Borrowed Words Poetry

[Borrowed Word poetry is something I picked up in high school, I think; the idea is that you take the words of someone else and recompose them. It's a mix of collaboration and inspiration that allows you to generate ideas less linearly and is, I hope, not actually plagiarism.

In any case, the following poem was composed using only words and phrases pulled directly from T S Eliot's The Wasteland. Everything -- including verb tenses and articles -- came from the original work.

Mr. Eliot: please don't sue.


To Play A Game

And as we talked, I found you there
In a garden of your images,
Arms and hands and fingers
Wrapt softly round white bodies, red sails
Gliding over the violet air.

You show me something different
Those strings of pearls, fruited vines of ivory
That run softly down your back,
Draped in your shadow at evening,
In empty rooms, in faint moonlight.

I spoke of nightfall with you, the scene
Framed by marble walls, each red flash
Like so many caresses, mixing memory with desire
Like a bridge of reflecting light over a calm sea;
And through a window of unlit fog, red and
gold, we talked for an hour in whispers,
and rose and fell and glowed into words.
Goodnight. Goodnight.

This poem was inspired by a series of photos taken by a friend. One of these photos is presented below.

Sun Rises

The crisp air drags a finger across the glassy surface, over hills and rising fields, rippling trees and sky with tangled textures and windblown hair, wisps of light that cover her eyes but not the addictive smile etched across my window. I strain to see in focus through the deep, round frost, corn silk glowing gold and twisting into every twig and finger of the winter ash and pine that stand guard along the rocky shore, (and I hear the faint voice of music, a soft treble

whispered across strings and mountains, an echo of a summer long since gone to sleep. And she lingers as a gentle spirit, back turned, looking ever forward) and the shore scattered with sentinels cold and muted grey; I see red brushed across her cheeks. Oh, how I wish I had kissed them just once more, that satin skin raised shy above her lips curled up in a reluctant smile and drawing a line in thick crystal up to her clear, glittering eyes. The winter chill breathes soft across the glassy surface, decorating the ice that spreads slow and gentle -- silver spider webs dusted with clean, paper doilies -- while the bleached skulls of ancient kings stand bright upon rivers, stones and tides. She stands upon cracked earth and rising fields

and lifts her chin, eyes closed, to breathe in the morning sun that soon will saunter through the jagged woods, mingling with the current of a new day. And a long anticipated smile spreads with a sigh across her lips -- moments later she catches fire and dances with the phoenix in the thin space between the world and the night and all of the dreaming -- while she hums in tune with the last dissipating refrain, (she must hear it, too), quiet and calm, and magically waking. It was, in a word, Freezing; and also in another word, Beautiful, that spirit hour before the sun rises, and when I flutter and drift, and wake in that moment made of moments, the now that crawls and walks, and flies on into forever, I take comfort and lift myself from my frosted sleep, over the fractured fingers of birch and pine, and I glimpse her in the glassy surface, and warm my hands upon her feathers all aflame, as she runs out to the lake, and watches the sun get up. And I rise.

We Dared To Hope

In late lamplight I watched
the crowds ripple electric,
a spirit dancing from aged hands
to youthful smiles, a song made
from laughter and deep, deep joy
that splashed over the night
in blue and white, and red-striped banners
shining triumphantly, throwing their
honored salute into the crisp November air.

With the genuine dignity of the noblest of men,
he stood before them — and me,
and the world — and spilled
saturated words out over that Chicago night,
beacons of lights that mingled
with constellations, guiding us

to speak in one voice
from New York to Nairobi, Beijing to San Francisco;
and the blood pumped through our veins,
and our eyes began to water
as we stared in awe at the sun.

And for once I felt my heart pound with theirs,
and theirs with mine,
and my untrained lips spread into a laughing smile,

and I felt big.

Today I shook the hand of a stranger on a train;
I shared a smile and a nod with a man
playing drums beneath the streets of New York;
I laughed as children played,
and raised my voice with a boy
who was shouting his name between streetlights and trees.

I felt alive today.
And we dare to hope.

Playa Haikus: Plaikus

Seven days of life
in playa earth and white-outs.
You are dusted pure.
* *
Shirt once a bright pink
lost against green tent, gold car,
my white muted hair.
* *
Days later these clothes
still cough powder; hate to think
what my lungs look like.

Anonymity

Why is it that so often we find
our true selves in the places
that are meant to disappear?
- Written on the floor of the temple

In the Temple

We climb the twisting stair
which creaks and groans
beneath our leathered feet, each
voice calling silently after us
as we meet these strings of music that
hang so delicately above;
and we watch the sky fade
here above the earth,
and we hear the desert roar
and toss its wild mane, breathing
hard across the backs of giants
who sleep around us as the sun
rises higher.

