writer

(I should promise a haiku for tomorrow)

a portrait

1
weird stuff today
not crap
but honest words
inside
made into visioning
a way to read
to see
to hear

witches
and ghosts attend
here is something
for your spells
that comes
quite honestly
against the grain
out of the fire
of unusual thought
and destination
for spirit-care
away from regular thought
even away
from the
machine

2
I think Joyce had
a plot
maybe an outline
that enforced
provided banks
at least
for one side of the stream
that it might roll
and also
tell the story
desired

the story that we say
had no beginning
or no end
save the luck of covers
but then a passage
would be honest
rising above
the paltry things we know
moving away
like riders to the sea

epiphany
on either side
then movement
into daytime
and the quieting
genius
after “Araby”
at night

3
now I have coffee
all the colonial thieving
now fair-trade

it’s bitterness
it stains my teeth
it also helps
with my heartwork
and also
headaches
so I’ve read
so I like
to believe

I washed a dish
and made a noise
am I allowed
am I allowed
(I ask for litany)
something so normal
and a normal
life that was eluded
I eluded
for so long

the good family
mobile family
taken from me
while I was afraid
to move
to move
at all

and so I’ve slid
sloughed says my friend
from place to place
a modicum of gumption
rented
like the truck
(that broke down)
for the moving day

the vegetarian thing
again
but I have memories
of burgers from the grill
roast beef
wreathed with vegetables
from the oven
even corned beef and cabbage
on Saint Patrick’s
which I’ve not seen since
the food
or such a green
a day

hark
it is two bells
not for sailor’s time
but from the phone
maybe reminding me
I have a heart test
in a couple of hours

taking blood
again
my veins
it seems
acting tired
recalcitrant
to give the protein up
and all the cells
of all the colors
(some that change
with oxygen)
not wanting
to disclose
for tests
anymore

4
and while there’s wood for
furniture
and while there’s hope
in love that’s
set upon
the cushions
and the wood
metal beneath
or on the floor

while
passion
knows no bounds
beyond the flesh
and spirit
in between

I’ll play the art
it seems
from which
so far
I haven’t earned a time
in fact
paid for
the time that I have here
and while I have it

but things
are precious
aren’t they
sometimes our deciding
which is which
as in
do you remember
this is our special place
this will be
our song

and so it goes
with lovers
and with friendships
of all kinds
with the bad place
and season
too
too bad to recall
but there it is

is it a balance
I don’t think so
as good will out
and bad
descend to its own
nothingness
so
too
will memory
not deceive
but prioritize
what matters most
upon the porch
in recall

C L Couch

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

call me crazy
call me late for dinner
I’ll be writing
over here

(x = space)

Signed, Shakespeare

It never happened

Maybe for some real estate

Or for companion ownership

In buildings,

In a theatre

The printing press came ‘round

At last

And with it the first suits

For plagiarizing

But his world

Her world

Dealt in manuscripts

Of which we don’t have any

For who would want them

When the players

And producers

Are all done with them

And we’ve moved on

In the production season?

So who was he

Or she?

Shakespeare was

As in existence

And we fight over that

What’s in an origin?

Ask mothers: they can

Tell you

In love and in labor,

There is a person

We have the plays as progeny

Thirty-eight or thirty-nine

And all the poetry

Was the name a pun—with a

Shaky hand, a quill (a spear) to write?

Maybe it’s to say

I do not care;

How much do you?

I think he was

And is through text

And liveliest

Performances,

Recitations,

Reservations,

Happy box offices

And officers

Plus venues and listeners

For poetry

Signed, Shakespeare

Has not happened for us

Yet or will

(or Will)

But when the flag is flying

And the gun has sounded,

We go in

Maybe there will be oranges

To eat

Because they do not rhyme

C L Couch

Photo by Mathew MacQuarrie on Unsplash

(x = space)

Ray Bradbury’s Writing Table

I hope it’s true

He showed it to us,

Talked us through it

Right before each

Episode;

So many toys and

Other things, reminders

Of this world

And other worlds;

There was a metal

Spaceship, the old kind

You wind up; and

There were toy dinosaurs

And many other things,

Curios and totems

Any of which

Might become

Dandelion Wine,

A Martian chronicle

Or Something Wicked

This Way Comes

I hope it’s true

And not a set piece,

Though I suppose it doesn’t

Matter; the writing

Table, writing place

Has been lodged in

My brain, coming

Up as memory

Every now and then,

Evocation of

Evocation, and of course

I have my own symbols

Now around me, and

I trust that

You have yours

C L Couch

The Ray Bradbury Theatre was a show first broadcast in the 1980s.

Ray Bradbury was a writer who created many monumental works, among them Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash

Part of a series of concept photos I took during lockdown using drawing mannequins.