Discrete Thoughts Collected Poems: New Enlarged Anthology - Softcover

Siegel, Herbert

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1490732047 ISBN 13: 9781490732046

Publisher: Trafford, 2014

Synopsis

Discrete Thoughts, the fifth book of contemporary poems by Herbert Siegel, the pulse of whose verses are timed to his heartbeats from his signature poems The Core of the Universe to The Soul of Man. Discrete Thoughts is the first comprehensive and unabridged collection of his poetic achievements absent a variorum.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Discrete Thoughts Collected Poems

New Enlarged Anthology

By Herbert Siegel

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2014 Herbert Siegel
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3204-6

Contents

I. "THE SOUL OF MAN" AND OTHER LATE-LIFE OFFERINGS, 
II. "WHERE DO PRAYERS GO?" AND OTHER OBFUSCATIONS, 
III. "A PERSON WITHIN A PERSON" AND OTHER ANALOGIES, 
IV. "THE FABULIST" AND OTHER HISTORIETTE, 
V. "ALIAS PASTA" AND OTHER GASTRONOMY, 
VI. "AGING" AND OTHER LIFE PHENOMENA, 
VII. "TALE OF THREE CITIES" AND OTHER LOCUS, 
VIII. "LIFE THROUGH MY GLASSES" AND OTHER NATURAL WONDERS, 
INDEX OF IMAGES, 277, 
INDEX OF POEMS, 277, 

CHAPTER 1

"THE SOUL OF MAN" AND OTHER LATE-LIFE OFFERINGS

    LIFE CYCLE

    I value my life,
    but don't remember my birth,
    and won't remember my death,
    yet both are crucial,
    extant and extinct.

    Life filled with days
    each a lasting effect,
    some good, some bad,
    I own them all,
    see my calendar as proof.
    Most I remember, some I choose to forget
    --others will remember them for me.

    None can compare with my birthday,
    a special day, indeed!
    From not being to living,
    a first breath, bath, and name,
    the genesis of my belly button,
    seeing, crying, eating for the first time.
    What an important day
    not to remember.

    I won't remember dying either
    however it may come,
    my life erased in a micro-second,
    no time to change or take another chance.
    I won't remember becoming extinct.

    Who cares?


    UNSEEN MIRACLES

    Miracles span generations;
    my mother performed miracles after she died,
    some were scholarly, a few pedantic,
    others general but in a particular way,
    all defied laws of physics.

    They pierced stone, steel, and glass
    from a world without light or darkness.
    They see through my eyes, hear with my ears,
    touch everything with love.

    No hi-tech, psycho software,
    no middlemen
    except Bach and Mozart to cohere.
    Only God is condemned to work alone,
    for us there is the omniscience
    of things unseen, otherwise
    there is no point to make.

    Miracles are not monolithic
    anchors of our minds, or home grown.
    Nothing is as hair raising as an unexpected miracle
    That freezes all thoughts into ice like organ pipes,
    until the vision materializes.
    People don't make people better,
    mother's miracles do!


    ANATOMY OF A POEM

    Inner sounds culled from life's silent essence
    awake non-obvious events,
    mimic art's imagination,
    faux prompts, biases, laments.

    Explore vagary, reality,
    aware of metaphors
    that solve nothing, cure less,
    cast a net trapping insightful ethos.

    Music needs sound, paintings color,
    ideas crave reality,
    language follows deafening silence,
    all avoid calamity.

    Words provoke inspiration,
    the human condition of
    unconscious composition,
    proof of creation.

    Privileges of our world
    without which we are not home.
    Silence the sounds yet unheard,
    when ready they are a poem.


    LOST HEROES

    As trains leave stations,
    ships sail, planes fly,
    they pass a stationary motion
    of transient sensations.

    Today's idols putch past heroes,
    soon supplanted by successors.
    It's hard for heroes to survive aging dialects
    of thesis. antithesis, and synthesis.
    Wide gulfs separate yesterday's heroes from today,
    As seen through makeshift glasses not scientific lens.
    Once ravishing now ravished, captivating now captive,
    they can't understand decay.

    To bring them back dispels clarity between sleep and
    waking,
    they never said goodbyes,
    how many memories can air hold
    beyond a trace of wet eyes?

