21st Century Bread: Poems, by Leland Jamieson
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Current "Poem for the Week"
All Poems are from the book, 21st Century Bread, Copyright © 2007 by Leland Jamieson.
Prior weeks' poems follow below.
Change Pace Poetry: 1 Video
Change of Pace 1 Video
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A Day in July
In memory of E.T.P.
At five p.m. this afternoon
I mark the years, now sixty-eight,
since I thrust out that moist cocoon
to lift my lungs and aspirate,
amidst the arid cold, your scents,
to glimpse first outlines of your face,
enjoy your breasts’ warm succulence,
and claim your voice and heartbeat’s pace.
We never cut a double cake
or sang a song to your great pluck
or gave you gifts for my birth’s sake
or helped you clean the party’s muck —
or recognized ourselves as boors —
as though my birth days were not yours.
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Daybreak Nets the Artist’s Work
To spin her world, the spider jettisons
the fear she spills her guts in foolishness.
She’ll spinnaker on a faithless wind, no less,
to anchor her web for Evening Orisons.
She spins and spins. Her garden row outruns
its night while cold and dampness coalesce
to celebrate her web’s widespread finesse —
at cockcrow countless dewdrops glisten suns.
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A Cairn for Our Brindled One
In Memory of Weft.
For G.K.J.
Three months ago we couldn’t fail to note
our cairn had built up tarter — quite a lot.
His pre-op blood work showed up fine. A quote:
“Strong heart — all organs function as they ought
for a dog fourteen. The risk to him’s remote . . . .”
The last six days he’d not eat diddly-squat.
His thirst increased, his brown eyes lost their clown,
his ears drew back in pain. We were distraught.
The blood work of the vet had earned renown,
yet failed to flag this pancreas cancer’s knot.
We buried him with hearts of eiderdown,
with cairn of glacial stones we piled abreast —
some stumbled on in forest leaves all brown,
some blocking, deep, the way of his deep rest
our shovel clanged upon as we dug down.
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Deerstalker
Deerstalker hats, with “visors” front and back,
their ear flaps down and tied beneath your chin,
protect you from the snapped-back branch’s thwack.
But not, of course, the Lyme tick — which crawls in
your clothing, finds a moist warm spot to bite,
and dines all night at bloody Bulls’ Eye Inn.
If lucky you may quickly find the site,
the swollen, angry, sweaty ring on ring,
all red, and blue, and white — it’s quite a sight.
Thus, while you thought you’d stalk the deer this spring,
you’re in E R, and sputtering in terror,
caught up by Mother Nature in a sting.
That handsome Rack: The heart of its wild wearer
you understand in ways quite new to you.
You wonder which of you stalks Earth the barer.
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Struck from Lightning
My grand-kids scuff the rug for pinprick bolts
of lightning they can finger-zap on skin —
then giggle when I’m jolted by their volts.
These quanta, of non-local origin,
convey a metaphysical “within,”
illumine mirth in everything absurd —
electrify the heart of this old bird.
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Spring Equinox, East Hampton, Connecticut.
For G.K.J.
“Quick, hurry!” you whisper. “A red moustache,
a brilliant hue, just like his swept-back crest!”
A Pileated pounds on our dead ash
and hollows out a hole as big as his vest.
He’s routed carpenter ants, and he’s hard-pressed
to swallow them but for a backward toss
of head that scoffs them down like applesauce.
With sweeping wing beats bigger than a crow’s
revealing bright white undersides, he flies
away — kik kik kik — leaves us on our toes
beside the window, no time for good-byes.
“A sight for sore eyes,” I say. “What a prize!”
“Oh, look!” you say. “ He’s back! And look! Quick! See?
He’s brought his mate! Black forehead. It’s a she!”
A second Pileated! No moustache!
She clings much higher in a rotted birch,
shucks off its wasted bark as though mere trash.
The bug-filled tree repays her for her search . . . .
Both flapping off, they give my heart a lurch.
