For those who are interested, what follows is a Renga between David Irwin and myself. The topic of our conversation: work, the working man/woman and the issues surrounding. Watch as it grows!
Bill:
Who am I, really?
Am I the sum of my deeds?
The man that I am?
Or am I what I have made?
Is my labor who I am?
Dave:
These hands and fingers,
how connected to me and
how attached to work.
Be the moment of motion
and the still moment after.
Bill:
The forest is cut
by the strength of my sinews
wielding a sharp saw.
Each tree that falls to the ground
Rises again as a house.
Dave:
In progress, wood falls
to steel, only to rise up
better, more useful.
And wood, burned brightly, gives rise
to steel from the ochre earth.
Bill:
I want to return
to the place of alchemy,
the factory floor.
Sweat and grime are nourishment.
Making is my religion.
Dave:
The body, a horse:
ride it gently when you can,
hard when you have to.
This paste of dust in my pores,
transformation's by-product.
Bill:
By horse, man and plow
The field was broken and turned,
The beast the engine.
Now the work of our machines
is measured in horsepower.
Dave:
Gear and cog fit well
by design; innovation
a love of future.
Water carries our boats first,
Later expands in pistons.
Bill:
Smokestacks reach skyward.
Rolling plumes of steam rising
mark transformation.
Fire, the tool of alchemy
attends the act of making.
Dave:
Smoke, the fool of fire,
dances in the air above
as we breathe deeply.
Shepherding toxins carries
the hidden costs far downwind.
Bill:
My hands are leather.
There is metal in my blood,
my back bent over.
Creation has byproducts.
The price of progress is change
Dave:
The price masks the costs:
the magic of numbers steals
what can't be counted.
The strong back organizes
for a fair share of pennies.
Bill:
Industry's captains
see men as less than machines.
Profit rules their hearts.
The gold and silver they gain
will mean nothing in the end.
Dave:
This circle of trade:
knowledge and pain for money,
though not that simple.
What is the purpose of work?
To create or to live well?
Bill:
When we stood erect
survival was our labor.
To hunt. To gather.
Is punching a time clock yet
another hunt for our food?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Pittsburgh Lament
The sound of a switch engine
working the stockyards at night
is like a lullaby humming in my ears.
My taste is for carbon and oil.
The burnt scent of an overheated clutch
is a heady perfume, as magnetic
as the musk of a woman’s desire.
The feel of polished ceramics
caressed by a calloused hand,
is sensuous, arousing,
like stroking the velvety tiny fuzz
along the nape of a woman’s neck.
My eye seeks the symmetry
of bolted parts, disparate shapes joined,
like petal, pistil and stamen,
into beauty.
These are lost now,
merely echoes.
Instead, some foreign hand trembles
with the torque of a wrench,
heart beating in rhythm with
the whirr of generators,
nostrils flaring with the pungent odor
of lubricated metal and friction.
There are metal shavings in my blood
and my soul withers, unrequited,
another man with a strange accent
making love to what once was,
what still should be, my job.
The title to this one is difficult. I first called it "NAFTA." The current title, "Pittsburgh Lament" is to pay homage to my origins and my father's generation. It's one of those "middle of the night" affairs - the memory of living next to a railroad stockyard, the sounds and smells of my youth, keeping me awake far into the foggy dawn last night.
working the stockyards at night
is like a lullaby humming in my ears.
My taste is for carbon and oil.
The burnt scent of an overheated clutch
is a heady perfume, as magnetic
as the musk of a woman’s desire.
The feel of polished ceramics
caressed by a calloused hand,
is sensuous, arousing,
like stroking the velvety tiny fuzz
along the nape of a woman’s neck.
My eye seeks the symmetry
of bolted parts, disparate shapes joined,
like petal, pistil and stamen,
into beauty.
These are lost now,
merely echoes.
Instead, some foreign hand trembles
with the torque of a wrench,
heart beating in rhythm with
the whirr of generators,
nostrils flaring with the pungent odor
of lubricated metal and friction.
There are metal shavings in my blood
and my soul withers, unrequited,
another man with a strange accent
making love to what once was,
what still should be, my job.
The title to this one is difficult. I first called it "NAFTA." The current title, "Pittsburgh Lament" is to pay homage to my origins and my father's generation. It's one of those "middle of the night" affairs - the memory of living next to a railroad stockyard, the sounds and smells of my youth, keeping me awake far into the foggy dawn last night.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Crybaby
Stop pushing me.
I have problems of my own
and your inability to face up to yours
doesn’t give you the right to push me.
See, your job sucks, I know,
and your wife (girlfriend, sometime lover)
is as true as my cat –
right, anybody that feeds this female
gets a lap cuddle for the night –
sure and the friend you thought true
proves false, hell, we’ve all seen that –
come up with something at least different
if not meaningful,
something I haven’t seen, felt, lived,
that will say, shit yeah, this deserves
sympathy.
