there are no lost amigos

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#bringingbacktheglosa, Alain C. Dexter, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, glosa, Jack Kerouac, medieval Spanish fixed verse, poem for the New Year

~ a glosa in three parts ~

contact between you &
God means no church,
no society, no reform,
& almost no relationships,
& almost no hope in
relationships—but
kindness of hope inherent
in that what is good,
shall live & what is
bad, dies—Your
flesh will be a husk,
but yr. soul a star—

—from Jack Kerouac, Book of Sketches, Oct. 31, 1952

~~~

I

I see you’ve lined up
yr bottles for tonight’s
obliteration, hoping for a
hit, some kind of catapult,
another dis-appointment with
old friends & lovers banned
from sobriety. Let me tell you
now, friend, there are no
lost amigos, only grand
contact between you &

incomplete, you say,
without that special someone
every day a seek
& almost find, that time
in Jalisco if you hadn’t been
blind drunk, the search
would be long over, yeah?
insatiable she was,
only her crucifix made you lurch
God means no church

but enough about me—
how’s life treating you?
Have you learned yet
to take a compliment,
or does that old leather
strop torn
from its nail in the woodshed
still reek of bay rum?
do you still bleed his scorn?
no society, no reform

I’ve been there, I know.
All that shit between pretty
covers with my name
on it, I scrounged hard
from railyards—rusty
I-beams and wet pine chips
for a bed, alone
now I’m practically a saint—
all those women, a few drips,
& almost no relationships

II

so here’s the thing—
there are no dead poets
there is no dead anything
sure, mountains are melting
& a certain green salamander
won’t be unfurling her thin
pink tongue for termites anymore—
but it’s not yr doing; she’s done
here for now, a slow grin
& almost no hope in

wishing your fellow man
were not so immune
to yr discontent.
Life seems easier
when you can stir up
guilt in yr little grass hut
like a pot of beans
on low simmer—
hell, you can’t shut
relationships—but

you can confuse yourself
over & over like those old wooden
paddle toys with rubber ball
attached—k’bonk, k’bonk, k’bonk,
what’d I do? what’d I do? what’d I do?
short answer: nothing. A fine gent
you are, always will be.
Inner space, same as outer,
nothing lost, mis- or unspent,
kindness of hope inherent

but you’ve heard all this—
smoked it & wrote it
& sold it to a few
worse off than you. Maybe
it’s time to clear off those
shelves. They’ve been yr hood,
yr holy armor, for how long now?
No one wants a soldier with flat
feet. Letting go’s the only rood
in that what is good

III

So. Make friends with emptiness.
Yesterday’s om and a planet’s
worth of mountaintops
won’t save yr bored soul.
Practice saying, I am deep
& meaningful, leave the biz
of others to others
never ask them why
believe love and genius
shall live & what is

is. There’s no other
tense and no better
way to let go the tension.
Stop gluing name tags
to intolerance—gluten, lactose—
give up keeping score;
everything you look at
multiplies—boom, ka-ta-boom!
ignore
bad, dies—Your

the one in charge
of what comes around
& who stays away
but still,
we’re amigos to the end,
bro, through love & lust—
throw out the dishwater
from yr last best date—one day
you’ll smell, it’s not a healthy musk
your flesh will be a husk

I have to split soon.
You got tons of visitors
cuter than me lined up. I just
came to oil yr valves, give
the silver in yr irises a gleam.
The New Year isn’t far;
it’s continuous New Now. We’ll
meet again soon. You’ll see
that nothing leaves a scar—
but yr soul a star!

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image by Kara Bobechko, © 2014

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The Caliph’s Lighthouse

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Andalusian form poetry, Elaine Stirling, Moorish fixed verse, poetry, poetry to soothe the king, zejel

In Córdoba, the caliph knew
disturbing dreams a lighthouse threw
him beams to fix his mind anew

no one can know your full extent
or how your daylight hours are spent
in fantasy or merriment
you are the source of all that’s new

your single eye of constant praise
looks out upon the stormy ways
of man in quietude allays
you are the vast and steady view

who cannot fathom or adore
expansion of his life’s full store
will never reach your lighthouse door
your frame deflects the morbid hue

what shadow dooms the lighthouse saves
invisible among the graves
to stand where brightening future paves
the ease and magnitude of you