You say, “I hope they nest with us — or near —
I think they like our bug-bark atmosphere.”
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Painter’s Dimension
For G.K.J.
Her eye, her hand, her maulstick all construe
(beyond her choice of focus, mood, hard-won
perspective, foreground, color, line and hue)
Illusion . . . bent in wordless Orison
intent to simplify from three to two —
with pigment’s mantra, canvas’ ear — to One.
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Potter
For G.K.J.
Escaping the glaring sun, the heat’s ennui,
his soul mate — forty-three years plus — and he
explore The Shed to replace mugs they’d lost.
Nearby, two droning, throbbing fans exhaust
the shed-bound, moist, and fragrant earthy smell
of drying work five potters soon will sell.
They each move slowly, carefully appraise
a little vase that shines in a slate-gray glaze:
“Nasturtium nosegays would look nice in this,”
she says. He now recalls how she finds bliss
in hardy gentle flowers she re-seeds
each spring in barren clay, and gladly weeds.
She steps behind a potter at her wheel
who trims a bowl and adds more eye-appeal.
He sees, within his soul mate’s eager eyes,
a thirsting ardor she would minimize —
it’s clear they shop not for a mug or vase
but with a purer need she must embrace:
She has a yen to shape soft silicate,
extract from it what may authenticate
her gift for comely, strong design — that stole
she wears which births and clothes her maker’s soul,
gives thanks for every free-form gift of mud,
and consummates her clay-self’s trial by blood.
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All One Has
For G.K.J., who holds that
art is not a competitive sport.
One’s character is all
one has, and it grows tall
against all droughts with a taproot
burlap cannot wrap.
One’s character’s revealed
in action one’s concealed
from ogling eyes’ cold praise,
from klieg lights’ hazy rays.
(The public will accept
clichés, and is adept
at avoiding deeper feeling —
although it thirsts for healing . . . .)
When unobserved, and free,
what does one do to see,
to be, make tangible
a hidden life that’s full?
To find and do that thing
emboldens one to sing —
art’s character impart,
its taproot got by heart.
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The Hook
For W.T.J., recalling a time when he was five.
“Papa, how can they breathe beneath the dirt?”
(Night crawlers churned inside my pail of bait.)
“Good question, Bill. Don’t know. They look alert.”
“Alert?”
“Uh . . . lively.”
“Let’s not leave too late
to look up, ‘Can they breathe . . . ?’ Papa, you hate
these worms?”
“No . . . .”
“How can I not feel like jelly,
not feel the hook slice through my own soft belly?
“How — when a fish bites down on worm and hook —
can I not feel a piercing barb snag me?
It drags me, cheek and jaw, up from my brook.
I flip-flop in my net, then on my knee.
I thirst, and drown in air I cannot flee . . . .
It’s fun to be with you — work line and reel
with you — can, maybe, you help me not feel?”
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Breaking Light
Her canvas backpack carried broken glass,
smashed bottles (soda, wine or beer) she chose
for tint from ghetto sidewalks clumped with grass.
A purplish blue or pink would re-compose
its shards beside those amber, red, or green,
and they a fresh new pattern would disclose.
Epoxied to her gesso boards, they’d sheen
beneath the gallery lights, no longer shards
but fresh bright wholes, compelling us to glean.
We too are artists. Each of us regards
with outer eyes while Inner Eye’s deep sight
construes — makes new — what brightest light bombards.
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By Floundering?
It’s best a toddler know all that he feels,
and see it, too, reflected in Mom’s eyes,
attune it with the notes her voice reveals —
or cry blue tears upon her ample thighs.
It’s best a youth embrace what he will do
when he grows up by striding off with Dad
to find, for left and right, the fitting shoe —
embrace a life’s work that can make him glad.
But floundering’s the route we mostly take.
We grasp for titillation, sexual fashion,
high pay and rank, no matter how opaque.
The outer eyes both blaze with them ’til ashen.
