ROUGH-HEWN: Lyric Poems & Haikus By Rick Doble

ROUGH-HEWN:Lyric Poems & Haikus

by Rick Doble

Atlas captive -- unfinished sculpture -- by Michaelangelo

Copyright © 2015 Rick DobleAll rights reserved.

All photographs are from commons.wikimedia.org.

TABLE OF CONTENTSINTRODUCTION......................................................2

LYRIC POETRY......................................................3

ROUGH-HEWN........................................................4

TV DREAMS.........................................................7

THE END OF THE WORLD MAY 21 :)....................................9

ATOMIC BABIES....................................................10

THERE IS A TIGER UNDER MY BED....................................12

THE BIRTH OF VENUS...............................................14

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMS...........................................16

IN THE RAIN......................................................17

DO YOU LOVE ME?..................................................19

TEARS............................................................22

ADVICE...........................................................24

IN THE DEPTHS....................................................25

REMEMBERING......................................................28

YOUR GIFT OF CRUELTY.............................................30

GHOST............................................................31

IN THE STYLE OF HAIKU POETRY.....................................34

DOWN EAST NEAR THE OUTER BANKS OF NORTH CAROLINA.................35

MY FATHER........................................................50

Rick Doble ROUGH-HEWN: Lyric Poems & Haikus Page 1

INTRODUCTIONTo be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.

Robert Graves

Over the years I found I needed to put some of my thoughts in poems. For me certain ideas, expressions, images and emotions can only be put in poetic form. While this might seem strange to a reader, it is not unlike the difference between writing about something or creating a song about it. Sometimes one form works better.

For me poetry is almost a language. I find that, when I am in my 'poetry mode' or perhaps 'poetry mood', I think quite differently and the words and phrases I use have a poetic flavor, rather than a prose flavor. I think in terms of rhythms, for example, and sounds of words -- and I try to boil my ideas down to the smallest essence.

Poetry is also much more demanding than prose. I believe that every word -- including articles such as 'the', 'a', 'an' -- should be exact. Nothing should be on the page that has not been carefully crafted.

The art of writing, especially poetry, is rewriting and also hearing your work, that you know so well, as though you were hearing it for the first time.

10, 20, 30 revisions is not unusual for me. But in the end, my words have a way of settling into the right places in the work. I revise with this hope: that the notes and phrases I have cobbled together will eventually find their place and like a building will support each other to create a world that my reader can walk through and experience.


Lyric Poetry

Awakening captive -- unfinished sculpture -- by Michelangelo


ROUGH-HEWN

In Michelangelo's unfinished statues the male figures, the 'Captives'"seem to be battling to free themselves from the rough-hewn stone."Time-Life World of Michelangelo.

Words after speech reach into the silence...Words strain, crack and sometimes break under the burden...T.S.Eliot, The Four Quartets

In Michelangelo's unfinished statues

the angry captive men

are rooted within blocks of marble

arms and legs not yet born

forever pulling to be free

Like these poems,

never finished,

impure

formed from slabs of silence

now audible

yet immovable on the page

So I regret these words

because I cannot polish them

and lay each one down

like found stones

that I reworked


Real words live in our mouths

spoken with the taste of bread or beer

slippery with saliva from another's lips

If I could

I'd place them on the page

as I find them

covered with the dirt of people's cries

So I will not talk about beauty in the abstract

Instead I will tell of moments not quite right:

like you standing in the hallway that night

looking at me in the bed, the light behind you

the curve of your naked hip in silhouette

and that slight annoyed turn of your neck

Incomplete images

we are afraid to bring into being --

the life we have not lived

the world we move against every day --

figure and ground

My words cluster together

full of loose ends

outlining a rough shape


These words are born from the silence

and point

uncertainly toward song


TV DREAMS

TV dreams leave no room for thought

so lets cut to the chase:

