Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, March 2, 2025

Seeing You Raga


like you I know of sonnet rules of rhyme
but now I make these sonnets as I please
hoping fragments of them may yet survive
transmission through what goes beyond
that cloud of information beyond that plug 
that has its own heartbeat if it has one
going beyond the confines of our earth
out into space rippling on for light years
into our star system towards unknowns
knowing that others will read what I send
and they have a duty to comprehend
my meaning in case I’ve encrypted sense
in case I’m writing to those that rebel
who turn my nonsense into words that gel

when some readers stiffen with keen intent
it is my duty to enliven life
for I am an un-jammed radio ham
getting a message out that all is well
I can say no more gentlemen don’t tell
I can say much more but under duress
under inquisition and in distress
but that beautiful blue globe seen from space
has refugee migrations south to north
east to west crossing by land and by sea
changing direction where fences are built
adapting as species must to survive 
when threatened by what is unspeakable
driven by fears incomprehensible

twenty-four bars of a raga I play
using all strings of a well tuned sitar
only in my mind my fingers won’t work
for intricate chord changes delicate
phrases restating questions never asked
my fingers less nimble my timing off
discordant thoughts tumbling out of sequence
wailing sitar pounding tabla on stage
where if I could play but only in my mind
because I cannot play sitar I can
pluck a good string and perhaps even improvise 
what I’m needing what I’m pleading
what would be understood were meaning clear
what would propel forward if in first gear

then 
      there and then when
        coexistence twined
our eyes engaging passing on the stairs
when I realized composing these lines
vines might climb together never be one
when we exchanged bright words for brief seconds
enough time to enthrall that morning when
a trout stirred for a naiad in the fronds
your image appealing to prime instinct
when I saw you in Springtime on those stairs
forever rising upwards till time’s end
kept en prise captivated held so still
put your fingers on your temples find it
where in memory we’ll always exist
a portal to paradise entered in bliss

there are two spaces we think we exist in
one not more sacred that world we live in 
one in our brain an entire universe
put your fingers on your temples find it
that world in your brain Greek myths will explain 
should you care to consider a box is a brain
in temples so holy all congregate
in awe of a finely carved wooden chest
never opened full of unnameables
circumscribed by wide band frequencies
in which a universe appears to expand
that box of all your temple’s treasures most 
dear that box as big as a mind’s clear eye
answering all you can pose asking why

Turing’s machine conceived this universe 
everything minus one might exist
non computable never imagined
just reading these words creates a new world
analyzable freshly imagined
choose your own stories and populate it
or reuse attic tales’ modern myth
make new legends where you are heroic
some force compels you to enact a play
absconding a person in a chariot 
wherever Aphrodite beckons
escaping into enchanted gardens 
for gods can mix with mortals we decree
in that world not sacred that world we see



Copyright © Dick Russell
         Richard M Russell
                 2025

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

New York 1969


There were those among us that shone with light
illuminated landscapes never seen so bright
awakened knowledge we knew not we had
remembering those people makes us glad.
yes, they were scientists, stars in their field
lantern bearers leading us forward
lighting stepping-stones of understanding
in the dangerous darkness that surrounds us.
yes, they were scholars of ancient tongues
lighting mental pictures all we can see
of our past path curving convexly
amongst a limitless universe 
where time can travel fast and far
with news of us to some distant star

now unembargoed after eighty years
memories awaken set free causing sighs and smiles.
I was born in London during an air raid
bigger bombs and missiles now daunt Ukraine
Gaza has rubble heaps bigger than Lambeth
Our brains cannot comprehend so much pain.
Jews, Palestinians, troubles in Ireland
Just some cans to kick down the road
always cause for concern always an issue
religion or rather irreligion rules
prayers go unanswered, politics flails
young children dying are just sad details

I was twenty-five at Columbia in New York.
Palestinians shared grievances I heard firsthand.
Blacks discussed racism openly with me.
I went to a Mets game and sat in the grandstand.
Revolution was in the humid Hudson air.
Mao said power comes from the barrel of a gun.
People read Sartre, Marcuse, Franz Fanon. 
Beckett got a Nobel.  I met Virginia.
We went to a party at Inderjit Badhwar’s
with Virginia’s friend her hair in an afro
where a black man punched a white man 
and Yvonne was uncomfortable wanted to go. 
It wasn’t racist, more jealously than portend
Don’t ask a girl to dance ignoring her boyfriend.



