The Greatest

While I live about 100 yards from a perfectly acceptable Great Lake, every now and then I take it in mind to go feel the cool breath of THE GREATEST. And the breath of Mother Superior was indeed cool this time. Set off yesterday on my mighty Rozinante at about 1:00 PM and rode ~ spent the night in Jim Harrison country ~ and was home by 3:30 PM today. Slew no dragons, didn't even see windmills. There were lighthouses. Derelict vessels. A really big lake. There was cold and rain, in tolerable doses. There was food and drink in tolerable doses.

a motorcycle

in the Michigan morning

of blossoms and rain

So why ride well over 500 miles to spend so little time with the object of my affection? The ride, my friends, the ride. It is a new season, and I rode to where it is even newer, backing up time just a little bit. That's enough for me.

~ RM

Things Alone

Things alone come to me.
The red dancing shoe I saw
alone in the winding roadway
of the Appalachian Gap.
The blue workman's glove
alone in a Calumet backalley.
A black-clad widow,
her chair in the street
of a Tarpon Springs afternoon.
Now this saxophone,
its voice in the night
of Hennepin Avenue,
one dollar and change
in the torn green lining
of the open case
at my feet.

~ Ralph Murre

night truck

the night truck

speeds in from the east coast

drops off morning

crosses the mississippi

early

- rm

To Laura, gone now

Aw jeez, Ma, I miss ya somethin' terrible.

Was There a Poem?

In her dark hands that milked cows and made lace,
hands that fixed tractors and wiped tears?
A poem in the dark hands
that built houses and kept them, that worked the earth
and folded to a heaven she was sure of?
Hands that hammered out justice and
handed out calloused caresses,
those hands that labored at the piano,
but changed flat tires with ease?

Was there a song in her dark eyes
that laughed easy, but cried hard;
eyes that saw good wherever it hid?
Eyes that struggled in darkness
to read the verses and read them again
until she saw light in the words?
A song in the dark eyes that bid me welcome,
the colorless eyes that I bid goodbye?

Was there a portrait in her dark face?

- Ralph Murre

(appeared in Crude Red Boat, from Cross+Roads Press)

An Open Relationship

photo by Dana Tynan

I was just looking, with justified admiration, at the photo of Joan Baez on the cover of her great autobiography "And a Voice to Sing With", when I found I had to explain that Joan and I have been together for a long time. Since before the sixties turned into THE SIXTIES, in fact. Oh, we've had an open relationship, to be sure - I'm OK with the fact that she's had other lovers, and she's never said a word about my infidelities - but she's always been there when I've needed her, which has been pretty often. Those times when I needed somebody with some heart, some guts, some brains, and a voice to sing with.

Maintaining a long-lasting relationship is easier, I suppose, when one of the partners is totally unaware of the existence of the other, as she is unaware of me, but she's been true to the spirit of our romance, and I am happy. I can only ask what great love is without its little oddness ? Her book talks of the old days, and of her waiting in a dream for Marlon Brando to come along and swoop her up on his Wild-One Harley. About the same time, as it turns out, I was living in Northern Cal and was waiting in a dream for Joan to pick me up along Hwy. 101 in her Jaguar. I mean, what else did she have to do?

Years later, after demonstrating the courage to stand up to some of the nastiest offenders of all that is holy, she came to sing in the little auditorium of the barely one-horse Midwestern town where I live, so I went to hear her, and to be in the same room with one of the great heroes of my life. I sent flowers backstage, but lacked the courage to try to meet her. Our relationship is still unflawed by an actual introduction. I've heard that love knows no bounds, so I'm not sure what this is. But it's something like love.

~ Ralph Murre

Sex in the City

The Sam Laud Enters Green Bay

The great vessel

after giving signal

and receiving signal

nudges strong and gentle

and slow

so slow

into the draw

and up the dark flow

bellows

a long and two short

and deep moans

Colored light

shimmers

all around

~ Ralph Murre

cul-de-sac

Does the path end

before anyone

is out of the woods?

-arem

Dangerous Machinery

in remembrance . . .

A Brief History of Our Products

Admittedly,

there were times of dangerous machinery.

Inquire of a Native American.

Ask a Jew.

Maybe a Cambodian could fill you in.

A Tutsi, if you can find one,

might know a little about it.

And do ask around when you're in Dresden

or Hiroshima.

Things used to get out of hand.

But you can relax now,

the new model is vastly improved,

(Dozens of changes for 2009!)

and we do not expct anyn prbolems.

*^x^xxzzt

Jsuttt st. bacccck & rlx. ax.xxxzt***Lax

~ Ralph Murre

hol⋅o⋅caust 
–noun
1.
a great or complete devastation or destruction, esp. by fire.
2.
a sacrifice completely consumed by fire; burnt offering.
3.
(usually initial capital letter) the systematic mass slaughter of European Jews in Nazi concentration camps during World War II (usually prec. by the).
4.
any mass slaughter or reckless destruction of life.

sometimes no poem

Somedays, poems leak out of our pens, stain the unprotected pockets of our frayed poet shirts. We even come to expect it, and feel a little off when nothing comes. We try to make something of nothing, like trying to get a few more miles out of a car with an empty fuel tank. Here's some advice from one who may have had such days himself:

So, poets, rest awhile

& shut up:

Nothing ever came

of nothing.