~~~
The poem you’ve just read is my first attempt at a form called the zejél (zajal in Arabic), developed in the 12th century Moorish courts of Al-Andalus. Imagine city states vying for supremacy in the poetic arts where both genders and all religions flourished; where sciences grew hand in hand with arts, one the seat of knowing, the other of creating.

Imagine poets as the highest paid of all the artists for their ability to “soothe” the king, not through false flattery—although, of course, this happened—but by aligning as closely as possible through language, rhyme, and rhythm with universal truths.

The zejél opens with a cabeza (head) of three lines to introduce the theme and foundational rhyme (a). The quatrains that follow develop the theme with a rhythmic progression, usually octosyllabic, of bbba, ccca, ddda, etc. Stanzas continue for as long as the poet desires, until, perhaps, she sees the king assuaged and the course of government flowing smoothly again.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image of the lighthouse can be found at http://www.hbombkaraoke.com.

Innocent Economy

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Elaine Stirling, poetry

Let innocence draw near
to me, for among these minds
uncluttered freedom rains and
mist arises forms of opportunity
surround the cistern, wells the heart
of youthfulness subscribing to me
fruit benevolent, so heavy are the boughs
encircling and ripe, Creation bursts
to sing of it, no other law than these
comprise the market of the day
spread out before me, infinite
selection and the birthright to prefer.

Who would succumb to less
than these, the cynic, the despairing,
shall derive with equanimity his share
of sad intelligence, as certain as the sun
to climb and rivers to erode. I do not mind.

The effort spent ignoring doldrum spirits
costs me nothing—they are matchsticks
who will strike themselves out, one day see
the innocent economy that lives around
us, seeking invitation to come closer now.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Riddler

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Elaine Stirling, poetry

Who can hear the pause
of the hush between the ripples
on a pond newly frozen
in the moonfall of the night?

Who can feel no difference
in the silence that precedes
the knock upon the door from
the certainty that follows?

If the answer to all answers
of the question that propels us
be not you whose star is hitched
so clear and bright upon your shoulder
and whose audiences ovate
from the tiers that rise around you
then this riddler who poses
like a harlequin before you
must remove her silver jingles
and her silent red felt slippers
and resort to coarser merriments
in hopes that you will leave
behind the shadow
of the question,
who will hear?

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Lilith and Eve Meet for Lattes

Tags

Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry, poems for the solstice, sacred geometry, sestina, the two wives of Adam

A Sestina

In a café in Yemen, two lightly veiled women,
over foamy lattes and pistachio crescents, meet
to exchange little gifts with laughter and to dish
on the man they both know well. Every eve
of winter solstice, they come together, Lilith, first
wife and Evie, the second, illustrious mates

of the guy we call Adam, the force who mates
and regenerates without really thinking. The women
sigh. Our Adam is a lusty one, the first—
you’ve got to give him that. But how to meet
a higher love, muddled hearts are asking, Eve.
Have we perhaps overdone the dish?

Frozen to the point of tasteless is the dish
of revenge, her friend agrees. Of all that mates,
vengeance breeds the saddest spawn. Yet this eve,
we have a chance, sweet Lil, as founding women
to imagine something better. It’s foolish to meet
the same agony over and over again. But, first…

They draw their heads together, Lilith first
who says, it would only take the two of us. A dish
of Primum Mobile is simple. Tomorrow, we’ll meet
in the Garden, pick saffron and capers, mates
of great flavour. The day has arrived for women
to reclaim their artful selves and men to love the Eve

of their own disenchantment. The lovely Eve
smiles. Forbidden fruit, as I know well, at first
tastes sweet, then rots. It is the Knowing women
could have held but served instead upon a dish
to please their self-created, exiled mates.
I’ve here the list of all who now yearn to meet—

and I, says Lilith, those who, clothed in joy, meet
every day as Eden, freshening paradise, Eve,
as once we greeted Adam. You and I, perfect mates
of genesis, we perpetuate the ever-present first
with uplifting thoughts and feelings to warm the dish
of pure desire. Gloria, in excelsis to all men & women!

