Happy Halloween from Inklings!

More "Howloween" Photos :)

"The Dreaded Veggie" - David H.

Dinner time comes, I fear I'll see

the dreaded veggie, a small green pea

That bitter pill will ne'er touch my palate

lest it's mixed with bacon and smashed with a mallet

boiled in water, mixed to a goop

then seasoned just so. Ah! split pea soup!

"Creators" - Megan H.

"The next person I cried for

is that man who used to be

different; that one who prayed

for me," she said like a call

to her mother on Sunday.

"That man over there is next,"

She said again with bigger

gestures, "I've been talking too,

God--I can't sleep anymore."

Curved steam streams poured up from cups

and saucers which glided on

kid-calloused, carafe-shaped hands.

"Decaf, not regular, now,"

said the Matron in reply,

"How's Act IV? Kill off that scum

guy, yet?"

                 "I can't sleep but cry;

I can't breathe but die," six plates

near slipped from her no-break arms,

she read on,"I once was lost,

now found.'" Her play: diff'rent,

and changed from loud first instinct--

those changes from present tense;

drew swipes like bleeding paper

demanding sweat revision.

The Matron broke in, like friends

out to drink coffee, not serve,

"That man over there, you think

he's like your Act IV, you can't

rewrite men, make them Romeo."

Busied to separate tables,

she poured swift hot confidence,

"He's the next person for me,

we made eye contact last round

the next person I cried for,

the one who makes me write poems,

reminds me that I have eyes."

"I have been talking to God,"

she said again, the problems

with change and divine design.

"The next person I cried for

is him!"

      "Why?"

            "Look!"

                  "What?"

                         "Gone."

                               "Good.

good tipper..."

"But he's gone now,"

she sighed, looked and cleaned the glass

waiting for him to return.

I (Katy) love this poem because I feel like I have just wiped the dirt off a window and am watching this little piece of life happen.  The characters feel real and relatable and there is a certain urgency and longing, all of which is created by strong verbage and dialogue.  I also think it shows skill that though this could have turned into a short story, Megan maintains control with a syllabic form and concise, tight images that lead to this beautiful poem.

* Please also check last week's poem by Kathryn H. for a comment from the editors as well.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" - Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Submitted by Martin J.

"For Your Birthday"- Kathryn H.

I'd like to give
     the sound of rain,
     a fleet of ships,
     a Brio train,
     the smell of grass,
     a diamond ring,
     a wisp of smoke,
     an insect's wing,
     a golden hall
     of feasts and light,
     the cool of day,
     the heat of night,
     a shining star
     to guard your sleep,
     or anything
     as grand and deep
as how I feel when I'm with you--
I'm broke, so verse will have to do.


* Our apologies to Katie, to whom we neglected to give our feedback.  We enjoyed the particularity of this poem; that even though it's written for a specific person, it still is interesting for the general reader. It is light and fun, but gives also a window into the depth of the relationship, which shows restraint and mastery.  

"In Michael Robin's class minus one"- Bob Hicok

At the desk where the boy sat, he sees the Chicago River.

It raises its hand.

It asks if a metaphor should burn.

He says fire is the basis for all forms of the mouth.

He asks, why did you fill the boy with your going?

I didn't know a boy had been added to me, the river says.

Would you have given him back if you knew?

I think so, the river says, I have so many boys in me,

       I'm worn out stroking eyes looking up at the day.

Have you written a poem for us? he asks the river,

       and the river reads its poem,

       and the other students tell the river

       it sounds like a poem the boy would have written,

       that they smell the boy's cigarettes

       in the poem, they feel his teeth

       biting the page.

And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses?

       because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream.

They're in a circle and the river says, I've never understood

       round things, why would leaving come back

       to itself?

And a girl makes a kiss with her mouth and leans it

       against the river, and the kiss flows away

       but the river wants it back, the river makes sounds

       to go after the kiss.

And they all make sounds for the river to carry to the boy.

And the river promises to never surrender the boy's shape

       to the ocean.

Submitted by Haley S.

"My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On" - Gerard Manly Hopkins

My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

Charitable; not live this tormented mind

With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

I cast for comfort I can no more get

By groping round my comfortless, than blind

Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find

Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise

You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile

Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile's

not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather - as skies

Betweenpie mountains - lights a lovely mile.

(Submitted by Ben B.)

"Touch Me" - Stanley Kunitz

Summer is late, my heart.

Words plucked out of the air   

some forty years ago

when I was wild with love   

and torn almost in two

scatter like leaves this night   

of whistling wind and rain.   

It is my heart that’s late,

it is my song that’s flown.   

Outdoors all afternoon

under a gunmetal sky

staking my garden down,

I kneeled to the crickets trilling   

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells;   

and like a child again

marveled to hear so clear   

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.   

What makes the engine go?   

Desire, desire, desire.

The longing for the dance   

stirs in the buried life.

One season only,

                        and it’s done.

So let the battered old willow

thrash against the windowpanes   

and the house timbers creak.   

Darling, do you remember

the man you married? Touch me,   

remind me who I am.

(Submitted by Katy R.)

Chicago Sestina - Brian Maloney

I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.

I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes

“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes?
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.

If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.

And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.

Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?

Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.


(Thanks to Chrissie M. for this submission)

Editor's Note

If you are interested, check Martin's poem, "God is in the Details" to view a (new) brief comment from the editors.

Enjoy!

"Poetry" - Katy R.

We ink our paper madly, 

Splotching and staining our way 

To art! To brilliance! To something 

More than these brittle words 

Curling and uncurling like lace 

On the paper, like flower stems 

Twirling up wooden stakes  

And fences, or sidewalk grates 

Reaching for something greater 

Than dirt, roots, sun 

Blooming, always blooming— 

Poetic little things. 

____________________

I (Megan) loved this poem from Katy. Anyone who has spent time trying "splotching and staining" their way to poetry will understand this poetic little thing. And doesn't Katy choose nice words?