Friday, June 23, 2017

Summer Potpourri

Summer Potpourri


The Vacation
By Wendell Berry


Once there was a man who filmed his vacation. 
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly 
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it, 
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat 
behind which he stood with his camera 
preserving his vacation even as he was having it 
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.


New Lines for Fortune Cookies
By James Maseo Mitsui


—after Frank O’Hara
You have been smiling across the table at your date
with a sesame seed stuck in your teeth.

You will gain sophistication, become accepted by Reader’s 
Digest, and retire in Puyallup.

In your next life you will be a teacher
and no one will ever call you by your first name.

After your next vacation you will come home
and discover that your neighbors have redecorated
in the style of Iowa trailer court.

If you feel like you’re getting old,
secretly plant zucchini in your neighbor’s flowerbeds.

Avoid people who iron their sheets
or roll their socks & underwear.

Painting and poetry and music will show us where we should
be going, not the senate or tv news.

The next thermos bottle you see will actually
be a listening device made in Korea.

All the people in this restaurant
are glad that they are not you.

AAA Vacation Guide
By Ernest Hilbert

 “Philadelphia isn’t as bad as Philadelphians say it is.”

—Billboard on Interstate 95

Paris in the Spring, Autumn in New York,
Singers pair a city with a season
As though it belonged to it all year long.
They should try to put a few more to work:
Trenton in winter needs a good reason;
Scranton in summer seems so very wrong.
How about Cincinnati in the spring?
Autumn in Passaic, or in Oakland?
Some cities just lack glamour and appeal,
And there is no point arguing the thing.
No one reads through stacks of brochures to spend
A honeymoon in Allentown. Let’s get real.
Most places on the map, you must believe,
No one wants to visit, only to leave.


Arts & Leisure
By Jessica Hagedorn

i read your poem 
over and over 
in this landscape 
of women

women purring 
on balconies 
overlooking 
the indigo sea

my mother's 
blue taffeta dress 
is black as the sea

she glides
out my door
to the beach
where sleek white boats
are anchored
under a full,
luscious moon

still
i am still
the wind
outside my window
my mother's ghost
evaporates
in the long
atlantic night

i listen to the radio 
every chance i get
for news
of your city's 
latest disaster

everything here
the color of honey and sand
everything there
verges on catastrophe
a constant preoccupation
with real estate

everything here 
a calm horizon
taut bodies 
carefully nurtured 
oiled & gleaming 
hair & skin

i read your poem
over and over
turning my head 
from prying eyes 
the low hum 
of women singing
in another room

i switch stations 
on the radio 
turn up the volume
i almost touch
the air
buzzing electricity

james brown "live at the apollo" 
the smooth female d.j. 
interrupts bo diddley 
groaning "i'm a man"

it is a joke here
in this baby-blue resort
where art
is a full-time hobby
art
is what everyone
claims to do

women sprawl
like cats
on each other's laps
licking the salt
off each other's skin

and i walk
in search
of the portuguese fishermen
who hide
in the scorched trees
the bleak, blond dunes
that line the highway

i imagine 
you asleep 
in another city
i take your poem
apart
line by line

it is a love letter
we wrote each other
some time ago
trying in vain to pinpoint
that first, easy
thrill.




Amagansett Beach
By Paul Engle


A beach of flesh above a beach of sand.
Tide-steady jaws tearing at food gone gritty
With shattered, golden granite of the land:
The sea-desiring people of the city.
She dives around them like a dolphin leaping
Over and under the fish-furious waves,
Past buried bellies and the sunburned sleeping,
Past papers where the world’s old madness raves.

Like something dragged by the delirious tide
She flings up to us out of breath and streaming
Glittering water down from neck and side.
She says, I’m tired, falls off to sleep, her head
Curled on my arm, smiles from her beach of dreaming
Narrow along the world’s wide sea of dread.