About the dead man and poetry

I previously posted this poem in 2010. I was asked yesterday if I knew about Dead Man Poetry. So here is my effort to emulate the originator.

This particular form of poetry was developed by Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. Mr. Bell explains it in his own words:

The Dead Man poem is a form I created a few years ago and then couldn’t shake. Dead man poems come out of an old Zen admonition that says, “Live as if you were already dead.” But you needn’t feel remorse. The dead man is alive and dead at the same time. He lives it up, he has opinions, he makes bad jokes, he has sex. Is he me? No, but he knows a lot about me. Dead Man poems come in two parts. Each line of poetry in a dead man poem is a compete sentence, long or short.

The form is comprised of two sections. One is titled “The Dead Man and …” and the second “More About the Dead Man and … .” All lines are written as sentence lines and enjambment matters quite a bit. The first two lines generally turn back on each other. The two versions seem to discover or expose different things about the Dead Man, one more internal in nature, the other external.

With apologies to Marvin Bell!

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Live as if you were already dead.
- Zen admonition

1. About the dead man and poetry

The dead man is not a poet for he does not comprehend
the shades and nuances of meaning.
Even though he cannot understand, the dead man utters
words with weight.
Arcane in life, the dead man is the papyrus upon which
is written the prose of time.
For him time has no meaning other than dividing day from night.
He has always been and will always be the digger of incantatory
graves, the filler of assonance holes.
The mere existence of him does not create meaning for his
translation into thought lacks content.
In thought the dead man is described by lyrical cantata and
linen shrouded psalms.
There is never music in his rhyme for his speech is not
connected to the song of the universe.
Whenever there is hope, love, vision, purpose: he consumes
them from a burial ash urn.
Lacking the eyes to see other than his self, he has shunned the
visceral meat of satisfaction.
Living is not a choice or an occurrence for in living there can
be supreme gratification without desire.
Yet, for him the skill to convey profound emotional insight is
a death march through a literary nightmare.
He cannot perform his work since he has no ability to create
the most indistinct utterance of sound.
He has become a scapular shell of dried skin hanging in an
ancient stony chapel, weighted down by the chant of hooded
vicars who would utter those poetic verses he could not scribe.
The dead man has become the succulent pupa of belief that shares
no today, no tomorrow, only the injustice of the past where
there is no poetry of life.

2. More about the dead man and poetry

The dead man never could be a part of a slam.
The dead man could not produce a readable chapbook.
His only concern is the stillness and breathlessness of cold marble.
For him the dank earth is a Ginsberg elegy.
The Dead man could not withstand the withering wind of criticism
without disintegrating.
Never having acuity has given him no useful verse.
It could not be said of him that he had a poetic wisdom tooth for
dead man had lost his teeth.
When dead man is want to reason, he fails not understanding
the why.

© 2010, Donald Harbour

A gift: Twelve Words for Christmas

A task from the poetry prompt site We Write Poems, was to write a poem with the idea beginning of “Twelve words to keep“. With the  Twelve days of Christmas in mind consider this list poem the “Twelve Words for Christmas”. Reflect on them and what they mean in your life.
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Love knows no season, no gender, no race, no form, or countenance. It is a universal feeling that permeates the soul transcending time and place. It is the one word no one can truly live without.

Humanity is the essence of the Christmas spirit expressed in kindness, goodwill and benevolence, no matter what religion practiced or language spoken, it transcends the evil in life.

Perseverance guides us all in our chosen path, though fraught with difficulties, it gives the traveler a steady persistence in a course of action and purpose in spite of obstacles and discouragement.

Respect is often forgotten in relations, not only in esteem for the worth of others, but also as a manifestation of personal quality and ability; respect others as you would wish others to respect you.

Character is the building blocks of a person forming the aggregate of traits that define the nature of an individual, it is a compilation of all the good things and stalwartness of who you are.

Peace resurrects the passion for living among persons existing as a state of mutual harmony, its satisfaction allows the security of being and the joy of all things good in this world.

Fraternity does not relate to a group of men but rather the brotherhood and sisterhood shared by all human beings without regard to station in life or purpose, it is the quality that binds us all to one another.

Family is why we are here whether dwelling together or separated by generations, it is what identifies each one of us in the vast sea of existence calling to us across miles and ages to be a part of something greater.

