A Few Follies: Poetry by April Follies
April Follies
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 April Follies
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to leave constructive feedback for this author. Thank you for your support.
Author’s Note
A few of these poems, or earlier versions of them, have been placed online in various Internet forums. Three have been published at an online poetry site. However, this is the first time the poems have been collected, revised, and published as a complete anthology online.
~~~~
~~~~
Table of Contents
I Will Write A Poem
The Masque
The Model
City Acrostic
Overhead
Whiskey Sours on Bourbon Street
Comments of a Transylvanian Cat
Sand and Stars
Mirror Image
Unexpected Graces
Foreshadowing
Almost Color
The House of Cards
Comments of a City Trashcan
Younger Sister
Epigramatical Epitaph
On Coherency
Catch a Cloud
A Quick Lesson in Nutrition
Wedding Card, New and Old
Dust Storm
Strain
Rainy Season
The Forests are Thin in Ireland
Dancing Rehearsal
Fascination
Flight
~~~~~
I Will Write a Poem
I will walk
the whispering ways of wind, curling
within the cycling corridors that coil
inside the intricate maze
of daylight dreaming.
I will slip
past the tormented tangled voices
clattering in clashing tones outside the door
of my cheap high-rise rooms. (It seems my neighbor
is shrilly berating the janitor again.)
I will pass
and come at last to the imagined wisps
of sound, rustling like silk gauzes
across dry bones and dust.
Yes, I will dance
in slippers of ballpoint ink
above a sheet of starched white paper,
while about me spin the light breezes,
trickling through delicate crevices of imagery.
~~~~~
The Masque
False-fronted buildings line the crowded street
Where costumed forms, like actors in a play,
Walk up and down; and if their eyes should meet
They blush behind the masks, and turn away.
Bright coverings obscure the shapes inside
And gloves ensure that hands need never touch.
Behind such silken barriers they hide,
For fear that face or form may show too much.
So choose a mask and costume; take your place.
Pick one to be your partner - for awhile.
Come join the masque, but never show your face -
There are too many meanings in a smile.
And is it fair, the face behind the mask?
Who knows, or cares? It's safer not to ask.
First published at Poetry.com (February 2001)
~~~~~
The Model
She stood
for perhaps ten minutes
in this position
while two men
fussed over her posture
and a third brushed up her makeup.
Held rigid to the moment
by the camera, she molded her face
to the correct expression.
Here she is, in glossy color,
a picture
of a painting
of a portrait
of a woman.
~~~~~
City Acrostic
Nocturnal breezes stir from bayou pools,
Enter the city while the darkness cools,
Whistling toneless tunes to lawless rules.
Over the corniced houses softly float
Riffs from a saxophone, which the wind brings
Laughing and crying through each trembling note.
Eerie and musical, New Orleans sings,
And urban poets take her for their muse.
Night's brush, which paints the streets in smoky hues,
Stirs it to waking on a breath of blues.
First version published at Poetry.com (August 2001)
~~~~~
Overhead
A spread of cloud
sulks, glowering
down
upon the cracked shingles
and the browning grass,
upon the hot tar scars
that mark the bounds
of starched suburbs.
At last, the cloud
grudgingly gathers
to cast its damp bounty
down.
The
first
few
drops
slide off
of a slickened sky,
spattering
the pavement.
They become
a spitting drizzle
that pits
the dry, dry dust,
While the earth waits impatiently for the thunder.
~~~~~
Whiskey Sours on Bourbon Street
And just before the world ends, let us meet
Once more, for laughs, for one last final fling,
For whiskey sours down on Bourbon Street.
Let us forget what we cannot repeat,
Put out of mind time's slow unravelling,
And just, before the world ends, let us meet.
A slice of lemon, half or so a sweet
Teaspoon of sugar mitigates the sting -
For whiskey sours, down on Bourbon Street.
When we're apart and drink our whiskey neat,
We pray the fates will grant this minor thing,
And, just before the world ends, let us meet.
Do not pass by, my friend, pull up a seat,
Forego the other pleasures night may bring
For whiskey sours down on Bourbon Street.
When others dumbly go down to defeat,
Let us - defiant - jest, tell stories, sing.
And just before the world ends, let us meet
For whiskey sours down on Bourbon Street.
First published at Poetry.com (July 2001)
~~~~~
Comments of a Transylvanian Cat
Now, I don't mind
old Vladimir's nocturnal habits;
being a predator myself, I understand
life's little necessities
and he does keep the place
well stocked with rats.
