Seeker Magazine

Ward Kelley

Poetry, I pretentiously think, chooses the poet rather than the reverse. It took me by the proverbial scruff of the neck and began a passionate affair which included all the nuances of love such as anger, lust, apathy; then at last there came a year where we both broke free into a certain sublimation. I think it was 1996.
Weekly I fly on business, crisscrossing the country, and in doing so have learned that when I plug earphones into my laptop, a level of 30,000 feet becomes the perfect medium for writing poems. Alone, shielded by familiar music, and examining clouds, I find these poems nearly write themselves; this then is what I have learned after 35 years of poetry: the art lies in uncovering the circumstances that allow them to write themselves.
As for me, I'm 49 years old, and an assistant vice president for a national hardware wholesaler. My wife and I live outside of Indianapolis; we've adopted four daughters, and currently foster several others. Fairly new to publishing my efforts -- this most challenging of all endeavors -- I have still been fortunate to enjoy some initial successes, and have published 337 pieces since late '96.

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.' In "The Taste of Pear" I take interest in communication between souls. "Chlorophyll" deals with the intuitive selection of words. "Kitten's Breath," considers the insinuation that life may be pleasant. And "All This Fires," examines Mozart's ability to compose whole pieces in his mind, later transposing the score to paper without losing a single note. In addition, Joan of Arc, Emily Dickinson, and Sandra (Puma) Jones are also subjects of my reflections.

The Taste of Pear

"Both sides have their vast
attractions," the dead ones
attempt to illustrate the barrier
between breathing and spirit,

"and the sensations to breath
have no parallel in death or
thought, with our best example being
the taste of a pear, or the inhalation

of a loved one's neck. But you
will hear none of us say sex . . ."
I quickly glance at my periphery
to see if I catch them in a lark,

but they are sincere. "For
the communication on this side,
soul to soul, is much more profound
than mortal copulations . . .

and the wonderment becomes
'how many centuries before
the allure of the pear brings
us back to breath'."

Chlorophyll

Where does one find me
in these willowed pages,
a trunkish truth surrounded
by rustlings of ephemeral

leaves? I sought to absent
myself from the pulp of spreading
whiteness unfolding before my
knotty eyes, but the soul

will not be banished like those
who possess heinous crime must
be removed to some bleak island
where they pace and stew, formulating

their own slants of the truth. No,
this soul will stay, but also stay
silent with its only art in the intuitive
selection of the words that flow

on, so on, a chlorophyll of spirit.

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."

Kitten's Breath

I did not want to hear the answer
that came on kitten's breath,
a soft mewing meant to gentle,
gentle the disquieting of the soul,

an insinuation that life is pleasant
between the pains; it could be
a joke, no? This half-soul I have
been given will not rest; instead

it must challenge, challenge,
all these pains it endures, it maintains,
and find a way to mock this very
life with its odd fruits, some so

remarkably exotic that complete
inhalation brings more than a whiff
of death between the foliations
of brainy great pleasures . . .

hip, hip . . .

my own breath

does not come, or go, quite
so softly. It could be a joke,
no?

Artist's note:
Richard Brautigan (1935-1984), American author, is best known for his novel, "Trout Fishing in America." Always portraying a hippie persona, Brautigan published several novels and books of poetry during the 60s and 70s. He was California Institute of Technology poet-in-residence during 1966-67. He later moved to Montana and became reclusive, granting few interviews. He died in October of 1984, an apparent suicide, his last published book being "So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away."

All This Fires

All this fires my soul,
and this is how I know,
so certainly, how the correct
notes are emanating into

my quillish mind, for when
the intruder dots bring with
them such exhilaration
that my blood throbs more

quickly than usual, along with
hints of sadness for the brevity
of those of us who take a breath,
then I know I work with sounds

of integrity, and I must be the honest
partner to this process; I must arrange
them in proper order, and give them
their required form and costume,

at last bringing quill to paper,
never once losing a single orphan
as I carry them from gift to draft . . .
only, what they are doing before

they arrive at my ear, I cannot say.

Artist's note:
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) was an Austrian composer who ranks as one of the great geniuses of Western civilization. A child prodigy, he was displayed by his father during several successful concert tours of Europe. As an adult, Mozart was harassed by poverty and family illnesses. Finding only minor patronage, he continued to suffer neglect for the remainder of his life from the aristocrats he courted, as opposed to the great successes of his childhood. His last work was an unfinished requiem; Mozart died from what many historians consider was typhoid fever. His funeral was attended by few friends and this great composer -- plagued by destitution -- was buried in an unmarked grave.

The Starting Gun

They question your capability to lie,
as though this isn't a common, human
inclination, for we were all born into a lie . . .
were we not?

Not that very many really mourn this,
but the real mark of commonality
always has been the ability
to absorb the lie
then find someone to forgive . . .
maybe you found too many of us.

Fire can separate lies from truth,
but did it also fuel your absolution?
You hinted there comes a threshold
where searing pain twists
into ecstasy, while you crash
through the runner's wall
into a cool sea of forgiveness
that only saints can discover
then show us.