    "Come back, you are here and now," I said,
    Spartans unburdened by old bones,
    not knowing they are dead,
    but for this poem's metaphoric zones,

    TO WIT:

    Hello, Gen. Washington, you won a war
    against the only army you ever saw.
    Today you'd face terrorists galore,
    religious fanatics who thrive on gore.
    Goodbye General, your horse, sword,
    and 18th century corps.

    Strut your stuff on the runway of time, Cleopatra,
    a Greek, who came to Egypt's reign,
    married her brothers, Caesar, and Antony in line,
    the goddess Isis her claim to fame.

    Lost the battle to Octavia's hasp,
    was killed bitten by her own Asp.
    The feminist of her day,
    occupying Wall St. is not her forte'
    So long Cleo, return to your crypt,
    no place for you here or Egypt.

    A supreme commander Ike was,
    fought and won battles better than anybody does.
    Brought back to point the way,
    bewildered by wars of today,
    no armies, al Qaeda and terrorists sneak,
    strike and hide
    from drones, missiles, and profiteering
    of our side, patriots, allies, hard to find,
    ten years here, ten years there, we try to unwind.
    No victories, confusion reigns,
    our soldiers leave broken and broke for their pains.

    Heroine, Saint, then burned at the stake,
    Joan of Arc ends the hundred year war for France.
    Struck by visions from God,
    she partied hard after a nine-day victory dance.
    The martyr visits the 21st century,
    views church/state politics of today,
    prays for guidance from her deity,
    has visions of joining the Tea Party,
    or take another turn at the stake.

    Honest Abe won't let southerners go
    though he might reconsider AZ, Texas, and Idaho.
    Served in the US House, tried for Senate, made it to Prez,
    swearing all are equal, or so he says.
    "No Comment," on women's right to choose,
    smoking or booze.
    Views Congress today and their avarice
    toward a black President, but not his patronage.
    Abe looks back at Ford's Theatre with solace.

    Seeking virtue or anyone who found it,
    the ethics of Socrates infused Western society.
    His teacher, Aristotle and Plato, his student,
    parsed his methods for ethics and integrity.
    The father of cross-examining puts us on trial today,
    seeking truth, keeping lies at bay.
    Alas! Truth is nowhere to be found,
    lies are the heretic of our time,
    He resumes the stone-like stare of his bust of lime.

    Guten Tag, Herr Doktor S. Schlomo Freud!*
    Who extended Neurology to Psychiatry,
    disciple of Shakespeare, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche,
    look into our collective mind
    and tell us what you find.
    Do we fornicate more than Twitter?
    Will the unborn get the vote?
    Is Congress the new OB/GYN pope?
    Please don't pull your beard and scream,
    just hit the couch and dream.

    Lost heroes revisit the world of their birth,
    peek at the cultural tsunami now on Earth,
    rush past their era with the speed of fright.
    All are immigrants today without insight,
    no walls, or ID required to open a door,
    just our memory, they need no more.
    Now as home-grown Americans reclaim
    their name and fame,
    how they got here is not their shame
    when judged by what they left behind,
    that's how we should play the immigration game
    everyday.


    CONFESSIONS OF A
    SEPTUAGENARIAN

    Is this threshold one passes with grace,
    a foot-slip time devours, or
    just one frozen in place?
    Shall I bend to life's obsequious metrics
    of remaining heartbeats strained from decades past?
    Unconstrained minds still blast, "I am young,"
    while deep within it is vexed with angst.

    Days accumulate with dark nights
    save moonlight, that reflect off windows,
    shadowy lawn statues grow up from the ground,
    streams divert unseen below as
    perceptions defy perspectives,
    a mystery of another Petrarchan or Dantesque day.

    This is the age of sages,
    knowledge coalesces and propagates
    while labor subordinates, conflicts internalize,
    existential dreams personalize, and metaphysical notions
    materialize then caramelize forever.

    Once knowledge finds expression
    in allegories to the world-at-large,
    then age-specific catharses better distill fact from fiction
    to energize the near-ending continuum,
    or is it a mirage?

    I ascend to be thrown;
    no more anxiety and strife in my poems,
    no more music to drown cries,
    no more artists who try to teach teachers,
    now is the time for terse, no nonsense verse,
    the mainstay of aged poets.