We are ghosts
who wander in twos, or threes,
or alone,
through sweeping white dust,
appearing and reappearing at the whim
of the winds that swirl
and howl through twinkling strings
of music that hang above,
each silver sliver that shines
in the muted sunlight.

And as we pass each to each
we never see another soul,
hearing only the white sounds, the faint
moans and songs of those beside us,
closing our eyes and breathing deeply
these clouds through our nostrils
that we might feel the air,
turning and returning through the ash and smoke,
and get to know this spirit better.

And it does not rain, here among these
ghosts and wanderers, yet I feel
the faintest drops against my cheek,
and I can stare at the afternoon sun
hanging moon-like behind the veil;
it does not rain, for every hand
is held outstretched
to taste the white rays that wash
and flow around our every curve.

And I hear nothing, and I cannot see
the sky above, nor the shrouded shapes
that once stood all around,
nor feel the pulsing beat of this city
which once sounded and resounded
through the day, and the one before;
I hear nothing,
and oh, how loudly it speaks
to me.

Late Nights

Dust, that thick perfume of
pine and fiberboard which clogs
my pores, fills my nostrils and
mixes into a paste with my sweat,
now circulates the room at roughly
one hundred thousand parts per million.

Four A.M. is no time for power tools.

Low Rumbling, Plastic Ivy and Eggo Waffles

They grumble and stomp their feet
demanding word -- a few lines
posted on a painted nail,
parchment flapping in the venting breeze;
a rope dangles from a beam,
looped above a lantern, an old woman,
an elephant and a coffin --
any sign of life.

Will this do?

The hours flash past,
each day melts into the next
with only enough time in between
to unwrap the black from my back
and fall unceremoniously onto cotton sheets
before the sparrows call me out again.

I am lost.
Is it Tuesday already?

The valley fills with purple clouds
and electricity bends like a rainbow
over the horizon,
tapping its toe on either side of the ridge.
Paper lanterns hang precariously in the periphery,
but they do not move. Not one inch.

The heat slips off into the shadows;
even it is getting more sleep than I.

C'est la vie, they say,
and they are absolutely right.
Who am I to raise my voice? My cries
echo into a nest of ants
scurrying here and there with their wares;
I speculate on the odds of one
hitting his head on a chandelier.
The space is getting smaller.

Did we change the world in under an hour?
The champagne still buzzes around my head,
a pesky fly I cannot wave away.
Or maybe it's the sugar. Who can tell?

I never got my sandwich.
It's a comment on something, I'm sure.

Still,
he waits patiently for her to call.
After all, chocolate kisses are the best.

In the meantime,
the twenty-five cent alarm clock beckons.
Here's hoping it still works.

---

Post script:

Alas. It does not.
It spins quietly, but emits only static.
I suppose one gets what one pays for.

Encounter

I saw you suddenly dancing
across the night,
wearing wings of light and silver,
drifting lazily on the wind
without direction, except...

I caught your eyes,
pricks of brightness darting behind
their smooth, black cases,
glinting gunmetal armor
hiding every thought except...

I felt your arms
snake like silk around me
your fingers tangled like ivy into my hair,
your hot, orange breath
tracing mazes
into the corners of my neck
but saying nothing, except...

I knew your touch,
the red shivers from your fingertips,
the feathered whisper of your lips
gliding over my textured skin
every hair rising to greet
those seductive echoes,
screaming out to stop, except...

I saw myself under the surface with you,
pitching and turning on the waves
of fire and passion
and every breath in the room, and every
flick of the clock drew us
closer to the waking hour.

And the birds sang,

and the light pierced through
your ghostly image.

Welcome back,
you said.

And you were gone.

Encounter

On this whispered night,
    lying secret between a cool spring breeze
and a deep crimson quilt,
    your weightless kisses float across my face —
my cheeks, my eyes — and tickle the very
    corners of my curling breath.

Red brush strokes blossom across each silken curve
    as roaming petals dance and explore
the small of your back, and we tumble and fall
    within the rich folds of color
until dew seasons every finger of grass
    and birds' songs float and mingle with new light,
refracting through a green and smiling world.

At the mercy of public transportation

He sits on the bed,
the screen glowing softly beside
him, while sounds of jazzed-up
Broadway hits are transmitted
from satellite to
satellite to
him
as he waits for a
customer service agent.

He dozes; the clock
ticks quietly in the next room.

After a dream --
a mutant cat eating a street
full of people? --
a voice interrupts the music.

