Another Sad Truth

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

pigeons and poets

annoying but still happy

with just a few crumbs

~ arem

Turn, Turn, Turn

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

a cool wave at sea

lifting and letting men down

like nothing's happened

~ arem

Ta - Da !

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

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

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

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

in shadow

everything we know

about light

~ arem

In Those Cars

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 . . .

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

~ RM

Three Two One

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

Big Deals

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

~ RM