Dick Russell © copyright 2024
        Richard M Russell




Friday, April 5, 2024

 Pollen



wind shakes pollen 
from cedars which
settles on surfaces
rain will sweep 
into pollen filled puddles
we'll see 
when day comes 

pollen tinges the pavement
matches yellow stripes on bumble bee's 
black mohair suits in our bee garden yard
where bulbs have flowered 
trees unfurl leaves
blossoms fall
the sun's shadow creeps
eastwards
as the sun sets 

so all things grow
will continue to grow 
when the sun reverses

I pay close attention now
to living things
birds that sing
bees that wing
for all things that grow
grow old

before we can die
we must live.




Dick Russell © copyright 2024
         Richard M Russell













Monday, April 1, 2024

 Driving The Freeway


you'll see them 
on the freeway
driving pickups 
festooned with flags
and if you ask them 
they will say 
they're patriots
as are we 
compatriots
who hold them
in disdain

hooligans at heart
they intimidate
driving line ahead
like battleships
or three abreast if they can
making it hard to enjoy
a peaceful drive
and being an American
a yes we can American
living free
who'll vote for liberty



Dick Russell (c) copyright 2024
        Richard M Russell






Thursday, March 28, 2024

Discard the Trump


In Memory of Robert Russell Calder*



Extend my tune
suggest words intense
drive common sense

deal out the cards
to all that vote
our antidote

let them play this way
discard the trump
who’s trumps discard

bid four no trumps
give trump the boot
pull by the root

before it spreads
keep safe stay free
vote liberty


Dick Russell (C) copyright 2024
          Richard M Russell


* So Robert's dead
I cannot send this to him to mend

Wednesday, March 27, 2024

 The Wizard 


  for Robert Russell Calder


if rhymes were grappling hooks & his life hung
by a thread he would throw a rhyme that chimed
with a plane passing overhead   loop around 
a weather vane   haul himself to safety
with a perfectly timed swing to a rooftop
like a beltless Tarzan impressing Jane
dressed in a python skin his bare hands killed
for only he’d been brave enough and skilled

can words cause impact   rhymes renew   strike chimes
that ring through time   can words heal damage
coarse sentences wrought or even suture wounds 
can words save lives   magic make   alter moods   
they can   
                 declaimed by wizards in disguise
making music from even plangent cries



 copyright  ©  Dick Russell, 2014, 2024
        Richard M Russell

Thursday, March 21, 2024

  Market Forces

There's a force plants bulbs for profit 
then severs their stems in spring
there's a green fuse drives daffodils
to genius
while bulbs divide     beneath
such forces in our genes 
though life's beset 
beset by forces unforeseen
like cancer
unfairness is a market force   
it's not the caprice of callous gods    
have not the gods long left us?
then where's the meaning   cause and effect
where's the profit in untimely death?

we go on as we've always gone
hear news
who's up    who's down

accepting it was not us
may these cut flowers
these daffodils 
bring cheer
life comes full circle 
with bold display
cut flowers on a grave.


                  Dick Russell © 2024
  Richard M Russell

Sunday, March 17, 2024

                Let Me Tell
                                    for Jorie Graham
 

Let me tell of sunset on solstice eve
staining damp fog with bright warmth 
brown mulch underfoot from fallen leaves
of stars outshone by satellites
of death iced over by frost
of silence
in the snowy woods
 
                Let me tell
                of how things came to be
                and why they stay that way
 
