Try Again

from a photo by eddee daniel

photo property of Mary Durlin

We'll try again to have our poetry reading in Fond du Lac, the exceptional Mary Durlin and I, and we hope you'll be there. Originally scheduled for February, we had to cancel because of bad weather and other difficulties. So - this may be our last chance - Tuesday, April 1st, 7:00 PM, (promptly, we think) at The Windhover Center for the Arts, 51 Sheboygan Street, Fond du Lac.

An open mike session will follow the readings of the featured April Fools, so bring your stuff; let's see watcha got.

I'll Bet

I'll bet this hill looks the same

to casual observers in their casual shoes,

and the sun shines as before on their shrugging shoulders.

But here on the slope, where we rest in the shade,

and think about the progress we've made,

we see thickets and boulders

and the shining brow is so far, so far.

And the hill grows larger

and the day grows short

and my dear, you and I grow older.

- Ralph Murre

For the Season

Suffering in Translation

Ah, Spring . . . showers and flowers
birds and bees, motorcycles and
mercury rising and everything
flowing, flowing – sap and streams
and hormones and young men’s
fancies turning toward love and
some turning toward fancy young men
and Christ dieing on the cross
so we could be dying eggs of
fertility on the first Sunday
after the first full moon of spring
sing it with me – SPRING –
you know the tune – and rising again
to remind us to feel guilty forever
but he really was a nice
young man, fancy, I suppose
what with the halo and all but
when he said “suffer the little children”
I don’t think he meant it like that
I think it was more like allow
the little children ‘cause I got
some stories I wanna tell
- but you know how it goes when
you’re translating from Aramaic
into King James’ English – allow
the little children to hear the stories
and then stand back and allow
them their fancies and I really
don’t think he meant they should
suffer if some of their fancies
are different than yours or they’re
marching to the beat of other birds
and bees than you’re hearing ‘cause
if I’m wrong why would his
wise old Dad have created Spring?

- Ralph Murre 2006

published in Crude Red Boat, Cross + Roads Press

thought from the road

a haiku, you know

is not a bumper sticker

so much as a bump

- arem

Silhouette

in this late winter

more slippery than ever

walking on the edge

- arem

small town

their houses alike

a village where the road bends

and one another

- arem

Psalms!

O.K. This is me being proud and excited, announcing the publication of my second book, Psalms, in which I present a major poem in fifteen verses and a lot of new pen-and-ink drawings. Don't let the biblical reference of the title put you too far off - this book will likely offend the religious and the atheistic in equal measure. Or not - as early reactions from both seem pretty favorable. I hope the book will find a place on the shelves of art lovers as well as readers of poetry, and especially those of both factions who may appreciate a bit of homage to the beat generation.

So what's it cost, how can I get it, and etc.? The book will cost you a cool $12 bucks, American, plus $3 for shipping to anywhere in the world, I guess. Order from Little Eagle Press, 6016 Cave Point Drive, Sturgeon Bay, WI, USA, 54235 - or email me at littleeaglepress@gmail.com for details. If you want the poem (and a lot of other good lit.) without my art work for a little less money , contact "After Hours", a journal of Chicago writing and art, at http://www.afterhourspress.com/, and request a copy of the Winter 2008 issue.

March

old white-bearded man

dragging your feet through the fields

time for you to go

- arem

In The City

She was wide-eyed she said, from the country,

when in her first Chicago week

a neighbor lept from his tower

to find that he could not yet fly,

and her eyes narrowed a little, I suppose.

Not sure yet, if this is a poem, or the start of a poem, or no poem at all. It may be years before it comes back as a real poem, if it ever does. Such is the process with me. The story, by the way, is from Bronmin Shumway, one of the fine poets who I share space with in the latest issue of AFTER HOURS, a journal of Chicago writing and art.

Or maybe, it'll come back as a song -

Wide eyed she said, wide-eyed she came

to the city that scratched at the sky.

And a stranger jumped, as a stranger might,

some time in the night from his tower

to find that he could not fly.

Wide-eyed she said, wide-eyed she came

from somewhere in the sea of tall grass,

and I wonder now, as I see her smile,

if once in a while there are tears mixed in

as she looks through rain on the glass.

Wide-eyed she said, wide-eyed she came,

and a stranger jumped without leaving a name

in the city that scratched at the skies.

Be better to her, lofty city,

be better to the country lass.

Be better to her, mighty city,

do no more to narrow her eyes.