But I do wish he'd do
something about those wolves.
Really, it's beneath my dignity
to be chased around by outsize
dogs. I'm as much an aristocrat
as the Count - being feline,
that goes without saying.
And the damp here gets into my bones.
Still, he knows how to stroke a cat -
he and his ladies with their long hands.
(Not like that rude Harker fellow -
I scratched him myself, even before
they bit him.) Vlad knows what's my due.
And he has a way about him almost catlike.
Perhaps we'll hunt together
some dark evening
down in the village,
for the fine, fat mice.
~~~~~
Sand and Stars
Stopping along the beach, I ran across
A kind of sloping pile in the sand,
And I amused myself by finding in it
the features of a castle. Wind-swept lumps
formed turrets, bits of shell the gate,
and there a rill of water winding
from the tide-mark, that would be the moat.
I did not know who made it,
Or if anyone had. I simply
Sat and watched it, dreaming,
Until the tide rose.
Later that night, gazing upon the sky,
I watched the multitude of tiny lights
glitter and sparkle in the velvet dark.
I traced the patterns out from star to star.
Here was Orion, there the Greater Bear,
all ordered in their courses - more or less,
a meteor streaked through the constellations.
I did not know who made them,
Or if anyone had. I simply
Sat and watched them, dreaming,
Until the sun rose.
~~~~~
Mirror Image
Straight-shouldered, poised, turned slightly to the side,
She views the mirror with a quiet pride.
These her proportions, her familiar face,
Her bearing with its simple youthful grace,
May not be perfect in each viewer's eye,
But they are hers. Let him who will decry
Some feature as too large, or some too small.
This is her body, not his, after all.
She'll not apologize, she'll not feel shame
For not refashioning herself to be the same
As any other woman. She alone
Is measure of the form to which she's grown.
They call it self-possession, and it's true:
She owns herself, as no one else can do.
~~~~~
Unexpected Graces
He actually did come back, and she
had really waited for him, spending
her time wiping down the tables
and declining occasional offers.
He was older; correctional
facilities are not kind
to men, any more than bars
are kind to women.
He pushed back the door
and approached her at the bar
laying his hand on the counter
and staring at it while he spoke.
She tapped his hand, directing
his attention to the gnarled oak
post central to the room,
and to the yellow band
meticulously wound around it.
He might have smiled, then.
"I get off at six," she said.
"I'll wait," he said, and he did.
~~~~~
Foreshadowing
Enframed upon a cluttered shelf I have
A photograph my father took of two
Thin silhouettes beside an autumn lake;
Twin figures stand in front of painted skies
And rippled waters rich with sunset lights.
A maple on one side is reaching out
A snarl of branches toward the faded hills;
My younger self opposes it, like some
Light sapling - small, unbudded, and unbranched.
How did my father catch that pensive look?
My face, as I stand looking to the West,
Is cast in shadows; now, I cannot guess
What shades I saw within the graying dusk.
Thus Father watched us through the camera lens:
A girl beside a tree beside a lake
Watching the dimming of the falling sun,
Watching the rising night.
~~~~~
Almost Color
Stopping on the path, far enough
for trees to block the streetlights,
we quenched the flashlight
and let the dark tumble down
in heavy soundless avalanche.
Above, the pale crescent shining
scattered among the leaves,
falling in unexpected places.
Flaring fireflies lit
hazy globes around themselves.
“Almost color,” I said to him suddenly.
“The leaves are almost green,
the light almost yellow...
it’s mostly gray, but almost...”
“Yes,” he said.
We wandered further, into a night
that was almost perfect.
~~~~~
The House of Cards
She is building a house of cards, using a deck she found among her ex-boyfriend's discarded belongings. She lays the Knave of Hearts against the Queen but when she reaches for another card the two collapse, and so she leans the Two of Diamonds against the stack of unpaid bills on the cluttered coffee table. She manages a rather elaborate two-storey structure but then the stack slides over onto her building and now her hands are trembling so badly that she can scarcely set two cards together before they come sliding down. So she gets up and paces about her tiny apartment, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and the piles of laundry on the floor until she feels ready to try again.
This time she picks up a pile of books by the sofa, and with their aid she builds up a foundation that seems as if it might stay awhile, but just that moment her eyes happen to pass across the termination notice on the floor, and in one convulsive movement the cards are scattered over the rug. Now her shoulders are shaking and the Ace of spades in her hand is quivering as if someone had shot a bullet through its heart; but after a moment she scrapes together the cards and begins anew. She sets the Ace against the Ten of Clubs as the first drops of bitter rain spatter against the cracked windowpanes; with one hand she wipes her chipped glasses while the other picks up the Queen of Spades...
