demanded memorization of long passages
of the Heidelberg Catechism.
He demanded a congregation
in woolen suits over woolen underwear,
an aroma of chores just accomplished
in barns full of Holsteins.
He demanded music from an organ
earnestly but poorly played
by the arthritic fingers of a very old woman.
Hymns no one knew.
Endless sermons from a very old man.
Our god did not care much for joyful noises.
And though he'd share tiny cubes of bread
and sips of wine,
he seemed to prefer potato pancakes,
pork sausages and apple sauce.
Real cream in his coffee.
In his heaven, we knew there was lager beer.
In Hell, there were thin people.

~ Ralph Murre

Minority

2011-01-22T11:31:00.003-06:00

He's very big

I heard said of a poet

whose name

I should have known

but I am small

and slip my poems

under your door.

~ RM

papered walls

2011-01-13T18:42:00.002-06:00

in this room

no furnishings

without memory

~ arem

Time Lines

2011-01-05T12:43:00.005-06:00

Photo-painting by S. Auberle

...

o holy of holies

I see you

o grandchild

of my grandchild

I see you clearly

child of my child

product of my

reproduction

life from my life

o grandfather

do you see me?

o grandmother

I am working

in your garden

~ Ralph Murre

Passage

2010-12-31T12:06:00.003-06:00

from the carousel

different children waving

with every turn

~ arem

after solstice

2010-12-22T13:58:00.002-06:00

sure winter's here

and it's a little chilly

but don't worry about me

~ RM

Canyon of Misunderstanding

2010-12-16T11:26:00.013-06:00

Among the Lizard Mounds of his innocent age, shaded by maple, acorned by oak, he had trembled and been the boy who had to look beneath skirts, had to see what was hidden, to glimpse the forbidden. Now, under the barren sky near the other side of the broad canyon of his life, he has become the man who buys tobacco which he does not smoke, but sprinkles it with ceremony he does not understand, on sacred ground and the graves of old friends, hoping for forgiveness of sins he didn't know he committed.

someone mowing grass

over his grandfather's coffin

listens to a ballgame

~ Ralph Murre

Travel Report

2010-12-03T18:45:00.008-06:00

Old New Mex

And you is goin to Old New Mex
to hunt for you dyin Columbia?
Vaya con Dios.
~ Norbert Blei

I saw The Virgin
pictured as conquistadora
in the Sun God’s
land of enchantment,
and along the tracks
north of Albuquerque,
where pink adobe homes
are surrounded
by razor wire,
I saw the land
of disenchantment.
I saw the color
of the blood of Christ
and the blood of the conquered
and the sage
beneath purple mountains
coexist,
like Santa Fe chic
and pueblo poor.
I saw America
in the unfiltered light
of a high desert.
I saw my dying Columbia
still alive.

~ Ralph Murre

New Links: Had the pleasure, while traveling, of meeting the photographer David Lyons. Follow the new link listed at the right to view his amazing work. Also, and this is WAY overdue, please check out Steve Kastner's "Door County Style" webmag, one of the primo sites for DC news and scuttlebutt, which just did a very gracious plug and review of the Arem Arvinson Log. ~ RM

All-Office Party

2010-11-20T13:35:00.005-06:00

Well, we've pulled out all the stops to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Arem Arvinson Log today, the 20th of November, 2010. The party here at the home office is one for the record books and I hear that things in our overseas bureaus are totally out of hand.

Hope you'll take a few minutes to browse around the archives, scan down the list of labels on the right, see if there's something of interest. I hope too, that I am not unreasonably proud of this body of work.

Incidentally, I want to reiterate just how much I appreciate the comments that many of you have left, from time to time. I understand what a hassle it is to leave a comment at all, but as soon as I try to peel away a layer of hassle, I am inundated with machine-generated spam comments, offering everything from poetry publishing to Viagra to, well . . .Spam.

Thanks for looking in. I'll continue to try to publish a few items worthy of your attention.

