Midsummer moist, midcity malaise until
block party can be heard two blocks away
Grab a sixpack from the fridge and
amble on over, no invite needed
Scrambled egos debating
Elvis vs. Beatles which
morphs into
Beatles vs. Stones
Who’s the host? The entire
block, sweaty from setup and
quenching thirst with first
bottle that passes
Kids and Popsicles, boys
chase girls and some chase
other boys
“Steamed clams up!” shouts
a generously endowed Tejana
Her radio channel is Mexican; it
blares trumpets and voices and
drums, overtaking Mumford & Sons
next door (Mumford’s mom is mellow,
doesn’t seem to mind)
Generosity here, tamales and
samosas, curries and jello,
the United Nations of food
Drinking local microbrews or
sipping red wine in jelly jars;
soda, water, soda water
Everything free and donations
pour in from neighboring blocks
Dancing, commence
Drum circle, all welcome
Serious rhythm, bone deep and
daring anyone to stand still
Swaying to the beat, one kid
picks up a djembe and beats
a scribbled, disjointed pathway
No one tells him to do different
Block party, where police kindly
cordon off the street and some
come in to join the fun
Block party, kind of like a rave
without the pesky Ecstasy
Just noise and sweat and
as they say in Brooklyn:
It ain’t the heat
It’s the humanity
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Joseph at Naming Constellations put up some pieces for ekphrastic poetry last year, and I revisited the prompt. I chose a Pollock, “Autumn Rhythm,” which caught my sense of smell and sound, rather a piece based on synesthesia as much as the ekphrastic prompt. I could immediately hear the drums and laughter, smell the clams in the steamer… This prompt was a feast for all my senses. Thanks, Joseph, and please find more poets answering this prompt HERE.
This can also be found at the hedgelines of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and my poetic block party that never ends, Poets United. Peace and steamed clams, Amy
“Strong Dream” by Paul Klee (1879 – 1940)
Healing the Wounded Womb (an ekphrastic poem*)
Years ago,
the midnight cramps
the passing of the piece
One whole fetus
in the palm of my hand, and
calling the doctor,
was told that, if in fact
the baby was intact,
I should take it to his
office tomorrow.
Sorrow wrapped it in plastic,
stored in the egg cutouts
of the fridge door
(irony thick as blood clots)
‘til morning came
Years later, at an
est Training** (the one
where you couldn’t pee),
I offered up a vision
of a blood red moon
The moon was
that perfect,
imperfect egg;
the red, my womb;
and beneath all
a sheltering golden arm
holding my heart
holding my soul
holding me as I wept
for my long-gone loss
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
*Ekphrastic poems come from studying a painting and creating a poem based on your own impressions. Paul Klee, along with Kandinsky, certain Pollocks, and the Blue Period of Picasso, all favorites. I used to be strictly Impressionist, but then my mind exploded upon seeing some Picassos at the Met Museum of Art in the City. (That would be NYC!) In a single moment, I got it. I also developed a knack for reading Gertrude Stein’s Toklas book and Russell Hoban’s classic, Riddley Walker! Major synapse release, I suppose, and all for the good.
**This is based on (shudder) an attending est (Erhard Seminar Training) a mind- and money-control project cobbled together by a former used-car salesman who changed his name to Werner Erhard. (Who remembers him now? Ah, yes, a much-deserved obscurity for that money-grubbing pseudo-something, although he continues to lecture and has posted all positive reviews from former esties – obviously, he neglected to ask me, but who can blame him? He ripped concepts off from the best… Gibran, the Buddha, the Dalai Lama; as well as the worst, like Wayne Dyer and other then-motivational speakers, creating a synthesis of New Age bullshit and timeless quotes used to his own advantage.
I managed to have one good revelation there, and this Klee reminded me of that… Thanks to Margo Roby’s prompt, which I discovered via Joseph Harker’s Naming Constellations – brilliant blogs, both! Peace, Amy
The amazing Joseph Harker of Naming Constellations asked for a personal hymn (or hymns), starting with something we have never heard a hymn written about… it’s a long prompt, so check it out HERE. These are the fruits of my labors, my three hymns in the heart of a Sunday night. I will also post this on Tuesday at dverse Open Mic Night and at Poets United. Thanks again, Joseph. Peace, Amy
Hymn to Her
Trapped in the overgrown patch
called my garden. Titan prairie grasses
tickle the screens, engulf potted plants.
I, the prairie avenger, armed with
scissors, hacksaw, kneepads, and gloves
shape, tame, make symmetry of chaos
forgetting that grasses once ran wild here
long before my aim of a forced, polite posyland.
