Algoma, ca. 1970

Night at The Rustic

The aroma was Prince Albert
and Pine-Sol and Stale Ale
as she served slices of black-
skinned radish
on little plates of vinegar and salt
and the conversation was
of cabbages and caraway and
taverns like this one,
of Czechs and cheeses and church.
Machinists and millwrights
manned the stools, smoked, smelled
of sausages and sweat, made small talk
in the small hours
and faded away into country night,
coughing and laughing and
looking back at lives lived
out of limelight.
17-inch ball games
on a black and white Zenith,
17-cent raises after
17-week strikes.
Little plates of vinegar and salt
left on the bar.


- Ralph Murre

Post # 142

three times, at this time

the age of majority

playing minor roles

--:--

Three times legal now,

I drink just one-third as much.

Strange arithmetic.

--:--

three times 21 -

it's an awkward age, I guess -

budget for good wine

- arem

short stories

tracks in morning snow

writers going to breakfast

telling short stories

- arem

Not Always

Not always,
the merry heart of scarlet,
but cobalt, too,
indigo blue and
un-named colors.
Un-named moods
require other hues,
not always red,
not always red, I said,
but valentine blues.
Some hearts sing
valentine blues.

- Ralph Murre

An Anti-Valentine?

From this morning’s reading of Bill Holm’s Playing the Black Piano, in which he quotes from Walt Whitman’s “Poem on the Proposition of Nakedness”:

Let men and women be mock’d with bodies and mock’d with Souls!
Let the love that waits in them, wait!
let it die, or pass still-born to other spheres!
Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands!
let their tongues be broken!
let their eyes be discouraged!
let none descend into their hearts
with the fresh lusciousness of love!

I suppose that’s enough from the black piano for today.
Why I came to it on the day before Valentine’s, is the question.
-RM

once more, from the top

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I wonder why we climb
jungle gyms and Everest’s,
Eiffel’s and maples.
So the gods can get
a better look at us, I suppose –
remember us when it matters.
Maybe smile at us and
think fondly of that time
when we surveyed, together,
the world sprawled at our feet.

- Ralph Murre

well and truly winter

how cold I had been

until I saw them swimming

swans in ice water

- arem

Falling

bronze by Thomas Gerhardt Smith

Like the woman
who fell from the sky
through the roof
of the Popcorn Tavern,
you might be surprised.
Like the people dancing
when the balcony collapsed
in Kansas City or
when the stock market
collapsed in New York City,
you might be surprised.
Like the little girl
who fell in the well in Texas
or the home-run hitter
who fell from grace,
or, like Custer, falling
on that day in Montana, or,
like a couple who fell in love,
you might be surprised.
But don't let that stop you.
You might be surprised.

- Ralph Murre

Molly Ivins 1944-2007

painting by Robert Shetterly
from his book Americans Who Tell the Truth

"The best way to get the sons of bitches is to make people laugh at them."

- Molly Ivins

http://www.freepress.org/columns/display/1

On Bikers, Birders, and Bush's

On optimism: As any successful off-road motorcycle or bicycle racer is likely to tell you, to move quickly down a boulder-strewn mountainside, you must focus on the path you want to take between the obstacles. If you focus on the rocks themselves, you are almost certain to hit them.

On pessimism: As any good conservationist will tell you, the damned cyclists will ruin the fragile ecosystem of the mountain and the world will collapse. Besides, it is our mountain, because we are good people and read books.

What do I think? Having played for both teams in the above-mentioned combat, I have to conclude that we all go through life making constant risk/benefit analyses, not without some selfishness, and we move on as we see fit. The way the scales tip for each of us may well be genetically influenced. Take the Bush family: No real personal risk to us, so let's send other people's kids racing down this mountainside. I don't think there'll be rocks. And what's a ee-co-system?

- Ralph Murre

oh no; a sonnet

photographer unknown

Where is the dreamer and where is the poet,
the shaded cottage, the girl in the boat?
Replaced by the schemer in real estate,
the big operator behind armored plate.
Are there roses in gardens by the six-laned road?
And where do the children play?
Through the bullet-proof glass of a long limousine,
I saw hope in a young bride today
and wished her luck, as the car left the curb,
bound, I am sure, for a greener suburb.
May her counters be granite with accents of gold,
may she circle the planet on cruises,
and if, it turns out, her groom's heart is cold,
may the best of fashion hide her bruises.

- Ralph Murre

Happy Birthday, Mr. Burns

For Robert

O, you told us o' the red, red rose
And sang in praise o' haggis.
In quiet Ayrshire countryside,
You raised up quite a rackus.

And fair you wrote, in bonnie burr,
And fair you wrote, my baird.
We must gae thanks for your sweet pen
As we kneel to pray the Laird.

Till a’ ink wells gang dry, Dear Rob,
And a’ the nibs lie rusty,
We will luve thee still, Dear Rob,
And quote your words, sae lusty.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
On this January night?
Nae, we’ll sing o' thee again, Dear Rob,
And o' Barleycorn tonight.

- Ralph Murre

Cone Flowers

Summer gone, Winter

cannot stop their budding:

January blooms.

- arem

At the Salon

I was honored to read some of my stuff last night, in the company of some very good poets from the area. We shared humor, pathos, and some real comaraderie with a large group of visual artists gathered for the annual salon at the Peninsula Arts School.

It occurred to me that among the many traits shared by poets and the other artists, is the sense of that need for us always to work toward that horizon which poses the question, "What is poetry?", or "What is art?" Our work, it seems to me, when it does not break new ground, no matter how well we replant and cultivate the old fields, cannot be called art; cannot be called poetry.

In light of that argument, I am still very uncomfortable thinking of myself as POET, but on good days, I strive for that far horizon.

- Ralph Murre

finally, snow - finally, cold

what spirits circle

the altars of sleeping bears?

what birds have not flown?

- arem

Forgive Us, Fathers

Martin, like Mohandas,
led multitudes to the threshold
of a new life.
Martin, like Mohandas,
was shot down
with one foot in the doorway
of peace.
Of them I sing.
Peace be with them,
and with us.

- Ralph Murre

and then, you

and you
and you have these places
I want to be
these bright and
dark places soft
and you keep them well
hidden
keep them well for me
dark places soft
and bright
keep them for me
soft and well
keep well, love
keep well
the soft bright dark
and you

- Ralph Murre

this winter, 'til now

only a groan of wind

speaks of winter

in this warm weather snowless season

wind and the child's heart

beneath these old ribs

- arem

citrus moon

fruit on a dark cloth

just beyond my fingertips

orange moon rising

- arem

No Pretty Picture

There'll be no pretty picture accompanying this last post of 2006, just the plea that you go over and read the Friday, December 29th entry at "Baghdad Burning", http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ .

I would love to see us all have a Happy New Year, but that will be impossible for so many. Do I think that is all the fault of us Americans or the Damned W. ? No, of course it is not that simple, but we have played a giant's part in making things what they are today, whether by design or staggering ignorance, or both. We ALL KNOW that the real reason for this war was that George Sr. had unfinished business with Saddam, who was quite certainly an evil man. "W" had to protect the family's honor. Now that Saddam has left us, Texas-style, can we find a way to mend broken eggs? Can we at least begin healing in 2007? Blessed are the peace makers, as it is written; let us deserve that blessing.

- Ralph Murre