Seikou Yamaoka

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Twelve words not to do without

twelve words not to do without
  

twelve words I’d not do without.

imagination.  the source of all pain.  the only hope.   pain.   cousin to flesh.
bareroot companion to forgetfulness.   sky.   where smoke goes home.   my
blanket at night.   a comfort I mean.   glass.   so I can read.   what holds my
drink, makes window bright.   comfort.   how I imagine others take breath.
question.   more than breath.  what others give me without knowing it.
recursive.   second nature.   why seeds are beneath.  where water goes.

ink.   what my eyes make and my hand portends to be.  it’s subtle and slight and passive with age.   choice.   the best illusion that was never mine to withhold.  the most flat edge of every coin.  tidal.   even when breath stops, tide remains.   go look.   see, that’s how you measure truth.

wrist.   where decisions are made.  what never lies.

uncertainty.   the only hope.   some say, casting loaves like waves.

 

neil reid © december 2012

  

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Reverence

R e v e r a n c e

  
This posting is about poems, not mine nor poems rooted in language, but rather in directly pure and visceral experience within our physical reality. Might also seem to be “about” waves or the art of big wave surfing, but neither that in nor of itself, rather within the relationship, human with elemental energy, that takes this stage to express itself.

So what is such a posting doing on a poetry blog? Fair question, but not so hard to understand from several points of my personal compass here. From an intellectual stance, many aspects of life can be viewed as poetic, and all the more when performed to an exceptional degree of devotion and ability. But that’s not my motivation for sharing this post.

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I don’t do Cinquains, not me!

I don’t do Cinquains, no not me!

Much ado about nothing much.

Dedicated to Margo Roby. You know who you are!

Those of you who know me some, know I don’t do formal poem forms.  No villanelles, no triolets, no sonnets, and god help me, what’s a sestina they boast about, nor a single Burmese climbing rhyme (only by fortuitous accident do I approach any rhyme), no tankas, not even the pleasant haiku, not even for you.  Alright, alright, maybe a cento or two, some gentle thievery tastes too good for letting pass untouched.  I’m mostly all dusty jeans in your backyard dirt.
And now Margo says, “cinquains”, and what the heck are those!

You can read Margo’s whole posting here.  Otherwise, at its most basic it is 22 syllables.  (But please, don’t ask me to count, more than fingers, more than toes!)  And of the few variants, she says this…

The personal cinquain is the easiest as it allows you to work around the syllable count, if you wish, and focus on the number of words: 11. You may, of course, stay traditional and work with the syllable count instead: 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 in which case, don’t worry about the number of words.

I.     ONE word for the person—a name or another descriptor.

II.    TWO words that define or describe the person.

III.   THREE words that describe an event related to the person.

IV.   FOUR words that express the person’s attitude toward the event.

V.    ONE word that sums up or otherwise concludes the previous lines.

So alright, it must be moon-stroke, but here’s my one brief stray into cinquain:

fishn’

poet
wonders why
tripped by how
dusted off, swims away.
caught.

So there, so brief, and you just kinda gotta look sidewise to catch the drift (of being a fish, never so much caught as when you think you’re not). And ain’t it odd, so little for so much commentary! (But fun is fun!) (or, I’m easily amused)

Margo further suggested,

Because a cinquain is short it is important to keep in mind the following mantras:

POETRY MOVES.

POETRY FORMALIZES.

POETRY COMPRESSES.

AND SO, EVERY WORD IN POETRY

MUST BE THE RIGHT WORD.

A GOOD POET NEVER COMPROMISES

LANGUAGE.

Alright, alright, do I hear a gauntlet being dropped? (Just me I know.) But just too delicious not to respond! And so,

poem being bad (mantras revisited)

poems sit. (politely said, meditate.)
poems relax. (dusty jeans seem just right.)
poems wander. (cover the desk with random notes.)

each word has travelled far, has history
and maybe will provide a hint (reluctantly).

a good poet is optimistic,
hopes he doesn’t land on his face.

but might.

neil reid @ june 2011

poem “stuff” for Margo Roby’s Tuesday Tryouts, The Cinquain Form, wordgathering prompt (my entrance, only a polite one month late!)

Dear Margo (so the commentary begins… ),
Alright, if you haven’t guessed, I adore what you contribute to this gathering around the internet fire. Me, I’m seat-of-the-pants, intuitive (if you’re polite), lucky (if I’m good), a copy-cat when I want (mimicry is praise indeed, my rational, my classroom too, osmosis-like). I’m a rock beside your well tended knowledge, garden-like. Admired. Appreciated. Yet here’s the rub, tell me some words “not to use”, as you’ve itemized, and with a smile, I’m all eager to employ every one! Delicious fun! Such is the humor of rocks and bears. But thanks, sincere.

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Yes Virginia

Yes Virginia, there really is a sock monkey!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We are born apart into the promise of ability.

We pass into the resolution of experience.

Faith is the space in between.

 
So, it’s not Christmas, not even Thanksgiving day yet, but does good sentiment require qualification? In the spirit of appreciation, my thanks to all who have kindly visited and read over these many many months. May you find your own sock monkey too, or share this one with me.

with thanks, I am Virginia’s son, neil

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