we are hostages to the visual

In our off time

we are immersed in

the 24 hour video aquarium

a wall against the outside

built frame by frame

of flickering paper

The angry arm

that sweeps the table clean

of plates and candlesticks

so they crash

in choreographed slow motion

onto the polished floor --

does not tell us much about the hero

The quick cuts

the sound bites

the echoes of laugh tracks

leave a taste of metal

like the smell of a gun barrel

that's just been fired


We lie in the dust

of media messages -

jingles from past cola wars -

and learn the names of serial killers

whose quiet lives

did not betray their thoughts

(Sometimes

when you cannot sleep

you sit alone

in the dark

volume low

staring into the screen

The soft flicker of explosions

lights your hands, your room

And half-awake

you touch

the remote buttons

and wander

from channel to channel)


THE END OF THE WORLD MAY 21 :)

Harold Camping's prediction that the end of the world would occur on May 21, 2011, was widely reported. He was a American Christian radio broadcaster.

They said the world was going to end today

so I took the day off --

and listened for the end of time

This is great I thought

we should do this more often

Just let it stop

let the future become a blank,

a question we don't have to answer


ATOMIC BABIES

Like children they had names

Trinity, the first,

melted the desert

turning it into glass

that they called Trinitite

At Hiroshima

'Little Boy' fell out of a clear blue sky

vaporizing pedestrians

burning their shadows onto stone steps

In Nagasaki

'Fat Man' exploded off target

in the Urakami Valley

killing only 70,000

the hills protecting the main city

After that each series had a title:

Operations BUSTER-JANGLE

TUMBLER-SNAPPER, IVY, TEAPOT

WIGWAM and PLUMBBOB


And bombs were christened

ABLE, BAKER, ZEBRA

EASY, FOX, DOG

GEORGE and SUGAR

FRIGATE BIRD

SWORDFISH

HARLEM

PETIT

TIGHTROPE

CALAMITY

JOHNIE BOY

LITTLE FELLER

And finally a giant step:

the first 'true' hydrogen bomb

IVY MIKE

800 X more explosive than the first 'Little Boy'

"If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst forth at once in the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One... I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

Words of the God Shiva in the Bhagavad-Gita, quoted by Robert Oppenheimer "father of the atomic bomb" when he witnessed the explosion signifying the birth of the first atomic bomb.


THERE IS A TIGER UNDER MY BED

He screams

"Not again," his father says

"Yes, again," his mother says

"Hurry," the boy shouts.

And she walks slowly down the hall to her son's room

"There are tigers," the boy cries, "under my bed."

"No," she says, "Not tonight, or last night or the night before."

"Yes there are," and his tears fall onto the comforter and one of the dozens of stuffed animals he has around him

She sighs, she pulls out her flashlight, she crouches down below the mattress and sweeps the beam across the floor from one side to the other

"It's clean," she thinks to herself, "the maid did a good job."

"I'm looking everywhere and there's nothing," she shouts to her son

"I don't believe you," the boy moans

She stands up and looks him in the eye. "There are no tigers here in Pontiac Bay. This is a protected community. The grounds people look out for creatures."

"No," he says quietly, "I heard them."

At last she says, "Look, I'll crawl under the bed. If I don't get eaten, will you believe me then?"

She crouches down, stomach on the floor, pushes with her hands and disappears. Then she comes up on the other side. "See no teeth marks or claw scratches."

The boy laughs and she holds him until he falls asleep and then she turns out the light and tiptoes to her bed


But that night she dreams of

a grassy plain next to a forest of trees

She can hear the calling of hyenas

Suddenly she sees a small limp body --

A tiger is crouching and has

its teeth clamped around the shoulder, gums bared

She tried to wake but it is too late

The tiger carefully drags it away from the hyenas,

to a safer place in the grasslands

and begins to eat her son


THE BIRTH OF VENUS

That night

you came out of the sea --

no longer wounded

you danced on the picnic table

in front of Ziggy's beach front bar

your wet white blouse

clinging to your small body --

hopping up and down

you sang,

"I'm tough; I'm tough."