Spirituality has value, not necessarily for religion, but for the contentment found in our acceptance of the unseen that is felt, rather than seen, in the universality of all creation.

Bravery is in all of us giving us the strength of conviction with courage to face the unknown, the mettle to place ourselves between on rushing events or things and the weak and helpless, it is the conduct that some call heroism but in truth is being human.

Honesty will help you find freedom from deceit dealing you fairness through sincerity and truthfulness, qualities that cause trust in a person and of others whose paths we cross.

Happiness is the biggest gift of all and is the culmination of everything, a magical word providing good fortune, pleasure, contentment and joy, for without it we have not succeeded in being what we were meant to be.

Be happy, be grateful, and allow yourself to love and be loved. Merry Christmas.

©2012, Donald Harbour

I write because

A poetry prompt group in which I participate, We Write Poems, wants us to write a line poem about: “I write (because).”  There are many reasons why one writes, however the greatest is most likely an inner urge that needs satisfaction and the pure pleasure of putting thought to written word. So here are my thoughts, some of them, the others I will keep to myself. I like to be a little unpredictable.

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I write to express my contentious and clamoring inner voice.
I write to better understand humanity, the world, and our place in it, and why emotion becomes an insipid event for those who do not understand poetic verse.
I write to define how life’s emotions impact our relationship with self.
I write to paint a vivid memory upon the wheel of time.
I write to fulfill the artistic side of my nature with creation my canvas,
words my pallet, and poetic form my brush.
I write to leave a lasting evidence of my journey through this moment of existence.
I write so that my words might be a light for others to find their way.
I write to satisfy a natural urge, as one needs food to survive, poetry is the  sustenance to my soul.
I write to say somethings that need to be said and are better said in a poetic verse regardless of where the chips fall.
I write because Gaea and I find it is a spiritual experience that enlightens us together.
I write because there is wonder in the diversity of words and their challenging meanings.
I write because I find camaraderie, and appreciation in the company of poetry and poets.
I write because other than my darling wife Luscious, poetry is my literary mistress full of beauty and gratification.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Anticipation

A poem in the form of a Japanese Tanka.

Grey marbled clouds
rolling across the sky,
on the earth below
life awaits a moist kiss
from nature’s pursed lips.

©2012, Donald Harbour

It

It is its name

There is a thing in my life,
a thing I do not call by a true name.
Giving it recognition is undo cause
for it to raise its ugly head.
Admonition of its feral existence
removes the curtain of denial.
Coping with it requires refusal
a non acceptance of incisive struggle.
It has chosen the battle ground
my corpus its Flanders Fields.
I do not taste the poison of cordite
nor is the flesh torn by razor wire.
Yet it assaults me from within
a bellicose consuming conflagration.
We have this circumspect relationship
though it has definitive shape and place.
It does know its mindless meaning
but, I know what it is and – It is its name.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A thought

This form of poetry is a Sestina. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, bound by a proffered thought,
I was caught in its golden fleeting hold.
An eventide breach of my consciousness,
a vaporous single wisp buried in my mind.
It is a mysterious breeze, I must confess,
the wind of time has challenge me to know.

I felt fear of learning what I might know
nature’s mysterious parlor trick produced by thought.
Do we by a slight of hand, our secrets confess?
Or, do we strive to release our tenuous hold,
allowing some dusty forgotten corner of the mind
to sweep away, that grain of consciousness?

This bright pebble picked up in consciousness,
that flowing stream passing, rushing to know.
I am stilled by this hidden sacrament of mind,
a tarot card born of a single unread thought.
What fortune of the future does it now hold?
To gain it, to read it, what must I confess?

It is not as from a void the dying confess,
it is a shining diamond of life’s consciousness.
I wonder what telling my last breath will hold.
Yet I dwell upon this passage to feel, to know,
to search the foot paths of my soul. That thought,
runs wild across the aging pastures of my mind.

From somewhere in the misty past of the mind,
the fog of time has hidden things not to confess.
As water begins to boil, heating the caldron of thought,
it pulls those diaphanous  vapors into consciousness.
At last what was unknown becomes mine to know.
Something I had lost long ago, in vision I now hold.

