Poem: "Weight Problem"

photo credit: transiacc

I was shaving, showing my tummy in the mirror

A plump pudge gathered round
my navel,
a pink mound
peering and chuckling
over my pyjamas.
I poked my pinky into my flesh
a skin landscape, a planet of hair
laughing back at me
as I glided my razor across my
smooth gillette face.

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Poem: Rotten Avocados

rotten avocado

the avocados were not yet ripe when I bought them.
but I found them ensconced in their own avocado skin, black as printed words;

and I remember the faint smell of hunger I had when purchasing them,

thinking they would be ripe and plump to eat.

© 2010 Greig Roselli

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image credit: Wikimedia

Poem: Holy Water Font

when they come to the water on sunday it barely touches skin, smoothed over and onto the next thing,
honey, darling, sweetheart, dear, let’s park the car close, don’t forget the lights
    but when this child touched the water
        he slowly extended his arm and advanced
        toward the font as if time itself, punctuated by the deliberate movement of his hand, slowed down
    for him, so it

 was very important
    to dip into the water in this particular way, middle finger first,
        then the rest,
    a little playfully, but not too much so,
enough
to withdraw
his hand and cross himself
enough to convince that he saw something in the depths that I didn’t see, not before not since, only scant reflection: once after reading something from the 19th century did I ever feel similar
        but he did see something of

    the trinity

        and I suspect the whole revolving sphere of fluid stood still like in some mediaeval astronomy book
and he was able to stop time, for a bit,
because he was grinning,
        drops of holy water falling to the granite floor
and someone like his dad picking up his five-year-old body to the pew, replete with a jesus coloring book and an entrance hymn.

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Poem: The Porter Cat

soft and malleable;

I stroke the porter cat

when he lingers near the patio,

spreads his body on my lap and I tell him that he’s home;

his leonine form stretched from end to end;

he purrs with content      

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Prose Poem: Quote from My Moleskine

In this post, I include a prose poem fragment found in my Moleskine notebook.

A couple rides the New York City subway.

The empty tomb startles me as I know
it startled Mary

~#~

When wishing upon a star be sure to want what you really desire; for desire materializes

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Location:Cohn St, New Orleans,United States

Poem: "apple-faced kids"

when the clock sounds

the apple-faced kids

rush to class

not to learn

but to whiz in their heads

the wonders of the world

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Poem: "nursing home"

 

her lying, sheets thin, mattress barely a support

she dying

glistening fluorescent light a harsh reveal

of her ruddy body, bare

save for the taffeta pajamas,

a crispy swath of rose embers,

issued by a crisis,

yet, her mouth curved a bit, sitting next to her—so low—

i felt gravity’s relentless tug

and she curved, wincing at the pain,

although it hurt; a scissor-like pain throughout her entire frame,

she said it was okay;

her hair, long and brown like spaghetti string,

matted by the months of neglectful uncombing;

her beauty an archetypal beauty, matching the faces of every woman who was,

his, an is, an unmediated face of pathos lines, matching every face of those who are

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Fragment: The Moon Shines Bright

Me, describing him

"when I look at him now —

face scrunched into the shape of an oval —

he thinks with his jaw set"

— me, describing him

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The Rage of Achilles - A Review of the First Book of Homer's Iliad

"Rage, goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles" (1.1)

Homer, Book One of The Iliad

A Review of Book One of Homer's Iliad

In Medias Res

The story of Achilles begins in medias res, nine years into a battle between the Trojans and the Greeks. The poet does not give historical background for the war or its duration, assuming readers already know the context. For more on the Trojan War's origins, students often consult Edith Hamilton's classic Mythology or read about the Judgment of Paris. There is even archaeological evidence that Troy may have existed in the Bronze Age.

A horse and his boy

The poet is silent about much of the background, focusing instead on mortals and immortals. The Iliad could well be called The Rage of Achilles, as anger and loss thread through the poem. The muses, invoked for inspiration, act as furies in the poem's opening: "Rage, goddess."

The god quaked with rage (1.54)
The epic traces the genealogy of Achilles’s resentment, beginning with Apollo’s anger at Agamemnon for refusing to return his slave girl, Chryseis. Apollo’s wrath brings a plague to the Greek camp. The soldiers want to return home, but Agamemnon refuses to give in, even at the cost of his men’s lives—echoing the selfishness of a corporate boss clinging to privilege.

A Dispute Among Children
Book One centers on a childish dispute between Agamemnon and Achilles. When Achilles protests Agamemnon’s selfishness, Agamemnon retaliates by seizing Achilles’s slave girl, Briseis. Achilles withdraws from battle, vowing not to fight, comforted by Patroclus and Athena.

The Boy with Fiery Hair (1.232)
Achilles is depicted as a youth with fiery red hair—a symbol of his rage. Feeling entitled and above others, he sees himself as nearly divine. When insulted, he appeals to his mother, the sea nymph Thetis, who promises to ask Zeus to avenge him.

