May 18, 2009

• ElectricPoetry: The Aughts

  

  "InMyRoom2/6/00"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  February 6 , 2000 10:28 a.m. pst

  
  We are spinning,
  revolving,
  recording life in our heads.
  Evolving,
  Streaming,
  A lifetime of possibilities residing in memory forever.
  The present and the future collide with a thunder,
  And my hands do not look the same anymore.
  I reach out,
  I get messages,
  I watch the movie of life as it unspools.
  Words which repeated themselves years ago
  Land upon my doorstep with wagging tales.
  Emotions I thought I had tucked away in a mind-drawer
  Cry out for sustenance.
  A year is a day is a moment, I said again and again,
  And I don't like repetition in my work.
  We go on
  We drone and sanctify,
  reliving past exercises in hopefulness.
  Tomorrow is another day,
  I open the window of my soul to circumstance.
  Shout out to the back door,
  Come around in front,
  Leave the light on and lay down beside me in my room.
  I am searching for a purpose,
  spinning,
  revolving,
  evolving,
  streaming,
  seeming like forever is right around the cornerstone of reality,
  And I welcome her like I never did in the past,
  Because forever seemed so far away.
  We are running into each other in some closer time,
  Entering a precipice of purpose.
  And jumping off without a care or a regret,
  Knowing that the spinning bodies will land not only on their feet,
  But will be propped up with love and understanding.

   

  "A Lively Afternoon Indoors"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  October 19th, 2003 8:50 p.m. pdt

  
  An afternoon working hard maintaining sanity, collecting artistic tendencies,
  And typing literature, and creating soluble art.
  That's the ticket
  None's the wiser.
  Crawling out of the thicket
  Peeking over the riser.
  And seeking to see the whole instead of the part.

  A busy day looking at someone else's accomplishments,
  While beginning (again) to begin to begin to build mine.
  There I go again
  Can't be much clearer
  Back and forth again
  Slake the fear, or
  I can pay the price of the cultural fine.

  Inasmuch as I can see that nothing is really accomplished much,
  Even when wasting a day proclaiming that typing on a computer is artistic.
  That's the ticket.
  None's the wiser.
  It's a fairly sticky wicket
  But it sure is a tantalizer,
  And I fail to end the day with fulfillment, yet my accomplishment feels intrinsic.
   

  
  "Not Superman "
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  Wednesday, June 9th , 2004 : 4:38 a.m. pdt

  
  Lists of "things to do" hover, heavily, then fall
  With increasing rapidity o'er the hours of the day
  Beackoning Opportunities slowly coalesce
  Into Nagging Reminders that something hasn't been done yet,
  No matter how many items are added,
  crossed out, attacked, defeated, and rationalized,
  The requests rapidly back up the pipe of purpose
  To clogging quagmire

  Then the phone rings (again) and it is you,
  "The Wrench" asking about something
  Which isn't even on the list,
  As if it is the most important piece of the puzzle
  Because it is the only piece you possess

  As the metered syllables on the white board
  Tend to become nothing more than a can of
  alphabet soup, you wheedle, whine and worry,
  While I try to "fit you in", you wrench
  Gumming up my works, and making it hard to work for you.

  I didn't get that fax, I can't respond,
  I'm on a timetable, and yet of you I'm fond,
  I'll try to do it, give me time,
  Can I wait some minutes, is that a crime?
  Your daily wrenchlike requests serve to disrupt the plan
  Even though I like to top myself, I'm just not superman.

