Jack & Adelle Foley

THE SKELETON'S DEFENSE OF CARNALITY

Truly I have lost weight, I have

lost weight,

grown lean in love's defense,

in love's defense grown grave.

It was concupiscence

that brought me to the state:

all bone and a bit of skin

to keep the bone within.

Flesh is no heavy burden

for one possessed of little

and accustomed to its loss.

I lean to love

which leaves me lean

till lean turn into lack.

A wanton bone

I sing my song

and travel where the bone is blown

and extricate true love from lust

as any man of wisdom must.

Then wherefore should I rage

against this pilgrimage

from gravel unto gravel.

Circuitous, I travel

from love to lack

and lack to lack,

from lean to lack

and back.

Jack: Short Poems

LOST IN PLACE

lost in place

            (In a time)

lost where there

            (Of crisis)

should be

            (People must)

comfort not

            (Band together)

loss

            (And hope)

lost

            (To better)

where

            (Their state)

“ignorant

            (By communal)

armies”

            (Action)

lost

            (Without such)

neither

            (Action)

here

            (There is a tendency)

nor

            (To sense)

there

            (The self as)

lost

            (Lost)

where I am mis-

            (The individual)

placed

            (Can do nothing)

where I do not

            (But there is no)

thrive

            (Guarantee)

learning

            (That the group)

to live

            (Will not be)

lost

            (...Lost)           

                   TWO SIDE BY SIDE

I lived with guilt                         the antiquing of my visage
     O body hiero                               you’re not worth
A little animal                             noted in photo and video
    you capture your craft                  the powder
That gnawed at me                   if not in mirror
     & your clevercoined cart              to blow you up
Was never minimal                    tells me of the possibility
     in 24 / sec                                  you’re not worth it
And often maximal                    of death
     “Effect” is “Affect”                      not worth the power-
I shouted TILT                           the antiquing of my visage
     & all’s Effective:                          ful powder that could
But nothing turned                    noted in photos, videos
     Electric!                                      blow you up
For it was guilt                           but not in mirrors
     Multiple Enyas                      you
In which I burned                      tells me of the possibility
     sing thy way                              you’re not worth it
Guilt was the animal                  that I shall die
     back to the Mamawave:            not worth it at all
That took my animus                 that I shall not escape
     Onto the guiltless water…         not worth powder
And all my animosity…               antiquity
     Journey’s Joy!                           not worth the powder
                                                  that I should not be anti

                                                     that could

                                       death
                                           blow you up
                                       which is a natural thing
                                           oh you
                                       for everyone
                                          you’re not worth powder
                                       but me
                                           oh you
                                       the antiquing of my visage
                                            not worth it
                                       noted in photo and video
                                            not worth
                                       (unseen in mirror)
                                            worthless you
                                      gives me evidence
                                             you’re not worth the powder
                                      of how my looks
                                            to blow you
                                      are lies
                                            up

                                            to blow you
                                             up

(2010)

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BUKOWSKI

I wrote this poem in response to a poem in Charles Bukowski’s book, Mockingbird, Wish Me Luck. The words in the first, third, fifth, etc. lines are Bukowski’s poem;  the words in italics are by me.  When I perform the poem, I speak the Bukowski portion in my “normal” voice; I speak the words by me in a whisper. I call this way of responding to a poem “writing between the lines."

the mockingbird had been following the cat
there was this cat
all summer
and I only saw him
mocking mocking mocking
once
teasing and cocksure;
when he gave a
the cat crawled under rockers on porches
reading
tail flashing
and burped
and said something angry to the mockingbird
at the audience
which I didn’t understand.

yesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway
and he read this poem
with the mockingbird alive in its mouth,
about a cat
wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping,
and a bird
feathers parted like a woman’s legs,
and he was both
and the bird was no longer mocking,
the cat and
it was asking, it was praying
the bird
but the cat
and he was devouring
striding down through centuries
himself
would not listen.
through the poem.

I saw it crawl under a yellow car
And I listened
with the bird
letting him die
to bargain it to another place.

summer was over.
Bukowski.

____________________________________________

 

fromLETTERS

dedicated to the sixth Marx Brother: Typo

 

from a notebook:

 

a waking dream.

Someone (me, not me) on a rooftop. Being chased?

   Crowds. The man’s friends, below, holding a

net which looks like an awning, urge him.

Tremendous distance!

The man jumps!—he misses the awning.

I remark (it is remarked to me): he didn’t check

    which way the wind was blowing.

 

 

if there is any truth at all (there is)

it is the greeks I blame

the lines in which

      speech takes place

& Melville did

                                   no chance to take away

does not change

                                     the sun was done with her

and the meeting-edge, the

                                       off-shoot culture

      a place called Pueblo

noting what you have noted

                                             bone muscle nerve brain blood

definition & expression of it

                                          reindeer language permits

           in his last poem

to the women who are buried in England

 

               a wajubq dreanL

    sineibe Oone.bit neOOib a riiftioOObeubg cgased.

