Richibi’s Weblog

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Category: my poems

on our magnificence

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   Allegory of Magnificence (1654) 

 

      Eustache Le Sueur

 

           ____________

 

we have only our magnificence to 

counteract the indignity of our 

incarnation

 

a flower is itself its only existential 

defence, its effervescence of 

attributes – colour, grace, 

intoxicating aroma – its 

validating glory

 

we are such things as dreams 

are made of, its a question of 

choosing one’s dreams

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

 

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grammmar in action, verb moods

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     Philosophy and Grammar 

   

            Gentile da Fabriano

 

                    __________

 

reach, imperative, I always say, indicative, 

for a star, you might, conditional, get the 

moon, but you might also, conditional, 

get a star

 

such is the power of mood in verb 

structure, and an expression of how 

words through grammatical stipulations

become inspiration, poetry

 

think about it 

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

 

 

on ego, in particular, mine

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       “Luncheon in the Studio (1868)

 

                 Édouard Manet

 

                      _________

            

you think I’ve got a big ego, I asked
friend who’d just told me I had one,
not confrontationally 
but as a matter
of fact, I wasn’t offended, just curious,
I think I’m so humble, I answered,
usually, so deferential

she wouldn’t cede to my, to her,

manifestly improbable, argument 

 

what do you call ego, I asked

 

what the definition is in the dictionary,

she answered, and pulled out her cell

phone to prove it

 

sure, I said, I know what the dictionary 

says, but how does that apply to me

 

well, just what it says, she said

 

my mother reads in the paper that it’s

going to rain today, I said, then it 

doesn’t, and I retort that only the 

weather essentially knows about the 

weather, but she still keeps to the

prognostications

 

one night I said, look, mom, the moon 

is full, no, she answered, it’s a quarter 

moon, it said so on the calendar, look, 

I said again, it’s full, it’s a full moon, 

but she wouldn’t believe me, it turned 

out she’d been reading the previous 

year’s almanac 

 

print gives us Platonic ideals, standards

that we think definitive, I asserted, but 

everything is in the eye of the beholder, 

words are just approximations, nothing 

but meeting places where we toss around

disparate ideas no firmer, nor distinct,  

nor assured than conversations among

different languagesmiscommunication 

can be that wide 

 

my friend tells me just talking like that

is proof of my big ego, but I still don’t 

get it, I think I’m so courteous, 

fundamentally, so congenial and, you

know, nice, otherwise 

 

 

R ! chard

 

 

“a simple story” – R ! chard

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   The Book of Time (2014) 

 

         Nina Tokhtaman Valetova


                     ______________

 


ferreting through old papers the other

night, I foundin a forgotten corner of 

my closet, this poem, I thought it had 

some merit 

 

         _________

 

a simple story, 

 

                   mine.

                               Like yours,

     it has its moments

           — passion,

                pain,

                         to each in similar proportions

                              (I’ve also had a broken heart,

                                and you are happy too, sometimes) —

 

     moments telling tales, a lot, for me

         of this

         or that

                       — and every tale is true, in time, 

                                                             of everyone —

 

     moments that pass,

            one,

                     and then the next,

                                                       just gone,

                                                       like that,

 

     and apart from what is here,

                           right here — this black and white —

     this thirtieth day in May,

                           nineteen seventy-nine,

           its 13:48,

                then 49,

                                        are gone,

 

                                        just gone,

                                        like that !  

