As for me, I'm a 50 year old business executive with 3,600 people in the division reporting to me. I only mention this because in a sense the daimon that propels my occupation also propels my poetry. For instance, Gertrude Stein once said, "If Mr. Robert Frost is at all good as a poet, it is because he is a farmer -- really in his mind a farmer, I mean." So in my mind am I a businessman who writes poetry, or a very minor poet successful at business? Who knows? Yet I tread carefully with this balance for fear my daimon will leave me, or my greed will taunt me for decades."
He has had more than 700 of his poems appear in journals world wide since he began publishing in 1996. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelley's publication credits include such journals as: ACM Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Spillway, Porcupine Literary Magazine, Pif, Seeker, Melic Review, 2River View, Offcourse, Potpourri and Skylark. He has been honored as featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Physik Garden, Poetry Life & Times, and Pyrowords.
A Ghost to the Flesh
Love is that which binds us, one soul
to another . . . and time is that which bends
us, one soul hurtling, one catching.
Love is an ember which smolders
forever before it explodes, but one
cannot light it or fan it, it has a time
of its own, a mystery to even itself.
Time is the silent sister of love, she
is always there, a clear shadow,
a ghost to the flesh of love who
will haunt you and trouble you
invisibly, and only when you grow
accustomed to her bedevilment --
when you suspect she never existed
at all -- only then will she explode
the ember and set you afire.
Love and time, they whisper together.
Merchants All
Merchants all; we are all
merchants, meant to console
ourselves by trading parts
of our bodies for other parts
of other human beings; then
once the bargain is completed,
our glee at getting the better
end of the deal always, always,
dissipates as we begin to suspect
almost at once that the other party
might have really negotiated
the better deal: we see elements
now visible but before unseen . . .
the only sure thing to heal this
suspicion is to quickly find
someone else to trade and deal,
someone who might balance this weary
ball of our being by teaching us how to fall
or crawl or come to terms with the human
parts of our mortal souls, merchants all,
merchants all.
Artist's note: Will and Ariel Durant (1885-1981 and 1898-1981) wrote in "The History of Civilization" regarding graphic symbols which dated as far back as 5000 BCE: "They were not pictures but chiefly mercantile symbols -- marks of property, quantity or other business memoranda; the berated bourgeoisie may take consolation in the thought that literature originated in bills of lading."
Come To Be Matched
To name all the parts of a harness . . .
seems a unbearable task,
seems a forlorn mistaking
of proper work, seems like
a thing not worthy
of a woman or a poet,
for the naming is not
really important,
even the recognition
is not our main task,
but instead it is the notion,
the embrace of the thought,
how we all, each of us,
all of you, and every single
soul, and all the parts of a soul,
come to be matched with all
parts of the harness we hold clenched for
every day and every death in our very hands.
Artist's note: Katherine Anne Porter (1890-1980) was a highly acclaimed American author, winner of both a Pulitzer and a National Book Award. She once wrote, "I was brought up with horses, I have harnessed, saddled, driven and ridden many a horse, but to this day I do not know the names for the different parts of a harness. I have often thought I would learn them and write them down in a note book. But to what end? I have two large cabinets full of notes already."
The Course of Passion
It sears under my chest,
inside my lungs, the fringe
of my soul, the limits of my
corpuscles, as my very blood
approaches the wispy cells
of my spirit . . . where does
intellect begin to fashion into
life, or where does desire
thrust into the structure
of the soul?
There is this entity I call
myself that I can certainty
see extends far beyond
the limits of the flesh . . .
as, likewise, it slums much
farther into the body than I
want to believe, and so the
union of the two appears to
twist into the structure
of the soul.
Artist's note: Castor and Pollux, in classical mythology were twins; Castor was mortal, Pollux, immortal. When Castor was killed in battle, Pollux mourned so grievously that Zeus took pity on him and allowed the brothers to take turns at life and death.
Wispy Fluid
I can whisper into your ear,
fleshy appendage, hard
to find in the wispy fluid
I sometimes admit I inhabit,
but find you I can, from time
to time, or space to space,
and then I must choose a word
or two to implant or place, to
inject or worry along unfamiliar
pathways through your brain,
running, running, down into
a conclusion you would never
have arrived at yourself; and then,
I can say, 'Ah I have not fluttered
or muttered in vain,' and just when
I thought I might be martian, I
instead discover I am a bug, and
happier for it, my dear, my dear.
Artist's note: Jack Spicer (1925-1965), was an American poet who published several collections during his brief life. Trained as a linguist, Spicer was active in the San Francisco poetry scene during the 50s and 60s. Perhaps today he is most renown for his theories describing poetry as dictation from a source outside the poet; theories he delivered in a short series of lectures in Vancouver where he portrayed poets as radio receivers. He died at San Francisco General Hospital from alcohol poisoning; his last words were, "My vocabulary did this to me."
Pounding Poems
Poems pounded down like thumping hooves,
staccato oak leaves, slapped paper,
the all-importance of the words
a bond, a liturgy sticking the nuance
of self to your soil . . . even though you were
never meant to be here for long, for long.