~ Ralph Murre

fiction, mostly

2010-11-11T12:05:00.005-06:00

Weak Link

No stronger the chain,
they would say,
as they cast their glances
his way, the chances
that he would not be weakest
never even considered
as he frittered away
what they called their honor,
these colonels and better
from the 1800’s ‘til today.
Every silence, every wheel
turning against him
at the family table,
he enlisted in the fray.
Every cell of his cells
resisted his decision,
as the single-bar lieutenant’s
division went to war.
His Echo Company landed
amid sporadic blasts
on the first hot day
and by December
every ember of his pride
had darkened,
every platoon sergeant
and squad leader
hoped to frag him,
but he moved them,
against orders,
to a village
at the unseen gravel border,
where an air-strike
had been called on an emir.
There are children,
There are children,
he kept calling to the airmen,
There are children.
We’re going in.

It was friendly fire
that claimed him,
from a patriot PFC,
but the bombing was averted,
and the emir, if he was there,
and the children,
one more day,
went free.

~ Ralph Murre

As the heading of this post says: fiction, mostly. It's Veteran's Day. I've never been to war, having served less than half-heartedly in the National Guard back at a time (1965-1971) when our unit had about the same clout as a Brownie troop. Still, this poem came to me. If anyone feels that I am WAY OFF in representing what might have happened in that sort of situation (allowing for a bit of poetic license) I'll be glad to see your comments.

TRUE

2010-11-02T09:10:00.003-05:00
A Few True Things

North, of course,
and blue,
which can’t be argued.
(Though I’ve never trusted black
and white, the supposed
absence of color,
or presence of all.)
Thirty-two degrees seems a truth
if you’re a fan of Fahrenheit,
zero, if you’re not.
There’s even a truth serum,
and true love has been reported,
but not a lot.
The ivory-billed woodpecker
is said to exist.
No great auks left, I guess;
not many little old ladies
driving to church.
Pontiac's gone.
Politicians aren’t
on this list.

~ Ralph Murre

To the Wolves

2010-10-31T09:21:00.005-05:00

Good advice from your Wisconsin DNR
To the Wolves

It’s always been a problem, this name; usually taken as a verb –
to Ralph, synonymous with “to hurl”. Not good to be named
for an act of regurgitation no matter how liberal your outlook.

But I’ve learned that Ralph also means “wolf counsel”,
according to the people who keep track of silver-lining meanings
in cloud-black names given to innocent children,

and “wolf counsel” is something I might have worked with
if I’d known – I might have taken a few wolves aside, for instance,
might have mentioned their ill-deserved reputation for eating people,

might have said, look – it’s against my counseling ethic to TELL
you to eat people, you understand,
but why have the name if you can’t play the game?

And then I might have named a few people they could start on,
which, of course, wouldn’t have been very professional of me,
but there are so many people and so few wolves

and some of the people eat Little Red Riding Hoods for breakfast,
and brown ones, and black ones, while wolves make do with mice.
And if I had known that Ralph means wolf counsel

I might have said, hey – the sheep’s clothing just isn’t you,
because I would have taken this counseling business very seriously
and I would have advised on fashion, as well as diet.

And I might have counseled against the use of the word “pack”,
because it has bad connotations, and I might have warned them
not to always be “at the door”, because that’s so cliché.

Sometimes, I think, they might want to be “at the window”.
And I might have mentioned that we can spot them from quite a distance,
even when they’re disguised as grandmothers.

And I would have done all of my wolf counseling pro bono,
because I like the sound of that, even if it doesn’t pay well,
and because I think they’d be impressed by my use of Latin,

even if my name is Ralph.

- Ralph Murre
from my book Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press 2007)

Rain at Lundgren's Bridge

2010-10-25T14:07:00.003-05:00

a surprise today
some forgotten master's hand
points my camera
~ arem

Bowl

2010-10-19T05:36:00.003-05:00

much-manipulated image from a painting by peter klinefelter
Oh, Brother, (can I call you that, though we never met?) our mothers danced to this drum, they fed us from this bowl, this Anishinabe bowl, this bowl of Colombia, this bowl of Lapland, Africa, China, Massachusetts.
Oh, Brother, join me. We will beat a rhythm on our empty bowl that will match the beating of the Great Drum, we will overturn our bowl and see the back of the Great Turtle upon which we still dance.
Oh, Brother, can you hear the heart of the ocean, can you see our mothers swimming there? Are they returning to fill our bowl once more?
~ Ralph Murre

Everyman

2010-10-05T20:03:00.006-05:00

Detail of bronze sculpture by George Danhires

Islands

No man, you tell me, but everyman, I tell you,
and woman and boat, every Nebraska farmhouse
and apartment in the Bronx; an island.

