mjh's blog

at this very moment

If you are wondering
what I am doing
at this very moment:
I am writing a poem
that might be read
long after I’m dead
by someone not yet born,
so that I might know
what they are doing
at this very moment. _mjh

3/08

Listen to at this very moment

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

Dickey

He caught
an adolescent’s mind
with sex
and wreckage,
a tragic fall,
and the grotesque
sheep child.
His was poetry
deformed and twisted
and I could not look away.
I had no words of my own
no tongue for lust
or sorrow
mouth open but mute
horny as hell
afraid I was ugly
sure that the world was.
He confirmed that and
changed it in the process.
The long fall turned beautiful
in the end because
any horror could be faced
and become a poem. mjh

18Apr97

I wrote this poem 14 years ago today. James Dickey died January 19, 1997. He was among the first modern poets I studied and enjoyed. I tipped my hat to him with my version of The Heaven of Animals.

Listen to Dickey

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

some lesser poet

At Poetica Autowerks, we know
when you have miles to go
nothing gets you there
as rhythmically as a Frost.
While the Whitman leaves
little to desire,
kick the tire
of the new Emerson –
It’s transcendental!

Or maybe some lesser poet
can get you there
if you don’t care
where you go
or how slow. mjh

11/14/04

In honor of all the unknown poets out there, unlisted at poetry.org, unpublished except on the back of envelopes. Write on! The only thing worse than unread is unwritten. Happy Poetry Month to all. peace, mjh

Listen to some lesser poet

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)

My Virtual Chapbook

I’m celebrating National Poetry Month by posting one of my poems each day. I got off to a late start. As of 5/1/11, I posted 4×7 poems, each with a reading (sound file). You can rate any or all and comment on each here or on Facebook.

1. Unhinged Mon 04/04/11 at 11:47 am
2. Wind Makes Crazy Tue 04/05/11 at 9:47 pm
3. Whispering, “Rain!” Wed 04/06/11 at 7:47 pm
4. Graze Thu 04/07/11 at 7:47 pm
5. Cold Lang Syne Fri 04/08/11 at 11:47 pm
6. Merri! Sat 04/09/11 at 10:47 pm
7. Blush Sun 04/10/11 at 10:47 pm
8. Sharp Mon 04/11/11
9. Going Home Tue 04/12/11 at 10:47 pm
10. Choke Wed 04/13/11 at 1:47 pm
11. some lesser poet Thu 04/14/11 at 10:47 pm
12. bask Fri 04/15/11 at 10:47 pm
13. tuck Sat 04/16/11 at 12:00 pm
14. flea Sun 04/17/11 at 7:47 am
15. Dickey Mon 04/18/11 at 5:19 am
16. The Heaven of Animals Tue 04/19/11 at 2:47 pm
17. The Bright Side Wed 04/20/11 at 9:47 am
18. Slumber Thu 04/21/11 at 4:21 am
19. waiting for the tide Fri 04/22/11 at 10:47 am
20. Relentless Sat 04/23/11 at 11:47 am
21. Icarus Sun 04/24/11 at 12:00 pm
22. at this very moment Mon 04/25/11 at 7:47 am
23. 101° Tue 04/26/11 at 1:01 am
24. the cure Wed 04/27/11 at 12:47 am
25. up in the middle of the night Thu 04/28/11 at 6:00 am
26. Songdogs Fri 04/29/11 at 11:47 am
27. Seek Alternate Route Sat 04/30/11 at 9:47 am
28. this simple truth Sun 05/01/11 at 1:13 am

Themes (larger size indicates more poems):
2011 chapbook, age, birds, coyotes, death, dogs, dreams, flying, Icarus, illness, landscape, macro, Merri, misc, moon, mountains, nature, ocean, poetica, poetry, poets, rain, sleep, sunset, unbooked, water, wildlife, wind, wolves, writing

Billy

Happy Birthday, Billy Collins! Time to re-read On Turning Ten, Forgetfulness or The Country (bottom of that page). Collins is one of my favorite poets — perhaps he and Frost share #2 and there is no #1 for me (though I could hardly imagine poets more different than Frost and Collins).

Time to trot out my tribute to Collins (for Merri):

Billy

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! –
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. _mjh

8/13/02

PS: Frost’s birthday is 3/26/1874.

Billy

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! —
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. _mjh

8/13/02

Happy Birthday, Billy Collins!

The Writer’s Almanac notes that today is Billy Collins’ 66 birthday. Time to re-read On Turning Ten or The Country (bottom of that page). Collins is one of my favorite poets — perhaps he and Frost share #2 and there is no #1 for me (though I could hardly imagine poets more different than Frost and Collins).

Time to trot out my tribute to Collins:

Billy

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! –
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. mjh

8/13/02

PS: The WA includes a quote from Collins mentioning sex. I can’t think of any poem by Collins about sex. Maybe that’s why the poem of the day isn’t by Collins but is about sex, sorta.

PPS: Frost’s birthday is 3/26/1874.