The Inner Eye that might see through the smoke
just shuts its lids against — this long sick joke?
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Cooling Off with Cayenne
Whose was that deep male voice he just
could hear beneath his study floor?
So late! Who was the neighbor thrust
himself on her at their front door?
Best he step down and rescue her
so she can get some sleep tonight.
Pretext? He’ll raid the fridge! Yes-sir!
He clumps downstairs to get a bite.
The voice? Astonishing! Their son’s!
How could he not have recognized
their flesh and blood, who now outruns
his ears and holds them mesmerized?
The voice breaks — up: a child’s again . . . .
Now, where’d he stash that fresh cayenne?
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Tent of Snorers
I leave my bathhouse clogs outside the tent,
unzip, re-zip the screen, but mutely sigh,
come three o’clock, and thrash in discontent
that sunrise takes so long to paint the sky.
No dream, no nightmare graces open eye,
redeems this time with creativity —
unless it is revealing just to be.
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Contemporary Newborn’s Gaze
(After seeing, at Pump House Gallery, Hartford, Connecticut,
the sculpture in granite, “Solitude,” by Betty Gerich.)
This polished sculpture well-depicts a Mom
whose bearing — shoulder, nape, bowed head — is shown
to flow from swaddled child in cradling palm.
The tiny infant’s skull is still a cone
just springing back from birth canal’s wet vise.
Expectant eyes gaze up, entreat Mom’s own.
The viewer kneels to grasp the newborn’s prize,
to gaze past forearm, breast and collarbone
to face — which has no smile, no lips, no eyes.
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A Modest Hope
Two spotted goats, one brown, one mostly black,
chomp grass in this abandoned burial plot.
They nuzzle round each flat-laid granite plaque,
and take great care (as grounds-keeps who’re well-taught)
with bone-bound longings wasting now in rot . . . .
Goats’ rancid exhalations — might it be? —
may spring some unrequited spirits free.
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Homing
DeLand, Florida.
In memory of E.T.P.
For S.J.E.
We stepped inside St. Barnabas Church
through its back foyer to the nave.
I walked, it seemed, by halt and lurch
on legs with buckling knees — not brave.
Our mother’s ashes, boxed, I gave
a red-and-white robed acolyte
who swept them up into the rite.
Free of her Parkinson’s at last!
Two decades it had robbed her rest
and roped her to the foundering mast
of meds that made her so depressed . . . .
The incense spiraled up, a beau geste
to her persisting spirit — svelte,
homing at last — as we, caged, knelt.
Home to the Flow where all belong . . . .
But first, these ashes in their box
of marbled cardboard must prolong
our public pain of loss . . . to Bach’s
cantatas, clerics in their frocks,
to scattered townsfolk — few who knew
her in this cage — who say, “Adieu.”
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The Siren’s Cry
Hartford, Connecticut.
In memory of E.T.P.
The siren’s cry across the frozen brook
recalls the harshest ride we ever took.
Strapped to a stretcher (I was perched awry),
you first implored me, “Son, just let me die.”
I would have satisfied you if I could.
Your home in Florida I’d closed for good,
flown back — your withered arm on mine (this you?) —
arranged for you a room with a mountain view,
and shopped and bought a TV you’d accept.
Once home, so tired, so sad, I wept and wept.
Your home back in DeLand no longer there,
my own unsuited to your nursing care,
St. Mary Home no home — a room, a bed,
more like a warehouse full of wailing dead . . . .
Your lips confessed your love, your eyes remorse.
I could not bear the awful weight, the force
your eyes poured out on me at our good-bye,
as I went home, ears ringing with your sigh . . . .
I love you — it was hard to tell you so
against your eyes’ rip tide and undertow.
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New Yorker in His Lap
DeLand, Florida.
In memory of G.M.P.
Martini carefully clasped in his left hand,
New Yorker under arm, he tossed junk mail.
