For the Want of Wear

From: Max Karl Grimm
Sent: Tuesday, September 15, 2009 10:58 PM
To: "Keith Badowski"
Subject: Max Karl Grimm wrote on your Wall...

Max posted something on your Wall and wrote:

"Hello my friend,
How about a poem that stems from a dream that caused you to change something in your life? Much love and many blessings to you and yours,
Max"

For the Want of Wear by Keith Badowski

In my dream, the wind sleeps and no one breathes.
All night I’m a footpath blanketed with gravel,
bored without bicycles, not a sneaker to disturb me.
Numb with immobility, I long to be combed by a rake.

The absence of honeysuckle, the irrelevance of flowers
stirs no dread until I step from the untrodden black.
As if a drowned man revived, I gasp for air,
breathe deep of the atmosphered room of this grand hotel.

Unbathed, in slippered feet and rumpled pajamas,
I descend to the lobby, shuffle passed the lure of bacon
and bolt for the parking lot where I grab fistfuls of gravel
to throw to the sunlight, to the grass, the air of life.




Note: I tried the random pick-a-word again with O’Hara, but my finger stabbed the word “wings.” I was horrified! Wrote, “No, not a dream of flight again!” So in revulsion, my imagination fled in the opposite direction. As in the last poem, I set myself a limit of 12 lines, as much out of time consideration as anything. Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" informed the line: "I step from the untrodden black." Frost's poem also helped me in titling mine.

This poem marks my 6th spontaneous poem since I set my goal of 12. I’m starting to get doubtful that I’ll actually complete 12 in enough time to get the chapbook printed by Oct. 1st. I’ll have to check with the printer to see how close I can cut it. Those keeping track will note that this prompt also came in on Tuesday, Sept. 15th. Writing of the poem didn’t happen until today.

Life Is Wearing Me Down

Prompt given in-person by Hilde Holmes on Tuesday, September 15th at lunch:
“Life is wearing me down.”


Voyage by Keith Badowski

Cordage frayed in my weathered rigging,
the roll about my hull sunk with the anchor,

my poopdeck rotted from the rub of swabs and
my cabin flooded from the splash of waves.

No port to embrace this buffeted boat,
no more to plunge with salmon

amid the perilous seas.
A life surrendered to chaffing and pounding,

waterlogged wet and glare glazed sight,
enfolded in tides, tugged by currents.

The barnacles of memories fastened
although I swam swifter than any whale.


Note: The conceit of a rundown ship came from the word “cordage.” This was the word I blindly pointed to while randomly flipping pages in The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara edited by Donald Allen. Other words from O’Hara include “salmon” and “enfolded,” as well as a few others. Throughout writing the poem I sought the guidance of randomly selected words, but in many instances could do nothing with the word my finger landed on. Still having O’Hara’s words nearby gave me the confidence that I could find another word to keep going, especially once I settled on the language of ships and the sea. Words like “poopdeck,” “swab,” and “barnacles” came naturally to mind. Oh, and for the record, my own busy life that wears me down didn't allow me to work on Hilde's prompt until today.