Barbara Henning
Strange Afternoon Dream
Strange afternoon dream about an English
department chair—the old time male type--
who hires me to take his place. Apple
could hire 3,000 foreigners overnight
and convince them to live in dormitories.
It's full steam ahead for Mickey Mouse
in India. A slippery rich politician
is selling a bill of goods. Just answer
my correspondence, he says, and see
to my appointments. Need a new mattress
to go with that TV? You're in the right
place. I forget something outside,
a cabinet now covered with mud. While
I'm scraping it off, the chair's watching
me from another window, shaking his finger.
There's always been disagreement
on these American shores as to just what
the "best" English is. I'm thinking, oh
this is how it's done and then I'm piloting
an airplane out of there. Falling asleep
now with my pen resting on its side
and this little blob of ink, growing.
Up Early Peddling
Up early peddling against the wind,
swerving around trucks and cars
unloading beer and children. To have
an original idea is to swerve or so says
Mr. Foreman, and on Third Street
I glide over the bumpy patched up
pavement until I cross Broadway,
and then make a smooth left through
a housing complex, chain up my bike
at Houston and Wooster. At 9:15
ring the bell. For several weeks
last year, the Earth was surrounded
by an extra ring of radiation, highly
charged particles swerving around
the planet. In front of the mirror
with Genny leading, we synchronize
our movements, moving into stillness
a charged room full of human triangles.
These Socks
These socks cost $10 a pair
and the darning spool has
been in my sewing box for years.
Finally I sit down and begin
weaving. No room for straying
thoughts, just in and out,
across and over. Then I walk
through the park with my
camera, reaching out to smooth
a stray hair, a spool of genes
blowing in the wind, a leaf,
a rock, a branch, a twig,
my reflection in a puddle,
pants too short, high water
with striped socks and these
clodhopper clogs. Santana
gives up two hits and one
walk while getting two
strikeouts. Two minus two
and a quarter. Still a little
behind. As Kierkegaard
noted, life is lived forward
but understood backward,
a darn good reason for
making the rich pay more.
The M14 Bus
The M14 bus crawls around
a construction site and then
crosses 7th Avenue. A father
is reading a book, his right
arm around his daughter,
his hand covering her mouth.
How long is a fraction
of a second. Her long blond
hair, beautiful, maybe six
or seven, red finger nail polish
on one hand only, pink tights.
The pupil gets larger and darker.
Depress the shutter to advance
the narrative. He removes
his hand and she pulls it back,
leaning into the book.
Suddenly his hand is moving
and she looks up, smiling.
One front tooth gone,
a big red gap. The courting
crow has an iridescent pair
of long narrow tail feathers.
Above a grey sky, fog
and winter clouds. Researchers
have found a tiny fraction
of heavy metals in the fog
along the western North
American coast line. I cover
my mouth with my scarf
and walk west into the wind.
C U in 5 Minutes
I'm sleeping when my phone
beeps with a text message:
At bus stop. c u in 5 min.
Sent to the wrong person so
I climb back into dream sleep.
As I am lying on my side,
my ex-love climbs on top
of me, the blanket between
us. My heart starts to ache.
He forgot to take his hat with him
yesterday. Like a butterfly
folding its wings around
a small flower, taking, then gone.
He killed love, Jeanie said
to me a month ago, and that's
a crime. Then he texts me, c u
Wednesday. Butterfly wings
are not just beautiful.
They're also sophisticated
collectors of solar energy.
Here We Are
Off to the stationary store on Avenue
A to buy paper and metal book ends.
At least 58 people died in Europe
this week in a brutal cold wave,
plunging temperatures to 17 degrees
below zero. When I step inside
the store, I'm suddenly phlegmy
and coughing. Blood starts pouring
out of my left nostril. A funny old
woman hidden inside a blue hooded
coat darts out the door. Republicans
point at the millions of immigrant
workers pouring into the country.
Then I look in the mirror and see
a funny looking old woman with
her head wrapped like a mummy
and a tissue stuck in her nose. King
Tut's mummy was recently removed
from the sarcophagus, and placed
in a climate-controlled box to be
displayed at a museum in Luxor.
My husband often had a bloody nose.
Maybe we'll find each other again
in another life. When I think of
losing my children, I feel my body
crack into pieces. China's cracking
down on subversive meditating
disciples of the Dalai Lama.
Be thankful for now, Barbara.
Today. This minute. Here we are.
__________
These poems are part of a larger sequence, entitled "Days;" they are a collage of (1) my notes on 2012, one small page written almost every day, and (2) short phrases and sentences culled from the New York Time Archives with word searches (for the individual month in 2012).
Born in Detroit in 1948, Barbara Henning has lived in New York City since 1983 except for a few years in Mysore, India and in Tucson. She has published three novels, seven collections of poetry and several limited art/poetry pamphlets. A new collection, A Swift Passage, was recently released from Quale Press. In the 90's, Barbara edited Long News in the Short Century: A Journal of Writing and Art. As a long-time yoga practitioner, she brings this knowledge and discipline to her writing and her teaching at Naropa University, Writers.com and Long Island University in Brooklyn, where she is Professor Emerita.