A smile lit up his eyes and face — he planned
“an evening in the City” where he’d sail
its noisy streets, view storefronts’ bright detail,
all re-imagined with a young man’s flair
without so much as rising from his chair.
In person, he’d not dare to go back there
(or Boston, either one). He’d feel such loss,
lost landmarks and lost self: the debonair,
“Most Likely to Succeed” who would not gloss —
lost glitzy sales — who, angry at his boss,
had quit, in '31, his well-paid job
with the City’s best known architectural snob.
He peddled stoves, gas heaters — and lost heart.
Rescued by friends, he sailed to Egypt for
the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
He worked on Tutankhamen’s tomb with rapport,
acting as the Curator’s ambassador,
acquiring the Mediterranean “eye”
that he’d become well-known for — by-and-by . . . .
But Harvard, Boston, New York City — then
was then, and so is “by-and-by,” now, too!
He sits. He dozes off. He wakes in Zen,
warming to the view there’s nothing he could do,
or would, much differently — and he’d not rue
a single day as long as he had brains,
time come, to toss the astral plane the reins.
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Knot-Popping Art
For G.K.J.
She, the hydraulic engineer,
thrusts to and fro the three ton ram
as he hoists logs so they will shear
against the wedge, and not just jam.
He must stay conscious — that is key —
and keep his palms and fingers clear
of log ends (where they’d like to be)
or he will pay a price too dear.
The art’s in turning from the wedge,
and to the ram, the log’s knot ends.
The length of log gives wedge an edge —
knot-popping leverage that it lends.
Knot-popping art between these two?
Compassion. In each rendezvous.
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Archimedes’ Second Thoughts
A quick take on Pappus, Collectio, Book VIII, Prop. 10, Sec. XI.
“Sure. Give me where to stand. I’ll move the earth,”
said Archimedes, searching for a bar
to prize it with . . . . “Said what? And not in mirth?
Sure? ‘Give me where to stand, I’ll move the earth . . . ’?
How place a lever against her spinning girth?
Who, me? Said that? Uh . . . . Wine, please. Red. A jar!
‘Sure! Give me where to stand, I’ll move the earth’,”
said Archimedes, hitching stool to bar.
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That Elixir
He’d hugged her gently in their puppy love,
which felt like it was more than mere romance,
while brightest sunshine graced her most white glove . . . .
Some say that marriage is a hostage-dance:
The taker and the taken in a trance
exchange their masks. Within, they each grow ashen
in search of that elixir called compassion.
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Refractory of Rain
A meditation based on “Spring Rain,” by G.K. Jamieson;
Acrylic on Masonite, 24x30".
Nine days of rain! Enough to make one fidget!
Rain sheets the north porch screen of our log cabin.
Aboard it, grains of fir trees’ pollens gutter
in rivulets, merge, divide, converge in branches.
It seeps out weep-holes at the screen’s base — sad water,
pale yellow with spent pollens and their sorrows.
Will sunlight never break through skies’ gray sorrows?
This ceaseless drum of raindrops makes me fidget
no less than she who, eager, broke my water
six years ago to taste the air of cabin.
But cabin air now cloys, and clogs lungs’ branches
and panics us — we leap into the gutter.
How can I pluck our spirits from this gutter?
How not give up when facing all these sorrows?
They snag us just like prickly briar-patch branches
past which we try to slip, in hampered fidget,
en-pointe nine days of drumming rain . . . . We’ve cabin
fever, and thirsts we cannot slake with water.
“Let’s find, sweet child, fresh color in the water!
The air’s so wet, acrylics dribble, gutter
our easels — quick — fetch dry rags in the cabin . . . .
Choose colors, brush, knife, fingers — for those sorrows.
Transpose what you are feeling, every fidget,
to pinking sky, green leaves, to purple branches.”
Robust, each ruddy trunk thrusts up its branches,
takes up, by capillary action, water
combined with mineral wealth of soil (no fidget
resists their slurped ascent from soggy gutter).