Stop crying to me.
Stop pushing
or I WILL push back
and I don’t’ think you’re fragile ego
could handle that!
I have problems of my own
and your inability to face up to yours
doesn’t give you the right to push me.
See, your job sucks, I know,
and your wife (girlfriend, sometime lover)
is as true as my cat –
right, anybody that feeds this female
gets a lap cuddle for the night –
sure and the friend you thought true
proves false, hell, we’ve all seen that –
come up with something at least different
if not meaningful,
something I haven’t seen, felt, lived,
that will say, shit yeah, this deserves
sympathy.
Stop crying to me.
Stop pushing
or I WILL push back
and I don’t’ think you’re fragile ego
could handle that!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Masochist of Love
She left her mark,
the ghost of her love
flitting between the trampled garden,
shattered crockery
and broken bedpost.
Sometimes, the weaker side of his soul
longs for her
when the songbirds at dawn
sing with the hollow echo of loneliness.
Memories of their wild abandoned
love-making fill his being,
swelling his heart,
deluding him with false hope,
until they pour out and evaporate
where her betrayal had cut him
like an assassin’s knife.
She left her mark,
but he considers calling her,
again.
the ghost of her love
flitting between the trampled garden,
shattered crockery
and broken bedpost.
Sometimes, the weaker side of his soul
longs for her
when the songbirds at dawn
sing with the hollow echo of loneliness.
Memories of their wild abandoned
love-making fill his being,
swelling his heart,
deluding him with false hope,
until they pour out and evaporate
where her betrayal had cut him
like an assassin’s knife.
She left her mark,
but he considers calling her,
again.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Pick Up Line
(an old piece of erotica!)
We should love!
My mind approves and
blood courses in anticipation
swelling my penis until it stands
throbbing, a fountain of yielding iron,
a pipe that gushes creamy hot babies
into the incubating cup of your vagina!
Am I bold to say this to you?
Is it wrong to proclaim my desire?
We should love!
My mind approves and
blood courses in anticipation
swelling my penis until it stands
throbbing, a fountain of yielding iron,
a pipe that gushes creamy hot babies
into the incubating cup of your vagina!
Am I bold to say this to you?
Is it wrong to proclaim my desire?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
My recent absence
Sorry about that. My pre-diabetes spun out of control into full blown gotta take pills and control the diet diabetes last month. Lack of sleep, work, etc., etc., - just haven't been at the keyboard. Please don't stop checking in - just need a jump start.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Gardeners
A Renga by David Irwin and Bill Graffius
David:
White blossoms push out
from the wood. Wet dirt wisps steam
almost all morning.
Nothing worse than too much time
on one’s hands while the ice melts.
Bill:
The forest dances.
Blossoms fly from meadow trees.
Tall grass undulates.
Seize the moment to watch this
in the mists before the storm.
David:
A clutch of young grass
falls from your hand. Did the wind
take it as it fell?
Ahead, summer's horizon;
Today, sweat and more planting.
Bill:
Baskets on the porch
filled with trailing spring flowers
will bring summer joy.
Dirty hands, satisfaction,
Sense of zen captured in now.
David:
The dirt hands you your
meal - this is where we first taste
the too-young tartness.
Berries, when ready to fall,
are different, not better.
Bill:
When plucked before ripe
fruit and berry are less sweet.
Taste is the victim.
Life must fully gestate
or bitterness will prevail.
David:
There are still cold winds
to make us forget breakfast
and stay in our beds.
Blossoms are a memory.
The flowers do not make spring.
Bill:
Cold dew at daybreak
glistens on the fresh mown lawn.
Wake! And join the day.
Blossoms are the memory
and midwife to spring's rebirth.
David:
Clouds are not bleak or
joyous. Understand the rice
you bring to the meal.
Do these blossoms understand
how little time they have left?
Bill:
Time is circular.
Which season begins the year?
Which one marks the end?
The cycle is a circle.
No beginning and no end.
David:
The moon's white halo
is no sign of anything
but rain tomorrow.
A bicycle replaces
the ox. The field goes fallow.
Bill:
Preparing to change
with feelings of unfolding,
a sense of blossom.
Rain today, sun tomorrow,
life grows from the excrement.
David:
The verde blossoms
are already a carpet
here, gathered by wind.
Thus each gray morning begins
with the usual triumphs.
Bill:
Daffodils abound.
Yellow pollen everywhere!
Summer approaches.
Gaia is blessing us with
rain for our emerald world.
David:
Sweet morning chill is
disappearing. Open doors,
plain tea our pleasures.
