food & thought
A Sage Burrito from the Lucky Otter after opening my new Christmas copy of Andy Goldsworthy's "Time" at the trendy coffee house and gobbling his text and pictures up like a hungry man, wondering myself "What is my response to this place?"
Appalachain
This place, these people, are worn.
Our music seeps from deep rock.
Spirits burning, we walk home.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Genesis
This post contains what I have of the very first original Madkus. I began writing them as I was working at the finest sushi restaurant in the lands, Sora, in Pisgah Forest, NC. The fare, the folks that own it, the bamboo flooring I mopped 100 times -- all of it is perfect balance, complementary and a delight. I waited tables there, learned to appreciate sushi and traditional fujinese Chinese food there, fell out of love there, made pockets of money there, found friendship beyond language there, and continued to burn off what wasn't essential about my soul there, in that place.
Beneath some of that ash, I found good words, and I began scribbling in the flat seas before the dinner rush. A free verse poet of sorts for the last 15 years, I have soaked up lots of verse, but very little with strict line or syllable count. The traditional Japanese haiku has intrigued me for some time though, and I found myself wanting to make something in that vein. Small, essential, loaded with 'gong fu', with real power. My spirit began waking up to the beauty of form, of limitations that are self-imposed and willingly shouldered. I've begun to rein myself in. To gather myself for better moves more graceful and more truthful. Patient even, at times.
I found a small answer to that desire. Three lines, seven syllables each, 21 blackjack weighs the whole round thing, as perfect as I can make them. Madkus.
Predictably and in keeping with so much of my poetry, the first ever Madku was made for a woman I didn't know. I disremember her name though I can still paint her long, straight red hair and the look on her date's face as I presented it to her and the guests she was with for her birthday dinner. I asked her some rather random questions, spent a few minutes wrinkling my head and scratching out lines and reworked lines and then I read aloud her Happy Birthday present from me, the strange tall waiter with the deep voice. It was a bad poem, truly. They left a good tip and invited me out for drinks downtown after work and were all just very nice, indulging me that way. Madku 'number 1' is lost to me forever, set to sail on the large waves of that night carried out beyond where I can see. Good.
Madku 'number 2' was composed another night soon after and I couldn't decide between two different drafts. I hadn't formalized my syllable count at that point, and it reads with five syllables in each of the first two lines, seven in the third. Not long after, I realized my folly. I have far too much to say with far too little willpower to work with only 17 syllables. 21 is much, much more my style. I polled a four top of customers after dinner when they didn't order dessert and their unanimous vote became the official version of this madku. I wrote them both on the same piece of paper and I can't remember which one they picked now, months later. So I'm picking my favorite and calling that the official-official one.
Madku 'number 3' and 'number 4' were both written for my all-time favorite customer, Denise, who I've lost on more large waves, and miss along with her whole family. She is a light among people.
Madku 'number 5' was written a few weeks ago, after I'd left the sushi joint, in a moment of inspiration that led to some meditation and some lines worth being stacked up with each other. It resides in the header of this page, as the christening piece and to guide this junk, this questionable vessel.
As I've been making these since madku 'number 6', I have planned on making one a day, at, or just after one of my meals and making a point to bind them here. Food for thought, a glimpse of each day and a response. A giving back as I take in. Thankfulness. Praise to the father, to his son, to this spirit spread among us.
number 4
Fall Chorus
We've turned, brightly becoming
ourselves. We tumble, embers
thick, close. We gather for Spring.
number 3
For Denise
Ears wince at polite music.
Your song rings true, lays softly
on our hearts after you pass.
number 2
Moored
He rooted where she
cast off his island
cutting fast a sea of wine.
Beneath some of that ash, I found good words, and I began scribbling in the flat seas before the dinner rush. A free verse poet of sorts for the last 15 years, I have soaked up lots of verse, but very little with strict line or syllable count. The traditional Japanese haiku has intrigued me for some time though, and I found myself wanting to make something in that vein. Small, essential, loaded with 'gong fu', with real power. My spirit began waking up to the beauty of form, of limitations that are self-imposed and willingly shouldered. I've begun to rein myself in. To gather myself for better moves more graceful and more truthful. Patient even, at times.
I found a small answer to that desire. Three lines, seven syllables each, 21 blackjack weighs the whole round thing, as perfect as I can make them. Madkus.
Predictably and in keeping with so much of my poetry, the first ever Madku was made for a woman I didn't know. I disremember her name though I can still paint her long, straight red hair and the look on her date's face as I presented it to her and the guests she was with for her birthday dinner. I asked her some rather random questions, spent a few minutes wrinkling my head and scratching out lines and reworked lines and then I read aloud her Happy Birthday present from me, the strange tall waiter with the deep voice. It was a bad poem, truly. They left a good tip and invited me out for drinks downtown after work and were all just very nice, indulging me that way. Madku 'number 1' is lost to me forever, set to sail on the large waves of that night carried out beyond where I can see. Good.
Madku 'number 2' was composed another night soon after and I couldn't decide between two different drafts. I hadn't formalized my syllable count at that point, and it reads with five syllables in each of the first two lines, seven in the third. Not long after, I realized my folly. I have far too much to say with far too little willpower to work with only 17 syllables. 21 is much, much more my style. I polled a four top of customers after dinner when they didn't order dessert and their unanimous vote became the official version of this madku. I wrote them both on the same piece of paper and I can't remember which one they picked now, months later. So I'm picking my favorite and calling that the official-official one.
Madku 'number 3' and 'number 4' were both written for my all-time favorite customer, Denise, who I've lost on more large waves, and miss along with her whole family. She is a light among people.
Madku 'number 5' was written a few weeks ago, after I'd left the sushi joint, in a moment of inspiration that led to some meditation and some lines worth being stacked up with each other. It resides in the header of this page, as the christening piece and to guide this junk, this questionable vessel.
As I've been making these since madku 'number 6', I have planned on making one a day, at, or just after one of my meals and making a point to bind them here. Food for thought, a glimpse of each day and a response. A giving back as I take in. Thankfulness. Praise to the father, to his son, to this spirit spread among us.
number 4
Fall Chorus
We've turned, brightly becoming
ourselves. We tumble, embers
thick, close. We gather for Spring.
number 3
For Denise
Ears wince at polite music.
Your song rings true, lays softly
on our hearts after you pass.
number 2
Moored
He rooted where she
cast off his island
cutting fast a sea of wine.
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