Your face holds the fire . . .
your tears drop balm
and agony,
yet you forgive and cajole
us poor humans
century
after
century.

Artist's note:
Joan of Arc (1412-1431) earned, in the words of Louis Kossuth, an imposing distinction: since the writing of human history began, she is the only person, of either sex, who has ever held supreme command of the military forces of a nation at the age of seventeen. Although she achieved many victories for her beloved Dauphin, by age nineteen she had been tried for heresy, then burned at the stake. She was also the only person in history ever cannonized as a saint of the Catholic church who had once been executed as a heritic by the very same church.

Chooses to Hide

Sinful, the sisters perform patience,
coupling as they do,
similar to forms of alliteration,
but these are not words they bind
or break to fascinate those new to these endeavors.

And it is not flesh either, or titillation,
they use to explore the boundaries
of sibling affection; no, it is more powerful,
more forbidden, than sex -- a mundane type
of communication that nearly anyone can effect;
no, these items of angst instead fly everywhere.

Not words, not flesh . . . but thoughts:
a combination of the two, for true thoughts,
you know, choices actually succinct,
are like sex bent into words,
or words squeezed into phantom caresses . . .
something, somewhere, must sail out to touch the soul.

Emily discovered this early,
and never did, as some will suggest,
stay inside that large house from fear,
but rather there was nothing outside
quite as stirring as a flight of words
ghosting across the parchment
of her sister's skin . . . like a master . . .
not even God held this attraction
of cascading thoughts,
so there will be few real saints
ever found in these poems,
only jilted lovers staring out
the New England winter windows,
while thoughts scream like furies
incinerating around the bedroom.

Artist's note:
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), New England poet, is one of the country's greatest poets. Spending nearly all of her life in Amherst, Massachusetts, the last half in relative seclusion, Emily came to be known as eccentric. Besides rare contacts with people outside her immediate family, she wore only white dresses and sometimes referred to herself as a wayward nun. Regarding her poems -- only eleven of 1,775 poems were published during her lifetime -- she advocated the "propounded word." Her word for herself as a poet was "gnome," and the poems themselves she called, "bulletins from Immortality." Her last communication was written the day before her death, a short letter sent to young relatives: "Little cousins, -- Called back. Emily."

Shine Eye Gal

There is a voice, a haunting by notes,
a voice to this ghost, stretching notes on and on,
to implore, to yearn, the breathing ones to come forth . . .
to be judged.

There is a dead woman singing in my ear,
her name is Puma, running, running,
eyes haunting sounds of night gliding
by the skin of jungle cats who hide the souls
of those who might be judged.

What does this ghost want to sing to us
who breathe the air of our own desires?
She does not sing words, for only haunting notes
are singular enough to bear a soul forth . . .
to bring one of us forward.

This, then, is what the ghost
will do . . . she will sing
of wrongs and cinder love, she will hum of injustice,
this ghost in my ear; she will yearn and she will think
oh why come forth, oh why, only then to die . . .
but we all must sing this particular song,
although few know what the ghost
did sing . . . how the only judges
of us all, at the end of all the breathing,
the only judge is our very own soul
who must judge the actions of its
own singular life.

Yes, then, it's what the ghost
still knew, her own soul
judging her alone;
one sees it in her eyes.

Artist's note:
Sandra Jones (1953-1990), received her Masters at Columbia University and went to Jamaica to labor in the social work field. She was overheard by aspiring reggae musicians as she sang a song in her apartment, a sound they later described as 'ethereal.' Together, they formed the group Black Uhuru, with uhuru being the Swahili word for freedom. Sandra assumed the name of Puma Jones, and the group went on to be highly successful, earning the first grammy by a reggae group. Michael Rose, a member of the group, once defined Puma's singing, "To tell the truth, she couldn't sing reggae that much, but she had a unique sound, something between jazz and opera. It gave us a different flavor, a sound nobody heard before." Starting to lose her health, Puma left the group in 1986. She died of cancer on January 28, 1990.

A Daemon Hesitates at the Waters

Their arms raise above their blonde hair,
stretching their breasts upward, all of them
together, unclothed white prayers . . .
two punctuated, spiral prayers from each
woman there in the warm lake.

You watch, watch, watch . . .
are there nine women down there or ten?
This view from the forest
is not what you expected;
you anticipated bathing women,
a luxury of discovered flesh,
not these syncopated breasts
which frighten you . . .
for an unclear reason . . .
as if they wield convincing power,
these united female bodies.

What if there were some plans
for birth . . . some conspired
suckling of nipples? What if
there were indeed some purpose
to all these fleshly endeavors?
You never, never, anticipated
this quantity of white breasts
raised in unison, lifting blueward,
from the heated, brown waters,
and where you had always believed
in the redeeming ascendancy of breasts,
you are now left disquieted and silent.

(Copyright by Ward Kelley, 1997-99 - No reproduction without express permission from the author)

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Ward Kelley at Ward708@aol.com

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