That blue circle of horizon, the dangerous passage,
those days the ferry cannot cross from my shores
to the quiet cove of yours. The sea between.

~ Ralph Murre

On an Island

2010-09-27T23:52:00.004-05:00

the eyes see
just what they look for
even here
~ arem

The Beast

2010-09-15T20:25:00.004-05:00
Like a lion tamer
poking his foolish head
into the jaws
of the beast in the spotlight,
I have pushed myself
into the unwise corners
of life, never certain
if the great cat may be
hungry, may be angry,
or simply curious
about my flavor,
the furious cracking
of my whip.

~ Ralph Murre

Image is from a photo found online, photographer not known, my heavy-handed digital manipulation. ~ RM

pilgrimage

2010-09-09T11:42:00.003-05:00

come now
applaud with me

the ordinary magic
of sea and sky

and sand forever
and never changing

let us make a pilgrimage
of great faith

let us ring bells
and keep promises
~ ralph murre

Another Sad Truth

2010-08-26T13:10:00.005-05:00
File this under the heading, "What Am I Doing With My Life?", a favorite topic of some who have known me well. I just squished together my three volumes of poetry and found that they will consume almost exactly 1/2 inch of your shelf space in their entirety, and that includes their glossy paper covers, their handsome fly leaves, and their various end papers. This is the sum total of most of what I've given a damn about in the last 10 years?!?!?! Yes, I know; one good poem makes it all worthwhile, etc. . . Well, let me say right here that the jury is still out debating the truth of that one, and they're sure as hell having a lively argument trying to decide if I've written that one good poem!
~ R.M.
Want to see for yourself? Ordering info available at littleeaglepress@gmail.com

Sad Truth

2010-08-20T14:52:00.005-05:00

pigeons and poets
annoying but still happy
with just a few crumbs
~ arem

Turn, Turn, Turn

2010-08-10T17:22:00.008-05:00
Like the kid I heard about
from Barton, Wisconsin,
who'd been sleeping
but found himself o.k.
standing in the next street
after the tornado
took his home and his bed,
I've been surprised.
The turning heart
like the turning wind,
drops things
unexpectedly.

~ Ralph Murre

Remember; you can click any of the pic's on this site to see greater detail.

Cool

2010-08-05T08:16:00.004-05:00

a cool wave at sea
lifting and letting men down
like nothing's happened
~ arem

Ta - Da !

2010-08-02T14:49:00.005-05:00

My new book, The Price of Gravity, from Auk Ward Editions, is just in from the printers and though this is my third, I am as excited about this one as a bear about salmon, a baron about mousse, a mouse about brie. I was lucky to have editor Charles Nevsimal to save me from myself. A real wheat-from-chaff man, Charles, though I sneaked in a few things when he wasn't looking.
Poems in this book run the gamut of subject matter (perhaps something to offend everyone, as the tag-line for the film, The Loved One, put it) and the writing ranges from about seven weeks to seven years old, many of the pieces having been published individually in a variety of print and on-line journals and anthologies.
At 92 pages and 81 poems, by my count, I'm happy that we were able to hold the price to $10. per copy (plus $3. S & H) from Little Eagle Press, P.O. Box 684, Baileys Harbor, WI, USA, 54202. Checks only, please. (Auk Ward Editions is the unruly minor child of Little Eagle, and has not shown the maturity to manage a checking account.)

Also Note: Lou Roach, writing for the excellent poetry journal, "Verse Wisconsin", has reviewed The Price of Gravity. You can see what she had to say at http://versewisconsin.org/Issue105/reviews105/murre.html

Pubbing with Pavo

2010-07-24T13:39:00.009-05:00

Correspondence

Norbert Blei forwarded this the other day:

On Saturday, April 24th, 2010 , over thirty members of the Opera Company of Philadelphia Chorus and principal cast members from the upcoming production of LaTraviata converged on the Reading Terminal Market Italian Festival. Wearing street clothes and blending in with the crowd, the artists swung into action as the first orchestral strains of the famed " Brindisi " were piped through the market, giving a rousing, surprise performance for hundreds of delighted onlookers who were there to enjoy the Italian delicacies and the everyday treats that the Reading Terminal Market has to offer.
The four-minute piece drew an overwhelming crowd, and won a thunderous ovation that included both laughter and tears from the audience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zmwRitYO3w

to which I shot back:

A beautiful thing, Norb. Thanks for sending it. Oddly, it was enhanced by my poor reception, which would stop the video every few seconds, giving me an opportunity to study the still frames; wonderful to see the looks of amazement, amusement, and sheer jubilation on the faces of the standers-by.
It all reminds me of a time, years back, when a Menominee or Marinette lumberman used to come across the bay and into the C & C Club, and in the middle of the night's revelry, from his barstool amid all the others, he would break into famous opera passages unannounced, with tremendous volume and gusto. He was, as it turned out, a very accomplished amateur or semi-pro, and he had exactly the same effect on a crowd of drunken sailors as this company did on patrons of the Reading Market. Sadly, I never knew his name, but I was privileged to hear him on several occasions.

Then, “There was an Irish pub in Chicago where the writers used to hang out. And the thing I loved about the place, every so often a piper would come in (dressed in full outfit) playing bag pipes...sending shivers of joy through everyone...He'd walk along the long bar, around the floor, past every table and booth playing his heart out--then disappear out the door back into the Chicago night.
Little miracles like that.” replied Norb, in part.

I’m thinking now, about Johnny, or more likely Gianni, the Flower Man, in 1960's Milwaukee; last of his street-corner roses sold for the evening, coming into Barney’s Wayside Inn, great moustache drooping, and spreading just a little more joy, bending low and rattling off a few tunes, with spoons, played across his weary knees.

. . .

sadder world

so much less music

in old men

~ Ralph Murre

As you can see from the almost totally unretouched photo above (in which Norb Blei appears courtesy of C.L. Peterson) Norb and Luciano did most of the drinking when we used to hang out, but I seem to recall buying every round.

Joan Comes Over Again

2010-07-17T20:55:00.004-05:00

That unknowing object of my affection, Joan Baez, came over again last night. Oh, just for the appearance of propriety, we had in approximately 749 of my neighbors, which filled our little hall in Fish Creek to the rafters, but clearly, she had come to see me. (Backstory at http://caparem.blogspot.com/2009/05/open-relationship.html) And , as always, she won my heart again. Is her voice just as good as ever? No, the voice, too, is a thing of the flesh . . . but, is she still damn good? You betcha.

Highlight of the night? For me, Woody Guthrie's Deportee, poignant as ever, and maybe more so in light of the current immigrant struggles. Surprises? I thought she tread VERY lightly on the topic of our several wars. Also, something of a surprise to me, was the choice of an opening song which avowed a belief, if not an absolute faith, in God, and a couple songs later, she wove Take It To The Lord In Prayer into a medley. Now, anyone with so little to do that they follow this blog, will probably have gathered that I am not personally a great believer; but I must say I find it reassuring to learn that The Big G God is not yet actually the franchise property of the Right Wing.

While Ms. B sang many pieces without backup, much to my delight, she was ably assisted on quite a few numbers by a very good quartet, among whom was her son, Gabriel Harris, doing a smashing job on percussion. (You don't really have to fancy yourself a poet to use "smashing" and "percussion" in the same sentence, but it helps.) What a delight it must be for mother and son to be touring together, making music. She's been at it for a half-century, so if you haven't seen her in person, you might want to think about it soon. You will not be disappointed.

~ Ralph Murre

Soul Train

2010-07-10T09:32:00.003-05:00

What is this thing about the soul -- and I don't mean anything to do with chicken or any kind of soup -- I mean what is it? What is this supernatural bit of us that we have or not and believe in or not like fairies or Canada? I used to think it was an internal organ around the size of a chestnut with wings, but Mr. LaMarche, the biology teacher, said no, and I have to take his word and I know people who think we have no souls at all, and they may not, but speak for yourself, because I'm pretty sure there is a supernatural part of me, or at least I don't understand it and I really don't believe it will go to heaven or anything like that, but maybe a Greek island would be nice, or it could even just hang out around here and freak people out, that would be OK.
~ Ralph Murre

The Way I Figure It

2010-07-03T09:15:00.003-05:00

in shadow
everything we know
about light
~ arem

In Those Cars

2010-06-24T08:18:00.005-05:00

In those cars, those V-8 cars and those six-cylinder, six-pack, church-key cars ~ back seats fertile as Iowa itself ~ in those cars we loved each other and America (See the U.S.A. . .) and the road. In those cars with Dynaflow and wontcha blow your horn and Body by Fisher and hormone flow and bodies with fever reproducing like Ford's assembly line and Mortality just another cop snoozing behind a billboard in a black & white; in those cars we drag-raced through the uncertain light of a nation's adolescence and our own, in those cars we loved and came skidding into night; in those cars we loved.
...
drive-in movie
dusty projector pointed
into the past
~ Ralph Murre

ahhh . . .

