I’ve been busy with a number of projects, so my output’s a little off right now…That said, I did want to let you in on the new Website for my poetry and music band, The Duende Project. Still under construction, but getting there…with links to videos, places to hear and purchase tracks, etc…
Category Archives: uncategorized
Sword (Sally’s Evil)
Sally prays
every day: “Lord,
make me Sword enough
to carve your path.
Let me be
neither dulled
nor dismayed
when my knees go red
from wading.
Let me suffer
the little children.
Let me suffer
the older children,
the mothers,
the fathers.
Let me be
thy will.
Let me…”
Sally’s pure
Evil. Sally
wouldn’t believe
in her own Evil
if you laid
the skulls
and limbs
you picked
from her trash
in front of her
and raised them into brief life
to accuse her
from beyond death;
wouldn’t admit it
even if they danced,
dripping, sobbing
before her,
singing her name
and pointing;
wouldn’t admit it
or know it even
if she, the Sword,
were to turn
and cut herself
down.
Hippie
all it takes to end hatred is
to see and smile upon and feel
another person fully.
that’s how
it will happen. try it:
smile and see it begin —
no, i swear
that’s all it will take.
you’ll see. see me smile
at the gun.
it won’t smile back but
it’s not a person. guns
don’t hate people,
don’t feel people. they’re
just steel. just a forged
mistake. they can’t smile.
people will melt them down
once they’ve melted themselves.
no, that’s how it will happen.
that’s how. smile and make
it, make it, make it —
i’m smiling,
can’t you see
i’m smiling, gun-man? oh,
it’s not supposed
to be
such hard work.
A note to subscribers
I just wanted to thank all of you for signing up to read this blog, whether that be in your reader, in your inbox, or via Facebook. It’s gratifying to know that what I do touches some of you enough that you want to have it in your lives regularly.
Since I made the decision to not make the standard journal/manuscript route for writers my own primary path, but to put more of my time and effort into being read more often by a group of readers who would see my progress and my body of Work on an ongoing basis, I’ve had multiple occasions to question the decision.
Many of my writer friends think I’m nuts, that I’m missing out on more standard acceptance and reward by doing this. Certainly it has made it more difficult to submit to some opportunities and journals in which I DID wish to appear. But overall, I’ve never looked back with anything more than a small twinge of regret. Knowing that the Work will be read is all I’ve ever cared about and I still think this is the best way to do that.
I appreciate your loyalty and your attention and thank you again deeply, with all my gratitude, for your kindness, your comments, and your time.
Tony
Chant For Hard Times
Originally published on 11/14/2009. Original title, “Mantra For The Hard Times.”
It’s easy to weep, to be sad —
praise, instead.
Find a purpose to the day.
Praise, instead.
Raise your dead upon your shoulders.
Praise, instead.
If you are cut, paint the gray trees with your blood.
Praise, instead.
If the crow slips into your veins, cackles, and you die a little —
praise, instead.
Flight into the desert, no water, no sign of shade?
Praise, instead.
Open a moth-haven billfold in the presence of a feast.
Praise, instead.
Love splits and draws away from your hard skin.
Praise, instead.
Praise, instead,
the levers that move you,
the gears of your throbbing head,
the dinky children born from your fears,
the light of fires burning the spars of pirates,
the hats of soldiers riddled with flowers in the long battlefield grasses,
the red charlatan’s grin as he slops his hogs with your fortune,
the skulls of ancestors empty of expectations,
the diversion of hunger,
the urging and prodding of want —
all this is brought to you by the machine of living,
you are taut and combat tested,
you are honed to contest and create.
You can lament or
praise, instead,
the pain of painful life.
Lamentation is
the snuffing of
a lone candle —
praise is a fire set
to feed on the joy of
survival.
Praise, instead,
this work called life;
chant for it, burn with it
and
light the way.
Estrangement
Originally posted 3/5/2011.
What do you say to your long-lost arm
when it comes crawling back?
You’d better start thinking of how
you will answer; look behind you —
here it comes,
one finger length at a time.
Do you demand to know where it went,
why it took so long to return? Or should you
ignore it, brazen it out,
turn and walk away,
its vacancy hanging
like a banner on your shoulder?
No, you owe it more than to break it like that,
seeing how it’s come so far seeking its former home.
You should use finesse to bluff the past
whenever it comes back demanding its place.
You at least should know better than to say,
“I’ve gotten used to living without you.
I have a better hold on things without you,”
even though it’s true.
