Category: A Daily Poem

(Poem #143 on new numbering scheme)

Two cats discussed solitude
across gulfs of feline mood.
The one suggested, "Look here,
without fear." The other mewed.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #142 on new numbering scheme)

I excavated a hole
pushing the earth, like a mole.
And there I buried my brain.
With rain, I might grow a soul.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #141 on new numbering scheme)

For now, exquisite disgust
sketches out my doubts and must
indicate the neglect felt
where I knelt in spinning dust.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #140 on new numbering scheme)

Try something. Open your head.
Find some ghosts. Talk to the dead.
Let apophenic meaning
come screaming through what they said.

– an englyn cyrch
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #139 on new numbering scheme)

Two AM, and I can't sleep -
Thinking stuff, and it feels deep.
But it's not - just wasting time.
The climb out is very steep.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #137 on new numbering scheme)

The struggle with gravity,
with the strange concavity
of spacetime, is blamed on splines
and Einstein's depravity.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #136 on new numbering scheme)

Dead leaves caught on a street grate
trace an unspeakable fate
on a moment so bitter
the winter wind tastes like slate.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #135 on new numbering scheme)

I worry about small things. Peace of mind
is hard to find. Doubtings
unfold, like coils or springs.
A clockwork beetle grows wings.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #134 on new numbering scheme)

Deciduous dawn redwoods
shed their needles so they could
make small piles on the sidewalks
and blocks of my neighborhood.

– an englyn cyrch

(Poem #133 on new numbering scheme)

I grow weary of oatmeal:
its amorphousness, surreal,
brooding in its little bowl
its sole purpose, to congeal.

– an englyn cyrch

[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #132 on new numbering scheme)

"Give us the alligator!" they tell me.
I say, "Maybe later."
"Teacher, you mean dictator!"
Those kids, procrastinators!

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #131 on new numbering scheme)

About the rains in Mahhal, you might say
most every day it falls;
Beneath the constant gray pall,
into your sad soul it crawls.

– an englyn unodl union about a fictional place, written by a fictional person

(Poem #130 on new numbering scheme)

A conspiracy of ants debated,
congregated, danced.
Some crickets sang in a trance,
but the sun spared not a glance.
The Californian earth cried, desperate
for rain or wet, but sighed
resigned to hot wind that dried
the trees and grass. The hills died.

– a pair of englyn unodl union (caveat: this poem not reflective of the current weather outside).

(Poem #129 on new numbering scheme)

The mirror was reticent. It refused
to be confused, intent
on atmospherics, my bent
face, the missing hair, silent.

– an englyn of indeterminate form

(Poem #128 on new numbering scheme)

A little fragment of art, seen walking:
a face talking, a part
of a skull - below, a heart.
Modern? Anyway, a start.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #127 on new numbering scheme)

Winter is a guileless thing. December
can't remember thinking
about constraints: No inkling
of glad rain or birds that sing.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #126 on new numbering scheme)

The tree was standing its ground; the wind blew.
Broken leaves flew around.
Branches wavered without sound.
It all seemed nothing profound.

– an englyn unodl union

(Poem #125 on new numbering scheme)

I got home from work at last - feeling numb.
There were some clouds amassed.
The hazy sky, overcast,
allowed the dull sunlight past.

– this is an englyn unodl union
[daily log: walking, 6.5km]

(Poem #124 on new numbering scheme)

I had a student who said, "I like cats."
Grinning, she sat, with tilted head.
"I think they're cute," she added.

– an englyn

(Poem #123 on new numbering scheme)

A box lies on the sidewalk. Wind, in gusts,
sighs, grasps and thrusts, starts to talk.
The box, deaf, can only balk.

– an englyn penfyr

(Poem #122 on new numbering scheme)

I like to argue semantics, it is fun.
The thoughts will run, do antics;
then it all falls down like sticks.

– an englyn penfyr

(Poem #121 on new numbering scheme)

Three students said they hate me, just today.
That's what they say, to feel free
from the stresses of study.
Another student, leaving, left a note:
"For years," she wrote. "Your teaching
gave me a gift of meaning."

– more englynion penfyr. Note that the student’s quote is invented – no Korean ESL student writes in poetic forms – but I did receive a note with this type of message.

(Poem #120 on new numbering scheme)

Clustered red and brownish-gold - these last leaves
fall; the world grieves, growing cold;
then I begin to feel old.

– an englyn penfyr

(Poem #119 on new numbering scheme)

Poetry is about nothing except...
itself. Precepts be damned. No.
Things speak in their moment. No.

– another englyn penfyr. I kind of broke the caesura rule, though, in the first line. I’ll get the hang of it…

(Poem #118 on new numbering scheme)

Dream feeling: being held down, like a moth,
pinned, rendered slothful. Look: brown,
piled leaves. So I wait. I frown.

The above is a syllabic poetic form called an englyn penfyr, a type of englyn, which is Welsh in origin but also written in English, historically, by poets with Welsh connections, such as W.H. Auden or Dylan Thomas.

I have decided this is the new poetic form I shall pursue obsessively, in sequel to my 99 nonnets. As best I can tell, I have posted 8 englynion previously on this blog, so this would be number 9. Englynion are not, typically, restricted to single stanzas – although they may be, too. However, for purposes of counting, I shall count each stanza separately, as it will help me to feel more prolific should I pursue enchained, longer poems.

[daily log: walking, 7km]