The April 2012 Um-Yangian
By Steve Lavigne
Copyright 2012 Steve Lavigne
Fork and other poems
The Unpublishables
From the author of “Fork and other poems” and “The Unpublishables”, this new collection is the “best of” from the April 2012 PAD (poem a day) challenge. Quirky, unique and intriguing, these poems are sure to make you think, move you (one way or another) and amuse.
Table of Contents
100%
not an urn or homer
parenthood equals childhood squared
paris
you are 10, I am 45
I remember
holiday season
something scientific (this way comes)
the page a day
my most important memory
everyone says it’s the end of the world
I remember teaching you
a way with words
science fiction and fantasy
the hero with a thousand faces
korean bbq
on talk like a pirate day
I spent the morning with myself
let’s extrapolate
let’s just say
for years
I think hamlet
the love governor
storefront of the heart
the 5 year old
don’t you hate it when
you were always
the trouble is
no problem
tree
the surprise preemie
about the author
100%
nothing is,
Yoda says,
and he should know
dying and everything
and still doing the ewok boogie.....
100%
everything is,
Yoda says,
and he should know
Master and everything
of all that oneness,
feeling the flow,
future, past and present
an already has,
is and will be kind of thing…
and he knew, too, the young one,
the journeyman, the apprentice,
that lost searcher
and finder
in the embers of dearth –
a father, a symbol, a pictured
ideal from nothing into
nothing,
the constant motion of the universe
observed in perfect
stillness,
darkness
suddenly
bright
and you find yourself
making your way
to the exit
emptiness
and everything
one big
w(hole).
Not an urn or homer
but still
before my time,
the red headed
beehive hair
high school
hottie
and the flat top
smirking
boy
look happy
in their photograph.
We had just assumed
it was normal,
parents going gray,
a bit worn,
like the before and after
portraits of presidents
until after the move
south,
shorts and visors
waving away our concerns
each with an arm
sticking out the door
of a golf cart
speeding away
into the sunset –
their favorite homemade
christmas card
greeting.
Parenthood equals childhood squared
means you get a second
secret
childhood in your children’s secret
childhood
and not “in” as in “through”
like the lousy parents who have to
share everything – the one kid
always responsible
for nixing the entire class over
and over again –
you know who you are….
And not “in” as in “care”
like the mediocre ones who always
let on and slip
down the royal road to riches, and scamming
and shaming by the savvy little
investors playing
those fools like this little piggy
going to the rigged market,
wheeee!…
Oh no! It’s the screaming
“you don’t understand!”,
door slamming victory cry
of the truly righteous
c squared p as in proud parents
who never, ever get suspected
of being the secretly cool ones,
the ones who know
you have to go on different rides
the second time
around
your
Disneyland.
Paris
and you had
just finished
posing,
the franc discussion
about to begin
but halted
by your silent stare, furrowed
brow, huge pouty lips
and those ears -
your ears, bright, bright red,
the charcoal sketch unveiled
and you suddenly
realized
that you had
become
a caricature.
You are 10, I am 45
and oh, the solemnities I wish to bestow
upon you -
heaping, drowning you
with what my father might have called
chestnuts,
tomes you should read,
rebukes, remonstrations,
all the weight of my discontent
on your fragile bird frame -
but I resist the vase,
the glass frame enclosing
and linger in the wild swaying
of your wonder,
smile sunflower
bright
and is there something
in you knowing
this dark silhouette always
over your shoulder,
this somber south of a compass
always behind you
singing
keep your face to the sunshine
singing and singing
and you will not see the shadows
singing and singing
into life
a little girl
dancing, twirling
under the tweezers of a pointing
finger and thumb
frilly flower skirt
so much in motion
as to seem
perfectly
still
I remember
her first picture,
we called her jellybean,
just a glimmer of light
in shadow
on a computer screen,
and now,
all day
she sits
in the dark,
our jellybean, a
Really
Adept
Diagnostician-
Identifier
Of
Lingering
Often
Growing
Insinuating
Shadows,
The rest is her story
Holiday season
Born of uncertainty
in the darkness
of the shortest and coldest
day of the year,
<
br /> we seek family
and stand with strangers
needing the warmth and light of
these little suns -
all of our giving and receiving
a grand gesture to the universe
that we understand
that all that has been given and all that has been
taken away
now stands in the balance
and this small holy re creation
is all we know and all we can know
of spring and hope
and pray that this
not be one long, last
unending
winter.
