RONEE BLAKLEY

Her voice is low and warm and resonant.
She birthed her first songs during her wild youth.
She had a knack for showing the whole truth,
The edge of which is all timid souls want.

America first saw her in a film
In which a lone wolf would assassinate
Her character. This staged death would create
A haunting image: a deep soul, a struggling will –

That she’d outshine if you should meet her in
The flesh, but she’d still seem larger than life.
She might try other roles, including wife,
But her story would endlessly begin.

“Who is that?” people ask, if she should pass.
Some stars are too bright to stay caught in glass.


-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey

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WINTER INSIGHT

A fly on the lip of the glass,
A drink that the room has turned cold;
There’s some contradiction in this.
This season indoors breaks the mold.

You take an intoxicant sip
Of brew grown belatedly strong.
You let the nip soothe your cold throat
And find your voice, but not for long.

The drunken fly’s small life expires.
The flush in your skin will not last.
You sing about seasonal fires
And stay inside, dreaming the past.

The summer to come is far off;
The previous one, just a blur.
Your song terminates in a cough,
And you feel worse off than you were.

You know no other moment will provide
Relief that – though you can’t reach it – you crave.
It’s more than a dark lull in the year’s ride.
This quick flash of the wings is all we have.


-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey

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DESK JOB

(Public Domain photo from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill,
And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
The stroke of five disarms the time machine.

And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen;
Each link’s a payment pressing to be made.
The stroke of five disarms the time machine,
But bills and bills and bills wait to be paid.

Each link’s a payment pressing to be made,
Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes.
Bills and bills and bills wait to be paid,
As – between computers – conversation hums.

Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes,
More and more paperwork piled softly in the bin.
As – between computers – conversation hums,
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din.

More and more paperwork piles softly in the bin,
In cubicles the gods insist must look the same.
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din,
and no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.

In cubicles the gods insist must look the same,
Where light that’s natural must never penetrate,
Are no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.
And where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight.

Where light that’s natural may never penetrate,
Year after year of furtive search will only find
Where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind.

Year after year of furtive search will only find
That what we see remains all that we will,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind
Can ease the ache from all this sitting still.

What we see remains all that we will.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
Retirement blunts the ache from all this sitting still.
Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill.


– © 1995 by Jack Veasey

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THE BULLFIGHT PAINTING

(Public Domain photo from animalvoice.com. The painting I describe in the poem below is not in the Public Domain, but maybe it's better to see an image of the subject that doesn't even try to prettify it.)



One of those hideous paintings you see
In a bar or a barbecue joint, that
The owner adores and paid a big fat
Price for, by a name in the industry

Some folks call “Bullfight Art.” The matador’s
In white, cape red as the bull’s blood, which we
See spread across his broad black back, set free
From veins by banderillas in each shoulder.

The cape’s a blur, trailing white lines behind
It, a nod to Impressionism. For
Art’s sake, the bull’s head lowers, aiming toward
The cape, although his tormentor’s nearby.

The man’s the center of the scene. His grace
At murdering belies his tranquil face.


--© 2010 by Jack Veasey

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X AND Y

It horrifies you that I tell the truth
Because you look much better in a mask.
You’ve worn that mask since early in your youth.
It horrifies you that I tell the truth
When you’d prefer the gleaming photo booth,
And how it lets you look just as you ask.
It horrifies you that I tell the truth,
Because you look much better in a mask.

My view of you creates embarrassment,
Because I can’t blur certain features out.
Your soul wears earrings. I see where you’re bent.
My view of you creates embarrassment.
You wish you were a straight line, and you meant
To smirk, but all you managed was a pout.
My view of you creates embarrassment
Because I can’t blur certain features out.

If only I were not born to describe.
If only I could learn to shut my mouth.
But then, I couldn’t serve you the sweet bribe.
If only I were not born to describe,
To testify, to witness for the tribe.
But then I couldn’t kiss you North and South.
If only I were not born to describe.
If only I could learn to shut my mouth.

You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills.
You couldn’t stay and risk being exposed.
I take a sip, and swallow my nerve pills.
You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills;
I pleasured you. But talking, talking kills.
My mouth kept moving. So your door was closed.
You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills.
You couldn’t stay and risk being exposed.

To see you now, I’d have to close my eyes.
But I’d still see you stripped of your disguise.


-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey


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This one is a sort of hybrid of petry forms. I used the triolet for the stanza form, then concluded it with a heroic couplet, like you would a sonnet. I like writing blatantly about sexual situations in forms -- there's a tension between the technical control and the subject matter.

