despite a full plate of crumbling renovations on hold
Squirrel adopts the Yankee attitude on old-house syndrome and its endless repairs
that is (lots of laughs) wait until something actually falls off
if you can survive doing so
until the savings recover
or there’s thawing
* * *
by late May, the soil firms enough
to get about removing an extensive box elder
for light to expand a space
for a 25-by-4-foot raised bed
of asparagus
in late September, with 20 raised beds of various sizes
boldly placed
the child moans she hates wood chip pathways
and would rather have a soccer field on a hillside
still Squirrel wonders who’s kicking next in their recipe
invoking a snaking rainbow, and is grateful
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of Home Maintenance poems, click here.
outwardly, my ways were simple
even austere or ascetic
my modest apparel
considered drab or seedy
still I was becoming
wary of self-negation
that denies the sweet
Bread of Life
* * *
when John from Tri-State Megabucks phoned the office
to report the latest week’s winning number, he asked
in an attempt to be friendly, if I had my ticket in hand
so I replied, “no, it’s against my religion” and then
sensed a stupefaction on his end of the line
there might be another position on this business
O Holy One
keep me tender in reaching across differences
where a holier-than-thou attitude accomplishes
nothing more than standing in faith
* * *
if there weren’t so much insufficiency all around
the homeless, unemployed, imprisoned,
impoverished, illiterate
quickly overwhelm
apart from family and spiritual community
within my neighborhood
how little I alone can do
against needs deeper
than those seen
where any sense of great inadequacy provokes
a hardening wall
while judging myself harshly
reminded
to my own consternation
of how I’m lacking
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson To see the full set, click here.
no clouds except in the sky as yet snow sits atop cones
in long-needled pine
* * *
in long-needled pine, a gray hill
beyond the snow-covered cones
becomes cloudy sky
yet pussy willows are molting
gray clouds of snowy pine
yet the sky covers cones atop long-needled pine
in the primrose sunrise the snow covers
pussy willows before you believe summer is coming
yes, beyond the snow-covered gray hill
wisps of clouds are melting
into pussy willows and pinecones
with the melting snow atop cones
the long-needled primrose sun sets
in a gray hill of pussy willows
you believe summer is coming
no clouds with the melting
wall atop gray cones
beyond the pussy-willow clouds
with the melting gray wall
birch beyond pussy willows, not clouds
melting the gray wall atop long-needled cones
beyond the pussy willows
~*~
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson To see all 50 Preludes & Fugues, click here.
we move. like the water, like the wind
– across rock, across soil –
until people speaking of common activities
and customs will completely baffle
sometimes the growing season’s quite short
compared to our place of origin
even so, she wants tropics
where everything in the closet
will mildew before sunrise
and there’s no worry of frost
we’ve gone underground, ourselves
after trusting too much in human love
emerged not on rock or air wholly
but collected from scattered places
and pieced back, as best anyone can
with blueberry-stained hands
so what’s the name of your divinity?
your desires? your natures?
the apple of your eye?
even the forest seeks climax
she’ll say, quartering a winesap
its burgundy ringing
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
Here’s a section from a collection of contemporary American sonnets I’ve done along the lines of those by the late and wonderful Ted Berrigan. It’s one of 60 from Braided Double-Cross.
~*~
As I said at the time …
In defining poetry, Berrigan’s concept of a windup toy serves well for me. How basic can I make it? (A single word? Maybe two?) As well as how extended or elaborate!
I still don’t like poetry that’s written as code, an intellectual equation of meaning.
Also, I prefer lines that are long enough to have something happen within each one.
I love when literature (or any art, for that matter) opens as a state of awareness – or fullest existence – which also expands into epiphanies of dancing or singing or perhaps, well, just imagine. Think twice about the chemically aided experiences – pinot, martini, pot? Yes, the Zone, when it graces. In a continuum, with differing specifics.
A set of skills and disciplined thought and, I would hope, tradition / culture. Not that every time I read a book or sit to write I’m there. Indeed, there may be good reasons we cannot dwell long in that Zone (Is it too isolated? Too exclusionary? Self-centered even when we find it occurring in Otherness?) …
A break, then. And then back to work.
~*~
CROSSING XXXVI
A green-streaked sentry flanked by thistles
on every town common is more explicit
than any boom box. Please, my darling, please
don’t let carnal memories expire between us.
I set forth at a disadvantage.
Ribbons of baby oil. Snaking Chinese dragons.
One flesh, lagoons. Trembling like the wind
in shrubs and flowers. You chained
criticism on my Academy of St. Martin
in the wallpaper, provoking blatant spice factory
peppers and cinnamon misrepresentations
of common logic, as if you were running for office.
Without proper camouflage, there’s nothing to repulse
destitution overtaking military-issue fortifications.
Poem copyright by Jnana Hodson (originally appeared in the journal Plungelit)
For more, click here.
what blows
to kindle sunset and sunrise
sprouts wings on the field
is faith planting
for a harvest at the end
all these tough nuts to open
amid rest
* * *
each day
always more
bands of light
turn within
fields and currents
tempted by more as well as less, but first
those cries being born
* * *
crossing water
invites rest
answering the call to dinner
2
when we are vanilla chocolate the strawberry rhubarb and asparagus a cake topped in cherries sweet corn and trout with apricots and peaches the scallions, leeks, garlic carrots, potatoes, yams spiced pumpkin whipped cream, fresh butter applesauce with pancakes a bowl of black walnuts yogurt and sharp cheddar or baby Swiss when we are sap returning to maple when we are …
when we are snow peas or sugar snaps a pear or … fordhooks or limas
3
I’ve had a taste of these things
Hindu Yogi
Zen Buddhist
Sufi
Amerindian
Mennonite, Dunker, Amish
Old-Style Quaker
all of them, with holy visions
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson To see the full set, click here.
