A Muttered Truth – for Charles
16 · Nov · 1999
Memo #4
A Muttered Truth – for Charles
In one sentence
one stare
belief of falling walls
brought to the front
of the song
Humor me for a brief moment, oh God
Help me become
unaware
for tastes of regret
on my travels
so long
Wrap your hands around the life of me
show not mercy
for my struggle
to be free
Death by fire
to my un-lassoed mind
For only in Your humor will I find
a path into the bluest passion
a streak of desire
in my fashion
penny rene’ – 1995
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About fourteen years ago I went to a party wearing baggy pants and a white cotton shirt with a red ribbon hanging from my neck. It was Valentine’s Day, 1985, and I had my eye on Steve Tompkins. We danced the unmistakable dance of teen angst, first crushes and embarrassment. Well, I danced it in my head while he flirted with my friend’s older sister. Later that night, I lay awake in my bed, wondering how I would ever survive a life without him. Torture and slow death! All the things I wanted to say running around in my head. I turned on my lamp, found some paper and a pen, wrote it all down and finally fell asleep. The next morning when I woke, I read the sleepy handwriting that became my very first poem. Since that day, I have written hundreds of poems and though many of them, in the beginning, were about Steve, I never had to pay him a dime for the inspiration. See, I’d be a poet even if we’d never met. I know that, even if he doesn’t. When people ask me why I write, I say, “To breathe.”
What’s poetry mean to me?
…oxygen.
what makes?
this is hard to explain, I mean who the man was,
anyhow, it was in a large structure and he sat in
a chair in uniform, red coat and all, his job was
to examine the hand-stamp of those who left the
structure and returned, there was a lamp you put
your hand under and the stamp appeared (god that
was work) anyhow, as I put my hand uner the lamp
the man asked, “listen, what’s you name?”
“Hank,” I answered
“listen Hank,” he asked, “what makes a man a
writer?”
“well,” I said, “it’s simple, it’s either you
get it down on paper or you jump off a
bridge.
writers are desperate people and when they stop
being desperate they stop being
writers.”
“are you desperate?”
“I don’t know…”
I walked on through and as I took the escalator up
I saw him sitting there, probably thinking it was possibly
bullshit, he had wanted me to suggest some special
school, some special way, like some way to get out
of that red coat, it was not an enlightening job
like designing a bridge or batting cleanup for the
Dodgers but
he wasn’t desperate enough, the desperate don’t ask,
they do
and at the top of the escalator, I pushed through the
glass doors and as I did, I thought, son of a bitch,
I should have asked him his name, and then I felt
bad for him and for myself but a few minutes ater
I had forgotten all about him hom
and the other way around
and he watched more hand-stamps under the lamp
and I watched the toteboard and the horses and
the desperate people
desperate in all the wrong
way, in-
deed.
-Charles Bukowski-
from “Third Lung Review” – 1992
for more on Bukowski, go HERE
*************************************
“The world is no longer a romantic place. But some of its people are. Don’t let the world win.”
-John “Biscuit” Cage from Ally McBeal
Posted by Penny Rene at 09:02 PM
Old Friend
8 · Nov · 1999
Two of my favorite poets are Dorothy Parker and WH Auden. Their straightforward ways of saying what we are all thinking and willingness to put in print ALL sides of their writing inspire me -even the little quips that seemed like nothing to them.
The following is a poem I wrote recently. It took all of 10 minutes and, though it will never make it into a book. It sure hit the spot that day.
Memo #3
“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly.
It should be thrown aside with great force.”
-Dorothy Parker-
Old friend of fair and warmest eyes
and embrace that frees my feet
to know you, still, on darkest day
I consider quite a treat
Twas long ago I learned my fate
when you spoke with broken smile
of the one who owned your heart
and had claimed you all the while
I didn’t speak my sadness,
but wiped my silent tears
On your wedding day I made my vow
to let friendship fill my years
It’s difficult to crush a hope
and turn upon a dime
To do so is confession
that love was never mine
Your faithfulness and guarded wit-
I will expect nothing less
I take your hand with good intent
and hope you never guess
That rewind the clock
and choice be made
I’d turn my love to you
And thank my lord
for this regret
that I never knew.
I will always cherish the misconceptions I had about you…..
‘Til next time,
Penny Rene’
Posted by Penny Rene at 08:52 PM