You knew this by the way the poems pounded
down like your hand slapping the carpet
when the sloe gin has taken your presence
on another slippery expedition of mortality;
it's clear the poems do not pound the words pulped
of many other poets, flouncing their fears forward
on paper held like a ticket, a ticket.
The very thing that keeps you here
also makes you flirt with another way,
yet you fear there may not be an exact torrent
of poems there (the only way to pound the blood,
the only way to properly shake the fabric of death)
and if there's a chance the poems only pound
on this side, this side, can this be why
only a handful of poets come this close to the kill?
Poems must continue to pound, you understand,
even as you caress another way to compose yourself.
Artist's note: Sylvia Plath (1931-1963) American poet, published her first poem at the age of eight. Suicidal from a young age, she endured, at various times, electroshock and psychotherapy. She married the poet Ted Hughes, who went on to become England's poet laureate. The marriage lasted seven years, but failed when Hughes left her for another woman. Months later, Plath killed herself with cooking gas. In a macabre twist of irony, the woman for whom Hughes left Plath also gassed herself to death. Another poet-suicide, Anne Sexton, wrote of frequent drinking dates at the Ritz with Plath: "Often, very often, Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicides; at length, in detail, and in depth between the free potato chips. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of a poem."
A Temple in the Path of Xerxes
Stone, frigid columns, pungent fumes from copper bowls on burning
pedestals, the chilling breeze still penetrates from the acute night outside.
These pillars are clammy, as though they can express my fear
of the invaders who arrive tomorrow to annihilate our ways.
My children are safe at the coast,
their mother spirited them down
with the slaves and my brother . . .
and now only my sword remains here with me.
By the manner the wind easily dispels the incense
and holy smoke, I can understand our gods have also
left this place . . . perhaps they too are at the shore.
So it is only myself and my mercenaries who will
face the conquerors when this night drifts onward.
Why does a man stay in place after the very gods
have fled? Is this the nature of a man . . .
to rail against the inevitable world,
while it is in the nature of gods to dissipate at whim?
One must stand, while others are smoke
for the awe of future generations.
I cannot imagine this place without myself . . .
I touch the marble, still moist,
and fear I sense the dawn nearing,
yet I see it is still better to be a man than a god
when death arises with the breaking day,
for men may readily complete themselves
while gods can only cry at the results
of their fornications.
Artist's note: Xerxes I (circa 519 - 465 BCE), was a king of Persia. To punish the Greeks for their victory over the Persians at Marathon in 490 BCE, he invaded Greece, his vast army penetrating to Thrace, Thessaly, and Locris. Three hundred Spartans made a courageous but suicidal stand at Thermopylae; after ten days Xerxes broke through, and eventually burned Athens. Returning to Asia, Xerxes so disgusted his subjects with his debauchery that he was at last murdered by the captain of his own palace guard.
Pushing, Pushing
You were driven, you know
(why, oh why, can't I)
and never did locate the correct
way out, or proper note to score
the flight all the way, all the way.
There was something pushing, pushing,
from within your being, while your fame
and marriages and suicides
propelled you through
all our decades like a wiry wisp . . .
although you know the real impellent
generates at the core of your soul.
There, there boils the fury
of being . . . of residing on this side,
a tantrum against this shackle of body;
so it never mattered very much
if you sang out right, or married right,
or performed to expectations;
what mattered was the expression
of fury channeled into some acceptable
means to be heard or seen
around this imperfect world.
Why, oh why, oh why
can't this vision of soul
let you go?
Why can't you . . .
you knew all along
you couldn't . . .
you knew none of us really could . . .
yet you were the wisp
who even though you knew
you couldn't, still yearned
out your trembling question,
why, oh why, can't I.
Artist's Note: Judy Garland was the assumed name of Frances Gumm (1922-1969). She made her stage debut at age three, spent several years in vaudeville, then at thirteen signed with MGM. She made many memorable movies, most famous of which was "The Wizard of Oz," where she played a role originally intended for Shirley Temple. Garland's personal life was usually in turmoil. The studio put her on diet pills, and before long she also needed pills to sleep and others to stay awake. By age twenty-one she was seeing a psychiatrist regularly. She married five times, and endured several career disasters. On June 22, 1969, she was found dead on the floor of her London apartment, the coroner attributing her death to an accidental overdose of sleeping pills. Actor Ray Bolger, the scarecrow from Oz, commented, "She just plain wore out."
Ward offers this about his writing of poems:
"I must admit I'm enamored with the montage created between a poem based on an historical personage and the bio at the bottom of the poem. The Israeli Ezine, Ariga, has termed my efforts 'bio poems.' Some editors hate this, others love it; for myself, I don't know why I do it other than I'm compelled. In the end I tell myself that anything that evokes such emotion -- bad, good, or compelling -- must have some merit.
(Copyright - All Rights Reserved by Ward Kelley - No reproduction without express permission from the author)
Ward has several different publications at the following websites:
Ward Kelley -- The Website
Comedy Incarnate: CD ROM
Histories of Souls: Ebook
Comedy Incarnate: AUDIO CD
Divine Murder: A Novel
Table of Contents
Letter to the Author:
Ward Kelley at Ward708@aol.com