pre-church thinking about Grandma

[joel]

When Grandma’s house held all the mysteries
of Hindu temples, finely sculpted
gracious tiers of tapered figures
like a lotus of the sun upon a dense and different jungle canopy,
porcelain angels and old world figurines
all the buzz of bumblebees above a grandson head—
mystical troupes of a yezibaba’s friends
those shelves arched amazement
when eyes could only stretch their citizens’ faces
from a distortingly shallow angle—

but old ladies don’t grow taller
and old ladies’ shelves are stable
and growth spurts lead to an eventual recognition
that the angels and nativities are delicate
collecting dust obscenities irreverent
on the treasures
of people treasured—

I used to dust her household deities
her china shut-in friends
and glue back on the angel wings that flew from wartime bodies
so angels could tell their beloved old, old stories
and Baba could echo them deep within my adulting canyons.

When Grandma died, we didn’t save her relics.

I did inherit a porcelain figurine or two
a gluey angel and a baby from the nativity—
that little dusty baby
Baba never looked up on it, but always down upon its paint-thin eyes
and she didn’t see the dust or the loneliness or the porcelain or the shape

a word is just a symbol
for something so complex a human bark is its closest approximate—

When I hold the faded baby-form
taken down from the pagoda wings where it had seemed such a permanent fixture
I wonder if now and maybe I hope
if a dusty relic of one I’ve loved
a symbol of a word
I didn’t save
might save me.

[Lightning Rod]

nice poem, joel
it reminded me of this one from Cool Calm Collected, my latest book.
sorry about the length

-------

Song for Ancestors and Descendants

Big Grandma was a medium sized woman,
the generations are radiant in their gradations
call it the past or the seeds of the future
it's up to you which dust to trust
which lingual tradition
what grunts and whistles

Somewhere I have an ancestor, his skin is black.
He tramped in Ethiopia, lived on berries and poetry
in grunts and whistles, and straddled the Great Rift.
Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

Then the family moved north to Germany
which didn't exist then, and we lost the pigment
in our skin due to rugged cold weather
and the angle of the sun. Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

We were on the run like tangled Hugenaughts
from France to Scotland to Ire
and finally to the colonies with nothing
but a blunt ax and the will to live and fire.

Next we will flee to bubbled houses
on Titan or Europa or some lonely asteroid
and camp on our convictions and science
while we invent new gods and kiss the void.

enron lemurs
barely primates
only stand upright for moments
wearing their lawsuits
like big eyed beans
and rascal underwear
Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

when my country sat in the lotus position
on, I cannot remember when
around the time the founding fathers
were sitting around smoking pot
and cooking up our destiny.

cannabis rex
like a reptile rising
from the primate brain bewitched
not like glands released
or the bondage of ancestry

Great Grand Daddy owned half of Baltimore
or so the story goes. About the time of Poe.
The wharf district was his. And the red light.

He was a famous philanderer rascal man
had his key in every hole. An Irishman.
Great Grand Ma'am was of stern and German stock.

When he gave her the clap, she divorced him
These were the days when divorce was uncommon
and there was no penicillin.

Big Grandma was a medium sized woman
she lived to be one hundred and four
and then she started forgetting things
like the names of her children
and the attacks by Comanches she used
to tell me about. Curved by age she
still made preserves and potato salad to die for.

Shiva plays a sitar in my genes
they project into the generations
and take you along
like riding behind a big truck
or in the slip stream of a goose.

it's no matter if I'm the engine or the caboose
as long as the train keeps rollin'
a phantom on the tracks
helium or hemoglobin
a spiral to destiny.

my machine gun seed
shot into your belly
like diamonds of the future
rapt and wiggling
the generations escape
and swim upstream
on a chance

the crow can pass for a raven
black headed and lookin slick
but the crow knows more
and talks about it

his beak in the ears of the strawman
unafraid as a gentleman bird
picking up what others drop
Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

the ambassador bird
scratches for seed
a magpie driven
a dark parrot
with a Shakespearian accent
and an eye that misses nothing

the bird is studying
to be a dominatrix
a wit on wings
where the sun gleams
things are never
as they seem

the guitar evolved from dinosaurs
like a warbling forensic
with no eyelids

this was before electricity
when only fire existed
and music

is it the nightingale?
no, it is the lark
alas, the morning
with its responsibilities

sun ripens over san antone
covered by the cloud
of bird wings
fourteen mexicans in a car
a fiesta of angel crows

there is a beer crisis in birdland
all the fouls are blinking fast
and the referee blows his whistle
the chicken would crow
but he spent himself in the night
and once again at dawn

when a sperm whale comes
he comes in quarts, not tablespoons
his swimmers make swimmers
and singers and the
philosophy of the deep.

Big Grandma was a medium sized woman
my first guitar was a girl as well
she gently weeped and tightened
her g string a half step up to Jimi Hendrix
too soon she went to Africa
and plugged in her amp
turned it up to ten
and screamed like
a punk angel of rock
I am the father of her guitar

puppet
strung like a banjo tsunami
or a ruptured hurricane
distinct as a blue norther
and a maxed out credit card
there is a place in my back
where you can put your hand in
and operate me
like a manic mannequin

before I invented fire
I didn't have two sticks to rub together
But Edison was on my shoulder
and I had dreams of a nuclear program

I thumped my drum and drew
right there on the cavern walls
sagas of caribou and gazelle
I wait to rape the moon with my rockets
She was medium sized.

The past, the present and the future collide
as we take the rampant karma ride
just close your eyes to know generations
deoxyribonucleic acid twisted around
a lysergic handbag of memories
Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

my parents are visiting my children
at the point of laughing at the generations
Janus looking forward, looking back
project the future and remember the past

don't look for the puppets
look for the strings
why do you think they call it string theory?
and chromosomes are little ropes
that tie the ancestors to the descendants.
Big Grandma was a medium sized woman.

[Totenkopf]

I used to dust her household deities
her china shut-in friends
and glue back on the angel wings that flew from wartime bodies
so angels could tell their beloved old, old stories
and Baba could echo them deep within my adulting canyons.

Wings are flapping: it's about to fly................say hello to
Jeeeee-zusss for us at First Church of the Blessed Knick-Knack
when doing the "Reinforcement Hymn."

[Arcadia]

beautiful poem, joel!!! it´s incredible the amount of objects that can be acumulate from one generation to another!! kids that like to play with them always contibute to some kind of equilibrium!!


l-rod:

when my country sat in the lotus position
on, I cannot remember when
around the time the founding fathers
were sitting around smoking pot
and cooking up our destiny.

It made me smile!!

[stilltrucking]

Beautiful poem joel
thank you

but old ladies don’t grow taller
and old ladies’ shelves are stable
and growth spurts lead to an eventual recognition
that the angels and nativities are delicate
collecting dust obscenities irreverent
on the treasures
of people treasured—

joel for some reason your poem reminds me of a steve goodman song

about old pawnshops and graveyards
'I can't forgive how they robbed me of my childhood souvinirs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ohfM_PqYeg

[stilltrucking]

Have you ever read this one by Zlatko?
The Aegis

[Perdida]

As always, beautiful work Joel.