re unsubscribing from posts or emails

Just wanted to mention, in particular to "Anonymous" - if you have subscribed to this site and are receiving unwanted emails (especially every time someone comments, as you mentioned in an email to me, and which I don't understand as it's been some time since anyone has commented here) ... In any case, I believe you have to unsubscribe yourself...I don't think it's something I can do from this end. Sorry.

JANIS IAN IS MY MUSE

Almost four decades ago, she brought

“Tea and Sympathy” to my apartment

and stayed long after midnight

because we were both too tired to ride the

Milk train any more – I knew then that

there was another soul inhabiting

space on the planet with whom I felt

truly simpatico, and it would not matter

if we ever met, as long as I had her

writing to see me through, and through

As happens with muses, mine would flit

in and out of consciousness; sometimes her

writing often mirrored my life patterns

so closely I could not stand to listen

and would stack her vinyl out of sight

Until I could not bear its absence – then pull

out “Stars” and “Hunger” and put them on

the turntable, letting both tears and empathy

help my aching heart expose itself to

the light, listening again and again to

“Getting Over You” and “Jesse” and of course

sharing “Tea and Sympathy” once again,

a song that seemed to be our anthem.

Just recently, my muse came to the town

which I now call home and performed

in a smallish theatre with some cafe-style

seating down near the stage – which is where

I was fortunate enough to sit.

Oh my, Janis Ian is every bit as wonderful

as I had hoped—in addition to playing

one of the meanest blues guitars you’re

likely to hear anywhere, and I do mean

anywhere and from anyone,  including

slow-hand Clapton, Jonny Lang, Buddy Guy,

and Jeff Beck ...

In person – she is as gifted a story-teller

as one could wish for; a natural raconteur,

With a self-deprecating way of recounting

anecdotes that fill in bits of her history

that never seems rehearsed or boring ...

I was entranced; and imagine, in her fifties

her voice is clearer, more resonant, strong

and pitch-perfect than ever ...

I purchased her autobiography that night

—customs wouldn't allow her to bring her CD’s

across the border for some reason but the

book was already being sold here —go figure;

I began reading the book that night and could not

put it down, “Society’s Child” is mesmerizing

and held me in its thrall completely

Now, not only is she my muse, she

has vaulted into heroine status as well

As I join her legion of fans that work

within her organization for freedom and

social justice – in fact parts of her activist life

ring so familiar, I'm not sure she and I haven’t

been leading somewhat parallel lives at times;

It’s almost eerie – but in a good way.

The capper to my enthusiastic and continued

embracing of my muse as one of the best,

in all senses of the word was this – when she

realized how disheartened we were that we’d

be unable to buy any of her CD’s at her show,

she made this offer – if we ordered any of her

stuff off her website, all we needed to do was

scrawl “Canada” anywhere on the order form,

and she would see that we got a free

DVD of one of her recent performances –

Buying anything from Ian is a win-win proposition

since a portion of every sale goes to her

Foundation, Pearl, named for her late mother

Well, I did – and she did; not only did she include

the free DVD, she also sent along two signed

guitar picks,  a nice touch, I thought – tokens

I carry everywhere – ready inspiration.

  

Yeah, Janis Ian is definitely my muse

More than once I've tried to deconstruct

one of her songs and rewrite it as a poem

and realized her true brilliance when I

discover just how difficult that task is ...

Right now the song in question is “Shadow”

For she is just someone standing closer to

The sun and I am just the shadow by her side

Yeah – I wish

S.E.Ingraham©

BENEATH THE MIRRORED SURFACE

There is a lake just north of here with magic

Hidden deep beneath its glossy plane

So cleverly disguised is it, one might pass it by

To do so would be sad I guess, not tragic

But a chance missed all the same

To slide inside another world, who would not try

It is after all a lake just, and not at all pelagic

And once discerned the demarcation like a frame

Will pull apart allowing one to slip in and thereby

Entering an upside down town takes adjusting quick

But the enchantment is such you'll be glad you came

In fact it will be hard for you to think of saying good-bye

It's so calming beneath the surface in the town with no name

It's like Atlantis - a place to visit - a place beyond the flame

Samuel Peralta's in charge at dVerse tonight and well worth the visit just for the plethora of info on sonnets and variations on the form (only one of which I've tried to follow with the Trireme sonnet) - he also details some words on ekphrastic poetry, one of my favourite forms and gives a great example using one of his own poems from a new project he's collaborating on...hop on over to dVerse and check it out.