From a dawning portico your half-light shadow I hold.
You who are a hallowed spire of a youthful day mind,
you have awakened dim memories I did not wish to know.
This is a receding tide of my heart I cannot confess,
for it lays bare the dark that fell between our consciousness.
In pain, my companion hearthstone, you rise to thought.

You are not a keepsake to hold, forgetting you I do confess,
banishing you from my mind. What was a challenge to consciousness,
I not want to know, remembering lost love is a foolish thought..

©2012, Donald Harbour

Old men paint in winter

For my friend Wayne, displaying his painting talents on canvas in far Northwest Canada.
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Where Wayne creates and paints.

It is said that old men paint in winter,
Remembering warmer times, years,
Winter is not kind to bones and joints,
But winter does not really know old men,
There lies with in their soul an acceptance,
A reflection upon invested years of age,
The knowledge of journey and time,
Theirs is an awareness of that march,
A travail, a struggle to their goal,
Old men know what those lesser do not,
Life takes more than it gives,
Life watches, waiting for it’s moment,
It is the jester of their childish follies,
A trap door to be sprung without warning,
Their life, words, and painted pictures, leftovers,
The satisfaction of having been at the table,
How will they be remembered, these old men,
Viewed in the springs of their youth,
Interpretation of life on canvas,
Accumulated tablets of poetry,
How will winter remember them,
And, when your cold dark night comes,
What will you paint in your winter.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Who is Marey Mercy

to know Marey Mercy
is to know too much
a pick pocket of persona
a plumed bird of image multiplicity
whether grainy black and white
fading sepia or blurred graphic
she is a 35mm Pantone expression
a randomly clicked slide show
art spreading out a panorama
of pixelated creative genius.

©2011, Donald Harbour

On life’s stage

This form of poetry is taken from Japanese tradition and is called a Haibun. It includes prose with a Haiku at the end. Written in response to the prompt at “Margo Roby: Word Gathering for Tryout Tuesday, Haibun”.

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I have wandered life’s stage never yet finding my voice. Somewhere in the wings it hides in the folds of the curtain. Or maybe on the scaffolding where the lights are rigged. I often believe that searched for voice is adjusting the lights thus moving the spot on the stage where I should stand, should speak, should deliver. There is nonsense in this playful speculation though it causes me to wonder if all the other actors surrounding me are searching as well for that moment of oratory when they will finally be heard, be recognized. The performance is so brief and scripted. Although we are told that all great actors yearned for their moment too, I wonder if their script was written by the likes of Thornton Wilder while my lines came from some struggling unknown. Was the play I am in rejected by the better theaters, relegated to a high school auditorium in Bug Tussle, Texas, far from the Broadway lights whose glare can spell success in ones career? I do not wear a mask in this play. My mouth is not muffled by the tape of a false beard, my face not hidden by makeup. The foot lights blind me to the audience so I cannot see how many seats are filled. My fear is that when the curtain does come down there will be no great reviews, no applause for a performance well given.

Autumn is here
frosty footsteps
there is dawn

Right or left

The interlocutors at We Write Poems blog for this week’s prompt wrote: flip the coin, we’re taking tails not heads!  Our exercise is both simple and physical.  We invite you to write using your “other” (non-primary) hand (right-handed folks, use your left, and likewise reversed if you’re left-handed please).   

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When the left hand conspires with the right brain, cryptic notes follow the meeting.

Right-handed; I am not ambidextrous,
Left-brained for written articulation,
The off hand an unaccomplished wanderer.
Left hand writing is unfamiliar water.
I imagine it is as a jelly fish swims,
The left hand lacks structure,
There is no discernible backbone,
The corpus of thought is weak,
Anxiety replaces the flow of poetic reason.
The writer thus cast upon barren shores,
An exercise in tongue chewing consternation.
The mind becomes a Pope’s inquisitioner,
Verbs, adverbs, nouns a torture rack.
Obviously my right-brain is untutored,
Lacking left-hand to right-brain intellect
I am done with this exercise.
There is preference for left-brain normality,
This then begs a double-entente question,
When confronted with the right-handed left-brain,
And its superior sociability politic of thought,
Of what use is the left hand unlateralized right side?

©2011, Donald Harbour