Blessed are those who walk in Her overgrown path.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Shrine
This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine
A framed reproduction of Kinkaide’s kitschy two-story clapboard
in muted tones, Photoshopped with images of prostitutes. The
ice cream truck parked out front says “Gone Fishing”;
silhouetted against a shade, Mr. Softee is obviously hard.
This is my shrine
It’s wholly mine
This may seem odd for inclusion in my confusion of a
work space, but, with other talisman… a rainbow glass fish,
pads and pencils, Riley at seven – little hippie in Lennon glasses,
all these stir my imagination, invite the spirit in to dwell within
this sinner.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Give Me But One Chance
Give me but one chance
to teach another to dance
To look upon others
not as “them” but as brothers
Give me a servant’s hands
fulfilling needs, not commands
Help me to hold close those
whose ribs I can feel ‘neath clothes
Keep me awake, aware
to go where others never dare
Keep me just off kilter
so I possess no societal filter
And thus remind all humankind
our common threads are the ties that bind
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
GOTTA GO!
Gotta go now
Wanna sing but day job pays bills
Run to catch the ‘bway
Pressed against other cogs in the car
We’re a movable beast
You can taste the air in here
and that ain’t a good thing
Gotta hurry up
Stop by coffee shop, grab a bialy and
some hot dark that speeds through veins
and makes brains go pop
In my cube 7 x 7
Hamster Heaven but Human Hell
Gotta run to help fix the copier
Maintenance can’t reach the tricky places
My fingers are nimble
I can take apart anything and I
joke with the guys and let them see some leg
as I crawl on the floor doing their job
I make soul-sucking misery look fun
Gotta go home to my wretched box
So square even the wallpaper is plaid
Swear to god it’s plaid
Gig tonight, no pay but exPOSURE
Pose in the mirror, pouty pretty
Gotta get to the gig
Back on the ‘bway downtown
This city is laid out in perfect lines
The A, B, C
The 1, 2, 3
The RR, bastard child of the rest
Follow the tic-tacs to find
a place to be, to become, to behave
but still believe it’s lasted
as long as it has
Here in the Gotham Game
Gotta go again
Shouldn’t’a drunk so much water
Surviving the City is easy
as long as you graph the clean bathrooms
on your mental map
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Joseph Harker’s “Naming Constellations,” an ekphrastic poem (written to an image or inspired by same). I chose the Piet Mondrian piece, “Broadway Boogie,” but to tell the truth, I didn’t notice the name before I wrote this – I picked the image because it made me nervous, and that reminded me about deadlines and there was also a resemblance to subway maps! So there you go. Thanks, Joseph; you’re an inspiration even when you don’t throw us a prompt. (This is also in the “ticker tape” of poems at Poets United.)
Two notes: The ‘bway’ is not Broadway; it’s our old nickname for the subway (or the tube, for my European friends). The City is always and forever New York; no real New Yorker would ever refer to it as The Big Apple, either – unless you’re a surviving vaudevillian, for whom that expression had true meaning, because playing New York City was indeed getting a bite of the “big apple.” Bit of history for you!
The painting is a low-resolution image and is in no way fully representative of the original piece. Mondrian, a superb talent; this is meant in tribute to his work, not a “snatch and grab.” Peace, Amy
All of us who know Joseph Harker and read his work are impressed. Floored. Gobsmacked. Delighted. Pick a positive adjective and it fits, including “horny”! His pen name fascinates me; I believe “Harker” must come from Mary Shelley, which pleases me no end. I love her work. Much of Joseph’s work could translate into other times, and so my poem reflects how I imagine him, having never seen him.
I had promised J. a poem for his birthday BUT then that manhole cover was put on top of my head and gravity, oy, gravity… in other words, depression set in and I was unable to write. I wrote this BEFORE the depression. THAT’S how depressed I was; I didn’t even post it.
This form might be a snowball or an etheree, except I believe those are based on syllables, not words. So this may be an Amyball or an etherbarlow, I’m not sure. (Viv will tell me!) So, without further adieu, may I present the inimitable…
Joseph Harker (belated birthday present)
Joseph
Mister Harker
No other wordsmith
can cast his spell
Weaving phrases like spun glass
Each syllable carefully and lovingly considered
Attention to form, his style, so graceful
It takes a kind heart to create art
I can see him, slouched at his rolltop desk
Quill, inkwell, and parchment in place; he conjures a sonnet
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
(Also on my poetic hearthstone, Poets United)
Sharp Little Pencil 