Strange Afternoon Dream
Strange afternoon dream about an English
department chair—the old time male type--
who hires me to take his place. Apple
could hire 3,000 foreigners overnight
and convince them to live in dormitories.
It's full steam ahead for Mickey Mouse
in India. A slippery rich politician
is selling a bill of goods. Just answer
my correspondence, he says, and see
to my appointments. Need a new mattress
to go with that TV? You're in the right
place. I forget something outside,
a cabinet now covered with mud. While
I'm scraping it off, the chair's watching
me from another window, shaking his finger.
There's always been disagreement
on these American shores as to just what
the "best" English is. I'm thinking, oh
this is how it's done and then I'm piloting
an airplane out of there. Falling asleep
now with my pen resting on its side
and this little blob of ink, growing.
Up Early Peddling
Up early peddling against the wind,
swerving around trucks and cars
unloading beer and children. To have
an original idea is to swerve or so says
Mr. Foreman, and on Third Street
I glide over the bumpy patched up
pavement until I cross Broadway,
and then make a smooth left through
a housing complex, chain up my bike
at Houston and Wooster. At 9:15
ring the bell. For several weeks
last year, the Earth was surrounded
by an extra ring of radiation, highly
charged particles swerving around
the planet. In front of the mirror
with Genny leading, we synchronize
our movements, moving into stillness
a charged room full of human triangles.
These Socks
These socks cost $10 a pair
and the darning spool has
been in my sewing box for years.
Finally I sit down and begin
weaving. No room for straying
thoughts, just in and out,
across and over. Then I walk
through the park with my
camera, reaching out to smooth
a stray hair, a spool of genes
blowing in the wind, a leaf,
a rock, a branch, a twig,
my reflection in a puddle,
pants too short, high water
with striped socks and these
clodhopper clogs. Santana
gives up two hits and one
walk while getting two
strikeouts. Two minus two
and a quarter. Still a little
behind. As Kierkegaard
noted, life is lived forward
but understood backward,
a darn good reason for
making the rich pay more.
The M14 Bus
The M14 bus crawls around
a construction site and then
crosses 7th Avenue. A father
is reading a book, his right
arm around his daughter,
his hand covering her mouth.
How long is a fraction
of a second. Her long blond
hair, beautiful, maybe six
or seven, red finger nail polish
on one hand only, pink tights.
The pupil gets larger and darker.
Depress the shutter to advance
the narrative. He removes
his hand and she pulls it back,
leaning into the book.
Suddenly his hand is moving
and she looks up, smiling.
One front tooth gone,
a big red gap. The courting
crow has an iridescent pair
of long narrow tail feathers.
Above a grey sky, fog
and winter clouds. Researchers
have found a tiny fraction
of heavy metals in the fog
along the western North
American coast line. I cover
my mouth with my scarf
and walk west into the wind.
C U in 5 Minutes
I'm sleeping when my phone
beeps with a text message:
At bus stop. c u in 5 min.
Sent to the wrong person so
I climb back into dream sleep.
As I am lying on my side,
my ex-love climbs on top
of me, the blanket between
us. My heart starts to ache.
He forgot to take his hat with him
yesterday. Like a butterfly
folding its wings around
a small flower, taking, then gone.
He killed love, Jeanie said
to me a month ago, and that's
a crime. Then he texts me, c u
Wednesday. Butterfly wings
are not just beautiful.
They're also sophisticated
collectors of solar energy.
Here We Are
Off to the stationary store on Avenue
A to buy paper and metal book ends.
At least 58 people died in Europe
this week in a brutal cold wave,
plunging temperatures to 17 degrees
below zero. When I step inside
the store, I'm suddenly phlegmy
and coughing. Blood starts pouring
out of my left nostril. A funny old
woman hidden inside a blue hooded
coat darts out the door. Republicans
point at the millions of immigrant
workers pouring into the country.
Then I look in the mirror and see
a funny looking old woman with
her head wrapped like a mummy
and a tissue stuck in her nose. King
Tut's mummy was recently removed
from the sarcophagus, and placed
in a climate-controlled box to be
displayed at a museum in Luxor.
My husband often had a bloody nose.
Maybe we'll find each other again
in another life. When I think of
losing my children, I feel my body
crack into pieces. China's cracking
down on subversive meditating
disciples of the Dalai Lama.
Be thankful for now, Barbara.
Today. This minute. Here we are.
__________
These poems are part of a larger sequence, entitled "Days;" they are a collage of (1) my notes on 2012, one small page written almost every day, and (2) short phrases and sentences culled from the New York Time Archives with word searches (for the individual month in 2012).
Born in Detroit in 1948, Barbara Henning has lived in New York City since 1983 except for a few years in Mysore, India and in Tucson. She has published three novels, seven collections of poetry and several limited art/poetry pamphlets. A new collection, A Swift Passage, was recently released from Quale Press. In the 90's, Barbara edited Long News in the Short Century: A Journal of Writing and Art. As a long-time yoga practitioner, she brings this knowledge and discipline to her writing and her teaching at Naropa University, Writers.com and Long Island University in Brooklyn, where she is Professor Emerita.