~ Jack Kerouac 1960

blue circle

this day

the horizon's blue circle

this water

~ arem

More bragging from the helmsman: One of my pieces has been chosen to be featured on April 13th on the excellent "Haibun Today" site. Have a look. http://www.haibuntoday.com

Simply Genius

In my post for April First, I alluded to the fact that it is not so simple to be a fool. Several times in the past, I've written on a theme inspired by the line from the old Shaker hymn, "tis a gift to be simple," and here I go again. For anyone who actually reads all of this stuff, I hear your collective "oh no's!" and I sympathize, but it seems to me that there is so much contained in those few words that I can explore them for a long time. Come along on this leg of the journey if you like.

I've talked, in the past, about how we use the term "simple-minded" as a slur, and the term "gifted" as a compliment, ignoring the possibility that they may be one and the same, as the song suggests. Today I'm looking at the things we think of as works of genius, and the sheer simplicity that the best of them exhibit. Now, there's a certain brilliance, of course, to observing and borrowing from nature. Someone might observe the amazing strength-to-weight ratio of the shaft of a feather, and then develop a lightweight tubing to be used in, say, a bicycle frame. You might notice the way the hexes of granite crystals or cells of honeycomb fit together, making amazing use of space and structure, and you may adapt this as a core for some very stiff and light construction panel. This is good. It is smart. But genius, I think, goes a little beyond smart borrowing.

Think about the construction of the common soccer ball. How simple - how deceptively simple - until you think of the fact that some genius had to realize that you could take a flat pentagon shape, surround it with flat hexagon shapes, and by repeating the process, you could very nearly approximate a sphere. I don't know who first did this; that's not the point. What I think IS important is the fact that this is something which I do not believe is found in nature, yet is so apparently simple that we can look at it and say "of course". "Claro."

Those of us who read, and attempt to write, become aware after a while that the true geniuses of the word write poetry and even good prose that appears so simple that we read their work and say "of course; why didn't I write that?" And we try it. And we learn that writing simple is very difficult; GOOD haiku is perhaps the most difficult of all, because of the simplicity required. And we learn that we are NOT geniuses. And we learn that we are not simple, in the way that geniuses must be. And maybe we learn that even earning those MFA degrees to display proudly behind our names will not actually change our names to Basho or Niedecker or Kooser or Harrison. Yet, if we keep trying, and if we keep it simple, we may find some moment of passable brightness.

- Ralph Murre

P.S. This is just to say, rather proudly, nothing at all about cool plums - but rather to say that a pretty simple piece of mine is to be featured tomorrow on the Poets Who Blog website - and it is cool and sweet. ~ RM

It may not be poetry, but it rhymes . . .

Replacement

The Fool I’ve Been,
as he was stepping down,
met the Fool I’ll Be,
who was donning the crown.
“Not so fast,” said Been to Be,
“you look an ordinary clown to me.”

“This is no job for a Bar Mitzvah rental –
these are big shoes to fill.
Why, you must be mental!
You think that if you simply will
wear a wig or disguise like Yentl,
you can be a fool? All accidental?”

“The kind of fool that’s needed here,”
continued the very aged Been,
“was born before your tender year.
He must have had the chance to learn.
He must have had the chance to hear,
so it might slip out his other ear.”

“I’m young, it’s true,”
said the fool-to-be,
“but if you’ll give me half a chance,
I’ll be a bigger fool than thee.”
So he wears the crown, and hikes up his pants,
as he begins the first of his uninformed rants:

“It’s my turn now,”
says the Fool I’ll Be,
”and I’ll tell you a thing or three:
my head may not be amply thick,
but my delivery is pretty slick,
and I know something of tomfoolery.”

“I didn’t need to get elected,”
he said as he kneeled
before he genuflected,
“I’m just outstanding in my field.”
And then, as though he had reflected:
“Among most fools, I am respected.”

Now I could quote the youngster
nicely, word for word,
but here’s the summation:
as you’ve probably heard,
and I’m sure you must have learned in school,
there is no fool like an old fool.

- Ralph Murre

In late March

snow on branches

and what did I expect

branches blooming?

- arem

Thank the night

for showing you her full moon.

Thank the morning, the late afternoon,

for the long shadow

that makes you tall as your dreams.

Thank the schemes of twilight,

the novel and ancient ideas of streetlights

revealed in their glowing cones,

thank the bones of your ancestors

for the little you.

Thank the dewy flower,

the clock in the tower,

for not taking this moment.

Thank the sea for blue.

- Ralph Murre

to the equinox

and always

the great wheel turns

but slowly

- arem

Sunlight and Old Ice

What have I got to say about this image of the long-resting bay getting ready to cast off her heavy winter quilt, about the way the sun flirts with her, will gently kiss her moist body when she awakens? Nothing. Sometimes words, or at least, my abilities to use words, add nothing at all.

~ RM

DOWNSTREAM

On the Passed Time River

that winds through here,

near the point where it burbles

over Lost Day Rocks

and just before the Don't-Give-Up Falls;

the lazy floating,

the grayed head barely raised

to regard a west-slipping sun,

the faint cry from shore,

the rising mists of the maelstrom ahead,

the No-Going-Back Rapids,

the frail craft almost awash

in too late, too late.

The regrettable lack of a paddle.

- Ralph Murre

the view from here

these mornings of oatmeal and email
daunted in holy grail quests
for hit-counter highs on obscure sites
rites of passage recorded
benign to sordid faithfully writ
peep hole peeped from
wrists unslit
dim-lit rooms
yield to bright of climbing sun
things unstarted
things undone remain
but spring will come
spring will come
(refrain)

- ralph murre

Appreciation

without thorns

and tastier than a rose

this red cabbage

- arem

Again, With the Bird?

Ralph Murre

I'm continuing to explore the theme that I first showed you on my post of January 13th. This time, I carved in ice. The piece, which is shown horizontally here, is actually a vertical sculpture, about five feet tall.

~ RM