   

  "Elegy for The Girl In Dreams"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  September 17, 2004 : 6:27 a.m. pdt

  
  I saw you in a dream again, flowers in your hair
  Supreme splendiferous sublime sanctity of purpose
  Lounging in the evermore
  Fairies played with the ends of your golden hair
  Elves giggled at your feet
  Your breath inflated the hillocks of your breast
  As you sighed and gave me the secret to the universe
  You turned and I gazed at perfection in the
  curve of your back
  You winked and I experienced Heaven's Smile
  The subtle brush of the fabric of raiments across your leg
  Gave me God's Goosebumps
  We smiled together
  In the Summer of our Youth
  Your thoughts were mine,
  Beauty, soft, pure, truth
  I made a movement to turn to you,
  But the night passed quicker than I could imagine,
  And you faded from view with the morning sun
  Leaving the fairies to flutter unawares
  And the elves to gather their belongings and go

   

  "The Cycle of Abuse"
  From: A 'Poetry Cycle' by Michael F. Nyiri
  July 24, 2005 12:42 p.m. pdt/July 28, 2005 4:43 a.m. pdt

  II: Modern Schoolgirl (12:48 p.m.)

  American Girl dolls and photophones with
  translucent colors and special ringtones for every internet friend
  Conversations sometimes last for half a day or longer
  Real friends are the ones who don't blog behind your back
  Don't forget to take the meds as the evening draws nigh

  Snarling spittle spray, gnashing pointed teeth, and small pinprick red eyes
  Crawling through the nighttime cinemas in tattered, worn out nightdress
  Barely escaping the catcalls of dripping blood demons
  Here, a corner, dark, cold, respite from ruination and hostile fear
  Pressed against the mossy undergrowth of palpable apprehension
  Another sarcastic scream from beyond excruciating exegesis
  She removes her small metal box,
  The one with the 3 inch dent along the side,
  and the faded image of Hello Kitty
  smiling insideously
  The small cache of cardboard protected razor blades
  Compartmentalized as salvation
  Signaling a bitter solution to guard against the
  shrill shrieks of surreptitous memory
  One blade is removed carefully, methodically
  First one cut, on the forearm, almost at the elbow,
  a small stark cut, drawing blood and comfort
  then another,
  and another
  precise, ladder steps back into sanity
  She climbs the hopeful steps
  as the screams recede in the distance
  the moss fades, and the sun reappers
  if only for a moment
  till she has to use the small metal box again

  
  "Eternally Displaced"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  May 18th, 2009 6:30 a.m. pdt

  
  Over two generations ago we walked
  Tired, sick, dying
  A train of human suffering, internally displaced
  footstep after footstep
  children crying for their milk
  trudging along in drudgery
  women falling over their scarves
  The strong became weak
  The hopeful became wretched
  and we walked
  until we arrived at the end of the road
  to the new Pakistan

  Now we walk again
  tired, sick, dying
  eternally internally displaced
  an attempt to escape persecution
  replacing decades of distillation
  into a firestorm of irrational insurgency
  We walk forever,
  footstep after footstep,
  breaking the family unit
  breaking bread with strangers
  also homeless
  almost hopeless
  refutable refugees raging through the night
  settling in the settlements of sorrow
  torn again
  from the homeland
  of the new Pakistan

  ---

  BEHIND THE POETRY: The image was created last year around this time. It's May in the southland and the jacarandas are in full bloom. This is a selection of poetry written during this decade. "InMyRoom2/6/00" is a poem written right before the turn of the new Millennium, a theme of resurgence. One of my favorite images is in this poem, "words...with wagging tales". "Lively Afternoon Indoors" from 2003 questions whether surfing the internet and typing on a computer can be considered an artistic endeavor. "Not Superman", from 2004, turns to poetry one of my pet phrases, that "I'm not superman", and is a rare poem set in the workplace. "Elegy for the Girl in Dreams", also from 2004, is yet another cry for companionship, and the despair of knowing the companion is only 'in dreams'. "Modern Schoolgirl" (2005) is part of "The Cycle of Abuse", a rather ambitious poetry cycle where the abused speak in first person. I sometimes write in another's voice. This is the voice of a young "modern schoolgirl" who is a cutter. The new poem in this selection is "Eternally Displaced", a piece concerning the people of Pakistan, who never seem to be completely "at home" in their own country, and is spoken in their voice, not mine. MFN/ppf

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