Word Garden Word List--George Hitchcock

 

Hello poets, and welcome to the new and improved yet old-fashioned Word List, now with more Friday! Nobody seemed to be coming by mid-week, leaving the Word List lonely and mopey, so now it has new permanent digs--it will appear from now on on Friday afternoons. 

This week's List is taken entirely from a slim volume of poetry entitled The Piano Under The Skin by George Hitchcock. It's an amazing collection. Here's a sample, called On the Edge:

you're on the threshold he said

take the knife and cut the river

loose from its mooring put away

that syllabus you're on your own

all the monuments have been recited

too often it's time to trim

their beards and slaughter

their stone horses and what is

this tiny cyst in the middle

of the last crusade?

George Hitchcock (1914-2010) was a jack of all trades--an actor, poet, labor activist, publisher and playwright. The volume I have taken your List words from is from 1978. What we do here is to take at least 3 of the 20 words provided and use them in a new original poem. Then just link up, visit others, and marvel at your own incredible virtuosity! And now, your List:

butter

cicada

cinders

confetti

consumptive

exploded

fractions

geysers

gibbering

gong

lions

mandolin

mask

masquerading

pagoda

plumed

revolver

scaffold

syllabus

wag

The Mandolin, the Bouzouki, and the Oud

 

As we mount the scaffold

(and when

have we not been climbing?

when?)

let there be 

the marvelous kiss of a lively mandolin.

the wry, sensual bouzouki

or

at least, 

the mournful deep pool of the oud.

Let the hangman arrive

on a plumed black Arabian,

the doula with her arms around his belly.

(and when

have they not been so entwined?

when?)

Let her feed him Greek Easter bread from her fingers

with blackberry jam

and churned butter.

There is no word for him 

or us

to say.

Allow him these joys before his task.

Let there be wags

irreverent, wearing bright smocks.

(and when

have they not appeared costumed this way?

when?)

let them tell jokes and ribald stories

so that we might forget our aching knees and hearts.

Let them tilt back their heads 

lifting geysers of Athiri wine up to God

alone in His white pagoda.

Let the blind boy in his dusty thawb 

hand us grapes 

as we ascend.

Let him strike the gong 

announcing our circular travels.

(and when

have we ever left these stairs, even in dreams?

when?)

Let a young woman lead a gray donkey

peacefully across the streets we leave behind.

Let the sky be almost clear and blue

but for one cloud, one bird,

and one sun unblinking.

Let the rope be strong and well tested.

Let the holy man sleep,

his book falling from his lap like a restless child.

Let our memories 

explode like confetti,

and sleep like lions.

Goodbye, the world will say

and then again, always again,

Hello.

_______

for Word Garden Word List--George Hitchcock

and The Sunday Muse #245.

Music: Zorba's Dance-Sirtaki

Message

 The Word List is moving to Friday. No one comes by before the weekend so I am moving it. I will post some time Friday afternoons instead of Wednesdays. 

Visions of Code-y

 

Sitting in a coffee bar, I was hit on by a Kerouac simulation.

I am the nightbird genius mix, said FauxJack,

clearly hopped up on lollipops. 

Do tell, said I. 

So babe, what's on your emotional jukebox?

Some kind of dubious doo-wah Dada bop?

Maybe.

You're like smoke, there's rise in your eyes.

And you try too hard.

Auughh! Gutshot, right in the LOLcode. Want me to fade?

No, as a matter of fat, I've read all your graphic novels, FakeJay.

You're a real Ker-Ker-Karma Chameleon.

They call me Cat George, mama. Imma thicc throwback skellychaser!

You don't say.

Don't armadillo me, hard candy. 

This is love-a-rooni, jive jazz Nirvanaville, hep kitty.

Hep. Oh, I like that.

The double yellow asphalt ribbon is callin', Gypsy Rose.

To-go that java and jump immediate!

You're on, daddy.

Ergo the ersatz ecstasy, holo-hipster. 

Aw Athena, now you're blowin' a sweet riff! 

That's me, Riff Tin Tin. Awoooooooo!

You are off the leash! 

Faux man go. Let's split before the squares hack your dome, Jack.

____________

for Word Garden Word List--Janis Ian. 

Music: Eddie Harris Sham Time

Word Garden Word List--Janis Ian

 

Hello friends, and welcome to this week's List! There is a book of poems I bought for a buck and a quarter used (it was a whopping dollar ninety-five new) when I was just in high school. It has traveled with me from my childhood bedroom to every place I have gone since, and I have it still. It's Who Really Cares by Janis Ian. My copy has a bright green cover with just the title in black, but newer editions have her picture and the addendum "childhood poems." Fair enough. I was a childhood fan.

The back cover of my copy has a picture of her wearing a hat I liked so much that I looked until I found one just like it and bought it. Fangirl much, Shay? Oh yeah. Here is a snippet from one of the poems in the aforementioned collection; it's the end of a piece called Poems For The Young Psychologist.

we were eating when daddy came

home from a long tiring day and

started complaining how come the

food wasnt hot and the

house was all dirty and he

turned to me and

opened up his mouth and

i said

dont take your frustrations out on me

baby

Those who know me will surely be mystified why I liked such stuff. *cough* 

Janis Ian is, of course, most well-known for her music. Three of the words on this week's List are taken--one each--from the songs Society's Child, At Seventeen, and Boots Like Emmylou's.  The rest are taken from her book Who Really Cares. 

What we do here is to take at least 3 of the 20 words provided and use them in a new original poem of our own, Then just link up, visit others, and adopt an air of sweet accomplishment that will surely attract money, mates, and mysterious boons your way. Enjoy.

And now, your List:

absurd

anymore

armadillo

boots

dubious

formal

genius

interfere

jukebox

Kerouac

mix

nightbird

ribbon

simulated

smoke

soap

society

starched

superstar

train

Snowblind Jane

 

I have thought of the gray cat for years now,

though the gray cat thinks of me

no more than a gray cloud would,

or a window pane,

or a key chain.

I leave my life in a dish for the gray cat to find,

but the gray cat is gone

like yesterday's breath.

Who knew I could hurt like this?

If I drop the dish, it doesn't even shatter.

The gray cat's main concern is the moon

and garbage and gray cats and food.

I was sick once,

and became more beautiful.

The fever fell in love with me, poor thing.

Outside myself at last, I hover,

asking what's wrong.

"Bring me my gray cat," I whisper, crying like a child.

Other Me laughs,

says you'll never come back

and were never gray,

                           never gray,

                                      never gray,

but black, dear, black.

______

shared with Sunday Muse #243. 

image at top by Jocelin Carmes

music: Once Blue Now That I've Disappeared

American Girl In Euro Kicks

 

After midnight on the narrow street

high on a memory magnolia sweet

like a magnet where you don't belong

smiling lady sings a lonesome song

Across the plaza, under the bridge

where the cognoscenti live

down where a butterfly becomes a dove

what in the devil are you thinking of?

No mashed potato, no lime and gin

where the crows get black

sleep on the foxglove, dream of a peach

on a honey stack.

Hands like a swan's wing, feet like a hoof

slip the landlord, sleep on the roof

and in the morning, fleece the mark

mix with the rando's who live in the park

No chocolate candies, no baseball game

where the crows count six

collect the cats eyes, call off the dogs

keep the licorice sticks.

______

for Word Garden Word List--William Wordsworth