Larry Lies

[larryrap]

14th – Notes Towards Meeting the Other

Our rise was a fall,
a disorder of greed.
The air we exhale
is polluted with pride.

Such a culture should rot
in a pustular hole
where bibles of hate
damn each other to hell.

To conclude my report
on their trans-local customs,
their anger and hurt
as they drop through our system,

We'll take every measure
to level the sun
with the moon. Full disclosure:
I'm married to one.

[larryrap]

15th – Early to Bed

As exhaustion turns our arms to anchors
and a vacancy sign is hung up in our eyes
in the skinny hour
when all children are twins

let's bury our phones
and ignore the drone's circuit,
warm in the patch
where everything grows

and before sleeps detains us
let's tumble like seals,
surprising the deep
with small packets of sky.

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Never having seen Hair, I may be missing some nuances.I can read the ending in more than one way -- optimistic or pessimistic. That which does not last may be the state of Israel, or it may be attitudes of the people who have "scant intention to let the sunshine in". The ambiguity works well for me.

Notes Towards Meeting the Other: The end changes this for me and makes it much more interesting. I started reading it as political/enviornmental poem, but the ending makes me read it as about the "other" in the widest sense, so that in a way the political/environmental becomes a metaphor for the interpersonal, or the intent is to show that one parallels the other, (alternatively it's late and I'm completely misreading this!). Nice subtle slant rhymes too.

Early to bed "in the skinny hour / when all children are twins" was a stand out for me; a lovely moment that teeters on the edge of sense, but still seem to work: The last six lines are lovely too.

Half-way through! Keep em coming.

- Matt

[Steven]

As exhaustion turns our arms to anchors

That's a darned good line. Rest of the poem follows suit, as well.

The almost rhymes get across a growing tiredness (phones/grows, anchors/hour), too - not sure if it was intentional. Much enjoyed reading them over. enjoying the sounds.

[larryrap]

Thanks Matt for returning, and for assuming I'm actually in control.
Steven, thanks for visiting, I'm glad you enjoyed.

[larryrap]

16th – Run, My Child

In a bayonet forest, under a spotlight of rain
..........they will find you

In a mannequin street, submerged by torsos,
..........they will find you

Behind history's false door, by the creak of your knees
..........they will find you

In the shopping mall, with your bursting bag of loaves
..........they will find you

In the ministry of glasses behind dignity
..........they will find you

In celebration when you fabricate a smile
..........they will find you

Far up sleep, at the checkpoint between dreams
..........they will find you

Here in your mother's broken arms
..........they will find you

And when they find you,
..........remember who you are.

..............– Holocaust Memorial Day, April 2015

[larryrap]

17th – Aladdin's Cave

I'm given a cart and fifteen minutes
to choose the one big thing that I desire
and there is no time to wonder how I arrived at this position
which saints and holy men have faltered at –
a buzzer has sounded
and huge numbers are expiring overhead.

Of course this is no regular department store
but a mind which unfolds as you enter
revealing new departments, arabesques of intricate display,
indoor gardens of every description,
a towering lobby where you rise
just by imagining a higher floor.

Others charge by with an NDE flush
hugging bulky packages,
rushing towards the finishing line,
but I stumble forwards in escalating frustration
just to stall in the middle of an Eden-themed food court,
breathless and unable to decide.

Now cameras zoom in and TIME OVER flashes in my face
and I'm rushed in lapsed time to an ordinary door
which deposits me on the sidewalk again
where you wait, familiar in the airless afternoon,
crying, Isn't loving me what you wanted,
what you really wanted?

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hi Larry,

You may not be in control, but you're going still going strong. Possibly stronger even.

Run, my child. Some great lines and images here too: "In a mannequin street, submerged by torsos" is fantastic. Other favourites: "In celebration when you fabricate a smile" and "at the checkpoint between dreams". The break in the pattern in the last stanza is very effective.