And thus, the everlasting meeting thrived of first
and second—Lilith, Eve—conspiring a magnificent dish
for mates proportionate to the highest in all women.

Happy Solstice!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Today I Turn

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Christmas and Advent poetry, Elaine Stirling

Today I turn
toward the solution
of all that I want

I see them heaped
in crescent shapes
and bows

so many gifts
and answers to
I cannot reach
the top

and so I stretch
most curious
which shall I
open first?

the brightest, yes,
for in the choosing well
the brightest proves
itself to be the gateway to
the more and more
of better and
the more and more of
let them in
the guests
of great fulfilment who
for aeons have collected
on behalf of me
response to me
the questions I have
thrown to them
these allies of
sublimity

receiving every one
I set the table for new
doctrines and new
principles
—I love your hats!
your mom make that?—
by feeling for the highest
I lift thinking to the summits
and the valleys sing their praises
for the lowest and the highest
are the one and same
they bring
to this attention
great attraction
game and sprightly
vision free of all division
let us multiply therefore
the loaves and fishes
congregate and share
what is delicious
let the tastes
of each be honoured
represented
here is where the heart is
here is where the start
of all the good that grows
begins
and never ends
amen
so be it
men and women
be it
children once again
yes, be it
now forevermore
and be it now
forever more
amen

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image is from http://www.wallconvert.com

The Great Iamb

Tags

Advent, Christmas poems, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, villanelle

A Villanelle

I celebrate this world through poetry
its voice my guide, the soft I Am
to paths of peace, prosperity

surrounding me with fond diversity
no pressure to compete or slam
I celebrate this world through poetry

and in response, a comedy
of fumble soothes my tendency to cram
to paths of peace, prosperity

by turning toward serenity
relief flows in, dissolving every dam
I celebrate this world through poetry

two light-held reins sustain the mystery
I ride, am ridden, a beloved lamb
to paths of peace, prosperity

with every sense alert and free
my presence mirrors Love’s iamb
I celebrate this world through poetry
to paths of peace, prosperity.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from http://www.artfire.com

If Not This Season, When?

Tags

Elaine Stirling, poetry

I’ve gotta find a way
to make some kind of peace with…

if not this season, when?

I’ve gotta shake this misery
from off the surface of my skin

goodwill toward men

how the hell am I
—with all that’s going on—
supposed to find
what’s right and true in me?

not right as in correct
not right politico
or left
but plumb
like pudding
plum and ripe
for plucking
strings
the masters
oh, the masters
that I’ve seen
they tune by resting
lightly
on the fret
they pay no mind
to resolution
all about the climbing
see what’s next

you’re all about remembering
a player told me once
I’m all about forget

cries of angels everywhere

yeah, right, forget…

could everyone
for just a sec
shut up?

guided by an Eastern light, they traveled day and night

I wonder…
I wonder if the pulse
that beats this heart
I wonder if it ends
the pulse, the ache
I wonder if it ends
when someone pulls
or throws
when someone finds
the power that he thinks
he lost or thinks
he never had
through powder

who among us shows him?
who among us says it’s fine?
you’re fine.

we’ve learned so well
to pass the ache along
agreed to catch and throw
and pull and catch
and throw
and pull
and catch
until…

somebody drops the ball

If I could find a way
if not this season, when?
if I could find a way
to back away

goodwill toward men

to cease to play
to pull my neck up tall

where choirs of angels sing

and not tip forward in
to join the flash-banged audiences
gathered round a black hole
orchestra still tuning

