Happy Birthday, Kenneth Rexroth

Happy Birthday, Kenneth Rexroth

(December 22, 1905 - June 6, 1982)

Blurry nights over Japanese poetry...

girls on the scrounge for bread or love.

Later you open a used book shop

on San Francisco's Union Street,

make an easy dollar off review copies.

Ginsberg howls and steals your acolytes.

Marthe runs off with Creeley.

You dogpaddle into the deeper

inky waters of haiku,

suffer academic parties

(lamp shades on skulls)

in Santa Barbara.  Now the grave

facing the blue-green Pacific.

Small wonder that tonight

a couple of soft-belly

gloom-eyed poetry slammers

will spill wine over your words.

Note: Happy Birthday, Kenneth Rexroth, with many other bio-sketch poems, is included in Red Shuttleworth's Ghosts & Birthdays, a book published by Humanitas Media Publishing in 2012... available on Amazon.

Empty Small Town Hotels

Red Shuttleworth

Empty Small Town Hotels

Empty burgundy bottles, cracked in half

buffalo bone buttons, newspaper sheets filled

with the sporting exploits of Bat Masterson,

the whispers of whitened skeletons serve

as insulation between rotted-bed empty rooms.

At the front desk, you can knuckle wood

until your wrist throbs and not get

a night's rest.  In the summer... warmth.

Come winter... frozen feather pillows.

Doors open and slam shut on their own...

no need for booze-clogged honeymooners.

The dusty first floor cattlemen's restaurant

serves pasture-found Hereford jawbones.

The copper piping's been salvaged.

Potatoes have been hurled through windows.

I'll drive us there next spring.

All that shined yesterday can glow again.

We'll barge in, tip our cowboy hats

to the ladies, sing some Hank Williams,

steal back forsaken years with laughter.

Mark Zuckerberg: Creepy Guy of the Year

Is Mark Zuckerberg's creepy smile

predicated on having turning Facebook

into a tawdry advertising fishwrap?

Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook: the strategies of a pedophile:

1. Hook 'em in with candy.
2. Abuse 'em with a blizard of ads.
3. Get 'em to tolerate being abused.

What we can do:

Call or email your congressman.  Ask that Facebook be regulated by the FCC and that it's financial books be opened.

Consult an attorney.  Is it possible there's a class action law suit that could eventually result in Facebook having to pay each  user a dollar for each ad placed on his or her page?

Call for an IRS audit of Mark Zuckerberg and of Facebook.

Happy Birthday, Fyodor Tyutchev

Happy Birthday, Fyodor Tyutchev

(December 5, 1803 - July 27, 1873)

Night-flutter of birds in the pines out front,

like the rustle of a young Bavarian widow's skirt 

as she sits to read a poem of crystal-blue skies,

tender smiles, love and death.  No mention

of a diplomat's dandruff, nor of grumbles

over another man's wildfire-beloved going cold

after application of a new gold wedding band.

You made glossy-best of Russian winters,

wrote warmer poems in Athens, Rome,

and, best of all, with bunioned feet

at play in Swiss lakes. The snowy, rutted roads

to and from the estate, Ovstug, were depressing,

like a smelly maid's oat-colored quivering buttocks.

The poems cried out to be written, but you scrunched

most of them in your fist, saying, We all vanish,

why not my tiny cups of salted watery wine?

Happy Birthday, Billy the Kid

Happy Birthday, Billy the Kid

(November 23, 1859 - July 14, 1881)

It'll be in the sixties, sunny, later today

near your Fort Sumner grave....

Tourists' salty tears will splat dry ground.

They've seen the movie.  Or all the movies.

There's always someone who believes

he bought one of your boots or a tooth.

So much of the past is crippled memory

blackened from bitterness or for profit.

Postcards a dollar, knock-off Billy sombrero

with a Chinese dog skin vest?  Ninety-nine bucks.

Oh, the turns of reckless, hungry youth,

girls and borders, pistolero nights... cantina songs:

we live with deaf ears for the smell of gunpowder.

All too often the law is a bent-back whorish lie.

This poem for Billy the Kid, and other bio-sketch poems, are included in Ghosts & Birthdays, a book of Red Shuttleworth poems published by Humanitas Media Publishing in 2012... available on Amazon.

In Barstow

In Barstow

The mother scrubs plates with a tea-brown sponge

as children sword fight with table legs.

The books on the shelves are arranged by color.