I had heard

about your accident

the rollover,

the ambulance --

and then your absence

from the coffee shop --

our conversations unspoken


By chance

I was in bare feet,

feeling the summer sand,

looking out at the white waves breaking

when you and your friends

came from the darkness

into the soft light of the boardwalk

We looked at each other --

your clothes glistening with water

your hair damp like a newborns --

and then you danced

In this unlikely moment

I had been allowed

to see your rebirth --

and like Venus from the foam,

you took my breath away


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMSPOEMS ABOUT LOVE AND MARRIAGE

Bearded captive -- unfinished sculpture -- by Michelangelo


IN THE RAIN

In the rain

late at night

she snuck out of her bedroom window --

we drove down glistening streets

stoplights reflected in the black tar

In the rain

we parked close to my secret place --

an old chapel that was never locked

Sheltered inside

amazed by the loudness

of the shower on the metal roof

we sat on the edge of the stage

surrounded by the rain

I pushed her wet hair behind her shoulders

I wiped the drops from her cheeks --

with the heavens drumming above us

we felt alone and protected

by the chapel and the rain

Then we drowned our lips inside each other

feeling like we were floating

and never felt closer


than we were there

in the rain

Later when the torrent

on the tin roof stopped

I took her home --

silently we glided into the parking lot

we held each other and I could not let her go

but I watched her walk away

and climb through her bedroom window

Now alone,

it was dark and quiet

and the leaves were dripping a few drops

so I drove away

after the rain


DO YOU LOVE ME?

"Do you love me," she asked

in the supermarket

as I was rolling the cart down the isle

looking at our list

"Yes," I said

"of course. That's why I married you."

I put my hands on a box of spaghetti

"Yes, but do you really love me?"

I looked her in the eyes

I had been down this road before --

it could go on for a long time

"Yes, I really love you."

I said with my best smile.

I gave her a hug

but she pushed me away

"I want to know if you really, really love me?"

I was getting annoyed

I rolled the cart to the ketchup

and reached for our usual brand


"Forget about the damn the groceries.

I don't care about food.

Just tell me if you really love me."

I ignored her and put the ketchup in the cart.

then I turned

"Yes, I really, really, really love you."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Is there anything I can say

that will convince you?"

"Yes, if you really mean it."

"I do really mean it. I really love you."

"No, you don't. You're just saying that because you know what I want to hear."

We were at the check out counter

we ran the groceries through

then we went out to the car

and got in

I turned and gave her a kiss

she tolerated it but just barely


"Did you get the eggs?" she asked

"Yes," I said starting the car

"And they're on the top, so they're not crushed?"

"Yes," I replied

and we drove home


TEARS

At first your tears

were like a doorway

that led me into you

a way to reach you

comfort you

something that drew us together

Then your tears became an enclosure

that surrounded us

because at a point in our talk

when you did not want to go further

you cried

and the tears would stop our conversation

and I would hold you in silence

Toward the end

your tears were like a wall

I wanted to reach an understanding

but your tears blocked my way

Later they were like rain

they came so often, so full

that I treated them like weather

and knew that within an hour or a day

they would be gone


so at the very end

your tears meant nothing


ADVICE

In trouble

we ask our old marriage counselor

what to do

"I'm going to be pessimistic,"

she says

"I think you'll stay together."


IN THE DEPTHS

In college we told the story of a friend:

a girl he liked was shallow

"but then maybe she's only shallow on the surface"

he laughed

On the surface you were deep

well read, invited to join Phi Beta Kappa

and you often wore a knowing smile

Only much later I realized

that in the depths

you were shallow

You saw yourself as complicated

and mysterious

instead it was quite simple:

it was all about you

And beneath that was much more

but it was a line you would never cross

It was like digging down and hitting granite

like walking into an alley and finding no exit

like the cliched "brick wall"