    Assimilating poetry with reason
    whether brash or wise, is elusive,
    for a Septuagenarian,
    not for want of fantasy
    to seduce decades of sanity,
    and accent the festive.

    Arid words seem scary,
    visceral ramblings sluggish
    without fantasy's power over nature.
    Yet ephemeral poems still sing with a
    metaphoric obtuseness of writing on the move
    uncaring about perceived transitions;
    confused, am I? I guess I'll await clarity
    (next year) as an Octogenarian!


    CURVES IN THE RIGHT PLACES
    (The Stockmarket)

    Those French curves with their hyperbola
    Milanese with their peaks and troughs
    contract, expand as shapely ellipses unwind,
    strive for equanimity a zero-sum find.

    Curves chart the way climb and dive,
    reaching highs and lows plus or minus five.
    Watching them soar and fall yesterday's news
    search their patterns predict tomorrow's views.

    Those French curves with their hyperbola
    Milanese with their peaks and troughs

    Trends tell stories a mirror of the past
    sexy tales of yesterday not for recast.
    Contract, expand as shapely ellipses unwind
    Strive for equanimity zero-sum find.

    Blips and blemishes distort the way,
    surprise and shock cause dismay.
    Watching them soar and fall yesterday's news
    search their patterns predict tomorrow's views,
    if you dare!


    FIVE CARD HOLD `EM
    (Hurricane Sandy, October-November 2012)

    Bathed in harsh night light,
    streaming over table tops
    stacked high with life's chips and bright,
    piles from a lifetime of daily pots.

    "Sandy" blew in with wind and brimstone,
    stripped each house and home,
    displaced people, no heat, gas, or phone,
    her wrath a fury unknown.

    A snow storm in the aftermath
    for added misery,
    obstructing our Election Day's path,
    and my anniversary (57th).

    Joan, Jon, Steph, and Dana
    shone their lights on nature's pain
    their tender, loving care
    sheltered me from snow and rain.

    This storm of the century
    fused care of family and friends,
    allowed Americans to vote eventually
    and survive both ends.

    Players in nature's five-card hold `em game,
    everybody all in.
    Somber, weary players can lay claim
    to the table pot we shared to win.

    Dedicated to Joan, Jon, Steph, and Dana Mori


    THE BIBLE: LITERATURE OR DOGMA?

    A life enveloped by rituals,
    myths, suspicious forays
    promises survival forever,
    the mysteries of unseen powers.

    Allegories of congealed stories
    of why things happen to people,
    transform into a theology
    of scripted images for clergy.

    Intense passions of dogma
    help endure beliefs, a danger
    when fear instills risks to life,
    heaven never saved one creature.

    Axioms of spiritual rubble,
    such dogma answers why, where, and how
    ideas articulate real life,
    as obstinate idioms cause trouble.

    Belief passes for miracles,
    while knowledge births realities.
    Together they dazzle the angels.


    THE WORKER'S BALLET

    Walk on scaffolds high above,
    climbing, swinging,
    balancing grotesque steel and wooden shapes,
    hard hats askew, faces dark with goo,
    they sway with grace around monkey bars
    position steel on steel with rivets
    that hold for years.
    The construction ballet is in town!

    The cast performs to scripts, plans,
    choreographs on the uptake.
    Soon a building rises, ornate with
    sparkling windows, lavish façades
    for hundreds of lives inside,
    an audience with desktop pictures,
    drawers of cookies, whining computers
    the days goes by.

    Ballet performers bend and bow, no applause is heard.
    Their jaws tight against the wind,
    another day to toil and bend
    for a pittance without leave.
    Labor is their family creed
    far flung, always in need.
    Immigrants, workmen who dig, build,
    and landscape cities and glen.
    Good men who risk limb and life
    on heights or in holes of strife,
    with faces leathered by deep lines
    as their lives and yours intertwines--
    their labor by human grit
    keep your houses painted, neat and fit,
    soft hands will benefit.


    MISSING PERSONS

    When all has left
    the soul alone
    with pain of nerves excited,
    the once robust being vanishes
    a distant vision, once there, now missing.
    Vengeful pain now ascends
    steals ID and sight,
    leaves red alone at every turn.