The "mask" in this situation is a metaphor, not literal. This nameless guy from my checkered past is "straight" to his family and most of his friends.

X and Y is a play on words -- it refers to Ex and Why.

AFTER PETRARCH, POEM 99 FROM THE CANZONIERE

(Petrarch by Bargilla)


Your hopes and mine have proven false again.
But let’s aspire to serve the highest good.
We’re happier when we have understood
It benefits one to uplift a friend.

The meadow’s seeming peace appears to bend
And lose its symmetry if serpents could
Be hidden ‘twixt the grass blade and the bud.
Despite this danger, here, our spirits blend.

If you long just to quiet your own mind,
few shadows lead one to a freer space.
Retirement’s best with crowds left far behind.

You might well ask how dare I wear the face
Of teacher, when temptations led me blind.
I was led here, but moved at my own pace.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


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This is my English language version of a sonnet written in Italian by Franceso Petrarch (1304-1374). I don't know if I should call it a "translation," because it's not literal -- it takes a lot of liberties. Here's a literal public domain translation by A.S. Kline:

Since you and I have seen how our hope
has, so many times, turned to disappointment,
raise your heart to a happier state,
towards that great good that never cheats us.

This earthly life’s like a meadow, where
a snake hides among the grass and flowers:
and if anything is pleasing to the eye,
it leaves the spirit more entangled.

So you, who’ve always sought a mind
at peace, before the final day,
follow the few, and not the common crowd.

Though you could well say to me: ‘Brother
you show the way to others, from which
you’ve often strayed, and now more than ever.’


You can see how mine has become substantially different. In working toward making the translation back into a sonnet, I changed its meaning. I basically wrote my own sonnet based on Petrarch's.

For those who can read Italian, here's the original:

Poi che voi et io piú volte abbiam provato
come 'l nostro sperar torna fallace,
dietro a quel sommo ben che mai non spiace
levate il core a piú felice stato.

Questa vita terrena è quasi un prato,
che 'l serpente tra' fiori et l'erba giace;
et s'alcuna sua vista agli occhi piace,
è per lassar piú l'animo invescato.

Voi dunque, se cercate aver la mente
anzi l'extremo dí queta già mai,
seguite i pochi, et non la volgar gente.

Ben si può dire a me: Frate, tu vai
mostrando altrui la via, dove sovente
fosti smarrito, et or se' piú che mai.

I'm thinking about producing a number of these based on Petrarch's sonnets. Maybe I should call them interpretations, rather than translations?

CONTROL: A RATIONALE

So “normal’s” how things are when no one grows
Out of their brother’s hand-me-downs and ways.
Too much change – no, we can’t have that, God knows.

A normal boy gets by at school. His clothes
And haircut suit the general tone these days.
So normal’s how things are when no one grows

His hair too long, or paints his nails, or shows
An interest in stuff teachers call “a phase.”
Too much change – no, we can’t have that, God knows.

Some water’s deep. You wet more than your toes,
Get sucked in, and become one of the strays.
So normal’s how things are when no one goes

Far off the path, follows their untrained nose,
Ends up a headline in the birdcage trays.
Too much change can be dangerous, God knows.

Trust family. When in on you they close,
It’s for your good, despite how it dismays.
So normal’s how things are when no one grows.
Too much change – no, we can’t have that, God knows.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


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I shouldn't have to say that this poem is intended to be facetious -- when I get didactic in the last stanza, I don't want people to really do what I'm saying they should. But I've been taken literally before when I didn't want to be, so -- this poem is a sarcastic comment on how I was treated when I was growing up.

A HOLIDAY

We walk along the plaza in the sun.
I miss our pets, and hope I locked the door.
You can’t escape, despite how far you run.

The ancient temple gleams. The Buddhist nun
Speaks English. Did my bet mention the score?
We walk along the plaza in the sun.

Each foreign man looks better than the one
Before him. Smiling, you call me a whore.
You can’t escape, despite how far you run.

My therapist prescribed this trip. Some fun
Might soften our sore spots galore.
We walk along the plaza in the sun.

You say I’ve always been the only one.
Guilt stings me as you talk, and talk some more.
You can’t escape, despite how far you run.

Location can’t unlink a chain begun
When one thing led to others long before.
We walk along the plaza in the sun.
You can’t escape, despite how far you run.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

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"A Holiday" describes a fictitious vacation taken by a couple. Though they're far from home in an exotic location, they remain preoccupied with the state of things at home and the issues that chronically trouble them.

The poem is a villanelle, a form which has two refrain lines. The most famous example of a villanelle is Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night."