2010-06-22T10:24:00.004-05:00
It is June and summer comes
to your exquisite flesh
and young men and old
renew their faith
in unnamed gods
if that is what they are.

~ RM

Carta Blanca

2010-06-16T19:36:00.002-05:00

~ RM

Three Two One

2010-06-08T21:21:00.008-05:00
Three Great Lakes, two mighty nations, and one aging and slightly quixotic gentleman astride his good motorcycle, Rozinante; that pretty much sets the stage and introduces the cast for the little play I gave for the last six days (two without rain!) and 1650 miles. Windmills encountered? Yeah, plenty of them now, but you want to think twice before charging at them. Have you seen the size of these things, up close? Still, I'm Netherlandish enough to love 'em. And while some are now being built offshore, I think they look and ARE rather benign compared with the other offshore energy misadventures going on. Made two very small and unavoidable purchases at BP stations on the trip; what can you do when your tank is low and the next gas available is fifty or more miles away? That's how it is in the North Country.

photographs of loons

show he's not the only one

in the rain today

~ Ralph Murre

I'm very proud to say that my poem "All Right" now appears in Mobius, the Journal of Social Change. Check it out (yes, that IS an order) at http://mobiusmagazine.com/

Now We Are Sixty-Six

2010-06-01T12:02:00.005-05:00

the constant rattling
grows slightly more distant
in the middle of a long night

or past the middle sometime
and that distance
is what you stay up for

why you nap
in the middle of the day
or past the middle somewhat

and traveling
you are part of the noise
but you can't find a motel

that's just for napping
in the middle of your trip
or past the middle somewhere

you begin
to grow old
or at least I'm afraid

past the middle some age
and your ears won't hear
but the rattle is clear

~ ralph murre

Ever Widening Gulf

2010-05-26T13:43:00.006-05:00
A quick and (rightfully) dirty poem:

Ever Widening Gulf

In that gulf
where I tugboat-towed
so long ago
from the refineries
to the refined
in their finery
from the pineries
of the impoverished
grease for the palms
of the over-rich
forever
over-reaching their rights

My days
on that gulf
of life and delights
foreshadowed
times and crimes
that would not go
unpunished
my own lust for oil
part of the spoilage
part of the death
and the blight

Yet I vote
each time
to install
in the capitol
someone else
who will not
set it right

~ Ralph Murre

y' just might find y' get watcha need

2010-05-22T08:52:00.005-05:00

What is Given

The likelihood of finding strawberries
tiny and wild and sweet
around your ankles
on any given day
in any given place
is not great
but sometimes
people find strawberries
right where they are standing
just because it is their turn
to be given a taste
of something wild and sweet

- Ralph Murre

bird in hand

2010-05-17T11:58:00.008-05:00
soft in my fist
the indigo bunting
window stunned
regains itself
and
loses any need
for me if
there was any
its heart
machine rapid
with fear
or passion
or maybe
they're the same
its eyes bright
with flight
its wings ready
to push
all of this behind

my empty hand
having held
blue brilliiance

~ ralph murre

L.M.H.

2010-05-08T12:52:00.005-05:00

and when the time
came for scattering her
to the winds
he could not
but
sheltered ashes
beneath that little tamarack
where the marigolds
bloom in spring
.
because shelter
was what he could give
~r.m.

May Day

2010-05-01T13:02:00.005-05:00
After the thaw,
grass greens its blades to meet the mower,
daughters are raised, prom goers
in pinned-on flowers wilt from the nearness
of over-hot hours and days.
Sons, their hearts (and they have them)
swollen, like rivers, are unable to ever
go back, as haze lifts, descends.
Fair-weather friends smile
while plans are made and deserts storm
just over flag-draped horizons.
Now airports at night receive
flights of sun-filled boxes
and docks on the bay feel the sway
of tide on tide and May after May.

