Richard Chetwynd
3 poems
**
Backdoor Plan
What can be said is: it just didn't take.
I blame me, of course. Now the matter
Of recuperating and having another go.
There's plenty of time, even if there ain't.
Science will have us shooting hoops
At Noah's age, tits like titanium
Projectiles, pension-penii ruling the block --
In inner space I'm up to here busy
With down there for the sake of 'yes',
And to make it all work better: if they can't
Do it, I'm still poised, perfectly
Positioned for a miraculous escape to shore.
No one expects a flood until the nuke
Fires burn out, and it gets real cold,
And someone stands up to proclaim
With the last gun he wants to lead
Us, and get the best of whatever's left
For the job he'll do and continue to do
Until his son comes of age. Taxes
We'll pay in painkillers or whatever you have
When you hit the deck. Sunglasses
Will be prime, and aloe gel. Blindness
Could be all the rage. I'm planning to go
Deaf and dumb. Evolution ain't over yet.
**
Frozen Pipe Mini-Fugue for Philip in Need of a Pre-owned Liver
1
I second third fourth-
....guess all the meal-bent ways:
.............aches arrive, strategies unravel,
fungus finds a bed of roses. Dread
....is but one bead in the rosary formed
.............of the bone-deep share of another,
which we pass to others to keep hold
....of our shares, of them. Cross-our hearts
.............we'd fix it with Will, in Time?
Twin fathers to the rescue! (too much
....gushing most days for some,
.............his Highness, palace-perched,
in need of mother's smothering
.... mother-space for most.) Today's spittle-
.............grunt is a borrowed generator
sparking the pyre of our wet-dreams:
....splintered planks and beams snow-
.............fractured in the yard when a gust
left a huge black hole in its wake,
....and no one wants to hear it twice.
.............I saw it in flight, an upended ship
on a dark sky wing full
....of the neighbor's things, a flying heap
.............of coal-scented domesticity?
Hinderer, helper, harvester, sower,
....closing heart-throb distances like
.............a timely prayer locates a kidney
on a bike in traffic, weaving a breeze
....to avoid the needle's one-eyed gate
.............opening on someone else's luck
with life. Mangled efforts, time
....undone juts from the neighbor's drift.
.............Sleep saves another afternoon
ice-bound in a snow-spray village. First
....thing in the morning: revisions.
.............Guessing. In that's to be found.
2
I'm growing me, you-stumped.
I go the moon's rip, surge.
Charted, bartered Amazon,
I'm going me, you the falls.
Brackish, crystal get-away
Clear, slick-slack fun
In leopard-spotted sun
For all the table-top crumbs
of intact organs remaining
of a toothless chew -- gone is
the one and only true, to be
called upon to the call, to saddle
and gallop off in a sweat-stain
wind, down in a death-valley
dust-bowl of lost fossils,
another hip hick-patriot
with money-stuffed hide-bags
pillowing his hideout
parched as a pink moonscape.
Fugitive gallons cut a path
in deed and shame to vapor
worthy of being a name.
Into dusk worthy of its fame.
I'm growing you and me
to see with an ocean's POV.
3
Am I the things I moan,
Thoughts thunk, wish-washed
In a wintry wind at home
While knifish grows the frost
Between you & me, he & she
It & it, all the great probings
On the personal meltdown -- gods
Of gods needling angels to sing?
Am I the doer or the thing
Done, in the done of the dead-gone?
Am I the crew or the ship?
A wave of wind or hollow shell's
Frayed strings in the woods?
Sired to be expired by desires?
Mind-borne fires, I team-play
Ways to shed bounds wherever
The shall will goeth. Thanks
To (whom, what? where?) fortune's
Upward flight right-angled to woe:
My enemies' kindness outflanks
4
me. Too little insulation, no foam
around the pipes. No bath tonight.
No dishes, no nothing but worry.
It'd suck to take the wall apart.
It was built to last a lifetime, short,
thin-skinned and renovation-prone
for the next inmate: O bed of winter.
Come spring, I'll have to bathe away
the old grime; if not then, the one
right after, the fall following that,
the ice-age sent again to woebegone
the home. Can't heal it with patience,
it just gets worse, a pocket of mist
ignored mulches the roof, turns deluge,
drowns all the lesser cares like hunger
duneside in an African death-trap?
