Here's poem that I just came across and enjoyed:


Poem: "The Truck," by John Stone, from Music from Apartment 8 (Louisiana State University Press).

The Truck

I was coming back from
wherever I'd been when
I saw the truck and
the sign on the back repeated
on the side to be certain
you knew it was no mistake

PROGRESS CASKETS

ARTHUR ILLINOIS

Now folks have different
thoughts it's true about
death but in general it's
not like any race for
example you ever ran
everyone wanting to come in

last and all And I admit
a business has to have a good
name No one knows better
than I the value of a good
name A name is what sells
the product in the first

and in the final place
All this time the Interstate
was leading me into Atlanta
and I was following the sign
and the truck was heavier
climbing the hill than

going down which is as
it should be What I really
wanted to see was the driver
up close maybe talk to him
find out his usual run
so I could keep off it

Not that I'm superstitious It's just
the way I was raised A casket
may be Progress up in Arthur
but it's thought of
down here
as a setback.

"Good questions outrank easy answers" - Paul A. Samuelson

(sent to me by Laurel Beyer)

"One moon appears everywhere in all bodies of water; the moons in all bodies of water are contained in one moon. This is a metaphor for one mind producing myriad things and myriad things producing one mind. This refers to dream illusions, flowers in the sky, half-seeming, half empty."

- Hsueh-yen

One of the discussion groups on the ZeD website has started a weekly poetry theme, where members are invited to write (and then upload) poems about a certain topic. The poem from Sunday's blog entry was for last week's theme. I'm currently working on one for this week's theme. Deadlines really help my writing!

I love the quotation at the end of this:

------------------------------------------------------------

It's the birthday of novelist Tom Sharpe, born in London (1928). He's written more than a dozen satirical novels, attacking everything from politicians to publishers. After graduating from Cambridge, he spent twenty years in South Africa, working as a photographer and teacher. He wrote nine plays during his time there, but only one of them was produced, The South African. After its first performances in London, Sharpe was imprisoned and deported by South African authorities. He's spent the rest of his life teaching and writing in England.

His first two novels, Riotous Assembly (1971) and Indecent Exposure (1973), ridicule the South African police force and point out the absurdities of life under apartheid. He wrote in Riotous Assembly, "There didn't seem to be any significant difference between life in the mental hospital and life in South Africa as a whole. Black madmen did all the work, while white lunatics lounged about imagining they were God."

Here's the most recent thing I've written. I'm experimenting with a mixture of forms in it. This poem/monologue is about the value of people and objects in some people's lives.

(Unfortunately, the careful spacing of words--which is important to the poem--disappeared when I posted the document to my blog. If you want to see the version with the correct spacing, go to zed.cbc.ca and type 116869 in the "search" box.)


THE TREASURE BOX

by Donald B. Campbell



a small cardboard box
buried under a pile of
photo albums
magazines
art calendars
(too beautiful to throw away)
perched precariously on top of each other

until
one day

they

s
l
i
d
o
f
f


revealing

the box.



I rummaged through it,

expecting some treasure that I'd forgotten,

but finding receipts,
take-out menus,
lists

(the things that pile up to make a life)

and a card.


"THANK YOU" in perfect red letters on the front.
Inside, a note written in grand strokes:

"Hey, buddy, just wanted to say thanks for being
such a great friend. I'll never forget you.
- Jerry"


I remember saving the card,
telling myself,
"I'll put it where I can see it
in the corner of my eye
when I'm watching reruns on Friday nights."


(remote in one hand,
phone in the other,
ordering a pizza
..."Is a medium too big for one person?"...)

[[leftover slices for breakfast]]
[[[the comfort of my ritual]]]



I remember the card sitting on my coffee table
for a month.


I remember wondering where it had gone--
what stack of paper
it was lost in--
as I slowly surrendered to the objects
that creep across every surface
in my apartment.


I even remember when I got the take-out menu
that lay on top of the card.



I just can't remember who Jerry was.