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

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

THE RATIONALE

(PD photo from Wikimedia)


Deliberate cruelty…is the one unforgivable thing.

Blanche Dubois in Tennessee Williams’s “A Streetcar Named Desire”

Some say that bullying is good for you –
Toughens you to face life’s many trials.
But those who don’t survive, and those who knew
And loved them, find this argument beguiles

Only the guilty who’ve gone free. Broken
Beyond repair, the absent spirit haunts
The family it left behind. But when
The guilty look back on the blows and taunts,

They see foundations of a cool career.
Their future is a long one, well-insured
Against the treatment even they must fear.
Strike first. Pain is for others to endure.

Though nobody will miss them when they’re dead,
They die thinking they stayed “one step ahead.”


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

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

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

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?

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

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.

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.

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.

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.

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.