    Flames replaces license pictures,
    turns portraits inside out.
    The one you know
    gone for the duration of fiery sensations
    'Til the drugs kick in.


    ELEGANCE

    She pranced with elegance,
    danced with elegance,
    swayed with elegance,
    dressed with elegance.
    Her parties perfect,
    guests seated with perfection,
    food served savoir faire,
    tables set without compare,
    all anxious for her next affair.

    Clothed and bejeweled inspired with taste,
    nothing left undone by haste
    she dispenses advice when asked,
    sound, unsparing to family and friends alike.
    A celebrity among her peers,
    sought and fawned over, free from fears.

    Now the parties are over,
    family grown, friends far fewer,
    gray head held high, she walks her cane
    with elegance, endures pain in silence,
    still works her craft with a smile of pleasure,
    Joan, is a national treasure!

    April 8, 2013


    BRAIN OR UNIVERSE:
    WHICH IS BIGGER?

    A brain is not much to look at 3 lbs. tare,
    but it can time-travel back, ahead, or not care,
    a mind that reaches the unknown with ease,
    with only you aboard, its sole species.

    Like a cocoon made for the noise of silence
    sojourns in heaven, hell, east or west,
    this fist-size ship of brilliance
    that defines warp-speed best.

    It usurps the darkness of the universe,
    pours into concave or converse,
    recovers stars from black holes,
    quarks, Higgs fields, celestial gas,
    or conjures up lost souls.

    Cosmic waves are powered by 3 billion brains,
    companions of past lives
    all racing toward infinity,
    mnemonic forces that define our sanity.

    A universe stranger then we suppose,
    hi-energy bits that appear then vanish,
    space and time become comatose,
    in light-speed masses that banish.

    Mystery turns non-life to matter,
    nothing into something, something into nothing,
    universal laws filter background chatter,
    of few, hundreds, millions or are we bluffing?

    Are we universal brainiacs or maniacs?
    Mysteries or curiosities?
    Powers among equals?
    One ponders about timeless sequels?


    CANVAS OF OUR PSYCHE

    Original thoughts are never ours,
    ancient word-webs are the source of all
    that languish in the canyons of ethers,
    awaiting our use, always on call.

    Our thoughts belong to others? I think not.
    Abstractions until filtered within,
    borrowed by us, recycled by lot
    until our dreams expunge those that win.

    Word-streams flow like water rivers
    fill each brain side and develop
    ideas or their slivers.
    while harmonies invade and envelop.

    Etchings on the canvas of our psyche,
    outline the thoughts we produce
    conceptual anomalies until words
    evolve and sort as we deduce.

    Hieroglyphs morph into a word
    original thoughts are never ours,
    the ancient web fades, remains unheard
    as I wile away with Wordsworth's hours,

    Often when on a couch I lie,
    thoughts encounter filters my Chinese-wall
    winsome words pass through as flakes of sky,
    ancient word-webs are the source for all,
    word ghosts of those who passed still call.


    HIGH NOON AT DAMASCUS
    (Pres. Obama's Syria Crisis, 2013)

    Do not forsake me oh' my Congress,
    on this my time to strike,
    do not forsake me oh' G20,
    or tell me to take a hike.

    Assad using gas on kinfolk,
    wiped them out in a single stroke.
    I can't let that happen to women and kids,
    next he'll blame the yids.

    WMD missiles in from Iran,
    destroy Israel that's their plan,
    I can't let that happen on my watch
    So crank the drones up another notch.

    No help from others, I'll go it alone,
    strike Syria, Assad and the Brothers,
    let no one doubt my resolve,
    these are my problems to solve.

    After all, I'm the American Prez,
    and no one listens to what I sez.


    MICKEY
    (An Epitaph)

    Today the sun rose, as it always did,
    it meant to shine on you each day.
    But in the unrelenting dark you hid,
    now who sees the sun when the sky is tinted gray?

    --June 8, 2012

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Discrete Thoughts Collected Poems by Herbert Siegel. Copyright © 2014 Herbert Siegel. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Trafford
• Publication date: 2014
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1490732047
• ISBN 13: 9781490732046
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 302