Confluence

Too long held apart
Streams overflow earthen dams
Join in hidden woods
Their colored waters
And follow their gravity
As one river strong enough
To carry burdens
Strong enough the mingled flow
To roll on unstopped
To sea-level finality
No escape but to evaporate
And begin again raining
On the Red River and the Yellow
On Mississippi delta blues
And on the Blue Nile
And the Blue Danube
On the Laughing Whitefish
And the sadness of the Seine
On the Wisconsin
And the O-hi-o

An old idea, returning to the sea
An old idea, you and me

- Ralph Murre

Draft

the first draft

blew away the idea

of this poem

- arem

AvantRetro

I had the rare good fortune, Friday evening, to attend a performance by AvantRetro, the poetry and music duo of Charles Rossiter and Al DeGenova. These guys are the real thing, folks -- great poetry, full of what has been and what is, with hints of what will be -- all presented in a terrific, entertaining manner, with accents of well-wrought jazz and blues riffs accentuating all. I'd had the opportunity to hear Al solo before, which was very good, but the combination of these two is just that much better.

Friday's perfomance was at Milwaukee's oddly-named but terrifically good Woodland Pattern Book Center, where even the open-mike readings were mighty impressive, and the collection of poetry books on hand is -- I'm running out of superlatives here -- very, very large.

If you have the chance to hear AvantRetro live, go hear them. Or get their CD (cleverly titled "AvantRetro") Or buy their book, "Back Beat". Listen to Charles Rossiter's audio website, poetrypoetry.com and buy Al DeGenova's journal of Chicago writing and art, after hours.

Does any of this sound like I might have enjoyed myself on Friday night? Well, yes, my friends, I guess I did.

Incidentally

Someone who is very close to me thinks that self-portrait in my last posting looks nothing like me and suggests that "it is just plain scary". The fact that it looks the way I feel much of the time is, apparently, of no consequence.

Give and Take

in the bright honesty
of the forest clearing
and the dappled dark trail
give me your hand

in the questioning gaze
of the crowded cafe
and rose-windowed cathedral
your smile

to the unnamed color
of the rolling wave crest
and sunlight in canyons
take my heart

and beyond and beyond
all of me

- ralph murre

Lessons

Forgotten Lessons

The way we are pulled
across the surface of years
by hidden gods and loves
illustrated for us as children
by patient teachers in gray suits
their magnets manipulating
mindless filings of metal

The sense of balance
needed for the seesaw
of meeting and mating
misunderstood in the equations
in pale yellow chalk on blackboards
Algebraic equilibrium
of lasting elations

The ceaseless motion
of the drifting continents
rushing across oceans
to find each other’s embrace
Island nations falling away
avoiding tectonic collisions
in the peace of the sea

- Ralph Murre

Honest

I cannot find the pen with honest ink
there is something false
in the color of this paper
and even the glow of this lamp
must be questioned
are you so sure you want what's real?
I could tell a nice story
and I see there are a few
left to be told
it would have a happy ending
and we could sleep warm
on clean pillows and bedtime kisses
and dream dreams
but if I find the pen with honest ink
it may say things that keep us up
and the better light
may show too much of me
the paper that is true is easily torn
and I don't want the sound of ripping
to be the last thing we hear

this is the paper for this story
and I like this unsteady lamp
I cannot find the pen with honest ink

-Ralph Murre

Perspective

I get a little panicky on those days when no writing appears, let alone anything approaching poetry. Last night I was reading from Rainer Maria Rilke, who helped put things into perspective:

"In order to write a single verse, one must see many cities, and men and things; one must get to know animals and the flight of birds, and the gestures that the little flowers make when they open out to the morning. One must be able to return in thought to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected encounters, and to partings that had been long foreseen; to days of childhood that are still indistinct, and to parents whom one had to hurt when they sought to give one some pleasure which one did not understand (it would have been a pleasure to someone else) : to childhood's illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number of profound and grave tansformations, to days spent in rooms withdrawn and quiet, and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to oceans, to nights of travel that rushed along loftily and flew with all the stars -- and still it is not enough to be able to think of all this. There must be memories of many nights of love, each one unlike the others, of the screams of women in labour, and of women in childbed, light and blanched and sleeping, shutting themselves in. But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in a room with open windows and with fitful noises. And still it is not yet enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many and one must have the immense patience to wait until they come again. For it is the memories themselves that matter. Only when they have turned to blood within us, to glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."