- Ralph Murre

Time Saver

Time Saver

A stitch in time – and then another
and pretty soon time is all sewn up;
holes patched with moments of distraction
and remnant ends of daydreams –
a catnap basted on over that rip
the vodka put in Saturday night –
a bit of needlework and dark thread
and the damned hole is darned
where some fool tried to save daylight.

Maybe there’s a way to reweave that tatter
you got crawling under the barbed wire
of religion’s prison-camp.
An immigrant sweat-shop sewing
fourteen hours a day might fashion
a garment to hide the amputation
of your high school years and,
if your timing’s right, you could mend
that time you tore from someone’s dream
when you wouldn’t believe.

Just you,
sitting on the calendar’s broad deck,
patching the sails of day after day
as the heave and the swell of
an ocean of years hisses by.

Just you,
putting another stitch in time.
Sewing a new watch-pocket
onto the long-legged
setting of the sun.

- Ralph Murre 2005

From Crude Red Boat, Cross + Roads Press

Don'tcha Ever Wonder About Dragons?

Ice Sculpture by Adrian Murre

Don'cha ever wonder about dragons up to their scaly knees in deep snow on Viking stavkirks, or dodging, in their serpentine way, the fireworks of a Shanghai parade, or gone all mossy somewhere in County Clare and the whole while trying to remain mythical as gods in science labs?

You have to wonder, don'tcha, about fire-breathing? About methane production and the chance of a spark before belching became boorish? About the odds of singeing a few ancients? I mean, you have to wonder, don'tcha?

And just because somebody finds their bones and calls them dinosaurs, doesn't mean you can't wonder.

- Ralph Murre

click on photo for detail

No Direction

no direction to the light

in this snowstorm in these woods

no strength for the shadow

no black for the crow

no color, but for this cardinal

balanced on a thin branch

- RM

something to crow about

I must say I like the flock I'm flying in over at

http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2007/12/04/something-to-crow-about/

oh, yeah

Movie Time

Scenario for a Short Film

Storm clouds part
As skiffs and scows
Ply their trade
Dotting this northern port

Messengers, sailing
Shore to shore
Through veils of mist
Sometimes appear

A piano is moved
To a house on the hill
And played by four hands
Who know it well

Chords of harmony float
To weathered docks below
Where old men tend the ships
That carry their hearts

Sweet berries ripen
In the brambled thickets
Of the hidden
And sheltered coves

While some wait there
And understand
The things that drift in
From open waters beyond

Nightfall reveals
Sistine constellation
Of outstretched fingers
Almost touching and

Those who watch the sky
Shake their heads, for
This is not the season
For these stars

- Ralph Murre 2005

Entangled In The Web

Today, as one of my friends celebrates the second anniversary of her blog, another celebrates the second day of hers. I'm very proud to know both of these good women, and to include them in the links from this page.

Sharon Auberle, with whom I've shared several publications, (most notable on-line: "Poetry Dispatch") has just wrapped up two years worth of one of the most beautiful things I've found in the width of the w w w, Mimi's Golightly Cafe. Sharon is the author of four books of poetry, and is working on the next. She's also an amazing artist and photographer.

Julie Eger has just begun her blog, Jukota's Place, but has not, by any means, just begun to write. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a number of high quality journals and she is the deserving winner of several sought-after awards for her work. I am honored to share space with Julie in the anthology Other Voices (Cross + Roads Press, 2007). I foresee great things in her blog.

Stop by and visit both - links appear on the right.

- RM

Aw, Maisy

Aw, Maisy

How do I know you
when you change so fast,
when you grow right past
the little girl you were
when last I looked?
What sort of chef cooked
this bubbling kettle,
what metal can be worked this way,
what clay can smile and joke?
What flesh and blood from mine
brings a bloom to bud,
a flower opening over mud?
Is this the part where I
compare you to a bird about to fly?
Am I too late? Can a grandfather
ever state how happy and sad
are stirred inside when
a bouncing kid begins to glide?
Grow, my dear one.
Take a hug, friend; a kiss.
You can write the end of this,
I think. You can write the end.

- Grandpa Ralph

HOLD EVERYTHING!

Sad to say, we are cancelling tonight's Fond du Lac reading due to predicted foul weather, the loss of Mary D.'s voice, and the loss of an acquaintance in an accident on last night's slippery roads. We will try to reschedule for April 1st.

Stay home, do a little reading, do a little writing, hold someone you love.

- Ralph

Landscape

again

across those far hills

when too close closes in

again

- RM

Out There

It's all out there,
you just never know.

arem