Their gifts are water’s hardwoods — built of sorrows
respired through leaves. Their timbers frame our cabin.
Their split logs blaze away and warm our cabin,
while oxygen, respired from leafy branches,
burns also in our lungs and sweeps up sorrows
on breaths released in vapor — gifts of water!
Can water pluck us up from vapored gutter
and lift us by our every writhing fidget?
We’re pearls of water — lustrous in this cabin,
laying up pigment (gutter’s roots, sky’s branches) —
in hues refracted in each fidget’s sorrows.
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Sweater — with Zipper
For G.K.J.
A knitter’s knitter, you don’t join the back
to front, or sleeves to shoulders’ yawning holes
by sewing — that would throw them out of whack.
Those stitch- and row-counts now play vital roles.
Good tension’s kept all parts in true proportion.
You weave each knit or purl’s end loop (none rolls
away) and, artfully, without contortion,
the parts become a whole — not tight, not loose —
a seamless fit that’s free of all distortion . . . .
Un-spooling thread to arms’ hypotenuse,
you snip it clean, and with the scarcest glance
thread eye of needle arched by steadfast use.
You draw it through the eye and make it dance
tautly in mid-air — quickly knotting it
with fingers of one hand — as though in a trance.
Basting the zipper to a long smooth fit
without a single pucker up or down,
you whip it snug. How beautifully you knit!
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In the Crowd at the Big H
I spy them, each in boots and jeans,
calico shirts and cowboy hats,
just barely out of their own teens
waving off horseflies and the gnats.
Among these thousands just like them,
4-H-ers come to show, or see,
Blue-Ribboned livestock, each a gem —
what draws my eye? Not his goatee.
They amble, his hand on her nape —
not a caress. Then, what? A check?
He steer her? Lest she bolt, escape?
One clasps a bottle by the neck,
a woman friend by hand or waist . . . .
Or is she livestock he has aced?
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Waxwing, Turkey, Dove
The cedar waxwing, fragrant from her bath
in curbside dust, struck with a dull petard.
Her beak, her crown, her wings on upward path
imprint our picture window, which had barred
her from our home, built far too avant-garde.
We boast that Art one-ups dull nature’s frame.
These sunlit dust lines other views proclaim.
We seldom take the turkey’s point of view.
Slaughtered and plucked, racked belly up, legs tied,
its skin browned crisp, there’s nothing it can do
to reassert its dignity and pride.
Who stops to think, when hungry, goggle-eyed? —
before the asteroid did reptiles in,
these feathered flying lizards owned the inn!
Too close, caged doves contest the sole swing perch.
They’ll not defer, through courtesy or love,
or yield the swing, though cage may wildly lurch.
Nor is the dove content to push and shove,
or on those talons lace a boxing glove.
The one is mirrored in the other’s eyes —
will shred that image ’til the meeker dies.
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Beneath the Ghee
Though I’m no fisherman from boat or pier,
surf casting once held some appeal for me,
especially when the blues were running near
the shore and taking bait and hook to sea.
The slack line hit, gone taut, and running out
I know. The surf caster beneath its spell
who gently tires the fish on line that’s stout,
sets hook, and reels his catch in, earns it well.
The baited hook’s the rub. I can’t surmount,
as long as my own stomach still is full,
gray feelings of deceit on my account
and empathy for a fish that fights my pull.
Alaskan salmon, oddly, canned at sea
I sit without a thought to eat — although,
despite cuisine that’s laced with garlic ghee,
I sense some shifting sand beneath each toe.
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Hook and Ladder
A siren blares. The yellow light goes red.
The giant firehouse door glides overhead.
A gleaming lemon hook and ladder truck
roars out and bears strong men of ready pluck,
especially him who rides up high and steers
its great rear wheels. Thus, easily it veers
round corners far too tight for its great length.
It rears its ladder built with so much strength
it bears all hoses, firemen, and those folks
they pluck from flames to smoky shoulders’ yokes!