       Criwds   the man’s friends bekiw

          gikdubg a bet kiijs kuje ab wawbubg’greeb

                                 tremendous distance

yrge

      urge him

 

                                 to kilowatts

 

it is not done yet

                              figure on this (as so many things)

the rain jumps

the man jumps

historic fiction with a bearing

                                                in Latin lettering

the story contains

                             any account of

naturally divides itself

                                    the

dawn in a period when no dawn is possible

 

rare    blue    and green unknown

 

          _____________________________

 

the page is not the

                               natural dividing point

                                

(1974)

 

________________________________________________________________

 

 

PORTRAIT AT SIXTY

for Anthony Holdsworth & Leonard Breger

 

This man looks out at me

eyes full of interest and perhaps suffering

whatever he looks at registered on his face

It was not the actual circumstance the artist painted—

me, posed, at ease, happy to be with an interesting friend—

but something “other” which only he saw

and which makes me look over and over again to see what it was

Is that me?—that whirl of light in which red (fire) predominates?

It is only the sun reflected on my forehead

but perhaps the artist sees me as the sun—

Apollo? The poet?

The artist is my friend,

but it is not our friendship which is reflected here

but some inward, powerful thing

which manifests even in these public circumstances—

a café, a little table, my glass before me.

It is a gloss

I guess at.

Does he know, does the artist

or was my face a passageway

into an underground

in which he was as lost as I?

It is vivid life

I look at with such intensity

and which looks back at me,

life neither “in” me nor “in” him

but something shared with the sun,

life all around, in my glass, in the lamppost behind me,

life insisting on its own facticity, its utter presence

so we cannot look away

but stare

into this heart.

“I’ll paint you so you’ll know what you really look like,”

said the artist, smiling.

What he painted was not “what I really looked like”—

though everyone says, “It looks just like you”—

but something like the real

something like life itself

leaping and dancing.

When I hung the painting,

I put it in a place

where the light shines

deeply.

 

_______________________________________________________

 

 FOR NORMAN GOLDSTEIN 1925-1994

 

 

Grown accustomed to elegy

in this rainy weather,

I think about your warmth and dry wit,

the way you could say "woo woo"

and make it funny and pertinent at the same time,

the jokes you spoke to waitresses

with your smile and beard,

reminding me that the word "satire" comes from "satyr."           

I rented The Secret Life of Plants

so I could see you in it

What can I rent now to see you as you are

"Is it really you or did I get an especially good recording?"

I was not easy to reach by telephone

"Shall we dim sum it?"

And we did

often at your expense

"How about that Japanese place in Montclair?"

The secret of your life was food and wonderful talk

You knew much and always took the risk of learning more

You loved:

the American Movie Channel, Bravo, and musical comedies

Now when I hear again Kurt Weill and Gershwin I will

          remember you and your kindnesses

"I've got it, I'll record it for you"

"Lou Harrison–yes, I knew him in the old days."

You knew Duncan and Varda too, and you put on a poetry reading

 Mais c'est un rêve

 you would recognize that I think

               une folie                                                                     

    It's a dream a

                       madness

               Il n'y a pas                                            

                       There's no such place

                          de Youkali

                          as Youkali

            But it's a dream

                        a fantasy        

            There's no such place

                           as Youkali

  And now,

                        dear Norman,

  there's no you either

  In that near, far, totally other place

  what lunches will you have?  what companions?

  I can say anything to you

  and know you will understand me

  with that thoughtful, intelligent, witty, compassionate, Buddhist mind of yours

  (and is that scattered?)

  You chose the moment of your death with courage and determination

 "It's enough," you said, "enough"

  There is a restaurant in Montclair

  where I will have lunch

  and hope your spirit

   comes to me

   All lives are secret

  or, as you might have said, loving puns,

                                    sacred

  It's not a dream

            We lose those we love

                but we love

                        anyway

________________________________________________________

 

LINES FROM FRAGMENTS 

 

pour un
qui croit pas (comme moi)
c’est pas une question du “bon” dieu
mais simplement
du “non” dieu

 

O non dieu
A Toi nous crions
et Tu réponds toujours
avec le même
silence
profonde

O non dieu
je ne Te vois
et je ne
T’entends

 

Amitiés

 

J

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

FORTY TIMES FOR FORTY YEARS: AN ANNIVERSARY POEM FOR MY WIFE, ADELLE

forty lines, each line a speaking of her name

 

Forty years? what are they? dust

memories

“I think I’ll get married,” someone said

when I was young, “it’d be a cool way to spend a year”

It wasn’t, for her.

Forty years. Who is married that long

except someone’s parents?—

a couple cordial enough

but hardly real.

If I remember,

you are always there

except for my very earliest life

I have a friend

with no marital history

no history of “relationships”:

he remains in rapt wonder before his childhood

My own history

is a violent severance

of the child—

and then you

You held your hands out to me before I knew the need

Without knowing, you kept my imagination

clear and in the world

You gave me a son

who has grown

into a loving intelligent man

No one can tell my life

without telling yours

No one can say my name

without adding yours as well

What are the throbbing intricate ways of love?

We barely know, nor should we

It flings us here and there

It opens us.

In all this clamor,

in the rubble of my affections and my grief

I say your name, “Adelle”

and say it

forty times

for forty years.