MY OWN SELLANRA (After Hamsun & O’Hara)

Des salutations et des adieux
Lunch Poems in my pocket
Dare I sneak Meditations in my laptop bag on the way to work?
Can I dial a 911 to rescue a self cut in two by preoccupations on the side of some minute form of sanity?

Whistling in the wind like Isak’s scythe
Cutting through some form of literary truth-seeking lyricism offering hope
Just another mardi matin or a something-else?

A little meditation in an emergency
An every day chameleon
A false yellow label folded into the pavement
Mashed by not-so-lonesome boots in a painting by Van Gogh

Like the fresh cut grasses on Isak’s land
My own Sellanra
Waiting to be raked
The promise of a machine in the days to come
Hiding secrets like Inger
Inside my little faux leather bag
Is it really so il faut savoir?

No heart on the sleeve on the way to another day of grinding
Fresh cut timbre
In the water-powered sawmill of Sellanra
For these new dialogues je sais par coeur
They’re buried so much deeper than that still-born
In that shallow grave by the river-stream

Running down through the property I may never fully own.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February 2018

 

Washington Square

As i walked from Strand Bookstore with my fresh copy of O’Hara in my pocket,
The shorter buildings of Union Square and East Village brought solace
After the crush of Mid-Town’s scrapers covering up the sky stirred up old anxieties

Ahhhh…Washington Square just outside 1 Mews where I was one year ago today
When the drops of fountain water felt like a sweet baptism-
That relief so absent in this moment,

And there He was:

He’s a multi-coloured Pomeranian she said
His tufts of hair blowing over his forehead like
A Donald Trump toupee,
His cool calm loins spread out on the sidewalk,
His name is Tuxedo, she said

And I couldn’t get past the contrast-
Tuxedo dressed so cool and calm,
hair blowing in the breeze,
Me wilting sweating melting-
A strawberry ice-cream in a sugar cone,
Slipping falling

Becoming a pigeon’s sticky footprint on the stoney hexagons concrete,
Those pink flowers by the fountain whom I have yet to meet
Seeming to be, right now, in this moment,
Doing so much better than me.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June, 2017, New York City, NY.

 

LUNCH of WORDS

On the day Trump pulls out
After late night covfefe
Such a French sounding word

Paris accords
Broken
On the first of June!

And all I want to do is paint with
W.            R.
O.
D.

S.

Across my canvas which is my phone
Sitting in the doctors office
Waiting to be carved out of stone

Stitches and a band aid
Not enough to cover up the anxieties of late nights keeping me awake

And all i want to do is paint with
O.        D.
W.          R.
S.

Word-swords-plowshares
My canvass:
Your lunch

An afternoon with F.O.H.
His orange and blue so perfect pocket sized for
Pick pocketing poems

Taking trips trip taking tripping
From the futon in my study:
Biarritz, Madrid and Barcelona
Thank you Frank!

Skipping A last lunch like THE last supper
Sacrifice
Eating words instead.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June 1, 2017