He explains the problem,
patiently.
It's been two hours, he says.
She tells him there
has been a glitch in the system,
the ones and zeros
didn't add up,
we're sorry.

We can request a ticket
to be waiting for you at the desk,
she says. He can hear her smiling,
falsely.
That would be great, he says.
It will take some time, she says,
We'll call you with the confirmation number.

Confirmation number;
A glitch in the system;
Customer service agent.

The clock
ticks quietly in the next room,
the screen glowing quietly
beside him.

The three dollar convenience fee
is mocking him;

he sighs.

Response: ::floating::

Why must one walk calmly through this
ordered plane — where logic
precedes action;
where practicality
precludes every piece of the
puzzle; where programming
prevents spontaneity,
those psychological splashes
of silver and satin color —
when the world within
my wandering mind
wears a wild fantasy,
a fearless fervor
which feeds my dreams?

Jump —

Why do they insist
that imagination resides
entirely inside, behind
the eyes?

They say you wake, or fall;
yet I see you fly.

Reflections On Flashing Lights

You may wear the gold, you may hold the
steel, you may drive through nights with
flashing lights and storm each castle you
come upon with strength and rage, the name
of the gods at your command, throwing aside
those who ask you your purpose.

You may raise your voices and issue forth
a black river of glinting power, taking each
shadow by the neck and forcing them out into
the cold, deaf to the protests, the panic,
confusion, and anger.

Do you not, through your armored masks, feel
the way you charge upstream, against the souls
you promise to protect? We raise our voice
as one into the starry sky and sing, and dance,
and drink the nectar that flows sweet from
our joy, and we keep each other warm.

And we would shine our smile on you, mingle
our colored lights with yours, and laugh with
the din of your sirens, if only you would loosen
your fists, uncloud your eyes, and see that you
and we are the same:

We are spirits of the earth. And yet still we
hammer down upon each other.

It is not enough to survive, to go on living
these lives with a boiling sense of privilege.
We must prove that we deserve them. We must
be grateful. We must be at peace.

Evening Gown

They danced,
her blue hair sweeping past the windows,
his mind tied up with the footwork,
a hand balanced on her bare back,
fingers, absorbing satin skin,
perched on the delicate, polished
pearls of her spine.

Each minute
held tightly their hands,
tied with careful concentration
and bashful smiles. The sand
spilled and whirled beneath their feet,

While music,
softened with ebbing foam,
floated warm and soft
through cracks in the evening,
guided by the north winds
and the heron's wings.

The lights
splashed and rippled in their eyes,
a mirror of the skyline
keeping watch across the bay,
each fluorescent window humming
in tune with the whispering reeds
and the low, soothing voice of a cello
played beneath a growing moon.

Compass

I drift through days
idling in gear
wondering what made the
space this way, who closed
all the blinds
and spread this smoke that
plays with each blade of light.

One cannot look in every
direction at once.
His needle swings wildly
searching,
infinite paths in a glass
in my outstretched fingers.

I sail a globe
in a wink; I see
stages and prison cells,
coffee shops, and her
fingers running up my spine
gently massaging each
nook like a warm shiver.

I smell dust that rises
from drawings
etched into stone, each
telling of conquests
that rise and fall, (as she
is breathing), and great tables
of great kings rise,
and great minds piece
a world together,
and bards sing stories
while birds sit by
and listen.

I find a wealth
of worlds, worlds of
wealth, power,
hands tight around ropes
that lift skies into their moment.
Each sun blazes in my
arms, and I see their faces
lifting, tumbling
upside-down, eyes closed,
smiling.

And I open mine
to find
that my toes haven't yet strayed
across the pale green carpet.

With You

The day may be gray
and dry, pulling warmth
from the earth, from
the thinnest fingers
of bare trees,
from the coldest stones
beneath out feet.

But a light lingers
in your mind,
and radiates
in every
color from the
prisms of your eyes.

Happy Having Dreams

I am happy having dreams.
The good ones leave you flying;
the bad ones leave you falling.
Either way, you know you're still alive.

(Fragment)

And he sighs as he searches the skies for a sign,
while all of the time she is dancing directly beside him.

I have curled up into my dreams

I have curled up into my dreams, my love,
It is for their wonders I yearn;
And if I can learn to fly, my dear,
I fear I may never return.

But you can follow me straight, my love,
Through mist and magic and prayer,
For when in your dreams you appear, my dear,
I'll soon be with you there.

Played the Fool

I played your aimless games,
I took the drink that nobody would drink,
I heard you say that you could never think
of me that way again,
and drove home in the rain.
Now I throw my flag, I tip my king,
I kneel, and forfeit Boardwalk Ave.
And you? What do you have
to say? You simply play
the same hand, again.