Fork and other poems
By Steve Lavigne
Copyright 2011 Steve Lavigne
Table of Contents
Fork
It is enough
The Last City Autumn
Hard Science
You ask me my favorite color
Like da Vinci
My most important memory
The way of the teacher
The 50th Anniversary
My ebook introduction
After midnight
Student commentary on Donne's “Batter my heart, three-person'd God”
Subtlety
Driven he thinks
Krishna Picking Flowers
A boy is skipping stones
The Forsaken Lover
It's your birthday
Love is observation
Learning To Write
I've been doing this poetry thing all wrong
New Year’s Resolution
The sandwich poem
Fully committed
Of Newtonian physics and entropy
Come with me sweet
Fork
Eve comes -
and my chrome tail winds up that model
leg smooth as polished marble;
moist lips part,
the coming dark,
the passing of perfect teeth
over my sharp fork head;
apple never tasted so good
before or since.
*
Raised in his hand, I spoke of hunger, need;
tines forged in the burning bush,
a bright rod polished in the desert sand.
With me he scooped his enemies feasts
of locusts, blood tides of death;
with me he opened the mouth of the red sea
and fed his god an army of sacrifice
swallowed whole.
*
Bleeding from a crown of tines,
I burdened as he carried me up the mocking
road to the hill where they dined.
Speared, he hung limp as asparagus,
his side spilling green,
his head arching for one last look
into the mouth
of a yawning blue sky.
It is enough
It is enough
the occasional orange warmth
through closed lids
the cold shadow passing
forcing us to open our eyes and look
for the lostness of being
sandstone cut into the side of a cliff
layers of centuries
the dust of innumerable once living things
now growth rings of the earth
exposed by this wind, this rainy weather
the soft light of new growth
flushing from brown tufts bending toward the lake
the misguided bobbers of fishermen hanging overhead in trees
closing our eyes, listening, drifting
the quiet dip as we paddle together
the approaching shore
it is enough
The Last City Autumn
The city autumn has bared her cold breast,
Breathing in gusts, a withering of years,
Whose call is for you dear father, brown guest,
Who in a whirling dervish of leaves, fears.
For cloistered, the city has left ungleaned
A father’s true loves for city forged dreams,
A rust of spirit turning gold from greed,
His green life blown to fallen ember leaves;
Blown to where turning feet on wet cement
Churn his last lingering leaves of hope to moist oil,
The seeds of his ash remains to a silent,
Soft, lubricating spring of city soil,
Where I weep not for autumn, no dying thing,
But for you dear father and wild delivering spring.
Hard Science
No more goddesses and no more
goddamn anthropologists, you say
as we start in on the vinaigrette salads
outdoors on the sidewalk under
the shadows of steel-grated lindens.
You're wearing the numen lumen sun dress again,
and I think of how it flows and accentuates
the planes and curves of your hips
as we pass through the dappled shade
of the tree-lined Triangle;
of how you intimidate the freshman boys
with beakers full of caustic humor
spilling out of your tight lab coat and model coiffed hair.
Yes, you say, but true scientific computer modeling is still years away.
I watch intently the chrome reflection
of your fork and the
slight parting of full red lips.
Even before the wine,
I feel giddy.
This is the week, I think.
I will tell you how I can almost feel
the leptons leap from your eyes,
the spring dance of electrons in the air:
my passionate string theory of love.
You know, you say, the only true language
is the language of science.
I think science is the only
true language of the heart,
but my thesis stammers
with doctored ideas, theoretical phrasing,
and I can't formulate the facts of my love
with any equation of the truth
greater than me or equal to you.
You ask me my favorite color
You ask me my favorite color
and, of course, I think - present
“eat it, wear it or both”
I text (space) smiley face emoticon
a simple “not eat it” the reply
I ask again later
and when you say
“just to get to know you better”
I hesitate, overcome by
a word –yellow,
blue,
how to express the blankness,
the black and whiteness
of color
out of context,
out of texture
of say lips,
your lips
red,
ripe,
red
with the red
of a berry dripping
an insatiable
evolutionary intent . . .
“so what color do you hate then”
your response in the space of my reply
“Fuchsia” I smirk teeth
sinking in without hesitation
our eyes meet
the pale blue of its gleam
fading to thought.
Like da Vinci
You said you could write in cursive
backwards
and I often wonder what you write
holding the mirror
in my palms tilting
it against the light -
over my shoulder
I see your mona lisa smile
rising, falling
approaching
my reflection
always reaching
for
never quite
touching
the you
behind
the glass.
My most important memory
and the words that seem like magic
no longer whispering unexpectedly
from behind my right ear-
I so wanted to convey to you
without greek myths or
platitudes
the hospital, my seeing you
seeing me -
our first long
look of recognition
and the only line of my poem
the taut cord between us
and someone always placing in my hands
a smiling scissors
The way of the teacher
It is amazing – their fragileness
each flower a miracle of effort
as they bloom and cling
to their small clods of earth
in a wind tossed world
The teacher, bending down,
always playing the gentle gardener,
weeding and pruning
A knowing soft faith
guiding each flowers
becoming
in an overarching belief
in the goodness
and resiliency of life
The penultimate hard faith
severing the ripe heads
twisting and lifting
closing your eyes
whispering to each
one final wish
as you let go
and blow all that you are
to the four winds
The 50th Anniversary
Shall we be comforted, cajoled, slightly amused
or challenged.
Shall we be bitter, recriminating, unsure
or solid, unwaveringly rebellious
in our certainty.
What can tell us the way if not these things?