Discoveries dinner-timed not to be
worth the timing. A jimmy-rigged
call will bring our refugees home-
grown pathos home. You bring lots
of experts, the pros' pros, and
5
Someone who
meets his fate soon.
Someone who
gives up a boon
filtered
like coffee
like faith
like love
like life
at the corner
cafe, slowly
drip by drip,
moments close-
up, thick
amidst
the it of it.
Someone who
quits the scenery,
falls face-first,
flips out,
does himself
in. Let's hope
he's healthy?
Components intact,
circuits clear, dead
but otherwise. . .
Let's hope
for the sake of us
still in line, we
names on the list
waiting in waiting
rooms, pacing
near the door who
refuse our curtain-
calls to lay down
our limbs. Let's
hope someone
finds a way out
and points a finger
at the spot
to aim at or be
targets for.
**
The French Path
As Baudelaire divined
Orpheusly to Degas (or
Was it Mallarme to
Monsieur Delacroix, or
Was it that gunrunner
At Verlaine, who:
'Ouch. . .') the forest
Is trees with the sound
Of heartbeats, shadows
Full of light. Just words
Here, then there. Let them
Eat paint; chew promises.
Origami them with pain.
A cracking cowhide joke.
I insist, no mercy?
Would they you? No dog-
Man pauses mid-attack
To unveil the soul's POV.
I say (as reported never
To have been written before
This poem: 'Ouch') Words
Void the void, and then
One paints a million
Pictures: DOG. God
Calls when you're done.
You're partner to something
Happening elsewhere
Very close to the heart
Where I'm inclined to think
Baudelaire dropped
Breadcrumbs in the forest
And the rest of us hungrily
Lickwalk the path.
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Richard Chetwynd received his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and teaches writing and literature at Emerson College's European Center. His poems have appeared in Coe Review, Cape Rock, Kiosk, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. He lives half the year in the Ziemia Chelminska region of Poland with his wife, the sculptor Barbara Jocz.
**
Backdoor Plan
What can be said is: it just didn't take.
I blame me, of course. Now the matter
Of recuperating and having another go.
There's plenty of time, even if there ain't.
Science will have us shooting hoops
At Noah's age, tits like titanium
Projectiles, pension-penii ruling the block --
In inner space I'm up to here busy
With down there for the sake of 'yes',
And to make it all work better: if they can't
Do it, I'm still poised, perfectly
Positioned for a miraculous escape to shore.
No one expects a flood until the nuke
Fires burn out, and it gets real cold,
And someone stands up to proclaim
With the last gun he wants to lead
Us, and get the best of whatever's left
For the job he'll do and continue to do
Until his son comes of age. Taxes
We'll pay in painkillers or whatever you have
When you hit the deck. Sunglasses
Will be prime, and aloe gel. Blindness
Could be all the rage. I'm planning to go
Deaf and dumb. Evolution ain't over yet.
**
Frozen Pipe Mini-Fugue for Philip in Need of a Pre-owned Liver
1
I second third fourth-
....guess all the meal-bent ways:
.............aches arrive, strategies unravel,
fungus finds a bed of roses. Dread
....is but one bead in the rosary formed
.............of the bone-deep share of another,
which we pass to others to keep hold
....of our shares, of them. Cross-our hearts
.............we'd fix it with Will, in Time?
Twin fathers to the rescue! (too much
....gushing most days for some,
.............his Highness, palace-perched,
in need of mother's smothering
.... mother-space for most.) Today's spittle-
.............grunt is a borrowed generator
sparking the pyre of our wet-dreams:
....splintered planks and beams snow-
.............fractured in the yard when a gust
left a huge black hole in its wake,
....and no one wants to hear it twice.
.............I saw it in flight, an upended ship
on a dark sky wing full
....of the neighbor's things, a flying heap
.............of coal-scented domesticity?
Hinderer, helper, harvester, sower,
....closing heart-throb distances like
.............a timely prayer locates a kidney
on a bike in traffic, weaving a breeze
....to avoid the needle's one-eyed gate
.............opening on someone else's luck
with life. Mangled efforts, time
....undone juts from the neighbor's drift.