In the garage there's a work-scarred saddle

and stacks of string-tied Vogue and Elle magazines.

She toils nights serving cheeseburgers to tourists

living on spinach-green pills they wash

down with watery beer.  Lonely truckers sometimes

say her gold-plated anklet from El Paso is cute,

but Hud is never coming in his pink Cadillac.

Chris Isaak sings You Took My Heart

on the radio from outer space...

and her kids smash another set

of water glasses stolen from work.

The bitter marrow of a dead marriage

is on her tongue, but she has a mind

to buy that hemp mini-dress,

get some of that shank bone soup

education at the junior college.

*  This poem is included in a 2010 Red Shuttleworth poetry chapbook, Drug Store Vaquero (Phoenix: The Basement).

Postcard to Kay Boyle

Kay Boyle

Palo Alto, California, 1978 or 1979

Postcard to Kay Boyle

Dear Kay,  The Revolution never arrived.

Tonight, far off, flames are singing

to a black sky, a Gaelic god's

shameless indifference.  The half-inspired

novelist-revolutionaries you fed

on Frederick Street are now sixty-something,

glum in Tenderloin hotels stacked with tales

no one will publish.  A few have chucked words

to craft strawberry-scented candles

on the Mendocino coast... and their meth-addled

children hate the patchouli stench of them.

I hope you have forgiven me for using

your letter of introduction to Beckett

to light a turf fire in Donegal.  Kate bakes

brownies as if our kids are still at home.

I spend nights walking toward a fire

maybe fifteen miles across high desert.

God love you, Kay.  Never slack-jawed,

never too weary to insist on marzipan

for every living soul, you were beautiful

as soft Irish rain.  Where you are,

I hope you have settled in with your beloveds,

Joyce, McAlmon, Beckett, and Ernest Walsh...

and that Hemingway is not

there to taunt you.  Love, Red

*  This poem is included in Red Shuttleworth's 2010 poetry chapbook, Drug Store Vaquero (Phoenix: The Basement).

Postcard to Jerry L. Crawford

Playwright Jerry L. Crawford

Postcard to Jerry L. Crawford

Dear Jerry,  We're at the radiant-blood precipice,

tumbleweeds snagged by barb wire.  Yesterday,

as daybreak floated across rock and sagebrush,

someone left a blood-dripping, gut-and-lung shot

coyote in a shopping cart in the Moses Lake

Wal-Mart parking lot.  The cart boy, Brent,

was dispatched to have a look.

It didn't fucking starve to death, he told his boss

before phoning me.  This is not, Jerry,

theatre for castratos of The New Yorker variety.

As I rolled up in my cherry-red Mustang,

chewing tobacco, listening to the Cowboy Junkies,

Brent was laying a couple of large black plastic bags

over the bullet-riddled carcass in the cart.

It caught me in its gaze, Brent whined,

like I was the pimplehead who shot it.

I told him to shut up.  A crowd was gathering.

Then the wind lifted the bags and they spun

off the cart and a clownish girl, with orange hair

and a black dog collar, began dancing.

A guy in the crowd snapped, For Christ's sake,

Nina, we came here for groceries and beer!

So Brent pushed the dead coyote cart

around to the back of the store, dumped the coyote

at the edge of the lake where we buried it

with brand new, soon-to-be-on-sale shovels.

It's a bit like baseball, Jerry:

where the head goes, the body follows.

We're almost over the wall, Red

*  This poem is contained in a 2010 Red Shuttleworth poetry chapbook, Drug Store Vaquero (Phoenix: The Basement).

Postcard to Julie Jensen

Playwright Julie Jensen

Postcard to Julie Jensen

Dear Miss Julie,  Gust of arctic wind and I shamble

into an all-night roadside cafe.  My casual seizures

of inappropriate rage or amusement are twenty years

north of Vegas and Red Rock.  In one booth

a couple of kinds are mutually glazed

with denim 'n leather seduction.  Up the aisle

there's a girl with frizzed blonde hair,

blue fingernails, and kippered face,

bred LDS-upright and tamped down,

wickedly perfumed, trembling over coffee...

a character from one of your plays?

The waitress jingles and scuffs toward me

with a dog-eared menu, grins like a rock chuck.

Unshaven for days and not a fraction rich,

I still listen to my lunatic heart.

My waitress has cigarette burns in her voice.

She's stoned, chewing gum.  I order

a night's sleep covered with a buffalo robe.