~~~~~
Comments of a City Trashcan
hungryhungryhungry FEED ME!
half/full hamburger wrappers & broken glass
soggy newspaper screaming NEWS!
YOU! getcher fuckingrubby hands outta me!
Shittybum! As if I didn' have nuthin
to do but feed ya when I so goddam hungry
Christ!
Bottlecaps old cigarettes tin cans
hungry
more, more, trashman's comin'
If I aint got fed full by then
halfeaten food ticketstubs rags
gonna be empty with nuthin to show for.
Hey, man, show some goddam respec'.
Aw, shit, man, don' throw that match in...
Oh great. Perfect. Gotta gimme
case a fuckin indigestion
toppa everethin else?
hungry heartburn burnin
turnin that lovelie trash to ashes,
ashes.
curlin wrappers crispin papers
Fuckit - & I starvin already
smokin cigarette butts & smoldrin rags
Lookit it all go, meltin
plastic comb, so
hungry need food FEED
ME scorchin old sock black
ashes, y'know
This is how the world end,
glass shards beer tabs splinters
meltin burnin fusin hungry
with the un'verse crumple
down lika flat tire,
burnin like wet cardboard,
Serve ya right.
~~~~~
Younger Sister
She is not a flower, for a flower is soft.
The harsh wind tears it, the cold air withers it.
But I have seen her fling her arms out, challenging the wind,
And the wind could not wither her.
She is not a statue, for a stone cannot dance.
The soft earth traps it, its own weight holds it fast.
But I have seen her leap to great heights, challenging the ground,
And the ground had no hold on her.
She has the soft beauty of a flower petal,
She has the hard beauty of a marble statue.
But she will not be either; in her life, her wild bright motion,
She challenges the world,
And the world has no match for her,
My sister.
~~~~~
Epigramatical Epitaph
Friends, family and lovers, do not weep
That we must part, and go our separate ways.
All of my life I’ve had too little sleep;
Duty, and my alarm clock, ruled my days.
So now, as I am weary, bruised, and worn,
I choose to rest, and let the darkness take me.
Heimdall, blow softly; Gabriel, mute your horn.
I choose to sleep, with no alarms to wake me.
~~~~~
On Coherency
It is not true that a madman
is always incoherent;
many, for example, may write
poems with perfect
diction, logic, and clarity.
It is only that
sometimes
the green trees
scratch themselves
in the burning snowbanks
and the polliwogs
swivel black turning
french steel sidewolk
erth ment hl kre
go ojfxvdibcuvb
a
~~~~~
Catch a Cloud
There was a cloud hanging
over us from the start; that morning
when we set out for the beach,
a bloated accumulation of damp vapors
hung directly over the family Toyota.
When we hit the highway, though,
it moved more quickly.
We had to rush to keep up as it rumbled
eastward, little cloudlets scudding beneath.
Toyotas are not noted for an ability
to outrun the wind;
behind us a line of blue crept steadily
upon us as we watched. We hurried
but the cloud outran us
by far, its bright blue pursuer
sweeping it along. As we neared the beach,
a wave of clear sky
swept over us with such suddenness
that I was forced into laughter.
~~~~~
Wedding Card, New and Old
Pressed paper, clean as new silk
Tinted with lavender,
Scented with lavender;
Ribboned with lace,
White as fresh milk.
Lines of calligraphy
Delicately trace
Verses of poetry,
Letters embroidered
Like threads of the lace,
Like a lover's sweet face.
Rippled paper, clear as worn cloth,
Faded and waterstained,
Smelling of mildew.
Edged with stiff thread,
Like the wings of a moth.
Strokes of a quill
Still hold what it said,
Lines of old poetry,
Frail silhouettes
Like strands of the thread,
Like the face of the dead.
~~~~~
In the Modern Age
If music be the food of love
then someone’s just handed me
a Big Mac. All the songs
I hear on the radio
have love as their ground meat,
flattened and pounded into a form
all too recognizable.
If this be love,
then affection has the taste
of artificial mustard
and comes sandwiched between flat
buns of stale synthesized music.
Adoration, that inspiration
of Hallmark verse and $2 hybrid flowers
is a bit of wilted lettuce
laid on top of an embrace,
trying to look convincing.