Then early in March mulch is raked away
making room for crocuses, wood hyacinths, jonquils
 
then there will be an unfurling of daffodils 
pale green changing to bright yellow
morning sunlight will slant through leafless trees
highlight acanthus leaves on the fountain
fall on Glen Russell's statue of a naiad
an early plum in bud
winter flowering jasmine
 
after weeks of overcast days sodden with rain 
sunshine and sudden warmth
transplants thrive
kinglets feed in the canopy
while song sparrows forage below
oblivious of an unseen gaze
fixed on them
  
robins return to the birdbath
small trees pruned to produce fruit 
don't shade the garden
green moss turns brighter green
shot weed must be weeded
news from afar only disturbs us
surfing from what's in sight to what's in mind
 
decisions got kicked down the road
not like the cans I kicked in my misspent youth
enjoying the clattering disturbing the peace
but kicked faraway for a status quo quiet
not rocking the boat
not confronting the foe
but appeasing him 
                                    Let me tell
                                    of how things came to be
                                    and why they stay that way

Will cynicism strangle hope in its cradle
now that nine kicked the can down the road?
Will it come clear why they chose to enable
delay, favoring someone who’d goad
insurrection rather than lose to Joe?
An old man of eighty who is slow on his feet
but spry in his brain a formidable foe
carrying the country away from defeat.
Away from judges five males cloaked in black
when they overturned Roe, another whack
at freedom with their jurist’s clenched fist
who trashed women’s rights to favor a rapist.
In November we’ll know what the nine hath wrought.
How we hope the future cannot be bought.



                Dick Russell © 2024
                 Richard M Russell

 

Friday, March 15, 2024

 To Those That Ask



to those 
that glance on this 
     this inscription 
          traveling far afield 

a page that will be read by robots
giving voice
to what is retrievable 
by only those who ask

to those
living enmeshed in sensation
tingling with reality's touch

aye those
you few
that glance on this

please ask for the moon
if you aspire
let's teach the robots to measure this
who asks for the moon
means an un-invaded moon
a moon of mystery
not one where nothing there
isn't already dead

a moon
alive with hope

so ask for the moon
for something much more
than this



       Dick Russell
copyright © 2017, 2024
    Richard M Russell

Saturday, March 9, 2024

 How We Hope




Will cynicism strangle hope in its cradle
now that nine kicked the can down the road?
Will it come clear why they chose to enable
delay, favoring someone who’d goad
insurrection rather than lose to Joe?
An old man of eighty who is slow on his feet
but spry in his brain a formidable foe
carrying the country away from defeat.
Away from judges five males cloaked in black
when they overturned Roe, another whack
at freedom with their fascist clenched fist
who trashed women’s rights to favor a rapist.
In November we’ll know what the nine hath wrought.
How we hope the future cannot be bought.




Dick Russell © 2024

Sunday, March 3, 2024

 In Andalusia



in the foothills
hooves sinking in loam
amid fallen oranges…
& amid another grove
hooves pressed leaves
twigs grass into the loam
& the loam sprang back…

trying to avoid that grove
but she always confronted me
& weakening i stumbled
into the impress the loam had prepared

hooves lightly on my bones
skin dried by sun
untouched avoided as carrion
& always she was coming towards me
but let me hear she was approaching
while skin swollen
flesh leaving the bone
senses slowed to the rhythm of the grove
which knew seasons and not days
& always she approached me
but she did not come

& i knew she would not
& i could not go or stay
knowing and not knowing
for a moment
i was happy

*

on the night of storm
the sea spat stones
sand girdled the stones
stones lay 
traversed by stars

the land
recumbent
nude drowning

silence breaking on beaches
polyps coral world
colored words

born of foam
rinsed by brine
ova broken on beaches

& in the morning
high snow topped the sierras
gleaming day of mules
pine trails wands of bamboo
oxen & horses
bells jingling
hooves on the beach
 
wound & woven
safe kept in softness
there
& there there

kelp   tow   pebble  strand
gull urchin
anemone

fretful follows the sea



Dick Russell © 2024
Richard M Russell

From Chapman Dick Russell issue, Scotland, 1975



Tuesday, February 27, 2024

 Chimes at Midnight



When I’m too old to toil too young to die
I’ll write some lines while my brain’s still spry
Not say in English gone fishing but Greek
a private joke only scholars find wry 

Sing to me muses in tongues I can’t speak
Tone poems in languages I can’t name
Crystallize images happy or bleak
so my words can attribute blame or fame

Translate your meaning so I get your drift
Let me hear your music framing your chords
Picture meaning in words I can make shift
into metrical patterns weaving your words