I could back away
just far enough to hear
on distant mounds
the church bells
and the calls
to prayer
to see the minarets
and smell the beeswax
melting from menorahs, then
I would not have to wait for when

the season of goodwill toward men

I might perceive what rests upon, surrounds
me now, what shoulders and upholds me

bells, the bells
I am quite sure
I hear them

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Where the Gifts Are

Tags

Advent, Chant Royal, Christmas poems, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative poetry

A Chant Royal

When I was but a sprat of three, a book
of tales was given to me, a bearded guest
his name no one recalls, but oh, that look!
The silver beard, black shiny eyes, a vest
of velvet trimmed with gold; too showy he
to be admitted by our family
for whom restraint and modesty are gifts
beyond all others to be prized. Deep rifts
of war and secrecy have left their scar
across the love that Yuletide should uplift.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

I could as yet not read the words. That took
me years. The pictures, though, they were the best!
I listened, watched. His finger never shook
while reading of the Timeless One, behest
of you and me, and of humanity,
engaging mirthfully upon a quest
to show us while our minds are set adrift
that as we think, we see. It is a grift
of true simplicity, a guiding star
by choice to dim or brighten, caught or missed.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

Here now inside this stable, take a look.
A manger holds the Timeless One; he rests
while those surrounding him adore. The crook,
a shepherd’s rod, stands propped beside three chests
brought from the East with great solemnity
by men well versed in Space. They’d come to see
the innocence of Time and to assist
in ways sublime. His brow Balthazar kissed;
he poured sweet oil from alabaster jars.
Simplistic minds objectify our gifts.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

My friend went on to say, this precious book
was bound and stitched with only the highest
grade of gold by adoring Love to hook
great and eager sprats like you to attest
we all arrive with dazzling purity.
Timeless come to time, a reality
whose fragrance like bold frankincense insists
and occupies, an eddy that resists
the breaking free of thought, a middling star
that only by consent from you exists.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

The final of the presents three he took
some time to spell for me. Behold this crest
upon a wave so high. Who’d think your brook
of tiny thoughts could grow this sea? The test
you never had to pass is history,
embalmed in bitter myrrh. No infamy
by your attention will demur. Misfits
of grief, regret, just set them by. The twists
of ever-freshening now, by law, unbar
desires you’d forgotten. Still Heaven-blessed,
care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

That first sweet night remains a mystery
yet every year, the guest returns to me
and once again, I am a child. He lifts
me to his lap. I sigh…all worry drifts
to streams of present thought. The ocean far
crests over me in joy through time, no rifts.
Care not, said he. I’ll show you where the gifts are.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Behind the Red Door

Tags

Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, origins of the Christmas carol, poetry, rondeau, rondets de carol

Behind the red door and down a great hall
if you’ve had quite enough of life in a stall
you will find around a pied revolving table
with uncountable chairs, this is no fable,
guests merry & bright who wink and enthrall

with fresh love surprising, composers of ball,
not of chain, you’ll find repast, sweet future for all
and the past you once blamed, aptly disabled
behind the red door

doubts you once harboured will slow to a crawl
while fear fades to woodgrain upon the fine walls;
this season of change reunites Cain to Abel
the holly-hung thorn tree spins like a dreidel
the light that upholds us restored, fully able
behind the red door.

~~~

As an antidote to retail Christmas music, I find myself cheered by the medieval rondeau and its infinite variations. They’re just so fun to write, imagining dancers and singers weaving in and out, circling round the rentrement, a curtailed, repeating phrase that doesn’t rhyme—in this instance, “behind the red door”.

The ever-illuminating Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry & Poetics tells us that the rondeau was preceded in the 13th century by rondets de carole, which come down to us today as the carol. Layer upon layer upon layer, celebration. Thank you, dear friends, for your inspiration and presence.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Photograph by author