Thetis, the Old Man of the Sea’s Daughter
In a poignant scene, Achilles walks the shore, praying to Thetis for vengeance and honor. His tragic flaw is not recognizing his own mortality.

Uncontrollable Laughter Broke from the Gods (1.721)
The book ends with the gods laughing at the mortals. Is it schadenfreude? Do the gods laugh at Achilles, at mortals, or at our delusions?

N.B. The edition I use is the Robert Fagles translation published by Penguin Classics (Deluxe Edition).
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Poem: Four Loves

The shrink’s nose told me to read The Four Loves

so i did

i read the whole book in two sittings,
even the bibliography,

well,
sorta −

and pondered the book’s message,
you know,

how there are four loves,
according to the greeks,

those sexy helens

and

like how i used to love diecast cars and bowling
and now i mainly instant message.

how i used to love you in some other symbol,

how i used to gaze on you and blush.

how you ran away and closed the book.

how i came to sit and read

wonderin’ where it all went,

me,

stitching together a story

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Poem: Another Kind Of Cave?

when it seems you have been cut out from
construction paper,
block speckled primary color green,
a carved-out human form,
when it seems as if identity has been placed on the shelving,
— fleshed-out and unread —
what, instead,
walks around in its place is the abstract me
with abstract legs and triangular feet,
a circle standing in for a noggin,
made by a bunch of kindergarten scholars,
a veritable platonic form,
that forgot about its meat on the shelf,
cautiously rotting
So I go and pick up my half-smelly carcass,
filed between a copy of
jane eyre and buddingbrooks,
and slap my self around a bit like a butcher with
a premium slice,
salve a healthy dose of vinegar to spicen up
my languishing corpuscles,
jimmy into my corpse once again as if it were a
union suit
nostalgically lined to my handsome rectangle;

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Poem: "to beget"

the world does not provoke    the world is provoked

so
    does              “the
                     world is too much with us”
mean
don’t be materialistic
            ?
or does it mean something like
                    there is nothing out there to catch the eye
because “we lay waste our powers …”
    (to say something inside is a better argument, wordsworth?)
        which is why giving up on nature walks is probably a good thing
the ants have nothing to say
    “Little we see in Nature that is ours”
                        are not perturbed    really by being stared at,
    or the moth
even the stumbled upon lizard,
    pitifully its glistening eyeball falling out of its manacled socket
is not sorry    does not get its feelings hurt if moved off the pavement
the same if accidentally stepped on
        or Wordsworth is writing about arrogance    ,    here
the panache of human beings to believe us so provocative!
    something like prometheus stealing fire; his goddamn hubris —
                        for does he really think the tritons managed
such         a         gaze        can         he be that trite?

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Poem: "When I woke up your eyes were on me"

When I woke up your eyes were on me,

like a gentle rush of waves,

as if you had been studying me this whole time,
my face an open book

(even though i was feigning sleep)

your eyes

set into the
palette of your familiar face,
your lips curved into a curious smile

and you blinked

and I yawned and complained, wishing I hadn’t  fallen asleep, but I had
done so

and 

and then without a word you closed your eyes
and went to sleep again

and I, ever the paternal wannabe,
touched your back
and prayed you would be alright

and wished you were still awake

so the story could begin where we had
left off

our eyes leveled near one another,
lolling softly another to sleep,
bedtime stories fulfilled

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As If

Poem: "Regional Transit Authority"

Poem: "Georgia"

Bleach

Poem: Juice Stained Man

Poem: "I never knew how to date"

At the ballpark, the stadium swells with people,

but
I never knew how to date.
I only knew the camaraderie of a slap on the back,
a troubled smear on the cheek,
an intimate pantomime of swelled emotion.

I never knew the arcane rituals,
the runic scripts, the book of love –
never knew the caress of the cheek,
the hand on your face
before.

Never put to rote the rubrics
of subtle peck and pay the bill
before.
Only spontaneous embraces
like best friends at supper.

Sloppy kisses over sloppy joes.

Daubed anxiety
Doggerel verse
Silly adolescence clamoring for whatchamacallit and nachos,
pulling your pigtails,
mommy.

I am like a kid getting married in the street.

I am bereft of courtship vocabulary,
the “how do I take your hand” svelte.

The “When do I call for a date?” anxiety.

How do I undo your pants,
Meet your folks –
Do I call you at work?

Should I hold your hand during the national anthem?
Or do I clap your back?

I am like the boy playing grown-up in the playpen,
dressed up like Donna Reed,
My plastic skin peeling

and during the ninth inning your child stares
Eating a nodog
I had bought ten minutes before.

Awkward smiles and nonchalance,
No runs batted in and take me out to the ballgame.

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