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Manic Monday



Manic Monday
(and don’t panic)

God sang
The song into creation

The lion did as much
And our holy words
In works
Imply

We are created

We are that song
Or its interpretation
In darkness
And in light
And the bestowal
Of a garden

With the first object lesson
For the teachers
That the garden
Stands
For something we
No longer have
While we must work
In labor
And in labor
For
What we got

Each era is a lesson
We could say
And maybe they progress
The human ages
Which is why
We say
They’re ages

(we get older)

We grow
Some

We adapt
Physically
Some
Though not as much
As one might think
For as long as we’ve
Been here

And this might not be
So much by us
As by
The touch of God

God knowing
We’ll need adaptive parts
As we go on
(grow on)

What do I know
It’s Monday
And I’m feeling existential

With the blues on electric pages
Making less sense
To me
(than could it be
our music style)
Than paper
With its white
And off-white
Receiving of
Our pen strokes
Painting
With black ink

C L Couch


[note to me and now to us
so what’s this poem about?—it’s about thinking and writing, yes, really about both]


     I am having trouble with the blue lights on computers.  Or the part of the lights that are blue.  Or maybe feeling blue.  I think it’s both.
     The result is that I’m even more recalcitrant in using this thing.  This vital thing.  I’ve had to use it for a while then rest my eyes.  Rest my eyes upon the rest of the world.
So if I’m worse about responding than is typical (and typically it can be pretty bad), then I’m sorry.  But as the emperor said quite uselessly, there it is.
--Christopher


Photo by Marija Zaric on Unsplash

Nous existons.  Vraiment.

1

Sigh the Old Machine


Sigh the Old Machine
(one or the other)

I exhale
Without anything to share
Not really
Not a single thing
(so to say)
But a confession
This is the land I walk in
Today
A land of shapeless
Lack of opportunity
Without orientation
I could walk
This land for days
And come across nothing
Usefully
Defined

And so keep wandering
‘Til shapes arise
Small to left and right
Then something large
Like a statue
In a city
Or a fountain
And I must walk around
Taking in what detail
Might appear

Ask myself
About the sculptor
And the occasion
For such a thing
To rise

And on the other side
After a while
There it is
The tower stands
The phallic thing

To knock down
Then to go around
The ruins
No longer keeping me
From the pleasant
Fecund valley
Just beyond
And
Look
There’s sun
And moon
And opportunity
With many things
Like words

C L Couch


Photo by Gian Gomez on Unsplash

2

Westmarch


Westmarch



sometimes I wish

I were a

well-to-do hobbit

except for

the living

in the ground

even a comfort-home

in there

would aggravate

most likely

claustrophobia



as being carried by

an eagle

would invoke

the other

unreasoned fear I have



but still

to have a day

to write a book

of my adventures

having had

adventures

first



and to have tea

close at hand

with cakes

and at a table

by the window

with my pens

(all right

computer)

and paper

at my side

and on which

I write

(well

type)



and maybe to have

friends

who come to call

for friendly reasons

only



I hear their stories

while

I also think

on dragons

Dwarves

and Elves



and wistfully

believe

I should be somewhere else

with them



c l couch





photo by Andrew Seaman on Unsplash
2

or does it hurt to ask

(x = space)

x

x

or does it hurt to ask

x

I wrote a lot this morning

was it worth it

all of it

should I ask

it was something

something to choose from

or I’ll have to write some more

something timely

and to share

we’ll see

I shouldn’t ask

but rather keep going

using up electrons

paying for energy

electrically

and bodily

electric bodily

x

c l couch

x

x

photo by taner ardalı on Unsplash

x

1

As It Is on Earth

(x = space)

x

x

As It Is on Earth

x

I don’t know what I have

If I have

Anything

For me

And then for you

x

You might be first

But something about me must

Be satisfied

Or nothing travels

x

Something that could sound

Like a song

But must have sound

Regardless

In a shape that serves

And something of the world

Inside

The world and the inside

Where we live

x

Forgive me

Then

The lateness in the hour

Or anything that’s late

In getting to you

Though we have no schedule

I know

We know

And do our best

To post in blogs

Like bags of mail for ponies

Or task the runner

As at Marathon

x

We send

Receive

Respond

Then send again

It’s all a process

It’s a circle

Sacred

Called by some

And why not

Our gods as known

Believed

Walking like the

Lord

Or maybe

Gasp

Tash

Arrived

x

And in the interaction

All of us

In equal space

If not location

And for accountability

Well

Something holy happens

That is human

Set aside

As well as visitors

To take part

And approve

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

x

The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis is referenced.

x

1

Portrait of the Artist as a Hungry Person

(x = space)

x

I know this is odd (well, odder), but I got hungry

x

x

Portrait of the Artist as a Hungry Person

x

Tired and hungry

Thirsty

Maybe that’s all there is

For now

x

I sit here and write

Distraction

Is a sea behind me

What in the hour

Should I do

x

How shall I let go

To find something

For the cup

On the plate

In my hand

Excused from this

x

To dine

To talk with someone

To play a game

Before returning

To this game

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Juan Manuel Núñez Méndez on Unsplash

x

0

haiku

(x = space)

x

x

haiku

x

1

twenty pages in

the need to gaze and breathe out

outside for elsewhere

x

2

city-wise black trees

darkened too the sky-wept street

nature go with tears

x

3

after rain is haze

exhale into clarity

newly gifts of night

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Emil Widlund on Unsplash

x

0

Machine Libation

(x = space)

x

x

Machine Libation

x

All the things released

On the page,

Admittedly a page of electrons

And in this

There is a soupcon of fright

Over outages

And lack of a printer

And greater thankfulness

Over an awful

Writer’s cramp

That only bends (now)

The typing hand

Now and then

x

There are notebooks, too,

When away

Maybe simply outside

Sometimes they are remembered

With the pens

And releases in our minds

To work another way

While in the nothingness

Of expectation

x

Keep writing, children

(painting

or reworking

the clay of Earth

or off our feet

or work in something else),

We hear her say

And all the sibling muses

With the gods of creativity

From other places

Other realms

Inside the moving circles

When they meet

And maybe grind

Like rims of

Metal upon metal

x

These vie

For inspiration

When we are worth it

x

Thank goodness,

We are worth it

x

And for the media

The usefulness of anything

The service of technology

And pens and pencils

(paints, clay

things we find)

Crayons, when we have them,

With some paper

x

What we keep

What we discard

Ashes in safety

Or simply as a metaphor

For muses

Or spirits from

Other places

Or, say,

Only the mind

x

Thanks, any part

Or anyone

And everyone

Everything

Anything

That serves

x

C L Couch

x

x

Photo by Jahz Gonzalez on Unsplash

x

1

courage

(x = space)

x

x

courage

(compash)

x

the brave leaves

are in fact

leaving;

the wind has done its work

there is inescapability

in the season passing

if I wrote useless things

upon electronic leaves

perhaps my season

will be passing, too

x

it is a pledge, I guess

the old word tontine

a formal offering

to work

to put down

to express

to depict

to make my painting here,

unfit for a museum

maybe for local work

the verses in the subway

a slogan on a placard

should I reach

and arrive so far

x

like glory in the sky

parochial sky

parochial of one

should I hear myself

out there

constructively

x

c l couch

x

x

photo by jeremy bishop on unsplash

x

0

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