She serves me charred bacon and a gooey

fried egg, says, as if I've invited her to bed,

I don't trust guys in snap shirts and trophy buckles.

She's ice rain on warped corral boards.

Julie, you know the bump

of this country.  Love, Red

*  This poem is contained in a 2010 Red Shuttleworth chapbook, Drug Store Vaquero (Phoenix: The Basement).

Happy Birthday, Leopold Staff

Happy Birthday, Leopold Staff

(November 14, 1878 - May 31, 1957)

All that glitter-love, when times were best,

was best ignored... just the shit-soiled

pajamas of the Ubermensch. 

Silver cigarette case, wooden Franciscan crucifix,

half-starved children selling bathroom tile

lifted from bombed-out buildings.

An undulating purple dusk over Poland....

The cozy Marxist surfaces tarping brick rubble...

At least you sang on a chill evening.

Happy Birthday, Albert Camus

Happy Birthday, Albert Camus
(November 7, 1913 - January 4, 1960)

Tonight stars glitter on a two-lane blacktop,
a moment with no headlights... to remember your words.
Car window down, my eyes watering, this high desert
night blows a pack's worth of Gauloises smoke at me.
Yes, it is best to live for the new and the superficial,
their divisions and the cobwebs that marry them.
Yes... no truths, only objects for love:
that bottle of tequila, that girl with ice-silver eyes
this rattling squirrel-dead road, that betrayed heart.
Caligula returns and returns and Caligula returns.
Long forgotten: the pair of Corinthian temples,
cheek to jowl, for Violence and for Necessity.
The stars are pearl earrings.  The stars are
tiny onions. The stars are blood diamonds.
Yes, kicked doors, baffled priests,
lonesome hotels with freckled banana walls,
and executioners. Yes, extreme experience in solitude.

Happy Birthday, Kostas Karyotakis

Happy Birthday, Kostas Karyotakis

(October 30, 1896 - July 20, 1928)

They placed no flowers on your dead man's bed.

The other poets of your time laughed at your

azure solitude, too stone-eared to know

your poems were the pain of the absolute-new.

Syphilitic, five-hour failure at drowning yourself,

you spent your last money on a rust-pocked pistol.

Your final poems were landlord-crumpled,

tossed into a maggoty garbage bin.

You sang for skinny window-children

doubled-up in sorrow, for waste-away brides

waiting for war-maddened husbands,

for mothers bearing graveyard lilies.

You scribbled orange-moon sad poems by night,

you desire-stunted, pathetic, servile clerk,

you angel of rosy-marble cemetery aspiration.

From the corners of your glassy eyes,

you caught the half-hidden diamond-sparkle

in a farewell-scatter of oblivion-bound dirt.

Norman H. Russell

 Norman H. Russell

March 1981

Fairbury, Nebraska

Norman H. Russell

No poet saw more of his poems appear in literary journals between 1970 and 1985 than Norman H. Russell.

News was carried to me recently that Russell died on May 14th of this year at age 89.

An internationally respected botanist, Russell began his poetry career relatively late... in his late forties... after taking a teaching post at Central State University in Edmond, Oklahoma.  He had made his name as an expert in the violet.  Although Russell had been a devoted reader of poetry, he only felt the impulse to write his own poems after  becoming a regular patron of the public zoo in Oklahoma City.  The first poems were about those zoo animals.  But soon Russell was writing out of his Cherokee ancestry.

 Night Dog and Other Poems

by Norman H. Russell

(Cottonwood Review, 1971)

Norman H. Russell's poems appeared in, literally, hundreds of magazines.  Some of them were dreadful.  Russell didn't seem to care.  He wrote a batch of poems... he sent out a batch of poems.  New journals appeared every month.  There were dozens of new journals launched every month in the early seventies.  Anybody within a few miles of a Xerox machine could start a magazine.  Most of those magazines died early. Some were good, a few were great, most were packed with mediocre-at-best poetry.  Russell did not appear to care about a magazine's reputation.

Frequently Russell published poems in most of the distinguished magazines of that period, including Ann Arbor Review, Crazy Horse, Dakotah Territory, Denver Quarterly, The Georgia Review, Ironwood, Kansas Quarterly, Laurel Review, Massachusetts Review, Nimrod, The Ohio Review, Poetry Northwest, Poetry Now, Poetry Texas, Prairie Schooner, Roanoke Review, South Dakota Review, Southern Humanities Review, Texas Portfolio, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Wisconsin Review. 

