For this week’s Poetry Potluck and Inspiration Buffet, I invite you to come sit a the table with my family. Maybe we can offer a spark, maybe we can stir some new poem from your heart.
We welcome you to bring your best dish to the table. All poets are welcome to post one poem in the comments, be it one sparked by this week’s inspiration buffet, or not. We welcome you to share. We hope that together we can feed each other well. (To understand more about our Poetry Potluck and Inspiration Brunch, just click here.)
… The Buffet…
Here the official video made available by the artist Peter Gabriel:
…
Here a blending, perhaps copyright violating, yet certain to give goosebumps and haunt you mix of Anne Sexton’s voice reading poetry with Peter Gabriel singing.
…
It was years after I heard and loved and felt deeply the words of “Mercy Street” that I learned of it’s connection to Anne Sexton. I did not need that information to know it was a song that spoke to and of a poet. As both a poet and the daughter of a mechanical engineer, the lines “All of the buildings and all of the cars were once just a dream in somebody’s head” seem to explain the world in the exact way I had always known it.
I was the daughter of an engineer. Technically, the daughter of a “designer’s draftsman” since my father had no college education or degree. Still, my father designed many things that never before existed, one of them being the freight elevator in the World Trade Center.
Never before had any elevator risen so high or with the capacity to carry such weight. He found a way of making it work not by enhancing new technology, but instead by expanding the use of older mechanisms. He went backwards to move things forwards. He taught me that imagination mixed with information is the formula for creation.
Another line that crawled into my spine, “words support like bone.” I am all too familiar with the concepts of support beams and structural integrity, but unlike my father, the mathematics of mechanical design eluded me. Instead, I learned to build, to invent with words. All my life attempting to assemble words as solid as steel support beams. I have yet to design my great freight elevator.
My father worked with wood and metal and concrete. I work with ink and paper and metaphors.
It is not a far stretch between engineer and poet. We do the same work.
My father is almost 80. He worked 20 years for Otis Elevator before the layoff came and then he found employment here and there and then over there – for nearly 45 years he worked as a mechanical engineer. Nothing he designed carries his name. No one knows it was his mind, his imagination that engineered the freight elevator of the fallen Twin Towers and countless other things. His creations are all credited to the companies he worked for.
The pen in your hand, the hubcap on your car, your front door – Everyday we live our lives using things imagined by people whose names we will never know.
As poets, we may not be paid well or at all, but at least our creations carry our name.
Welcome to the table. Enjoy the feast.
-Ann Kestner
February 22, 2016 at 11:48 AM
DAD – a poem by pd lyons from: Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue
DAD
~
The swans out in the field
Their secrets not revealed
Passing into silent flight are they
Perhaps their subtle sigh
Stifles some deeper cry
As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon
~
Walking down the lane
The filly foals refrain
Their running is the sound of falling rain
Are they restless from the summer?
Or somehow do they know
You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown
~
By the fairy mounds of old
The pock marked GPO
Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone
See the wonders down at Fore
And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill
~
Now sitting by the fire the music’s playin’ low
(Guess) I’ll raise a glass or two before I go
Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare
(Yet) whenever that door slams expect to see you there.
~
And sitting here I wonder
All those stories finally told
Revealed how in our youth
We were so very much the same.
Was it drink that made us bold?
Or did we speak so true
Because somehow we knew
You’d not be coming back this way again?
.https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/01/27/dad-a-poem-by-pd-lyons-from-wanting-to-be-in-the-old-tongue/
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February 21, 2016 at 11:38 AM
Dear Ann:
I enjoyed the reminiscence of your father so very much.
I’ll share this poem about my lovely Scots father, one of many I’ve written for him since his passing far too soon.
I thank you for your inspired venue.
The Jackknife
Up the rungs of the diving ladder one more time,
gripping the cold, unforgiving steel
with my shriveled bare toes, nine steps to the top,
reaching, it seemed,
to the sky.
Still in his work clothes, my father stands watching
from behind the chain-link fence surrounding the pool.