Something scientific (this way comes)
I once thought science
was the antithesis
of poetry
confusing the language
of science
with its process
and intent –
for I had once imagined the impossible
myself two things at once in two places at once
and this once lasting forever
until being defined by love,
much as the wave particle duality experiment
proving Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle-
but now I know that everything is so much more than
appearances,
that affects and effects of every other on other
in a continual process of change
are the music and rhythm of a universe
that only some
can hear
but all can feel
in the one wrong or right word in the one wrong or right place
of a poem that
changes the world
much as
dark matter comprises 83% of
what’s the matter in a universe
full of Newton’s laws, evolutionary theory
and all those vibrating extra dimensional
strings of possible universes
expressing itself
in so fragile a thing
as the wings of a butterfly
flapping in a poem
all chaos and beauty
and truth
The page a day
calendar quote
which I’ve kept on my wall
for years, keeps telling
me there are three kinds of luck-
one I’ve translated as breeding stock,
genetic, who the hell are these people
I’ve grown up with my whole life
kind of thing,
another,
is the kind you make yourself
through your “thoughts, words and deeds”,
oh, thank god for that one,
the third one, however, is “heaven luck”,
the one that’s been stuck in my mind like an itchy
scab for years, I mean who knows,
I tear down that stupid yellow sheet
and the whole wall collapses,
or worse, I spill coffee, have to take an extra laundry trip
and voila, end up prematurely mortuaryified –
I keep thinking, stalks of wheat
if they could,
would they curse the scythe,
and if our reaper were like a real guy
would I, should we, curse him, thank him,
pity him, is that “cool book” I never read,
the Tibetan book of the dead,
like some kind of etiquette guide
and why is it that every time I pause in my work
I look up and see that “heaven luck” again
and what did I want myself to learn when I put
that damn thing up –
that if I didn’t have bad luck
that I would really
be dead
or dying
from having
no luck
at all …
My most important memory
and the words that seem like magic
no longer whispering unexpectedly
from behind my right ear-
I so wanted to convey to you
without greek myths or
platitudes
the hospital, my seeing you
seeing me -
our first long look of recognition
and the only line of my poem
the taut cord between us
and someone always placing in my hands
a smiling scissors
Everyone says it’s the end of the world
and it’s not the “we’re good guys so we’re outta here
before things get really bad”
christians,
resistance is futile
muslims,
we’re special, really special, chosen people
jews,
or even the rinse and repeat
hindus
who’ve won the contest,
(although Kali might be able to make a convincing case) –
No, you can see it
in the care
reality star doomsday prepper
grandma takes
as she prepares her non-perishable feast
for her self defense students
from the Y,
that it’s the try without trying,
sitting under a tree, no fabricating,
who would a thunk it, underdog,
tortoise crossing
the finish line first -
hey, I see sick and dead people –
winner of all winners -
siddhartha
and we’re all buddhists now
living each moment
in a constant
meditation
on the impermanence
of a flawed
end of the world
universe.
I remember teaching you
how to make
pancakes from scratch,
white flour on your blue shirt,
pants, the counter, the stairs,
go for it, I say
and white dot
the tip
of your nose,
scrambled eggs,
a bit crunchy, of course,
you had to try it
one handed,
just like
your father.
We pack as much as we can,
you searching the house for
whatever it is you feel
you’re leaving behind.
It’s only 2 hours, I say, and
you’ll visit on weekends,
and you have friends
there too.
I remember you
walking away from the car -
I guess you forgot the hug,
how we used to cook breakfast together,
you were probably just
all excited
about school and
whatever else
you expected
to get mixed
up in.
A way with words
Speaking with you I am often
at a loss for it,
the quick flint strike of
cogitation never quite
catching until after the fact
has fled
my spark burning down
the trees
holding the nests
of your thoughts
and oh, how I long for those just
right conversations
after you leave
and I am sitting alone
in the dark
remembering
the almost eskimo kiss
of foreheads,
the buhdda-like
eye slit smiling
hands clutching navels
as if our laughter
might spill out too much
of whatever it is in there
that we came from.
Science fiction
and fantasy
discuss relevant
social issues and mores
from safe distances
choose wisely alien geek
blue boobs or technology
Haiku, we bless you,
Tanka, you're welcome couplets
make it fit just right.
The hero with a thousand faces
All of humanity, he said, shares powerful mythologies
which express themselves throughout history
in our endlessly repeating stories – gilgamesh and enkidu,
the iroquois creation myth, 21st century
sci fi and fantasy …
Otzi, the iceman, and I couldn’t agree more
as we sit on the couch, feet up
watching endless reruns of Buffy the vampire slayer,
chuckles becoming guffaws
as we get progressively more and more drunken,
the awkward silence as we look away from each other
when the mechanical man appears on screen
explaining to the little boy,
eye gears glistening,
that all he ever really wanted
was to go beyond
his programming,
that somehow, someday
he thought
he would have learned
what it meant
to become
a real father
Korean BBQ
Homemade kimchee … Hot!!!
squid, leggy octopus, piles of seasoned
and unseasoned meats
ready to be grilled on the burner in front of you,
soju, crown royal,
never pour for yourself,
always offer to pour for someone else,
you must do it correctly, left hand under your right sleeve,
and never show the bottom of your glass
to an elder or your superior,
it is very, very rude,
Karaoke! – everyone must sing, of course,
pick your song,
kumbae – means bottom ups toast,
oh, you just got a new drink,
that’s too bad,
drink up,
Korean businessmen use drinking as a tool
to determine if a potential business partner
is trustworthy,
you should still be the same person sober
as when you are really, really drunk,
hmmm, it’s bad form to leave so early,
you would not want to do that,
so tell me about your small town
in the midwest,
and how do you like it here
in the big city?
On talk like a pirate day
Said Bill, my dear friends what I fear,
The boss will catch on and then hear
It’s not a stutter
It’s “wench” I mutter
The rest of the days of the year
I spent the morning with myself
no blurring music or babel
to distract
and it was not easy
until I found a rhythm
and comfort in the washing
of my feet,
the casual enlightenment
of inspection -
new hairs sprouting
yet again
in unexpected places,
the past and future
with me, as always,
The April 2012 Um-Yangian Page 1