Ingenious device! I would I had
some such to fetch down night dreams’ ski-high chad.
Their message-bearing snow-mites past recall
on waking — tongues all rhyming — so enthrall
me that I doze again to listen. More!
But I can’t ever turn that corridor
of archetypal images and speech
I left, and now so much would like to reach.
If only I’d a psychic hook and ladder
to steer, to pluck . . . . But would I be the gladder?
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Shooting Star of No Moment?
In the corner of my eye I glimpsed it whole,
aloft in January’s northern sky —
a meteor dying on a south-bound roll!
Earth’s upper atmosphere consumed it high.
It set no neighbor’s modest house on fire
nor made front page in Earth-bound news nearby.
Yet, has it not touched me, helped me respire?
Its ashes, scattered through the atmosphere,
and rain commingle — give what I require.
All creatures living on this globe cohere
through mineral waters each consumes from Earth —
drenching, evaporating her veneer.
We hug a molten core with radiant girth
erupting in volcanoes belching now
its meteoric flames and ash — its worth.
Did not that meteor’s photons just endow
me freshly, shower me with subtle gifts,
and make me feel at home? My heart say, “Ciao”?
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Hearthstone in the Watershed
Hiking in Connecticut. Early Spring.
For M.B., with thanks for the crow.
This watershed is laced with walls of stone
hardscrabble farmers clanged with plough, dug up
by “Gee!” and “Haw!” and dragged to bound fields blown
so bare by winter no crow swooped to sup . . . .
A tulip tree well-past a hundred years
ago took root within this cellar hole
beside a hearth where once moms roasted ears
of corn and simmered chowder, bowl on bowl.
The love of place — that fell away as they
exhausted all its soil, burned every tree,
their kids rode west and elders died away —
feels present still in moss-green stone debris,
in frost-felled hearthstone . . . sun its only heat.
We sit on it, and rub our weary feet.
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A Farmer Mom Advises Mary-Lynn
Raleigh, North Carolina.
In memory of Jean.
“Your youngster likes to draw, and read, and play
with words and rhymes,” the teacher told me when
we met a quarter hour on conference day.
As though I didn’t know at all my ten
year old! She said she’d like to “bring him out,
so he’d grow up a man among real men.”
I wondered had she drunk straight from the spout
too much corn liquor? But I held my tongue.
No use to bicker. And, I had no doubt
she wanted common sense — just mouthing dung
and shoveling out an educator’s bin.
What’s more, she was, as they all are, so young!
I stood — her eyes went wide — said, “Mary-Lynn,
don’t try to bring my youngster ‘out’ unless
you know for sure how you’ll put him back ‘in’.”
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Ocracoke
(On North Carolina’s Outer Banks.)
It was remote back then, three ferry rides
to reach the Lighthouse out on Ocracoke.
We camped on dunes above the highest tides
not far from birders who were gentle folk.
I knew no blues were running Pamlico
but threw my baited surf-line in to see
what luck might bring: A strike! Ah! Nice and slow!
It ran, and tired. I reeled it in with glee.
My watchful wife, our three-year-old in hand,
approached — he ran, kicked sand into the reel.
I got upset. “Too young to understand,”
she said, upset with me. “What must he feel?”
As for the fish: The large-pan rainbow trout
turned gray beneath a sun clouds placed in doubt.
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Father of the Groom
In memory of G.M.P.
Our parents like each other, get so high
my Mom insists that Papa let her tie
on him his gram’s old yellowed linen bonnet
(sometimes “the moment” seems to be right on it).
Genetics sculpted his bones with his gram’s.
He glances at his grandma’s portrait, hams
it up, and he could take her place in gilt
above the fireplace, hanging at a lilt.
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Poem for the Week
Bio, Q&A with Poet
Anunnaki-Iraq Page
Press Kit in PDF
Neat Poetry Links
You Rhyme It: Free
Tutorial in Rhyming