 The Longest March

by Norman H. Russell

(Nebraska Review Chapbook, 1980)

Norman H. Russell, writing out of his sense of himself as Cherokee and  humanist, wrote jewel-like poems... incantations toward reconciliation of man with nature.  Many young poets of the seventies admired Russell... he was a hero of poetry.  The Literati, though, were not quite prepared to adore, much less offer respect and homage, to Russell or his poems.  Perhaps Russell was too prolific, made writing great poems seem too easy, for the literary establishment.  The bastards of the Literati never fully embraced Norman H. Russell... no more than they embraced, for instance, Charles Bukowski.  Russell did not seem to care.  He sent his poems out... magazines published most of them. More than a dozen Norman H. Russell chapbooks and books appeared 

Luckily I came to know Russell's work and eventually became friends with him.  

In the early eighties, he got me a poetry reading at Central State University, where he was vice president for academic affairs.  I stayed with Russell and his wife, Arline, and we had a grand time.  Russell saw that I carried, as was my habit in those days, a sack of baseballs and a couple of gloves and two or three Louisville Slugger bats in the trunk of my car.  I was in my thirties.  Russell was decades older than me, but he insisted on playing catch.  So there we were on Thrush Circle in Edmond, Oklahoma, tossing a baseball back and forth for half an hour, talking poetry.  Russell had a fine arm, even at age 59, and moved fluidly and received the ball with soft hands.  We played catch... not fetch.  

His Edmond neighbors were not so happy that Russell had turned against mowing his property... had restored it to its natural state, encouraging local rattlers and coyotes and deer to live beside him... and near his nervous neighbors.  

Norman H. Russell bushwhacked a trail for many Native American poets.  He was the first Indian to publish poetry widely.  He supported the growth of many poets, Indian and non-Indian, and helped more than a few gain publication.  Norman H. Russell was extraordinary in his generosity toward young poets... including me.

One can only hope, with the passing of Russell, an appropriate university press will take on the assembling and publication of a large collection of Norman H. Russell's best poems.

From Star to Leaf:

Selected Poems of Norman H. Russell

(Mr. Cogito Press - Pacific University, 1995)

Norman H. Russell books and chapbooks (an incomplete bibliography):

At the Zoo, JRD Publishing company, 1969

Night Dog and Other Poems, Cottonwood Review, 1971

Indian Thoughts, Blue Cloud Quarterly, 1972

Russell: The Man, The Teacher, The Indian, Northwoods Press, 1974

Open the Flower, The Perishable Press, 1974

Indian Thoughts: A Great Chief, BkMk Press, 1975

Indian Thoughts: The Children of God, University of California - Los Angeles, 1975

Indian Thoughts: My Journey, Blue Cloud Quarterly, 1980

The Longest March, Nebraska Review (chapbook #3), 1980

From Star to Leaf: Selected Poems of Norman H. Russell, Mr. Cogito Press - Pacific University, 1995

Jarbidge, Nevada

Jarbidge, Nevada

The last stagecoach hold-up went down

here... a quarter mile up the dirt road.

The Shoshone called this Bad Spirit Canyon.

The Red Dog Saloon's closed.

So's the school.

Bev takes me to the Open Air

for grilled rawhide,

a slice of cheese, on a bun.

The blonde barmaid's got a dozen tattoos.

She's a worn-from-patching-drywall twenty-five.

She's wearing a grease-stained

buff wife-beater, oil-splotched jeans.

The barmaid carries local blood:

iron-rich, yellowish basalt spires look down

on scraggy junipers, aspens, single-wides,

double-wides, collapsing log cabins,

a dozen grannies and grandpas

stirring Main Street on 4-wheelers.

This is where a rattler wrapped itself

around the leg of a weed-whacking grandson,

then let go after a half-hearted,

no-venom-through-the-toenail bite.

* This poem is included in Red Shuttleworth's 2011 chapbook, We Drove All Night, published by Finishing Line Press.  The chapbook is available through the publisher or from Amazon.

Mikhail Lermontov

Mikhail Lermontov

Mikhail Lermontov

(October 15, 1814 - July 27, 1841)

Today's poets do not enter pistol duels.

They suck cigarettes, sip wine, pontificate

beneath lush maple trees in university towns.

Today's poets marry their chalk-face kind.

Brother, your shade laughs at so-called men

as they sponge dishes and change toddler diapers

while their fatty princesses gibber at each other.