The hills are changing daily
when I take the time to watch.
Bill:
Our labor brings joy
as the sun paints our skin brown
and backs bend weeding.
Hummingbirds thrum at feeders.
Ice water is our reward.
David:
Their furious wings
lift them through the warm evening
to sip one more meal.
Tomorrow, summer's journey
up the mountain will begin.
Bill:
The flowers offer
nectar to the travelers
in their migration.
Bees and butterflies partake.
My efforts are rewarded.
David:
Savor sun and growth -
not that there's a choice - because
the cold will return.
Endless vistas from the peaks,
but our crops need the river.
Bill:
Standing deep in green
our joy is restrained, knowing
fall follows summer.
Until the cycle renews
we celebrate abundance.
For those who visit this blog regularly, you have seen two previous "in the middle of things" postings of this poem. It is now officially finished.
For those seeing this for the first time: David Irwin, a poet, writer, musician and longtime friend (I hate saying old friend, even though we're both getting there) read one of my haiku poems and invited me to Renga with him. Renga is an ancient style of Japanes poetry wherein two or more poets collaborate to create a poem by writing alternate stanzas. It is also the original source of the haiku. It uses syllable counts of 5-7-5 and 7-7. In its strictest, original form it goes to 100 verses. Google it for more information. Here is the result of our initial foray into this form of poetic conversation. Hope you enjoyed it!
David:
White blossoms push out
from the wood. Wet dirt wisps steam
almost all morning.
Nothing worse than too much time
on one’s hands while the ice melts.
Bill:
The forest dances.
Blossoms fly from meadow trees.
Tall grass undulates.
Seize the moment to watch this
in the mists before the storm.
David:
A clutch of young grass
falls from your hand. Did the wind
take it as it fell?
Ahead, summer's horizon;
Today, sweat and more planting.
Bill:
Baskets on the porch
filled with trailing spring flowers
will bring summer joy.
Dirty hands, satisfaction,
Sense of zen captured in now.
David:
The dirt hands you your
meal - this is where we first taste
the too-young tartness.
Berries, when ready to fall,
are different, not better.
Bill:
When plucked before ripe
fruit and berry are less sweet.
Taste is the victim.
Life must fully gestate
or bitterness will prevail.
David:
There are still cold winds
to make us forget breakfast
and stay in our beds.
Blossoms are a memory.
The flowers do not make spring.
Bill:
Cold dew at daybreak
glistens on the fresh mown lawn.
Wake! And join the day.
Blossoms are the memory
and midwife to spring's rebirth.
David:
Clouds are not bleak or
joyous. Understand the rice
you bring to the meal.
Do these blossoms understand
how little time they have left?
Bill:
Time is circular.
Which season begins the year?
Which one marks the end?
The cycle is a circle.
No beginning and no end.
David:
The moon's white halo
is no sign of anything
but rain tomorrow.
A bicycle replaces
the ox. The field goes fallow.
Bill:
Preparing to change
with feelings of unfolding,
a sense of blossom.
Rain today, sun tomorrow,
life grows from the excrement.
David:
The verde blossoms
are already a carpet
here, gathered by wind.
Thus each gray morning begins
with the usual triumphs.
Bill:
Daffodils abound.
Yellow pollen everywhere!
Summer approaches.
Gaia is blessing us with
rain for our emerald world.
David:
Sweet morning chill is
disappearing. Open doors,
plain tea our pleasures.
The hills are changing daily
when I take the time to watch.
Bill:
Our labor brings joy
as the sun paints our skin brown
and backs bend weeding.
Hummingbirds thrum at feeders.
Ice water is our reward.
David:
Their furious wings
lift them through the warm evening
to sip one more meal.
Tomorrow, summer's journey
up the mountain will begin.
Bill:
The flowers offer
nectar to the travelers
in their migration.
Bees and butterflies partake.
My efforts are rewarded.
David:
Savor sun and growth -
not that there's a choice - because
the cold will return.
Endless vistas from the peaks,
but our crops need the river.
Bill:
Standing deep in green
our joy is restrained, knowing
fall follows summer.
Until the cycle renews
we celebrate abundance.
For those who visit this blog regularly, you have seen two previous "in the middle of things" postings of this poem. It is now officially finished.
For those seeing this for the first time: David Irwin, a poet, writer, musician and longtime friend (I hate saying old friend, even though we're both getting there) read one of my haiku poems and invited me to Renga with him. Renga is an ancient style of Japanes poetry wherein two or more poets collaborate to create a poem by writing alternate stanzas. It is also the original source of the haiku. It uses syllable counts of 5-7-5 and 7-7. In its strictest, original form it goes to 100 verses. Google it for more information. Here is the result of our initial foray into this form of poetic conversation. Hope you enjoyed it!
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