Rerun #1, "The Gift"

Big Frank has been thinking of reruns. He doesn't actually have a TV, but he used to, and he can remember watching reruns of programs that were trotted out after the season's fare had all been run through. The reruns were the best what had been broadcast. So, Big Frank is going to run a few reruns of his posts. These are, what he thinks, are some of his best. Well, to be frank (Big Frank) they are his favorites. Here's the first:
________________________________________________________
Big Frank has been thinking lately about poetry. Why is it that the content of the poem is relayed at a slant? With prose the thought or feeling is laid out directly. The person says that they have this kind of idea or this kind of feeling. There is a label put on it and some examples and explanation put to it. With poetry there is a recognition that the idea or feeling is bigger than the explanatory power of words -the lexicon cannot carry the load. It is bigger than words, and so something more resonant is sought - images, symbols, metaphor, or ancedotes. It is the first three that most poets rely on, but the anecdote is very powerful when applied to something different. Here's an example from a great poem by Don Paterson:

The Gift

That night she called his name, not mine
And could not call it back.
I shamed myself and thought of the blind
girl in Kodiak

who stood on the stoop each night
to watch the daylight fade
and lift her child down to the gate
cut in the pallisade.

And what old caution love resigned
when through that misty stare
she passed her boy not to her bearskinned husband
but the bear.


Here we have a horrific story that is linked to one lover calling the other by the name of a previous lover. The irretrievable loss of that "gift" is captured in all its intractability in the story of the blind woman mistakenly handing the child - out of love - to the bear. This is poetry. It cannot compare in force or poignancy to a simple prose summary of the slip of tongue. Such poems are rare

Big Frank's Mother's 85th!

Big Frank went back to his namesake's home, Dickinson. It was his mother's 85th birthday and most of the family was there. What a great time! Here are some photos.

TNT

TNT (A Portrait)

Big Frank Dickinson

Clove cigarettes and chocolate creams

And text messages that stretch out into the hundreds (shhh!)

But rarely go to voice.

Tummy problems with sour cream

And insomnia that calls for pills

But rarely any pimples.

Walk-n-Talk most everyday

And bike rides clothed in pink crossbones

But rarely admissions ... (shhh).

Monkey sock dialogues that end badly

And unsuccessful attempts to trip

But rarely does he know (anymore).

Red Audio double T with a spot on the back

And a bill that just keeps growing

But rarely full of gas.

Phone numbers that get suddenly changed

Photos sent on the sly still (shhh)

But rarely faking calls.

Take it back this

And take it back that,

But rarely wears a hat.

Mouth twisted to the side

And teeth nibbling inner cheeks

Rarely cracking knuckles.

TNT NTNT NTNTNT (boom)

Uh-oh, here it comes again

Laughing Gravy

The crisis has just passed.
Uh-oh, here it comes again,
looking for someone to blame itself on, you, I . . .

All these people coming in . . .
The last time we necked
I noticed this lobe on your ear.
Please, tell me we may begin.

All the wolves in the wolf factory paused
at noon, for a moment of silence.

Magne's Aphorisms

Big Frank is a big fan of the aphorism: small bits of insight delivered in a pleasing way. Accent on the short. His good friend Magne is a master of the form and Big Frank is waiting for him to publish some of the thousands of aphorisms that he has written (3,174 and counting). Here is a sampling of some that Big Frank likes.

The aphorism is where the poet and the thinker meet to pass a secret message.

We walk among strangers as among ghosts.

It is hard to admit your feelings, but harder still to admit the trivial things that engender them.What makes us think that love is the answer? Our heart.

I don't need to be loved for who I am. I need to be loved in spite of who I am.

You must occasionally allow people to be tired and sick of you so they can love you again.

The greatest aphrodisiac is love

Sex is driving around enjoying the ride. Love is traveling — often to a place you have never been before.

A person can get killed trusting someone, but a person will die if they do not.

Happiness does not only come from doing what you want to do, happiness also comes from doing what you should be doing.

The price of happiness — is unhappiness.

I constantly construct a narrative for my feelings.

It is hard to admit your feelings, but harder still to admit the trivial things that engender them.

Our desire for things gets in the way of our understanding of things.

Truant exchanges ... brandished intentions

[Photo: Big Frank Dickinson, taken at North Bend, WA]

A beautiful poem by John Ashbery that will stay with you for some time afterwards.

Wakefulness

An immodest little white wine, some scattered seraphs,
recollections of the Fall—tell me,
has anyone made a spongier representation, chased
fewer demons out of the parking lot
where we all held hands?

Little by little the idea of the true way returned to me.
I was touched by your care,
reduced to fawning excuses.
Everything was spotless in the little house of our desire,
the clock ticked on and on, happy about
being apprenticed to eternity. A gavotte of dust motes
came to replace my seeing. Everything was as though
it had happened long ago
in ancient peach-colored funny papers
wherein the law of true opposites was ordained
casually. Then the book opened by itself
and read to us: “You pack of liars,
of course tempted by the crossroads, but I like each
and every one of you with a peculiar sapphire intensity.
Look, here is where I failed at first.
The client leaves. History natters on,
rolling distractedly on these shores. Each day, dawn
condenses like a very large star, bakes no bread,
shoes the faithless. How convenient if it’s a dream.”

In the next sleep car was madness.
An urgent languor installed itself
as far as the cabbage-hemmed horizons. And if I put a little
bit of myself in this time, stoppered the liquor that is our selves’
truant exchanges, brandished my intentions
for once? But only I get
something out of this memory.
A kindly gnome
of fear perched on my dashboard once, but we had all
been instructed
to ignore the conditions of the chase. Here, it
seems to grow lighter with each passing century. No matter
how you twist it,
life stays frozen in the headlights.
Funny, none of us heard the roar