The knuckles of their fleshy hands are scarless.

Fire ran, no compromise, in your arteries,

Lermontov.  Women's faces turned rosy

as you passed by, scarcely acknowledging

the probability of warm nights they'd give you.

Horseman-warrior, you sang of honor for the sturdy.

No bitter tears for you tonight.

Yes... the absurdity of depression,

that surprising sadness without reason.

More battle, more whiskey, more poetry!

So much is the confusion of melodrama.

None of that!  Bring on the court jesters,

the false poets... bring out the dueling pistols! 

Lermontov Memorial

Pyatigorsk, Russia

Happy Birthday, Eugenio Montale

Happy Birthday, Eugenio Montale

(October 12, 1896 - September 12, 1981)

Loud quarrels, shoppers, gripers:

Milan with a red billboard

in blue evening rain...

a street of squared grey stone,

luminous rail tracks,

a web of overhead wires.

Yes, couples in love... and the lonely.

Perhaps God listens to gossip.

Perhaps the premise for the divine

is thin barley soup, no meat.

Every paradise I entered was crowded.

Sugary kisses in Aspen,

blueberry scones in Sun Valley,

but the brittle flow of walkers

gave off the sound of ice

splitting basalt.  Like you,

I tried to locate the Good.

Knowing the final result is carbon.

Let us drink, gloom-poet,

poet with golden lines

at raw solitude-hours.

Let us sing invisible songs

of storm-dream...

majestic confections of eternity.

What gain from collapse-pensive

or doubt?  It is no time to envy the dead.

Wolf Shuttleworth: Interview

Wolf Shuttleworth

with Red Shuttleworth

Wolf Shuttleworth: Interview

Q:  You're a dog.

Wolf:  Irish Wolfhound.  Long literary tradition.  My kind is known for war and hunting down wolves, but we kept civilization literate during the Dark Ages.

Q:  Wolfhound are the largest breed of dog, right?  How big are you?

Wolf:  I'm pretty breed-specific... 36 1/2 inches at the shoulder, weigh around 150-pounds.  As the saying goes, "Gentle when stroked.  Fierce when provoked."  All in all, I'm a pretty nice guy.  The tellers at bank drive-up windows really enjoy handing me dog biscuits.  Kids come up to me all the time.  They love me.  Now... if someone is wary of me, then it's sometimes a signal that they're evil bastards up to no good.  Sometimes, if they're wary, it's because they've had a bad dog experience.  I can tell the difference right away.

Q: How did you come to collaborate with Red Shuttleworth?

Wolf:  He adopted me when I was a young puppy.  Started reading certain works to me right away: Trakl, Hemingway, Zarzyski, Heaney, Yeats....

Q:  What's the process between you and Red?

Wolf:  We're always together, so, as I come up with something Red can write down, I bring it to his attention.  We walk about a mile and a half a day... that helps.  Good poetry comes from the body.  The body never lies.  Head poetry is no good at all.  The body lives through images and sensations.  If you're senseless, then you're in a coma or you're dead.  The same goes for poetry: no use of the senses means the poem is dead.  Want dead poetry?  Then read Rumi.  Rumi's about as dead as Millard Fillmore.

Q:  You have something of a college background, right?

Wolf:  For my first three years, I went to Big Bend Community College... mostly to hang out in Red's office.  I'd meet students and listen to their life stories.  Pretty grim stuff, really, sometimes.  Around the 9th week of instruction, the students' cars would break down, grannies died, protection orders were broken by criminally insane former lovers and spouses.  Good stuff for material.  But I never went to class.  There were a lot of books in the office to chew through, so I read James Wright, John Berryman....

Q:  Did you hang around with the college's English faculty?

Wolf:  That would've been pointless.  Few college English teachers can write.  A college would never hire an athletic coach if that person couldn't demonstrate skills in his sport.  But colleges hire English teachers who can't or won't write.  Happens all the time.  The English teachers at Big Bend, save Matt Sullivan, are a doltish lot.  They couldn't write a memorable sentence without tracing paper.  Naw... I kept away from them.

Q: Should writers have dogs?  Like is it a big help to them?

Wolf:  Go ask Edward Albee about his Irish Wolfhounds and how they got him a handful of Pulitzer Prizes.  A writer without a dog makes no sense.  Steinbeck and Charlie.  Hemingway and Black Dog.  Zarzyski and Zeke.  A dog is quintessential to the writing process.