Aladdin's Cave is one of my favourites of your thread so far. I've just reread it and I still don't have anything intelligent to say about it. Great opening, and the middle and end are just as good. Loved it.

-Matt

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

16th – Run, My Child

In a bayonet forest, under a spotlight of rain
..........they will find you

In a mannequin street, submerged by torsos,
..........they will find you

Behind history's false door, by the creak of your knees
..........they will find you

In the shopping mall, with your bursting bag of loaves
..........they will find you

In the ministry of glasses behind dignity
..........they will find you

In celebration when you fabricate a smile
..........they will find you

Far up sleep, at the checkpoint between dreams
..........they will find you

Here in your mother's broken arms
..........they will find you

And when they find you,
..........remember who you are.

..............– Holocaust Memorial Day, April 2015

I wish I could have written this. Brilliant. Love the form, and the breaking (or completion of the form) at the end.

The use of the repetend is a bit like a ghazal, which is a form I am not crazy about, but this transcends and transforms the usage, in at least two ways that recommend the poem to me.

1) The ghazal keeps up the repetend all the way through. Here, you do a reversal and change things at the end, providing an interesting twist.
2) The attitude is outward, not inward. Where the ghazal usually has a deliberately self-referential conclusion, this does the reverse again, and addresses itself to "you", not the poet (though the speaker might be included in that "you", as part of a universal plural "you").

Very nicely done.

BrianIs AtYou

[Julie]

Some thoughts:

"My job was to jingle the wind into words" and "to salvage a song from the Babel of birds" both worked really well for me.

"After the deformed come the horribly deformed" !!

"I later discovered the husk of a moth/torn in his window,/a letter from the battered night." This blows me away. Beautiful.

"Easter Weekend" is extremely strong. The whole of it.

The first and last lines of "Why I Left" are currently outstripping what's between them, but they are so strong.

"Collected Poems" has such a killer close.

Very much enjoyed everything I read!

[larryrap]

Hey Matt, Brian, Julie,

Thank you for a satisfied feeling I doubt I deserve, but enjoy nonetheless.

[larryrap]

18th – When We Stood Tall

We buried our guns
the training tools of our rulers
the tanks the rifles plastic soldiers swords grenades,
threw them in a casket
and carried them in full ceremony
with a thousand children in procession
crying for their toys
down catcalls through Veteran's Park
to the only grave we were happy to sweat for
and it was a wonderful day, a blessing unveiled,
the colors indelible, the air solid as stairs
as though we had not only cleansed our bedrooms
but flushed a poison that had clawed at our breath
and we could see our children's children on a day much like this
speaking softly with nothing to atone for –
but we didn't dig deep enough
or didn't bury them all
for our children are grown and changed for the worse
stockpiling rations to outlast a foreseeable rage
and we wonder if we were wrong to trust our elation
or wrong in some deadlier way still difficult to trace
and perhaps it would have been better had it ended that day
with ourselves in that grave and the earth pulled around us
while the musicians played.

[Rik Roots]

Non-judgmentally I'm gonna throw glitter-fluff towards The Detour, Stump City, (especially) The Great Extinction, and (loving) Early to Bed.

Keep trucking innit!

[larryrap]

Hi Rik, Good to see you too!

[larryrap]

19th – The Musicians are Leaving

They would arrive like the seasons to help us mourn
or ease along a marriage
or turn our drink to dance,
sang of women and lands until we no longer knew
if our life had been ours or was it their song
that had blown through the rooms of our dying.

Now they are rarely seen, and at a distance,
receding over hills, or glowering across a ravine,
disheveled bands of four or five, their instruments at their sides,
and we often find carved flutes, bags of pebbles and shells,
pairs of sticks and painted skulls
blackened by fire and left behind.

Sometimes a snatch of small notes still flutters by,
twisted flat and swallowed by the wind
and the old among us wonder
if they will be back or like the bees
we have outlived them, outgrown our need
to suffer the music, the music and the honey.