A few ships come in, there,
below the blue hills
and the gaze of gray foxes.

~ Ralph Murre

Big Deals

2010-04-25T15:59:00.006-05:00

Big Deals

one . . . two, I suppose
thirteen . . . sixteen . . . eighteen
twenty-one . . . sixty five
and, I imagine, one hundred
one hundred and anything

~ RM

Pablo, old friend

2010-04-19T20:32:00.013-05:00

pablo picasso, 1937
On Picasso's
Weeping Woman
with Handkerchief
-
Pablo, old friend -
You've given her eyes to cry,
but can she see?
You've given her a mouth to wail,
But can she sing?
You've given her pain;
did she give you pleasure?

-
~ Ralph Murre
-
first published in Hummingbird

bang!

2010-04-16T14:21:00.005-05:00
Part of the Deal

was that you owed a good death.
Whether you were a good guy
or not, you had to die right.
If I came out from behind
something and pointed my finger
and said bang! before you did
and cried gotcha, you might
say no y’didn’t or gotcha
first y’dirty Nazi,
but in the end, we all had to die
with awful groaning and kicking
and many spasms and rolling
back of eyeballs and ultimately,
as anybody who’s ever seen
a dead guy knows, the tongue
must protrude, skewed
from a corner of the bluish lips.
And then, you had to stay
really still and painfully contorted
‘til you got bored and came back
to fight again or play red rover.
But it was not part of the deal
in the bang-you’re-dead wars
of South Sixth Street
that you got your balls shot off
or came back to play
wheelchair red rover.
Nobody on our street said
bang-you’re-screwed-up-for-life
the way it happened when some
of us fought on other streets.
No amputees on Sixth.
No psych ward on Ohio Avenue.

- Ralph Murre
"Part of the Deal" was first published in The Cliffs Soundings and has subsequently appeared in my book Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press) and in Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine.

A Note From the Orbit

2010-04-09T12:15:00.004-05:00

spinning but not
out of control
another planet
circling
in the long night
~ arem

This is now included in Henry Denander's cool new mail art site; http://hankdmailart.blogspot.com/

what path?

2010-04-04T11:29:00.005-05:00

clues, that's all we get
no arrow pointing to the path
no path, really
maybe the trace of a footprint
in dust
maybe bent blades of grass
a disturbance of dew
and a lingering doubt:
did the ones we follow
know the way
or were they lost, too?
~ rm

Java

2010-04-01T14:24:00.008-05:00
Do yourself a favor, and become acquainted with the excellent blog, Coffee Spew, (http://coffeespew.wordpress.com/). While you're there, of course, I really hope you'll take a look at the review (http://coffeespew.wordpress.com/2010/03/24/psalms/) coffee-baron Robert Wake has written of my book, Psalms, which is still very available from Little Eagle Press. Reviewers of poetry books rarely receive the thanks they deserve for contributing, as they do, to a discussion of the state of poetry; which I believe is, in a word, thriving. So thank you, Bob, not only for words of praise, but for bothering with words at all.

Incidentally, the webpage for Psalms is http://lileaglepsalms.blogspot.com/ , and you'll find ordering information there.

northeast

2010-03-25T16:41:00.005-05:00

a pasture of horses
like weather vanes this morning
all looking downwind
presenting round rumps
to the cold northeast
~ rm

Buoyancy

2010-03-22T23:42:00.008-05:00
Yes, I'm aware that it's nowhere near "Thanksgiving", the day that is, with the capitol T, but it feels like a good time to offer a few words of appreciation anyway, to those that have given me the much needed buoyancy which got me through the winter, that dark season that tries to sink me. My friends, and you know who you are, both close at hand and far removed, have pulled me up time and again, and so has this peninsula, the home of my heart, the home of my bones. I give thanks daily for this place - its woods, its shores, a Great Lake, eagles, swans, coyotes, and crows - yet my thanks don't seem enough. We who live here pay a price, to be certain, in diminished earning potential, in high-priced goods, and in distances traveled to obtain certain bits of what we feel we need, but we reap a harvest of riches, too; dividends that feed the soul in a way very few places can, I think, and dividends that most people in cities not so far away are willing to pay dearly to try to grab a share of.

I can think of nothing better to say than simply, thank you, once again, to my friends and to my watery little corner of Earth, for getting me through to another Spring.