Don’t be that cruel. Show it a little love.
At the least, lay a light kiss upon its open hand.
You have nothing to lose now
from offering it that moment of care, nothing
you could not easily surrender,
regain, and retain. That is, after all,
why you are now whole
in spite of having lost it in the first place.
Want to hear a poem or two?
Indiefeed, the premier site for podcasts of live poetry of ALL sorts, has long been a supporter of the poetry and music ensemble I perform and record with, The Duende Project. Here’s a podcast with commentary on a cut from our last album, “Basement Takes.” Hope you enjoy it.
If you do like what you hear, ALL of our albums are available for purchase as digital downloads in any format you choose here:
Bandcamp for The Duende Project
And we occasionally post demos of prospective recordings for future albums here for your listening and occasional FREE downloading pleasure here:
Soundcloud for The Duende Project
Give any or all a listen!
Thanks,
Tony
Season’s Greetings to all…
Whatever your spiritual or family tradition, may this season be one of reflection, increasing light, and love. Thanks for reading here over the last year; hope to see you all in 2015.
Flight
Originally posted 7/12/2003. The OLDEST poem on this blog, though not even remotely my oldest poem.
There’s a hole in me the size of a departing flight.
Something taxis up to my edge and takes off,
flying out of me toward a horizon.
Not that I can see that horizon;
that’s just what planes are supposed to fly into these days.
It used to be the wild blue yonder that planes
flew into, but no one thinks planes are that wild anymore —
they seem to us more like stale buses
full of cranky people eating meals
that never fill them,
in precisely the same way
that nothing fills me now.
Somehow I keep thinking
even after my mind falls into this hole
and disappears.
I keep thinking that I’m going to rise
and follow that vapor trail into the blush,
catch up to the flight before the sun goes down.
You’d think I’d know better by now.
I ought to know better by now. I ought to be able
to figure this one out. Some flights
are just lost. You can’t catch
a plane that has been lost,
not by thinking.
Note to all subscribers
I’m sorry for the low number of posts lately. I’ve been involved in the demonstrations and other work being done around the current situation in the US. It has taken up a lot of time, my energy, and now my health to some extent. I’ll be fine, but I will likely be somewhat detached from my work here for a bit.
Please, please, PLEASE look up some older poems here if you could. I write them for more than the moment, y’know.
Thanks.
Tony
New demo track available on Soundcloud
Above, you’ll find a link to a demo recording of my poem “Carve” — something I laid down tonight as a demo for the Duende Project. If you like it, it’s available as a free download. Thanks!
T
Sound and vision: Four Stones
I recorded a demo for the Duende Project for my recent poem, “Four Stones.” It’s available for free download here:
Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think. Thanks!
Gravedancers’ Ball
Originally posted 2/26/2011.
Which graves we choose
to tarantelle upon
is less relevant
than realizing we all
have the deep longing
to dance on the grave
of some dead someone
whose movement once
made us hate and rage.
We love to sin that light fantastic.
Can’t sit still — red, blue,
left, right — love that happy dance.
How soft the ground, how haughty
our heels. How good it feels to swing
on top of them; they can’t do a thing
about it.
A beautiful American word,
revenge; it names
a toe dance of righteousness.
Everyone’s tapping. Some on top,
some impatiently waiting
their long delayed turn,
every smoldering one of us
wanting the last dance.
Phoenix (for Blair)
Originally posted 7/24/2011.
The cut on my arm reminds me
that after the phoenix has flown some
always gather around its birth-hearth
to stir the ashes with dirty sticks.
What do they expect will come of that —
is it the same thing
I expected
from the blood
I drew from myself
when I heard he was gone?
Did I think that if I drew enough,
the phoenix would rise again
from where my blood
had pooled? I don’t know.
I’m old enough to know better
but for a second there I became young again
and fell in love with childhood magic,
believing that if I gave enough
and hurt enough,
the phoenix would return.
I am old enough
to know better
so I bind the wound
and listen as I do
for the song.
The myth says when the bird flies
he sings, and the song
burns the air behind him
with the fire
that released him.
A myth becomes a myth
not because it’s a lie,
but because it is a truth
that cannot ever
die for long.
It rises again and again.
It flies blazing
up from the ash.
It is never in the ash.
It is in the clean, bloodless sky.
— for David Blair
Publication news…
My poem, “Exam Questions For The Next World” appears today in the online journal “Truck.” Very pleased about that.
Dark Matter 