I’ll have my romance
with a ketchup substitute
and a side order of idealism, please.
~~~~~
A Quick Lesson in Nutrition
Passing by a plot of ground between the sidewalks, I saw a little clot of earth, in the shape of a small bird, pluck out a few grains of dirt and ingest them. "Cannibal!" I cried. "How can you eat the soil, which is your own substance?"
The earthbird tucked in its head and glanced at me through a tiny pebble of an eye, "Why should I not?"
"You eat of yourself!"
"Indeed," it said. "Does not the earth open up great fissures, swallowing large chunks of itself? And is not the earth renewed thereby?"
"But the earth is not alive."
"Is not the unborn child, who is a part of the mother, nourished by the mother's blood? Does it not grow and develop because of this?"
"Yes, but that’s only natural..."
"And does not the poet pour his own essence onto the page, and, reading his own lines, absorb it back again? Is not his essence made purer by this act?"
"Well, perhaps-"
"We all eat of ourselves," said the earthbird, pecking at the ground. "You eat what you are, after all."
"Then am I nothing," I asked, "because I have never consumed myself?"
"Nonsense. You have. But never fear - you can always do it again."
I moved off a few steps to contemplate this. Looking back, I could see no sign of the bird; it was gone, as if the earth had swallowed it.
~~~~~
Dust Storm
The last shivering windbreath expires on the flats
as a pilot light flares on the eastern edge
of a sandbox land.
A rill of fire runs along the horizon,
spreading upwards, flickering, rising, catching, leaping,
and an inflamed eye
blinks open
in the face of the sky.
Out of the ashlike cinders of the sand
hatches a swirling breeze
as of the delicate disturbance of birdwings.
A long rat's-tail of dust stirs at the sound,
lifting up to follow
the turn of wind.
Lashing
back suddenly, it rouses currents
of thin grit that circle, questing.
One trail of windborne sand whips
around, chasing itself
among the dunes; and others join, sensing
havoc in the making.
Around
spin the snickering winds, flicking
back, and forth, and around,
with cries of delighted viciousness
that become shrieks
of malice. Giving tongue in tones
from the piccolo to the pulsing bass,
they wield a tearing scouring of ground stones
and go forth, ravaging,
while the sunrise looks on,
uncomprehending.
~~~~~
Strain
Spring days, when I could escape
my blueprints, I would sit
surveying my neighbors' house
with an architect's eye.
Especially,
I watched the central post
of their carport.
I knew the beam was breaking, ill-
supported as it was - I could see
the stresses patterning the wood -
but I said nothing.
After all, I understand
how the labor of enduring
the burden of the carport rooftop
could depress
even the sternest buttress.
Yes, and I realized, too,
how easy, easy,
to let the rifting forces breach
one's smooth integrity,
breaking into shattered relief at last.
So when the taut beam finally
split,
ruptured, wrenched itself in two
in a shower of old shingles;
I, unsurprised,
picked up a splinter, wondering...
How much stronger is a man
than a wooden rafter?
~~~~~
Rainy Season
Ponderous cumulus clouds clumsily lumber
through the thick haze of a sticky stratosphere,
clotting together in ominous masses...
From somewhere between the clouds an asthmatic wind
wheezes, like the breathing of a senile Jove.
It coughs and grows stronger, twisting
across the tropic gulf; the gust
lifts a sifting of salt spray,
examines it for a moment,
and tosses it away.
A cloudquake sends an echoing crack
thrilling through the banked vapors;
A fissure knifes the cotton clots
scorching a signal in the thick sky.
From the rift, out of the cleft cloudbank,
floods a second ocean, engulfing
the salt sea with the fresh.
The waves writhe in their beds
under the lash of the storm,
the fish dive down, deep.
Somewhere on the mainland, an old man
tilts his head, listens to the winds,
and tells a dubious younger generation,
"The monsoon is coming."
~~~~~
The Forests are Thin in Ireland
The builders and the burners
like Saint Patrick, lifted their staves,
and the wild woods fled before.
Tame copses, remain, the occasional
orchard, the young replantings
of a hopeful generaton...
but few of the ancient tangles
of venerable trees
that once covered these hills.
The young straight hardwood
is cut for others’ purposes
and the seedlings uprooted, scattered
hither and wide.
There remain some strong
old trees - aged oaks and brambles
that wind nor rot
nor cold iron axes have yet stricken.
And now anew we have planted
groves of fresh silver saplings.
Wood grows; leaves fall; land
that lies fallow takes the seed.
