Archive for the ‘W. D. Snodgrass’ Tag
Bear Wallow On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
In spray-paint, psychedelic, gaudy,
Fall scrawls its name – a blunt and bawdy
Challenge to the complacent wood.
We say: there goes the neighborhood;
It is not and it cannot come to good.
Soon, flustered leaves will sag like torn
Wallpaper; solid dark walls, worn
Through here and there, exposed a bitter
Sky while, on the bare ground, litter
And stub ends pile up everywhere.
Not even one green plant would dare
Poke its nose out in the crude air
Of catch-as-catch-can thievery, lust,
Cut-throat protection and sick trust.
Where year by year we walked together
Determined paths, a wilder atmosphere
Wheels in, flaunting its chains, blades and black leather.
— from Autumn Variations by W. D. Snodgrass
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Queen Butterfly On Palmleaf Mistflower — Image by kenne
Every young plant springing
into heavy air,
one’s self up, out
from the core
as if earth’s got
too hot
for anyone to tough
too much;
much as the much-sung lark
climbs higher,
outsinging where
branches spread and flare
like ravelled wire-
ends or one’s hair
in an electric charge might
upstand, lift, as some
wire prancer’s parasol
might parachute and drift
you gentle down to ground
once more.
— from Summer Sequence by W. D. Snodgrass
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Saguaros At Sunrise — Image by kenne
The Capture of Mr. Sun
The sun is a lion
circling his cage,
Caught for you, brought for you
on this wheeled stage,
Through fixed bars glaring
his wrath and his rage
Like a pen for the baby
or bedrails in old age.
The lion is a sunflower
with a broad gold face,
Its petals outstreaming
like a mane or the rays
Of that candescent Power
we all watch pace
Through the gendering heavens
on its circuit of days.
The flower is tracing
the sun on its rounds;
The carnival moves through
its orbit of towns;
The lion's cage rolls
your streets up and down
Where be pads and we shiver
at his smile, his frown.
-- W. D. Snodgrass
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David Parsons, W.D. Snodgrass and Kenne Turner (Conroe, Texas, 1999)
In 1999 I had the honor of spending an evening with the poet, W.D. Snodgrass, first at a reading at the Conroe library, finishing off the evening at the Hofbrau Steaks. Since then I have continued to enjoy reading the personal nature of his poems, and he will forever remain in my heart — “Snodgrass is walking through the universe.”
kenne
THESE TREES STAND . . .
These trees stand very tall under the heavens.
While they stand, if I walk, all stars traverse
This steep celestial gulf their branches chart.
Though lovers stand at sixes and at sevens
While civilizations come down with the curse,
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.
I can’t make any world go around your house.
But note this moon. Recall how the night nurse
Goes ward-rounds, by the mild, reflective art
Of focusing her flashlight on her blouse.
Your name’s safe conduct into love or verse;
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.
Your name’s absurd, miraculous as sperm
And as decisive. If you can’t coerce
One thing outside yourself, why you’re the poet!
What irrefrangible atoms whirl, affirm
Their destiny and form Lucinda’s skirts!
She can’t make up your mind. Soon as you know it,
Your firmament grows touchable and firm.
If all this world runs battlefield or worse,
Come, let us wipe our glasses on our shirts:
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.
—W.D. Snodgrass
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Psychedelic Mushrooms — Computer art by kenne
Engrossing as a black hole
or your TV screen. I send out
no powers: I accept all
energies, all joys and juices . . .
–from “Dr. P.H.D. Dark, Hypnotist” by W.D. Snodgrass
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Cooper’s Hawk On Black Tree– Grunge Composition by kenne
All night black tree
shapes wrestled their dark
angels or assailants; the deep woods
wracked by shattering, cracking;
then rain drove straight
sheets like a wave’s crash
wrenching leaves and birds’ nests
from the branch, battering
grain flat in the fields;
mice, rabbits in their burrows
drowned.
At first dawn, soft
mists down the valley rise till
light strikes, enamelling
each emerald green leaf
splattered clean.
— from “Summer Sequence” by W. D. Snodgrass
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The Capture of Mr. Moon — Image by Deloss McGraw
The Capture of Mr. Moon
Rocked back on his backside, not yet risen.
It’s Mr. Moon – like a thin nail paring
Or sweet slice of some pale, blue melon —
Hauled in the tumbril, his four-wheeled prison.
We jostle the curbsides as if we were starting
At a president or some famous felon.
Like moonvines outreaching your porch’s trellis
Or tall man in a child’s brass bed, he lies
With his tip and toes poked through the bars.
Not, though the snatch at us, not to repel us.
His thoughts have turned. His eyes
Glozed to mirror the farthest stars.
Reflect on himself: blue shut-in
Cool to all suns utter his drowsy ban
This cage that couldn’t even begin
To hold, shuts us outside,
Excluded from the Moon in Man.
— from W.D.’s Midnight Carnival by W.D. Snodgrass
“. . . for kenne turner with assorted extravagances”
W.D. Snodgrass (1993)
Conversations Lost
Conversations
from the past
lost
in the images
of memories
amassed
only to return
on the backs
of death
resurrected
by poets
serving only
to introduce
images
of what was
like water
returning
from a fountain’s
reservoir
only
to be reborn
again
and again
and again
— kenne
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A great American poet, W. D. Snodgrass passed away this past week. Read my posting on the Montgomery County Literary Arts Council blog.
kenne
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