Ode to those Artists I’ve loved for so Long
An ode to those artists I’ve loved for so long . . .
An epode to Van Gogh; monologue for Monet,
A ballad for Blake,
Sonnet for Thoreau and an epyllion for Emerson.
This is my pitiless way of giving back to those
Ghosts I serve tea to in the great flood of daylight.
They come; they visit, they sit at my table --
Attempting to reenact a mummers’ play that
Can’t be rehearsed or ever acted out the same way twice.
Like a banshee suddenly deciding to sing a love
Song in lieu of a wailing warning of imminent death --
Realizing Life is imminent too.
French horns in the background -- flutes on the
Hill chimes in the treetops, lutes in the shadows,
Marimba in the wind -- and those silhouetted
Sopranos attempting to harmonize with tentative
Tenors wearing African daisies in their nightshade lapels.
Oh, to write an ode to the artist I’ve become . . .
Just sit down, sit here, and simply write!
Write until there’s nothing left to remember --
Until those cacophonous whispers in the guise
Of silence become a symphony of open secrets.
Write until those ripe plums fall like bitter
Cherries from the wind-brushed branches
Of a tall metaphorical peach tree -- and
Until those pumpkin-scented anthologies
Are willing to reveal their anonymous names.
Just write about what you know -- what you
Don’t know, what you want to know, need to know,
And could never fully know in a thousand lifetimes.
Write like the wind, like the sea and all those
Lively creatures hidden
Beneath those salty, seductive, tumultuous waves.
Write from where you are -- from what you are,
For who you are and wish to become all the more.
Write about those bakers that rise in the middle
Of the night -- slowly
Like the dough they use for baking our daily bread.
Write about those daring mountaineers and
Seditious ventriloquists -- putting words in
The mouths of otherwise mindless puppets.
Write from the landscape-dreamscape
That shapes, feeds and defines your perception.
Write about what can’t be written -- and
About that song you started but can’t seem to finish.
Write about the debris on all those rooftops --
The organic kindling that must be
Cleared before the fire season begins again.
Write about all those allergies you’ve outgrown --
And the ambition you seem to no longer have either.
Write about those lucid dreams that took you
By storm in the midst of broad daylight --
While traipsing through the wilderness of postponed desires.
Write about those lingering smells of burning leaves --
Within those beautifully turbulent Midwestern falls
That filled my senses and fed my rapacious longing
For more than what my hometown could possibly offer.
Write about those broken promises -- the crumbling
Infrastructure, brittle visions,
Borrowed intentions, the stolen lifestyle and amassed burnt offerings.
Write a simple recipe; three parts shadow,
Four parts light and a dash of audacity --
Served raw, uncooked, warm and bloody.
Write about those chocolate-coated nightmares and
Honey-glazed torments -- thinly spread across stale bread.
Write -- one -- fucking -- paragraph . . . an epitaph
For the you that you buried before you were born.
Write an apology or an appraisal of your true self-worth.
Write your own name, for heavens sake!
Write the stories you don’t want to write.
Write your acceptance speech -- and your letter of resignation.
Write those memoirs no one else in the world could possibly write.
Then write them again -- in mythological terms.
Write until your hearts content, or until it explodes
From the pressure of unexpressed passion.
Write until the cows come home -- until the chickens
Come to roost -- until the dove delivers that long-awaited olive branch.
Write about the utter irrelevance of
Doing nearly-anything-other-than-write.
Write from your unrelenting rebellious nature --
From that perfectly determined spirit that will not be denied!
Write for your life -- from the soul of yourself . . . from the
The YOU that simply will not permit anything to
Diminish, derail or recklessly squander your full-hearted
Efforts, ability and burning desire to fucking write! Fucking right!
Copyright © 2015 by Wayne Allen LeVine
The Dangerous Delights of Poetry
Grant Park – Chicago Illinois – 1968
Alan Ginsberg standing on the makeshift
Stage – talking about his Aunt Roses ailments.
That was my first real introduction to poetry.
He didn’t rhyme or talk about love . . . and I
Thought poetry supposed to?
What did I know? I was just a boy, carrying
A guitar I couldn’t really play, listening to verse
I scantly understood.
Sitting on a grassy field leaning comfortably
Against an old elm tree – watching a glowing
Girl with waist length hair, swaying freely to
The rhythm of this balding bearded poets words.
Suddenly I liked what I was hearing a whole
Lot better while staring at the smile on her face.
Then the commotion started – the unruly
Mob in riot gear, quickly rushed the stage.
Not to arrest the poet, but rather the young
Man behind him that dared to lower the flag.
He lowered the flag to half mast and
The police lowered him to his knees . . .
That’s when it first hit me; the dangerous
Delights of poetry – only seconds before
The tear gas canister hit me squarely in the face!
The full blast from that canister blinded me
For nearly a day.
But the impact from the force of poetry cleared
My eyes and allowed me to see better for a lifetime.
Copyright © Wayne Allen LeVine 2003
Forgiveness for Forgotten Dreams
I only ask forgiveness for that which
I have never done -- for the brutality
Of my blissful contentment
And my lazy days of idle introspection.
How clear and convincing I could be --
Passionate and persuasive in my passing conversations.
But the inner cherub that dwells
Within my psyche knows . . . I could have
Done more, accomplished more, contributed more --
And he wastes no time in chiding me for that which I have never done.
He draws an arrow from his quiver and pokes
At my sides -- the forever innocent -- probing and prodding.
You told me what you wanted . . . you shared
Your dream with me. I have not forgotten -- why have you?
Which dream do you remember? I’ve had so many.
He didn’t answer -- instead he drew another arrow
From his quiver, fitted it to his bow -- and let it fly --
Striking my spleen. I felt a sting as the arrow disappeared,
Leaving but a mild burn to remind me.
Smiling his angelically mischievous smile --
He sent another arrow flying, this time
Striking my liver -- which was a bit
More painful and caused a trickle of blood.
I have an arrow for every one of your
Dreams -- even for those you’ve yet to dream.
My quiver cannot be emptied -- for every
Arrow I let soar -- three more replace it immediately!
That is equally true of your dreams . . . let one fly,
Watch one soar -- and three more will replace it immediately!
Copyright © 2003 by Wayne Allen LeVine
Copyright 2013. Wayne Allen LeVine. All Rights Reserved.