Forests, like convictions, cling
to the earth and stubbornly regrow.
~~~~~
Dancing Rehearsal
She is dancing, she is dancing
to a music strange and thin,
to the keening strains
of flute and violin
in the sparks of lamplight, glancing
from the darkened window-panes,
she is dancing.
She is turning, she is whirling
to the wavering beat
to the scuffling percussion of her feet
while the pipes play high and shrill.
And the subtle satin swirling
in the edging of her gown
and her shoe-tops' tassels twirling
as her feet step up and down
form a patter ever shifting, never still;
with a dancer's skill,
she is whirling.
She is sweeping, she is gliding
through the figures and the turns
from one move to other sliding
on the ballroom’s polished floor.
Now the music quickens slightly,
and the dancer follows lightly;
then through both, a sudden fury burns.
The rushing, leaping ending
and the dancer's supple bending
to a final striking pose
reach a climax in their flows;
the musicians bring the music to a close.
But as the final sounds
echo from the walls and door,
the woman starts once more,
dancing through the graceful rounds.
And the players smile to see her
as they set down pipe and bow,
for the dancer may be freer
when the strict musicians go.
In the dimming lamplight's softened glow,
on the fading memory of music riding,
she is dancing, turning, whirling, sweeping, gliding.
~~~~~
Fascination
There is a fascination
with artists who, though brilliant
have strange minds and panful lives;
Colerigde’s drug-dreams and Poe’s drunkenness,
the cold touch of insanity
on a Swift or a Van Gogh,
the suicide of Silvia Plath
and the sickness of Emily Dickenson or Kafka.
Whether for the pain of genius
or art of madness, we see their work
with the curious pity, excitement,
distaste and disturbing attraction
usually associated
with roadside accidents
and major disasters.
Is it that we recognize ourselves
in the trick glass of warped optential? Or
does dread lend the work spice?
Or is it simply the lure
of a weird new world glimpsed
through artists’ eyes turned slightly askew?
~~~~~
Flight
Flight 829, Austin Airport
to Baltimore-Washington International,
pushing my apathetically examined luggage
into a plastic box above my head.
Ah yes, seat 15B on the 747,
flight 829 leaving 9:35 a.m.
on a cloudy day.
Squirming into my window seat,
I blink out at the maze of runways
and little twinkling lights.
On time (so far)
the plane pulls away from the dock
like a blunt-nosed lizard rousing
from an afternoon nap,
creaking itself into position.
Watching the antics of the stewardess
as she mimes the use
of the safeguards that doubtless
would save us from accidents
at thirty thousand feet,
I think of Icarus.
And we’re off.
The bowels of the plane
belch forth their necessary propulsion
and the passengers are shoved back
as this strange metal bird
lifts itself onto the wind.
Up, up,
and the highway that this morning
bore me on its back
is a thread set about with toy houses.
Further up
we approach a solid-seeming barrier
like a ceiling on the sky.
And then we penetrate the mysteries
hidden in the hearts of clouds,
and find them to be blank water vapor.
And on up,
now we are above a polar plain
of frothy white dunes
and broad expanses traced by mammoth fissures.
Here, said the ancient mythmongers,
here sported the colossal figures,
here they built their palaces
and cast down storms on us poor mortals,
for their amusement.
Well, as we violate their sanctuary
I see no palaces; yet
I could almost believe that if we fell
the cloudbank would softly catch us,
like the hand of a pagan god.
In time, we descend.
Passing through the drift,
we discover a second layer below.
Now we venture through a room
with a white roof and a white floor
but no walls. From above
illuminated beams of sunlight
highlight a panoply of shadowed corners.
Down, now,
and the aircraft shudders
at the thought of touching the crass ground.
I might sympathize, having seen
some of the airy wonders,
did not my feet and stomach
so yearn for solidness.
Rushing down,
skimming over a model landscape,
will we make the airport? Yes!
BUMP.
Breathing a sigh of relief with my whole body,
as the passengers prepare to disembark,
I still cannot help
looking wistfully into the sky,
at the mass of clouds,
up toward the sun.
~~~~~
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my parents, who encouraged my faltering feet in verse as they once did on the living room carpet. I must also thank the many friends and family on whom I inflicted my various attempts through the years. For this collection in particular, I must also thank Dr. D. Wevill, who provided suggestions, guidance, and constructive criticism for most of the poems above. Last but never least, I thank my husband for encouraging me to go ahead and publish the things, already.
~~~~~