~ RM

among bricks

2010-03-18T12:08:00.005-05:00
among bricks

i sense beats beaten senseless, this immenseness
holding mere echoes of former cells, wisps of smoke
of former hells and, lately, scents of latex, spandex,
nomex, romex, and tex-mex. ex-lovers and ex-pats
eating corn-chex, this immenseness not near the size
it used to be, when it just held two or three of us
reading cross-word puzzle morning news, tea leaves,
nazis killing jews, nancy into sluggo, adams into eves.
just when i think the beat can’t go on, another regains
his feet, chases protons across the sub - urban lawn,
loses jesus and brain cells, drinks cribari ‘til dawn,
fawns a dew-covered lover, sees the dark ascending.

i sense beats beaten, poison meats eaten. i repeat,
seize the dark if they’ve taken all the light, why
fight ‘em if they could be slightly right, but you can
take what they don’t use, poor excuse for cities
left behind, these towns could have some style,
maybe painters and their models, heavy drinkers,
thinkers for a while ahead of the wrecking-ball.
then they’ll build some condos for nine-to-fivers,
some parking for the barking-dog audi drivers,
some galleries to show the artists driven out,
the rout complete, waiters on buses, three-piece
realtors selling the bricks right out of the street.

i sense beats beaten senseless, defenseless against
bankers & wankers & painted women with mba’s.
i sense the dark of nights and a lonely trumpet plays,
a lonely pen scratches through light of live-long days.

- ralph murre

O.K., O.K., the poem's a rerun; having appeared on this site before, and originally in the excellent but now defunct Cliffs Soundings, but the drawing is new!

As a Clam

2010-03-15T10:56:00.006-05:00

What is it,
don't you sometimes wonder,
that keeps clams so happy?
The ocean view?
Quiet neighbors?
Or is clamming-up
its own reward, lost on poets?
A friend clammed-up
some years ago,
or got clammed-up by A.L.S.,
that condition of Gehrig and Hawking,
that robber of muscle control,
that creator of clams.
Maybe the happiness of clams
comes from silent acceptance
of what the sea brings,
but that's hard for humans.
Wordless so long,
our friend climbed from his clamshell
the other day, and flew.
Here on the bottom,
we'll look to the sky
and watch for him,
finally soaring.

~ RM

In memory of Jeff Kaufman, who clammed-up only vocally, but continued to speak by whatever means available. Please learn just a little about this quiet hero at:
http://www.jsonline.com/news/obituaries/87541862.html

details

2010-03-10T08:40:00.006-06:00

detail - louis sullivan
i forget now
dont you
if its the devil
or the divine
that dwells in details
they look a lot alike
hiding in history
sweating small stuff
- r m
Just a note to say ( or brag) that my poem, "The Way the Light Shines", appears on Poetry Dispatch, in an article honoring Linda Aschbrenner and her 100 (!) issues of Free Verse, and Sarah Busse and Wendy Vardaman, who have taken up the reins of its reincarnation, Verse Wisconsin. Have a look at http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2010/03/09/linda-aschbrenner-verse-wisconsin-issue-101-winter-2010/

Seeds

2010-03-03T11:52:00.005-06:00

(c) Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds
all these people
over the road
but in this garden
just one
with his thoughts
~ arem

All Right

2010-02-27T11:21:00.003-06:00
I can take you to houses of housebreakers
and homes of homewreckers.
I can take you to the edge of the sea.
I can show you where to sleep under bridges
and tell you not to.
I know 28 ways to get warm,
but none work.
I can sing the first lines of songs
and hum what hasn't been heard yet.
I can show you a billion stars
and name three.
You can show me dancers
called Staci or Wanda or Michel.
You can take me to that little place you know
with good chili. And cornbread.
I can tell you how all of this looks
from over there. Or up there.
We can drink with abject objectionists
and stand out among insiders.
You can take me to Green Mountains
and Death Valleys.
You can show me
the red-rimmed eyes of believers,
show me where they've knelt
before high priests and loan officers.
We can dance in circles.
You can take me wading
in the deep end of the pool,
swimming in fresh dew on the lawns
of the desert and the deserted.
We can be quiet as Quakers
as we meet with madmen.
You can tell me everything,
or at least something, will be all right.
I can believe you.

~ Ralph Murre

That first line was prompted by, which is to say stolen from, Alexander McCall Smith.