 

                                                R ! chard

 

on, however exuberant, ambition

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         “The Chess Players (1902)

                  William Orpen

                          _______

                                      for Joselyn, my Ariel

pumped as I was by my most recent
exegesis about longevity, a dear, 
dear friend, used to, and infinitely 
tolerant, of my, apparently often, 
according to her, exhortations 
about my significant literary abilities, 
sighed when I told her I’d make her 
famous with my artalso my mother,
as well as other influential and 
cherished characters, and produced 
a Scrabble word over our game to, 
in an instant, overwhelm me with 
seven letter concoction, at the very 
last moment, leaving me with a row, 
furthermore, of unused tiles, with,
however trivial, still annihilating, 
consequences

ouch, I said, girlfriend

but I’m not giving up on my promise
to her, I’m reaching for the stars

what do you think


R ! chard

the time change / March 11, 2018

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   “Clock with Blue Wing (1949) 

           Marc Chagall

              ________

with the unruly sleeping patterns of the aged,
mostly, disquieting midnight hours awake, 
fretting ever about not enough proper rest,
even though the next day might be fraught, 
in retirement, with plenty of time to recover, 
I wondered, as such a person, at the 
relevance of this semiannual time change, 
especially among seniors, those dripping in 
time to squander, one day following the next, 
often nearly indistinguishably

all it means to me, I said to my mom, is that
I’ll be falling asleep, instead of at two, at three,
in the morning 

she hasn’t answered yet


R ! chard

on Billy Collins – “Safe Travels”

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          me, May 24, 2016

               __________

I save all the New Yorker poems  
to read after I’ve been through
everything else in the issue, 
like dessert after a meal, icing 
on the cake, sometimes too 
heavy, sometimes too light,
sometimes too rich, sometimes
just right

today, I found my favourite poem,
period, this year, stepped right 
into its shoes, like old slippers, 
the only difference being my 
walls are painted a variety of
contrasting colours, studded 
with memorabilia, treasured 
artefacts, see above

also, no one’s translating my 
poems, though even our metre
is the same, try it, sing us out 
loud, you’ll dance 

R ! chard

_____________

Safe Travels

Every time Gulliver travels
into another chapter of “Gulliver’s Travels” 
I marvel at how well travelled he is
despite his incurable gullibility.

I don’t enjoy travelling anymore
because, for instance,
I still don’t know the difference
between a “bloke” and a “chap.”

And I’m embarrassed
whenever I have to hold out a palm
of loose coins to a cashier
as if I were feeding a pigeon in a park.

Like Proust, I see only trouble
in store if I leave my room,
which is not lined with cork,
only sheets of wallpaper

featuring orange flowers
and little green vines.
Of course, anytime I want
I can travel in my imagination

but only as far as Toronto,
where some graduate students
with goatees and snoods
are translating my poems into Canadian.

Billy Collins

__________

psst: I said just recently to a poet 
          acquaintance that what poetry 
          needed in the 21st Century is 
          humour, the only art form not 
          catching up with the rest,
          otherwise it’ll die of, indeed
          succumb to, its own 
          lugubriousness

          thank you again, Billy Collins

a contemporary haiku, on wine

haiku-poet-and-his-poem

     “Haiku Poet and His Poem (?) 

            Yosa Buson

               ________

a glass of wine, I sing,
two, in German,
go figure

R ! chard

true love – an insight

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                          “Love’s Secrets (1896) 

                    William-Adolphe Bouguereau

                                     _________

the only way you can hate someone 
you’ve loved is if your love was selfish,
true love can never not love, ever

Richard

 

what is a poet

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                            Flowers In a Brown Vase (1904)

                                            Odilon Redon

                                                 _______

if I imagine myself to be a poetwhat 
is a poet, I have to ask, or, more 
accurately, what do I imagine a poet 
to be

cause this is a two-way street, I am
defined by the word I inhabit, but I 
define the word as well, redefining 
it, essentially, to fit my etymological 
purpose   

my moral purpose I leave to myself,
in a completely other ideological
dimension

if I can

a poet then is one who writes, paints,
composes, manifests, in a word, 
creates, poems

what is a poem

a poem is where beauty and truth 
combine to create harmony, 
coalescence, to the point of one’s
admiration, enchantment, wonder, 
enlightenment, in incremental steps 
leading to very transcendence, the 
feeling that something has moved 
in your heart

just a bouquet of flowers will do it,
for instance

that’s what I think

Richard