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

 

A Chance Meeting on 6th & Broad

Like the trunk of an old oak
Felled for lumber his knees
Were
His tongue held captive
Enslaved muscles of utterance unable to move to utter the words
So desperately
Needed
His arms hung idly
Paralyzed at his sides
His loins unfeeling
Barren like the womb of Abram’s sweet
Sara

[Yet, in one felt moment all this
Giving way to
Birth]

A wave,
A glorious heart sweeping wave of newness
Fresher than the dew of early morning
Lighter than the new moon’s cotton candy luminescence
In the starless night (of early morning)
Weightless as the scent of jasmine wafting the predawn air
As quiet as the whispers of winter entering Fall on the shoulders of summer
Soft as the downy coat of lamb’s wool against an infant’s cheek
Greener than the Rocky Mountain aspens against the tobacco-yellow landscape
And a truer blue than the sky was that day they met
on the corner of
Sixth and Broad
And walked hand in hand to Central.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, December, 2016 with thoughts caught across the continent between Denver and New York City.

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Reading Hemingway

A key unlocking
A parade of possibilities,
Unread books to be read
Well read books to be reread
Top shelf
Writers to know
Painters to peruse
Places to visit and possess

Poems to be penned
Short stories to be started
Novellas to effuse
Like the smoke of his
Nag champa
His morning ritual
Waking his deepest
Senses

Is how reading Hem’s
Moveable Feast
Moved him
Away from potentialities
To creation
To finding the key
To unlocking
The
Soul

To moving with ease
As the main character
In his widest dreams
Somnambulist no mas! No mas!

AWAKE!
W
A
K
E!
AWAKE!

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Photo taken this summer in NYC on the Chelsea HIgh Line. Sculpture created by artist Tony Matelli.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016.
I’ve been reading, no feasting on Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast”
this week; and am now submerging myself into his “The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway: FincaVigia” edition. Shall soon be tracing Hem’s steps in Paris.

In Chelsea

Cornucopic feasts for the senses

Brain on fire

High Line High of Holies

Hammering Sounds of Industrial

Revolutions

Amidst nature’s whispers.

____

Neurons releasing

Odes of joyous

Neurotransmitters

Singing anthems of praise

To the gods for this lovely day

In Chelsea.

Handcrafted poems by John M. Hines, June, 2016

I wrote this poem last week while slowly walking the High Line in New York City’s Chelsea area. I was taken aback by the art around me created by both humankind and nature in a setting of industrialization. While my wife captured the surrounding stimulations on her camera, I slipped into the shade in joyous contemplation to try to put the emotions of the place into words.

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