Mysterious Ways

That last post and my accompanying drawing got me to wondering -- why do we always depict the Big G God in robes? I mean, why would he wear clothes at all? What would he have to hide, and from whom? And if he's not comfortable with the temperature, well, why not? If you've got the funds for gold pavement, surely a thermostat wouldn't break the bank.

Mysterious ways indeed. And another thing -- even if he does wear clothes -- (and I'm not conceding that) why would he still be wearing robes? Don't you think he'd be into t-shirts with slogans? "Thou Shalt Not Blog About the Lord Thy God In Vain" . . . something along those lines?

Of course, very little clothing is still being produced in the Judeo-Christian portions of the world, so that could present a problem. Wouldn't do to be asking Allah or one of the other Big Boys for some new raiment, now would it?

Could be that the robes he has (white, mostly, with a sprinkling of purple and gold), if he has any, have simply never worn out and he's never seen the need to replace them. Floating around in clouds probably doesn't produce a great deal of wear & tear. Yeah, I suppose that's it. A frugal God, and no slave to fashion. I kinda like that.

- Ralph Murre

Good Lord, a Triolet!

This came my way recently:

Triolet on a Line Apocryphally Attributed to Martin Luther
by A.E. Stallings

Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night,
The swaying in darkness, the lovers like spoons?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes?
Does he hum them to while away sad afternoons
And the long, lonesome Sundays? Or sing them for spite?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night?

to which I reply:

Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
The mighty pipe organs and heavenly choirs,
The brimstone from pulpits, the deaconly lurches?
Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
Does he laugh at our salvation wild goose searches?
Does he like knowing he's got the loftiest spires?
Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
Still, they only have candles, and hell has got fires!

- Ralph Murre

sure

photo by Nancy Vaughn

mmm-hmmm

yes to the ocean
yes to the mountain
yes to its rushing stream
yes to the prairie and daylight
yes to the night and stars
yes to the coins in the fountain
yes to the one with a dream
yes to the grass
in the cracked concrete
yes to strangers in bars
yes to the blue sky
yes to the blues
yes to the woman
at the store
yes to the ones doing dishes
yes to the clean-mopped floor
yes to the one making music
yes to the one making do
yes to the thin green candle
yes to the thin green tree
and yes to the forest
yes to the bird and the bee
yes to the fish in the pond
yes to the fish in the sea
yes, yes, oh yes
to the iris
yes to its drop of dew
yes to the multitude
yes to the few
yes, yes, mmm-hmmm
yes to you
yes to you

- Ralph Murre


Though I just wrote this, it doesn't sound like me. It does sound vaguely familiar, as if I've read or heard something like it, but I can't think where. So if this sounds too much like something else, let me know.

now that you ask

she loves me, she

loves me not, you ask

well, sure

I suppose both

sometimes

I suppose neither

but she might

*

but will she love me

tomorrow

song writers ask

not bloody likely

comedians answer

from the high tight wire

with no net

*

it's not so important

that you know, you know

and if she tells

it's just a guess, you know

leave the door ajar

leave her come, leave her go

and she might

- ralph murre

Be

B+

Be
Just be
Leave us be
We’re being
human beings
Being human
Being cool
Can’t just let you be
Don’t just let me be
Not easy to be me
Easy to be
or not to be, fool
Be there for you
I’ll be there
Be square
Be minus
Be flat, Major
Just be. Boys will be
Be yourself
Be you
Honey
Be, but be on time
Be good
or be careful
but be, Baby
be

- Ralph Murre

going lightly

like stonehenge on solstice,
things line up sometimes.
dim notions, illuminated,
go lightly
to illogic conclusion,
are mirrored.
eyes divert.
pale flesh,
so long covered,
is so easily burnt.