You talked to me

for hours about your problems

with teachers, supervisors, parents

but when we reached for a new understanding

the conversation suddenly changed

it no longer interested you

you were tired

After many years of searching my own history -

long after our marriage ended -

I felt

that unknowingly it was a mutual abuse

that had brought us together

As I dug within me

it became clear that

I had been abused by my older brother

and you by someone in your past

And while you rarely took responsibility as an adult

I think you had made the mistake all such youngsters make

of taking responsibility for your abuse as a child


And that fall from grace, that original sin

had been covered up

forgotten

but had set in motion

the person you had become

Even though in our marriage

we were still groping --

unsure of the reason

that darkness surrounded us --

the critical decision we needed to make

was in which direction to move

But this is what finally split us apart

The reason was quite simple:

I wanted to know

and you did not


REMEMBERING

Letting myself

remember you

a Pandora's box

just a crack

and the love

I learned to fear

rushed out

overtaking me

After 25 years

every emotion

relived

my body tense

and tired

My first true love

so total

I did not know myself

I trusted in your kindness

"but smoke gets in your eyes"

My father asked

why I left you

"she was destroying me"

"oh" he said 25 years ago


And still that is

the best explanation

And still I don't know why

After years

of caring for you

because you were so fragile

After years

of holding you

until you were not afraid

After years

of seeing you grow and bloom

I don't know why you were so cruel


YOUR GIFT OF CRUELTY

at the end

you gave me the gift

I needed most --

your cruelty

without it

I could not have left

thank you

for letting me know

that you were not

the person I loved


GHOST

NOTE: In 1970 for $50 a month we rented an antebellum house deep in the country. It had been the grand manor of a plantation and built around 1850. The locals were often afraid to come by. They said that a ghost had lost his treasure and he was on the staircase that led to the second story. In 1975 we had to move because a lake was being built. The house was moved to another county.

I have been back to our house

many times in my dreams

I drive down the long gravel road

with red clay rising behind me

to our front yard

but no dogs run out to greet me

which is strange

I walk in our door

into the living room

I can smell a large pot of lentils --

a dish we learned to make in Spain

with rosemary, onions and tomatoes --

on the wood cooking stove

that is putting out a soft heat

and the yellow muslin curtains

you dyed and sewed blow in the drafts

of this antebellum house


I am just about to throw my coat

on my grandmother's velvet couch

but then I notice things

are slightly ajar --

suddenly I see

new furniture and pictures

have been added

In my home where I felt most comfortable

I become very afraid

I am out of place

then I remember

we have broken up

and you are living with someone else

I hear a car

and know I am an intruder

I hide behind the wall paper

as others walk past me

then I slip out the door

and fly above the road

as the house sinks into darkness

and the one light upstairs --

the one we always left on

when we were away --

throws a shaft through the windows

onto the fields below


I have this dream

for many years

and like the ghost

that locals say haunted the house

I have to keep returning

looking for what we lost


IN THE STYLE OFHAIKU POETRY

Young captive -- unfinished sculpture -- by Michelangelo


DOWN EAST:NEAR THE OUTER BANKS

OF NORTH CAROLINA2nd Marriage


Salty from our swimI fire charcoal with paper, woodyou say I taste like smoke


Power out so dark no one moves frogs scream


After lightning shakes our old frame housecandles feeling the soft darkness


Now I'm used to seeing wild horses across Taylor Creek on Carrot Island


Forty-fifth birthday mid-summer days getting shorter


Under the moon shrimp boats, yucca blooms the surf's dark glittering edge


Dog Island the prevailing wind a smoothly rounded grove of trees


Cat Island white egrets on the tops of live oaksunexploded bombs in the sand


On an abandoned dock wine and raw oysters pulled from the mud


In clear September light fish darting ... inside a wave breaking


Near me swimming gulls in the waves --small fish in the foam


Back in the city I've lost track of the moon


The tiger kitten in Wendy's parking lot --dragging a burger


Above the traffic jam a hawk circling


MY FATHER


A bourbon night my father, stepmother fight again --I sit in the graveyard


My father's funeral -- old friends call me by my childhood name


Falling night snowhis ashes wet in the groundour footprints across the frozen pond


ROUGH-HEWN: Lyric Poems & Haikus By Rick Doble

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