LEONARD COHEN CAME HERE (after Alexandra Leaving)

Unexpectedly the prince of poetry came here

It was as if by wishing it, I had made it so

On stage a seeming apparition, the man he did appear

Replete with all his words, and his beautiful old soul

He stood in spot lit adoration and sang each song

With perfect modest tone and mild aplomb

Was glorious beyond my wildest hopes, all night long

Wrapped us all in warmth and held each one of us in his palm

It was not magic, it was not imagination, it was real

I knew I'd wake the next morning still floating on the sound

It felt as if every time he looked up, each note was just for me to feel

Each song selection picked with me in mind, how easily I was found

And even though I'm sure the rest of the audience thought

That he was singing for them and them alone

I didn't care, let them have their foolishness, if sought

I knew for whom he was there singing; for me, let it go unknown

As shocked as I was that he actually came here

I almost forgot to relax and take the wondrousness of him in

He pours his soul, his heart and all his being into every piece

It was like receiving communion without committing original sin

And spending such a sacred time within that space

Bathed completely by words and sound and spirit of a kind

When on stage, the seeming apparition, the prince of poetry

He played to all of us with inexhaustible verve and brilliance of mind

And even though I'm sure the rest of the audience thought

That he was singing for them and them alone

I didn't care, let them have their foolishness, if sought

I knew for whom he was there singing; for me, let it go unknown

As shocked as I was that he actually came here

I almost forgot to relax and take the wondrousness of him in

He pours his soul, his heart and all his being into every piece

It was like receiving communion without committing original sin

To anyone who is mystified by my adulation

There are no words of mine to justify it more than these

I am in awe and I guess I always will be

Leonard Cohen came here, if you please

Oh yeah - I am in awe and I guess I always will be

My hero Leonard Cohen came here, yes he did, if you please

 (written the day after seeing L.Cohen in concert Nov.19,2012)

                                                                      

JUDGE NOT

In open court, the rancor

Rose like a plume

Bathing all present

With the vitriolic terms

Being tossed liked poisoned darts

Between the plaintiffs

More than once, the judge's gavel

Slammed as his face turned coral

And he demanded order

Called for some civility

Mopped his brow dry

Before scrunching his hankie

Into a ball, shaking his head

Thankfully, incidents as bad as this

Were rare, he thought

Trying to follow the thread

Of the arguments

Wishing he could duck

Below the lectern

to where his open bottle

Of single malt scotch lay

Wondered vaguely how much

Of his term on the bench

Was left ...

A LIFE LIVED FLAGRANTLY

Pieces of your early life fell

into my hands again,  just yesterday

And surprised me so;  such brevity

linked with such candour, still

I had forgotten how courageous

you were inclined  to be

When writing down the memories

from that storehouse

in your mind, that great private

bunker where such personal

things are stowed.

Not for the first time I wondered

whatever  had possessed you

to expose yourself

to the scrutiny of those

Who would eventually see the lines

for what they were; the detailing

of a life lived flagrantly

In defiance of what was expected

by almost everyone

You ever came up against

or with whom you will

most likely have to coexist

for the remainder of your days

To fly in the face of convention,

 Is that what drove you then

 and what drives you still,

 To pen the words

 that crawl across the page

 and seep into the minds

 of all who view them,

 Without most even realizing

 the effect of such seemingly

 innocent notions

 On the psyche and the soul,

 As they peruse your verses,

 Your non-rhyming poems

 that serve to tell the tale

 Without saying much at all,

 But saying all, just the same.

Read between the lines, they said

When first you wrote

I remember the sound of your laughter

And the incredulity in your voice,

'There’s just space there,

What do they think they’ll find…'

At the time, I thought you were kidding;

I searched with the rest,

And there was nothing, as you said.

It wasn't until much later

When I re-read your words;

I think, in fact I know,

It was soon after your brother died

You began to write again;

Your new stuff very different

from what I remembered,

Starker somehow,

And I wanted to compare.

It was as if I’d been given

new eyes, or maybe the years had

Just granted me some 

much needed insight

Along with the inevitable

Gray hairs and experience.

Your words made sense finally,

And I saw how very bare

You’d laid your soul

At this second first glance

You frightened me with your boldness;

I couldn't stand to read very much

of you at once and wondered

How it was that I had been

So misled and blind the real first time

Or if I’d tricked myself on purpose

Not willing to imperil my own sensibilities

To such a raw emotional exposing

of one’s deepest private thoughts

and feelings and essence really;

the very essence of you,

put into words for anyone,

to trace or touch, or roll off the tongue.

I've wondered

if ever you've found yourself

Regretting such revelations

Or if the unburdening

Was as freeing

as you always said it was.

NO FENCES, NOR GOD

Between the many medieval villages

Crumbling walls give way to history

Lost among fields of native grass

And wildflowers beneath the scorch

Of Italia's summer sun baking hard

Once arable land now thirsting so

For a merciful rain not in any forecast

And fences fallen into disrepair are left

To rot, sheep and cattle both, roam

Free - to find water and feed wherever

Possible - or death, which one comes first

It is the fourth or fifth desperate summer

In a row and fences mean nothing nor

Does the idea of farming or ranching

Not down here anyhow - where Christ

Reputedly stopped - Eboli, and south

It is not hard to believe no God comes here.

dreaming the lake mayliewan

bull-rushes all around and swathes

of dry wheat stalks almost obscure

the reflections of the rich owners’

mansions— almost— but tonight

they are mirrored so perfectly

it is as if another group of elaborate

houses lies beneath the calm surface

a surreal Atlantis where I could slip

and enter the fantasy as easily

as entering any other village

the demarcation point where they

meet, a still distinction

it would not be drowning or death

but gentle in the undertow I’d be

taken in the rhythm of the bees