And the choice -
among the trifold, multifolded options -
a simple
life or death,
growth or stagnation.
The choice is there, has always been there,
quietly ignored until the call to step up
to something more
and battered,
looking in both directions,
my American now, what's next and new
perspectives flipped, skewered
in a sweeping tangle of respect and responsibilities
for generations a thousand years in the past,
a thousand years in the future -
and it was there
I caught a glimpse
of a truth more felt than thought
in the painful clarity of a single technique
demonstrated as it was meant to be
by a Master,
in the vision of a life remembered, coalesced, renewed -
in a monument of tears and applause
as One we cheered -
the center does indeed hold
the falcon does indeed hear the falconer,
and all of our flying, all of our circling,
all of our searching to the edge of our strength
is but a means to bring us again and again
to the center, to this place
of all that is good and right and true,
a timeless, honorable, unwavering way -
golden in the brightness of our faith, our hope,
this collective vision leading us always
home again.
My ebook introduction
Insert “my” and “ebook” and take out “reading”
in Charles Bukowski's title “poetry readings”...
Then insert the entire poem here ...
but change the title, of course, and I'll have to add
some wry, seemingly off hand witty comments
cause you know Bukowski's really talking
about everybody else's ebooks,
not mine, and probably not yours
since you're reading this...
You know, really spice things up,
show'em I'm not afraid or ashamed
of sweating the download numbers,
of growing old in this invisible
landscape
of zero’s and one's
this constant, thin
web of
unending lines
blogging,
friending,
twittering...
and say something about
if these are our creators,
our creations, then
please god
please
some kind
of
reality...
After Midnight
There’s a bluebird
in her heart
that wants to drink whiskey
and go whoring
the lazy susan of her giving
all the live long day
fearing apples
in corners
skin sagging and folding
the lazy susan of her giving
all the live long day
her geometric listing
a side
to side veering
the lazy susan of her giving
all the live long day
relation ships
passing
horizons mirroring
the lazy susan of her giving
a bluebird singing
always singing
midnight,
oh my midnight
all the live long day.
Student commentary on Donne's “Batter my heart, three-person'd God”
Alas, batter my heart three-person’d couch,
For you have been spilled, stained, slept, sat upon,
Moreover burned, bared, even spat upon;
Your comfortable soul the only vouch
Of days past spent the steady burdened mount
For three Silenus-like generations.
But where, oh, where are the venerations
That welling from our eyes should burst in fount,
For in its one-button grief hanging like
A sighing mother’s sorrow for lost sons,
It cries we three for piety be done,
Even the cruel Fate cuts but once. So hike
It high, boys! Throw it to the curb from thee;
It lies not ours, but simple garbage be.
Subtlety
It hit me over the head
Yosemite Sam style
root tooting red flame double buckshot
lifting us off our feet
is even more so
than reanimated corpses shuffling ever onward – mouths
dripping, limbs dragging
on the menu screen
drama children sports lifestyle all channels
Have I ever picked anything other than all channels?
Sharks The History of the Universe The Perfect Pot Roast
commercial and I half turn comments slipping down
the corners of my mouth – my sleeve wet
The cat at the edge of my vision
one paw raised – looking out the window screen
Driven he thinks
Fate has a face
Like a need
Round knobbed and turning
Love is a grace
More like speed
Red tipped n’ flaring
Hope in no place
the road's creed
lines yellowed blurring
Krishna Picking Flowers
Every love is sorrowful,
each pretty premonition, false or base,
yet when I hold you in my arms,
Krishna with his joyful, living embrace,
folds in my psyche beyond time or space
till all in all becomes one shining grace
in this, this simple seeming place
where I love nor fear any harm.
A boy is skipping stones
A boy is skipping stones
On the wash of a deserted beach;
His stooping figure glides and scans
For flattened eggshell shapes in reach;
He’s whistling pensive tunes of childish loves,
His gentle spirit moving like a coupling of doves;
His gathering grip, a brood of green thoughts,
To ripen with vegetable passion in the sea.
The Forsaken Lover
 
; A broken tulip in mid-spring,
my limp petal draped on your hand,
feel my moist silkiness spread on your skin,
my glistening redness, cragged yellow, black;
lift me to your lips like a brandy glass,
sniff the sweet whose scent must soon fade,
feast all your senses on this fallen man,
for having once been broken, he decays.
It's your birthday
and I slide open
the door
of your single purple poof
hiding that redhot
red skin
birthday suit
in the too too hot shower-
my lit candle sparking
in the spray
of turning
ski sloping shoulders
slaloming hips
the fresh powdered oh
of steaming wet lips
pausing,
pursing -
your long lingering wish
almost as surprising
as my trick candle sputtering
back to life again
Love is observation
Love is observation -
the abstract made real, the now made timeless.
It’s shapeless fire, formless air, caressing water,
in a becoming of earthly shapes in turnings
of being reformed:
a becoming of we, the earth and a living universe
in an infinitely sumless world:
an ultimate unification
with an eternal
being ever reborn.
Learning To Write
My little marks in spectral thought
Lie pulsing bare before my stare,
A tearing ink stained grip of white,
Crying for eyes in their glare.
And like the light, they creep on feet,
Unmoving in a screen porch front,
Awaiting answer from a blushing sweet,
Unanswered and unwaiting love.
I've been doing this poetry thing all wrong
I've seen
in her poems
tight little words
high-speed frame unfold
popping open
perfect and whole
quick unfurling flowers
of surprise,
recognition,
delight.
But this poetry thing percolating