- Ralph Murre

The Real Ralph Murre

I was in business machine repair, y'know? Mechanical typewriters -- Smith-Corona -- Remington -- Underwood. But my real calling, my love, was adding machines. No chance of them telling stories, just numbers, y'know? Any number you could think, cleanly printed in black, or if things weren't going so well, you could print in red -- no doubt, there, about what the hell is this guy talkin' about? -- black and red numbers, that's all, like roulette, y'know?

Geez, my beer's gettin' empty here.

Yeah, numbers -- good numbers, bad numbers, what else you need to know, huh? Red numbers. Black numbers. You type 'em in and pull that big lever, KERCHUNK, and the answer to your question is right there. Beautiful. Flat-assed beautiful.

Say, how 'bout you catch this one, huh?

Then some G'dam college asshole comes along 'n' invents a buncha e-lec-tronic bullshit 'n' I'm out of a job. Best damned adding machine man in six counties 'n' I'm out of a job like that -- Pfffft! I studied up 'n' worked on 8-track tape machines and Beta video players for a while. Now what the hell I'm s'posed to do, huh?

Hey, mud in your eye, appreciate the beer.

- Ralph Murre

workshop

If there's anyone out there who reads this blog regularly, I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that I'll be attending a writers' workshop all week. Yes, I've tried it before, but it didn't take. Maybe this time.

- RM

No, the picture has nothing to do with this post, but I thought it was kinda pretty-like.

Rainbow Goddess

if this be doom

who would not enter?

seductive downfall

- arem

ER!

ER!, indeed! There I was, lads, peacefully thumpin' down the high road, and doin' a bit of pipin', all jolly like, don't y' know, when me finger jammed up into the throttle o' me trusty Enfield, and I about to round the bend in the rosy, rosy mornin' out at the Widow MacDowell's. And her, of course, just shifting her little herd to the upper pasture. I'd no choice, lads, but to pipe me mightiest in the hope that the sheep and the comely widow would take warnin', but it was nae to be. Me pipin' and the bleatin' o' the sheep blended in a kind o' rapturous melody tha' would o' melted the heart o' any true Scot, and I's forced to abandon the roadway and rough it through the heather, all the while a-tryin' to slow the merry pace o' me mount, but the Enfield, as though wi' a mind o' her own, reeled onward toward the widow's cottage. Me front tyre lost an argument wi' a wee bit o' a rock, lads, and somersaulted me person ri' through the widow's open shutters and I alit, lads, in her downy bed wi' nary a scratch! Nary a scratch, that is, until the widow comes in, and her a-hungerin', it bein' so long since old Robbie MacDowell past, and I, wi' me kilt all up around me middle and still clutchin' me pipes -- well I tell you true, lads, I did me very best to resist her advances, but in the end, I took pity on the poor lass, and stayed wi' her a fortnight or two, just 'til things had calmed a bit, y'see. I'll no doubt ha' to go ba' and check on her well bein' now, after jus' one more wee taste. Ah, me finger's fine lads, disengaged as I took flight.

- arem arvinson

paintbrush

blown like a kiss

over heart of stone

a love letter

- arem

Memorial

Is it time yet? Time to head out to the graveyard with a few geraniums; our dues to deaths well died, if not lives well lived?

. . . yeah, here's a geranium, got a good price on it at wal-mart - specials all over but they still had the best price - thanks a lot, by the way, for diein' & all - diein' for the U.S.A. - at least you can feel good about that. christ, how'd you feel if you died for nam, or germany, or japan, or goddam france, or some fucked-up desert full of oil for chrissake? that'd be a bummer. oh yeah, forgot that your kid's over there now. well, gotta go - three day week-end & all - goin' back down to wal-mart to buy a new grille. everyday low prices, man. yeah, it's made in china, but that's how it goes. looks like i'll have to get more geraniums next year. holy shit. florists must be cleanin' up, man . . .