Sharp as Want

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

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

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

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

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

on this table

where the marked cards are dealt

we play the game

~ arem

cutting at the dark

In the Night

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

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

sometimes

look behind you

but

get over it

~arem

aw, shucks

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

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

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

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

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

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

in this room

no furnishings

without memory

~ arem

Time Lines

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

from the carousel

different children waving

with every turn

~ arem

after solstice

sure winter's here

and it's a little chilly

but don't worry about me

~ RM