Wolf and Red Shuttleworth

Q:  Does being rather obvious, given your size, get in the way of observing what you come across... seeing, feeling, hearing... well, acquiring material for poems?

Wolf:  I am always scouting for poems.  It's my life's work.  Sort of a canine Robert Lowell... if you will.  Or a James Dickey.

Q:  Have you ever visited an MFA program?

Wolf:  One time I went over to look at the Idaho MFA program.  My human sister, Ciara, and my human brother, Luke, were giving a reading.  Somehow I got stuck at the hotel... so I didn't catch it.  But... look, you can't teach writing.  Maybe a few tricks or skills.  But talent can't be taught.  There are over 600 tenured professors of creative writing in America.  There are over 20,000 living recipients of the MFA in creative writing.  Really, how many are worth reading?  These questions tend to make the MFA literati nervous.  Most MFA professors are boring.  Most MFA students are wasting money.

Q:  But Ciara Shuttleworth, who will soon have her MFA from Idaho, has published in The New Yorker.

Wolf:  So what?  What's the New Yorker?  Just another provincial magazine... this one particularly curated-edited for apartment dwellers east of the Hudson River.  That's a pretty narrow sensibility.  As for Ciara, she's got major league talent.  I suppose one could argue that Bob Wrigley has mentored her well.  I wouldn't argue that, but Ciara would.  The hard truth is that most MFA students are customers... not talented student-writers.  How many of the Idaho MFA students will gain significant publication?  A few, yes.  But most will drift off from writing after a few years, heads down in shame at their inability to write for publication... and they'll get, if lucky, academic jobs... and learn to professor-posture.

Q:  At this point, Wolf, you and Red have posted over 500 poems on this blog.  What's the goal?

Wolf:  We like to write, both Red and me.  It's what we do.  It's our life's work.  Sure... it'd be nice to eventually have written 20,000 poems... like the ancient great, Li Po.  Right now we just take it day by day.  Walks and writing poems.  

Q:  Why did you leave facebook recently?

Wolf:  Why not chuck facebook?  It's going way creepy-invasive... tracking people's computer use.  Facebook ought to be regulated like phone companies and TV stations.  The constituency for facebook: advertisers.  Facebook could give a bark about the people who use it.  For me, it became a matter of its banalities.  I narrowed the roster for Red down to 139 people... and that still seemed like too large a number.

Q:  So facebook was useless to you.

Wolf:  Actually, there were some good friends out of it... especially Nuno Santos... a great guy in Portugal who writes poetry and plays and uses facebook to celebrate what's going on, what's truly happening in culture.  Yeah, Nuno Santos.  He came to America to meet me.  We had a heck of a grand time: good food, whiskey, late nights listening to music, driving around the Columbia Basin.  But when my friend poet Paul Zarzyski sort of faded from facebook, then I started talking to the old man about leaving.  We only have so much time and so much energy.  We need to put our hearts and bodies into poetry. 

Note: Wolfie Shuttleworth died at the premature age of five and a half years of age on January 4, 2013 at Washington State University's Veterinary Teaching Hospital while being unsuccessfully treated for osteosarcoma (bone cancer).  

 

Happy Birthday, Stig Dagerman

Happy Birthday, Stig Dagerman
(October 5, 1923 - November 4, 1954)

You did not wish for eternity.
It's raining tonight... unsentimentally.
Bent sunflower stalks bow to you.
Not exactly the outreached hand
that could've kept you with us.

I don't have the statistic handy:
how many sad men
walk each year into garages
and turn ignition switches
with no desert town motel
to drive hard to...
just turn on the engine,
garage door shut,
and suck into their lungs
all of mankind's exhaustion.

Brother of the write-
a-poem-a-day compulsion,
you imagined more from others
than milk-hearted malice...
more from yourself
than confusion
and weeping jags.

It was just a photo-op,
right, that portrait of you,
famed playwright, novelist of the bleak,
within a cluster of beautiful women?
Not the blessedness of love?
Did you wander out later
and embrace marble statues?

Mankind's horror of stars
shining through rain.

Catullus Speaks to Clodia Metelli

Catullus Speaks to Clodia Metelli

Here the pleasure and mud-prowl.

We float.  Lust-thirst... and drink.

Wolf-runs. Your bared breasts.

Bared teeth. Twitchy-thighed you.

Perfume of rumor.  Are you feeling languid?

Is all this a temple to your brassy laughter?

We are the new people we are seeing.