REAL MAN RONDEAU

A real man knows; that’s why his smile is thin.
He keeps his secrets wrapped in his thick skin.
You’re kept an arm’s length back, where you belong,
Though what he took from you has made him strong
Enough to fight you off and – he thinks – win.

A real man tells you that to feel’s a sin.
He feels that way, of course, but can’t begin
To recognize how his right might be wrong.
A real man knows

How gentleness can threaten, for he’s been
Out saving face among men just like him:
Alone and lonely, singing the tough song
To keep the pace, and carry all that weight along.
But where to turn when all his walls come falling in,
No real man knows.


-- © 1994 by Jack Veasey

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SPIRIT ANTHEM: AN UNSUNG HYMN

SPIRIT ANTHEM

Lyrics by Jack Veasey

The spirit may not have a name
Nor laws to live by to impose
And yet it fills this empty frame
With light the way rain fills a rose

The spirit may not raise us high
Above what strangers we might fear
Yet shake the hand, and meet the eye
And all mistrust may disappear

The spirit flows through us like blood
And we all bleed when wounds invade
The spirit makes flesh more than mud
When from our struggles bonds are made

The spirit lives in all and each
despite what differences we see
Don’t turn away from what can teach
Diversity is unity

The spirit can be recognized
In every shade the rainbow holds
No one excluded or despised
Beneath this flag the sun unfolds

We find our path, we sing our song
Our faces open to the sky
We find the spirit is too strong
To be held down, or to deny

The spirit lives in all and each
despite what differences we see
Don’t turn away from what can teach
Diversity is unity

© 2008 by Jack Veasey


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Here's something different: a song lyric, a first for this blog. At the request of my life partner, I wrote a completely new lyric to an existing tune -- a contemporary Christian hymn -- to make it nonsectarian. At the time we were members of a Unitarian Church; he was choir director, I sang tenor. I think what I came up with expressed the Unitarian view of spirituality and community pretty precisely. When we rehearsed the song, choir members expressed great enthusiasm for it.

However, all groups have their politics. The song's use in a service kept being put off. This seemed to happen a lot with my attempts to participate creatively in church services. I'm tempted to say a lot more about this situation, but the subject raises my blood pressure to an unsafe level.

The song was never performed at a service, and we no longer attend this church. The song wasn't the straw that broke the camel's back for us, but what happened with it didn't help. There's no point in a creative person remaining in an atmosphere where creativity is regarded as an inconvenience at best, and a threat to the status quo at worst.

All of which leaves me in a weird position in regard to this song. It was written to be performed in a particular situation which will now never happen. The lyrics are very specific to that. It also says something that I wish were true, but found out was NOT the case in the church I wrote it about (though it expresses the ideals that church is SUPPOSED to be about accurately, I think). I guess it needs to be set to a new tune. Or maybe it's just one of those efforts you have to chalk up as a learning experience. At least there's nothing to stop me from sharing it here.

CAROUSEL

Photograph by Andrew Dunn



Parents watching are a blur
Wooden horses rise and fall
Music blares from a machine
Brass rings beckon to the tall

Chariots fixed to a floor
Zebra, tiger, lion, pig
Saddles carved in wooden flesh
Rabbit hops but does not dig

Grip the pole pierced through the heart
Of the steed that never sweats
Will the runt grab any rings?
Flask-drunk Dads are making bets

You are grey yet you will ride
Unafraid to look the fool
Grabbing greedy at the rings
Not concerned with looking cool

I ride on the horse behind
No, I am not in pursuit
Close my eyes and see my mind
Hurtling down a darkened chute

Faded murals that we pass
Picture when we weren’t born
No one finds the ride too fast
Young girl straddles unicorn

Stirrup dance, three quarter time
Brassy tune too stale to hum
When there was no fatal crime
Nothing beaten but a drum

Turning back and then away
Only half a ticket left
Flashbulb catch the flying day
Here and now there is no death

-- © 2002 by Jack Veasey

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THE MARK OF KUAN YIN

THE MARK OF KUAN YIN


She sits like moonlight on the lotus leaves
As they float on the pond. She has no weight –
How heavy can a vision be? Her fate
Was not determined when the king sent thieves

To cut her down. Her spirit, some believe,
Stayed here, caught by the cries of throngs whose great
Grief her care now relieves. She brings a state
Of grace, they say; delusions can’t deceive

Her devotees. Her robe is white. Her mind
Is clear, so she has clarity to spare.
Awake to her, and she can guide you where

No hurt is left, and everyone is kind.
Take this last pain – tattoo her image there.
Commit to an eternal love affair.