I knew he was coming,
I’d practiced all day for this.
I tiptoe along the rough pebbly surface
of the board and stand shivering at the very edge;
sneak a quick glance at the water so far below
speckled eerily now with fluorescent lights,
preparing to make this one count.
It’s time.
Great lungfuls of air taken in,
the familiar flutter in my chest
as I bend my knees deeply, leaping upward
high as I can go,
then even higher, the board shuddering behind me,
trying to remember all his pointers at once:
Don’t look at the water: it’s not going anywhere,
dividing myself neatly in half, toes touched lightly to fingers,
the uncanny feeling of suspension in mid-air,
forcing my body straight again:
Ramrod straight, now,
You’re an arrow shot at the water, then
down so fast, the world thundering past my ears,
slicing the surface crisply,
sculling quickly up,
the entire time thinking
of all that I did wrong.
On the way home I sit in gloom beside him.
He never sees my best ones, I think,
close to tears, too tired to resist.
You never see my best ones,
I say out loud without thinking.
He pulls the car over, stares at my face,
hot now with embarrassment, and reaches for the towel
to rub my long hair dry.
Lassie, he says gently,
cupping my chin in his hand.
To me, they are all your best ones.
It is all he says, and everything
a little girl needs to hear.
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February 21, 2016 at 10:46 AM
More Than One Poem In My Life
I don’t wanna look like my father.
I don’t wanna turn in to my father.
I don’t want to have a double chin
and Grecian Formula hair.
On the other hand,
he was loved. A Pisces
liked by his co-workers.
A ruddy complexion
that never wavered from male.
From his 10am Old Spice shadow,
right down to his white
Fruit Of The Looms.
I didn’t want to be like my father.
I didn’t want to be
a detective for the sheriffs.
I didn’t have to worry.
He was 6′ – 2″ and I knew
I’d never reach him.
His wedding band, size 12.
Mine, 6 ½.
I’ve got girl’s hands!
Clean, uncalloused
(except the middle finger)
feminine hands.
“An artist’s hands.”
No yellowed nails
from cigar smoking
or asbestos pipe-fitting
in the Navy.
I missed required registration
by two months.
Yeah!
Now I’m 40,
no pouch over my penis.
Fighting off fat,
I avoid his beloved steaks
washed down with
saccharine iced tea.
It’s easy, financially.
I chose to be a poet.
Or did I?
Was I destined
because of my
small hands,
my father’s looming discipline?
I became a day-to-day reader
–the times I was sent to my room.
My father thanked his secretaries
for correcting his letters.
He left his living room chair
some nights
to earn his other “diploma” in life:
the second car for my mother.
The employee-discount toys
came from those midnights
as a Mattel watchman.
Before he died at 58 of cancer,
he showed me the one poem
he says he ever wrote.
His life, of course, for me
was another.
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February 21, 2016 at 10:37 AM
Yeah, parents.
I guess I should have more to contribute to the feast, but…
The Bad Son
My mother raised me right, said
I should never show up at the party
empty-handed.
I’ve let her down:
forgotten to bring the strudel;
forgotten the cookies as well—
(not that I planned on bringing the cookies
since I only just remembered the cookies
home in the mason jar
next to the strudel).
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February 21, 2016 at 9:48 AM
Thank you for all this! Your discussion of your father is poetic, as are the Sexton and Gabriel versions of “Mercy Street.” I hadn’t known of any of these.
There are so many “ways to go” with this. I think I’ll contribute a poem about a dream, and then sit back and see what others share.
Gorilla In My Back Yard
There’s a gorilla in my back yard.
I’m making friends with him,
approaching cautiously
as he moves toward my world.
He says a few words,
or what he thinks are words,
to show how ‘human’ he is.
He clumsily hikes
a football through his legs.
I’ve taken a risk
to approach this great beast
whose silver-steel muscles
could crush me in an instant.
Venturing out of his habitat,
he’s overcome his natural
fear of the unknown.
A great sharing
is taking place
behind my house.
c 2010 by Max Reif
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