All-nighters when your husband shambles

from town to village... selling spliced wire,

foreclosed villas, blackout candles.

We are star-drugged lovers,

relentless wind and laughter.

It's only pleasure.  You stir morning.

Less sleep.  My warrior-poet body thins.

The sheen of my seed on your inner thighs,

on your belly, on your breasts, on your lips,

inside your womb, your fists frantic upon my back,

your plum-painted fingernails clawing me closer.

You whisper, We are innocent... dear friends...

only desperate friends tending to quirky pain.

Thrust and thrust and thrust again atop thrust

through the folds of your silk nightgown,

a spear into a new woman of Now-Now-Now, baby.

Your granite bed covered with pillows.

You laugh, This is friendship, the secret gift.

You have not soothed me, Clodia-Lesbia-Clodia.

Yes, we are a measure of more than the mortal nothing.

Your husband shakes my hand at the temple,

asks after my verse, back-slaps me jovially.

You, Clodia-Lebia-Clodia, smirk,

lower mirthful eyes, toy with your long hair

gathered up with pins and needles.

Nakedness and wild desire-frolics.

You are the same as many others before  you.

Let me go.  Keep me.  Let me go.

We are strangers when we meet in town.

Radiant beauty of your husband's refusal to see.

Diverted to and from love by your marriage.

The sun-kissed taste of your flesh.

I am leaving you.

But returning right away.

The blue flame in my heart is for you.

I am running alone.  You are running alone.

Azure sky.  Cracked daylight moon.

This poem, and a raft of other bio-sketch poems, are presented in a Red Shuttleworth collection of poems, Ghosts& Birthdays (Humanitas Media Publishing, 2012) available via Amazon.



Alfred Jarry's Toothpick

Alfred Jarry's Toothpick

An iron gate shudders in the wind.

Behind a cottage, the bleating of young goats.

A woman in a black veil passes by.

She languidly chews her fingernails.

The cosmos of Alfred Jarry.

We are taking turns, Jarry and me,

riding his bicycle in the farmyard.

Jarry wants all information on contemporary

uses for simply constructed sawhorses.

He's sweaty from so much exertion,

confesses, The last stranger I kissed

was foaming at the lips... perhaps Tupsy.

On a short video from Jarry's backpack,

a diamond-glittery woman with a dancer's body

and lipsticked-black nipples

hand-mixes tomb ashes with perfume.

We absolutely know, Jarry smiles,

know that office clerks are allowed

to drink a ration of two cups

per day of cow slobber.

Jarry explains Munch, Rubescent clouds

naked women, wild-desire frolics,

and the tardy arrival of texts

on assorted methods for bleeding the infirm.

Nicely marbled, finger-thick paper.

Three skinny coyotes stand mute and still

at a hundred yards range... watch Jarry

pedal in ever-smaller circles.

We also like the gentle opening of flowers,

the ever so slow pulse the dead have achieved,

tomb-ebony river stones curated in tea cups.

Jarry tumbles in a tangle with his bicycle.

Muddy water flows from one of the handlebars,

He shrieks, Merdre!  Merdre! Merdre!



Alfred Jarry

Side Bets and Side Wishes

Side Bets and Side Wishes

Embrace and groan: your face glows...

your pleasure-crazed

arctic-blue eyes glisten.

Your body wraps itself in silk.

The desert reddens at sunset.

          ***

That rockchuck sure got highway-flattened, eh?

Take a deep breath as you look at the landscape.

Swirling dust... black clouds rolling eastward.

Yes, near-like clots of dried mud in a dark stable.

          ***

And what does a recurring dream

about a city made of shiny green apples mean?

I think that's why I'm so drawn to you, baby.

We could sit side by side and read more Italo Calvino.

And, baby, drink some water...

no one coughs from autumn maple leaves.

No... I'm no kind of doctor, but does that

curved crystal glass bowl remind you of us?

          ***

Sometimes when we touch I feel underfoot.

          ***

Do you remember how old people,

people who were old when we were young,

how they used salt and baking soda

to scrub their teeth... real ones and dentures?

That question is such a bailey.

No it's not.  What's a bailey?

The outer wall of a castle.

So what is it you're not saying?

          ***

Yes, baby, you still have sturdy inner thighs.

A silver stain appears to spread

on the peach-colored sheet.

Pine bed, thick brownish quilts.

Shabby, cabin-like house.

So it is that we tuck into each other.

It feels so clean to sleep beside you.