.............Sleep saves another afternoon
ice-bound in a snow-spray village. First
....thing in the morning: revisions.
.............Guessing. In that's to be found.
2
I'm growing me, you-stumped.
I go the moon's rip, surge.
Charted, bartered Amazon,
I'm going me, you the falls.
Brackish, crystal get-away
Clear, slick-slack fun
In leopard-spotted sun
For all the table-top crumbs
of intact organs remaining
of a toothless chew -- gone is
the one and only true, to be
called upon to the call, to saddle
and gallop off in a sweat-stain
wind, down in a death-valley
dust-bowl of lost fossils,
another hip hick-patriot
with money-stuffed hide-bags
pillowing his hideout
parched as a pink moonscape.
Fugitive gallons cut a path
in deed and shame to vapor
worthy of being a name.
Into dusk worthy of its fame.
I'm growing you and me
to see with an ocean's POV.
3
Am I the things I moan,
Thoughts thunk, wish-washed
In a wintry wind at home
While knifish grows the frost
Between you & me, he & she
It & it, all the great probings
On the personal meltdown -- gods
Of gods needling angels to sing?
Am I the doer or the thing
Done, in the done of the dead-gone?
Am I the crew or the ship?
A wave of wind or hollow shell's
Frayed strings in the woods?
Sired to be expired by desires?
Mind-borne fires, I team-play
Ways to shed bounds wherever
The shall will goeth. Thanks
To (whom, what? where?) fortune's
Upward flight right-angled to woe:
My enemies' kindness outflanks
4
me. Too little insulation, no foam
around the pipes. No bath tonight.
No dishes, no nothing but worry.
It'd suck to take the wall apart.
It was built to last a lifetime, short,
thin-skinned and renovation-prone
for the next inmate: O bed of winter.
Come spring, I'll have to bathe away
the old grime; if not then, the one
right after, the fall following that,
the ice-age sent again to woebegone
the home. Can't heal it with patience,
it just gets worse, a pocket of mist
ignored mulches the roof, turns deluge,
drowns all the lesser cares like hunger
duneside in an African death-trap?
Discoveries dinner-timed not to be
worth the timing. A jimmy-rigged
call will bring our refugees home-
grown pathos home. You bring lots
of experts, the pros' pros, and
5
Someone who
meets his fate soon.
Someone who
gives up a boon
filtered
like coffee
like faith
like love
like life
at the corner
cafe, slowly
drip by drip,
moments close-
up, thick
amidst
the it of it.
Someone who
quits the scenery,
falls face-first,
flips out,
does himself
in. Let's hope
he's healthy?
Components intact,
circuits clear, dead
but otherwise. . .
Let's hope
for the sake of us
still in line, we
names on the list
waiting in waiting
rooms, pacing
near the door who
refuse our curtain-
calls to lay down
our limbs. Let's
hope someone
finds a way out
and points a finger
at the spot
to aim at or be
targets for.
**
The French Path
As Baudelaire divined
Orpheusly to Degas (or
Was it Mallarme to
Monsieur Delacroix, or
Was it that gunrunner
At Verlaine, who:
'Ouch. . .') the forest
Is trees with the sound
Of heartbeats, shadows
Full of light. Just words
Here, then there. Let them
Eat paint; chew promises.
Origami them with pain.
A cracking cowhide joke.
I insist, no mercy?
Would they you? No dog-
Man pauses mid-attack
To unveil the soul's POV.
I say (as reported never
To have been written before
This poem: 'Ouch') Words
Void the void, and then
One paints a million
Pictures: DOG. God
Calls when you're done.
You're partner to something
Happening elsewhere
Very close to the heart
Where I'm inclined to think
Baudelaire dropped
Breadcrumbs in the forest
And the rest of us hungrily
Lickwalk the path.
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Richard Chetwynd received his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and teaches writing and literature at Emerson College's European Center. His poems have appeared in Coe Review, Cape Rock, Kiosk, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. He lives half the year in the Ziemia Chelminska region of Poland with his wife, the sculptor Barbara Jocz.
Labels: richard chetwynd