--© 2009 by Jack Veasey

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This sonnet was inspired when I saw a roughly 7½-minute clip from the TV show “Miami Ink,” depicting a young man of Indonesian descent receiving an elaborate and beautiful tattoo of Kuan Yin on his back. Kuan Yin, for those who don’t know, is the Chinese Buddhist goddess of mercy. Legendary for her apparitions and known for healing and protective miracles, she is to the Chinese what the Virgin Mary is to Catholics. Her name is also spelled Kwan Yin and Quanyin.

The young man got the tattoo in honor of important women in his life, including his mother, who he says “gave up my soul to Kuan Yin” when he was born. Interestingly, the well-known tattoo artist seems to know a good bit about Kuan Yin. Perhaps not surprising, because Kuan Yin is the second most frequently depicted figure in Asian art, after the Buddha.

From the poster of the video, who calls himself jjll2006 on Youtube:
"This is a clip from the episode ‘Nobody likes a quitter’. I was lucky enough to have none other than Chris Garver tattoo a Kwan Yin on my back. This is my episode and story.”

I wanted to post the video itself here, but the user has removed it from Youtube and all other places where it was posted on the internet.

For more information on Kuan Yin, see my lecture/blog about her, posted on Eons two years ago:
http://www.eons.com/blogs/entry/75264-Kuan-Yin-My-Buddhist-Patron-Saint

I manage an internet group for Kuan Yin devotees at http://www.eons.com/groups/group/the-chapel-of-kuan-yin

WHEN I MET GWENDOLYN BROOKS

(photo from MDC archives)


My job was to help her sell her books.
I sat beside her at the folding table.
I made change while she met admiring looks
And signed her name as much as she was able.

Where I sat intruded on her aura.
It wouldn’t work if I’d sat far away.
Somebody’d brought a huge bouquet of flora,
Which someone else had quickly whisked away.

No room here for anything but books. She
Signed mine, “To My Colleague” – what a thrill!
The line was long. I thought, perhaps, that we

Might chat when it was over. But until
The place was closing, she was occupied.
I’m honored she brushed by me in her stride.


-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

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This poem appeared in Issue 9 of Fledgling Rag. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.

SUPPORT

You sit with me before my surgery
And stroke my hand, and softly lend support;
Awhile without a word, yet you report
A wealth of subtle sentiments to me.
The nurse pops in, and says that the I.V.
May pinch me; I don’t let my face contort,
Wanting to seem brave and polite. We court
The best blood pressure with infused tranquility.

It’s time to go. The doctor shakes your hand
As if we’re at a sports event. I say
“I love you,” as you do, with confidence.

They wheel me off. Though I wear no gold band,
I feel your presence near me when I fade.
I’ll wake wrapped in your silent eloquence.

(C) 2005 by Jack Veasey


This poem appeared previously in Wild Onions XIX.

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Wild Onions, by the way, is the literary magazine of Hershey Medical Center -- where I underwent this surgery.

A QUIET MEMORY

We rode bikes on the boardwalk, Dad and I,
On early mornings, while the crowd still slept.
We shared the time much like a secret kept –
That truce was possible. It was a guy
Thing, one might say, not mentioning that Mom
Was not in sight. Well, not in hearing was
More to the point. Gulls only broke the calm --
Gulls and the softly crashing tide, because
Mom wasn’t here, could fill our ears with round,
Warm tones. Even the wheels were mute – no card;
No squeak; just turning without sound.
To go long without talking was not hard.
There was no need for any other noise.
There could be peace out there, for just us boys.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

This poem appeared in Issue 9 of Fledgling Rag. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.

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SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

When you were small, I was your father’s bud;
We hung out all the time. I was around
More than your relatives. You knew the sound
Of my voice on the phone. I was not blood;

You never called me “uncle,” but I would
Bring gifts for you. Monster movies, I found,
Held you rapt all afternoon; you rewound
“the good parts” to watch them again. You could

be quite funny, sometimes. One day, watching
“Nosferatu,” you told company it
dated “from before people could speak.”

Now that you’re grown, your Dad reports the sting
He felt when you called me a “fag” at sit-
Down dinner, when my name came up – a leak

Of your new attitudes. You always knew
My story. I was never anything
But friend to you. But you’ve revised your view
Across great distance, not based on remembering.

Your family moved down South in your teens.
Your Dad and I remained in touch by phone.
Amazing how a young man’s life careens
Through changes when he separates from home.

I wonder what you’d call me to my face.
You claim to be above hate based on race.
I know that my behavior’s not to blame.
Ironic -- we still share the same first name.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

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