Sing to me muse with voice universal
Each time I recite without rehearsal

Tell me some tales you never told before
Tell what the future may take from its store
To challenge every species to find
a way forward preserving its own kind

From one day’s generation to the next
sunrise to sunset moonrise to moonset
high tide low tide morning and evening
never knowing what the future may bring

Some more sentient others much more dumb
some with levity cavalier hamstrung
by prejudice innate humor heartless
original sin anything worthless

Sing to me muse with voice universal
Each time I recite without rehearsal
Now make me bolder now make me stronger
Let me be ready to face a danger

Let me project my voice through time
Never let me struggle to find a rhyme
Or fill a line with requisite meter
Choosing my own form from time to time

Trampling iambic feet with anapests
Spontaneously spiking a spondee
Into the dactyl hexameter drone
And making it squeak with dubbed track of glee

Canned laughter cued on demand by a script
Written in the latest language fashion
Launched to the cloud from nondescript notebooks
Noticed by no one except by the swarm

Sing to me muse with voice universal
Each time I recite without rehearsal


Dick Russell © 2024
 Richard M Russell























Monday, February 26, 2024

 Once upon a time



She left a foolscap sketch pad behind
its cover painted with her own design
bright colors blended like her self

I’d gone to fetch her from Bilbao
driving north from Estepona and back again
staying overnight in Valladolid
in a friends’ empty flat on the way north
and then driving south non-stop to arrive in darkness
and my bedroom window was yards from the beach
and she was startled by the sound of a wave
crashing onto the shingle



Dick Russell ©2024
 Richard M Russell




 

Saturday, February 24, 2024

Thinking of Insurrection

 

It all comes down to a group of nine
who most of the time voted party line,
and having overturned Roe to great dismay
would they dare to vote again that way?
 
When our freedom is threatened, we fight.
The longer they delay more reason for fright.
Is war almost upon us, has Putin won?
Has misinformation our nation undone?
 
We'll know what game we're in soon.
Will nine Justices sing out of tune?
Strike a discordant note that Trump hears
Or will they sing unison as he fears.
 
Is seeking truth a romantic illusion?
Will nine Justices tell us it’s just a delusion?
 

Dick Russell (C) copyright 2024
         Richard M Russell

Friday, August 19, 2016

                            Telepathy

                                       For Pam

                                                  (Sister Mary Agnes)

                                       now metal money too seldom clatters
                                       on marble counters of café’s and bars
                                       where cash registers don’t chime but slide
                                       a draw out for those paying hard money   
                                    
                                       now solitary silence in a cell’s
                                       customary for nuns and digital 
                                       literati broken by birdsong   owls 
                                       hooting at night   dogs nosing attention

                                       you can marvel anyone ever sought 
                                       quiet concentration without headphones
                                       in a populous city with no private space
                                       when papyrus was paper and scratch was slate


Dogs tune out
digital commerce, texting, just plain spying
all that noise

dogs have it
a reality of smell
they also read your minds
so that all your thought
they know

 Argos knew
Odysseus 
        would come home

would a dog
sense Pam's ghost
turning towards me?

though so far away




  Copyright © Dick Russell
                2016, 2018

Monday, August 1, 2016

Foyers Poems


Poem for Joanna

http://seeingnorthlight.blogspot.com/2012/09/blog-post.html

For Peachie Le Nic

http://seeingnorthlight.blogspot.com/2013/08/for-peachie-le-nic-i-leaving-that.html

At Foyers

http://seeingnorthlight.blogspot.com/2013/12/blog-post_27.html

What I Liked About Rex

http://seeingnorthlight.blogspot.com/2013/01/0-false-18-pt-18-pt-0-0-false-false.html


Monday, July 11, 2016

Brard  

         (near Bretanoux)

                       for Romilly                  

impressionist
with sketchbook at hand
brush poised
standing near Brard

blue eggs in a songbird's nest
cradling rock
cold spring
daffodils
a cuckoo

children showing
naiad's hollow
limestone uplands
castles in Aquitaine

damp brushes stowed
remembering a table
remembering some chairs

water like wine
composing his song
a troubadour
going away





Copyright © Dick Russell, 2016

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