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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1253431-Beetlebung-and-Kettlehole--April-Poems/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/12
by Joy
Rated: 18+ · Book · Drama · #1253431
Poetry in April -- in celebration
Daisies poetry signature


This is my Second Book of poems. I may not have eaten the plums from the icebox, but I am guilty of writing poetry without thinking too much, without laboring over words and lines.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

          by William Carlos Williams

You, too, forgive me for I only love the writing process; the result is secondary...And please never mind that I am also aping William Carlos Williams's false apology. *Wink**Laugh*


*Note1*

From where does the title Beetlebung and Kettlehorn come from?

The name Beetlebung and Kettlehorn has to do with ancient whaling practices and Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Cod.

During the nineteenth century, because of its dense white wood, the tupelo tree was used in whale oil casks made of copper. Beetle was the mallet made from the Tupelo tree and bung was the stopper in the cask hole. In Martha’s vineyard, the Tupelo tree is still known as the Beetlebung tree, and at Chilmark there, is a Beetlebung Corner, with shops at Chilmark Center, from where roads lead to other interesting points.

Kettlehorn, as well as being an ancient surname, refers to a piece of equipment resembling to but much bigger than a shoe-horn, used to stir the hot blubber and separate the fine oil from the denser particles. Whale oil was a popular commodity and, as a fuel, was used for lighting the dark, burning to provide heat and as an aid in cooking. After the whale was hunted, men in a boat cut strips of blubber from the whale's back, tied them together and rowed ashore. There the fat was cut into smaller pieces to be boiled into oil in large copper kettles.

In addition there exists kettle corn in Cape Cod which are corn chips fried in kettles and sometimes mistakenly called kettlehorns.

For some reason, way back when, the words Beetlebung and Kettlehorn were used together and, at one time or another, were given to shops and other things that go together as titles.

I adopted the name for my on-the-spot poetry in reference to the idea of blubber. *Laugh*



"Poetry the shortest distance between two humans"
Lawrence Ferlinghetti


Previous ... 8 9 10 11 -12- 13 14 15 ... Next
April 25, 2011 at 11:45am
April 25, 2011 at 11:45am
#722987
”Don’t you want to see your daughter?
Wait, I’ll get her.”
”I don’t need to. Just give me my things.”


But there I was, so tiny,
when Papa didn’t see me
hiding behind the large colorful ruffles
of Altagracia’s dirndl skirt.

The cruelest month when all of us lost,
its name I can’t recall.
It was in summer sometime.

.
Prompt: the cruelest month
April 24, 2011 at 11:35am
April 24, 2011 at 11:35am
#722924
on a heart-shaped plot
a lilac-tinted lily
with soft-scented grace


Prompt: Easter
April 23, 2011 at 11:27am
April 23, 2011 at 11:27am
#722874
"Busy giddy minds / with foreign quarrels,”
a perception like a present of prophecy,
as when time comes, Prince Hal obliges
toward France, for battalions to march
quietly at night and swords to rattle
to keep folks occupied at all costs.

Good advice from a dying king
still heeded in our time of no blades
but drones and exploding gifts
from the sky, as it must be why
three wars are keeping us engaged
to make us forget long shadows
falling on wheels sunk in a mud hole.


Prompt: Shakespeare’s birthday
April 22, 2011 at 10:53am
April 22, 2011 at 10:53am
#722823
So many freeways…
Going away,
coming home,
feelings leaking
from tire traces,
as I sip from cans,
eat out of paper bags,
curl around pillows,
and write free verse
the way I wish,
in my free-flow life.


Prompt: freedom, free with purchase, or other irony of the word “free”
April 21, 2011 at 10:47am
April 21, 2011 at 10:47am
#722759
Chance, the solitary tyrant,
unwraps his cloak
after passing me by,

while I, in my current repose
open one indifferent eyelid
and shrug my shoulders,

but as my public duty,
I have brought him
to court, today.

My deposition is: chance stalks
to bump off desperate victims
fearing insignificance

as they wait for him, sleepless,
to vanish inside
the echo of his footsteps.

Chance, I declare,
deserves lifetime incarceration
to free Liberum Arbitrium from its spell.


Note: Liberum Arbitrium: free will (in philosophy)

Prompt: justice or a gavel
April 20, 2011 at 10:05am
April 20, 2011 at 10:05am
#722683
Yesterday, my neighbor snuffled,
in tears, on bad news,
her son in an accident
in a faraway land.
She wept quietly in acceptance,
asking nothing.

Next, my car did not start
for conked-out battery.
I screamed.
Such injustice
my canceled appointments!

Battery, replaced;
son, impossible.
Scream, the bigger noise,
hump on my back.

prompt: hump of the week
April 19, 2011 at 11:11am
April 19, 2011 at 11:11am
#722618
It flourishes suspended,
hanging
no water, no roots,
just air...

Such hideous independence...

Not the same for me.
Poems don't come
from the air,
and I covet kudzu.


Prompt: well gone dry

Kudzu is air fern, as in the photo *Right*
 
 ~
April 18, 2011 at 12:22pm
April 18, 2011 at 12:22pm
#722551
Junk science: steroids for golden gloves
Making faces: politicians for votes
Food innovation: chocolate pastrami...

Following the trend,
I kid you not, at my age,
I'm out to learn plumbing
and auto mechanics
after butting heads
with my daily life.

prompt: you've got to be kidding!
April 17, 2011 at 11:52am
April 17, 2011 at 11:52am
#722483
Class mother, 1982,
in other words, chaperone
to those half my size
with tiny dramas and shouts of glee
sighting big waves
made for surfers, not us.

Kids ask to wet their feet
One teacher says yes, the other no.

They turn to the least likely judge, me.
I nod yes for twinkles on small faces.
A shriek...and they're all in brine...
My son, leading, as if by accident,
falls in the water, his uniform and all,
followed by the majority.

Wasn't this field trip meant to be
a search for whelk and clam shells?

Such stage show, picking off,
stripping, laying on the sand to dry
kids and clothes...
The teachers discuss PTA reaction,
but my head is down
as I write on wet sand
my thanks to open ocean and whitening waves,
for the thaw of ice in living.

By the way, my son is still the same
as years and joys amass.


Prompt: free-choice or take a field trip somewhere and respond to that in a poem

April 16, 2011 at 10:29am
April 16, 2011 at 10:29am
#722384
In the silence of morning, kitchen door creaks,
dishes clang in chorus, coffee pot steams,
recall wakes up urged by the cries
of David's grandchild next door, and inside me,
I hug you just like the time
you tumbled into my arms, complaining,
"A giant from first grade hit me!"

Thinking of you quiets my thoughts,
masking the news sounds of TV,
visions of bombing raids,
incinerated towns, bodies, who kills who,
who messes up the president's plan,
who puts rotten strawberries
in the bottom of supermarket baskets
and all missed chances.

Oh, once more, this renewed uproar!
I focus on the middle of my brows,
as Buddhists do, so you to return again,
for your quiet face to calm me cell by cell.


prompt: being quiet

April 15, 2011 at 10:23am
April 15, 2011 at 10:23am
#722323



No sweetener in this one
and numbers grovel, quizzical lines pop up,
signs point to additions, equaling
nothing I can grasp, and accountant’s pen,
without consulting any instruction manual,
doodles, drawing traces, right or wrong,
as he exposes last year’s past on paper
for vampiric voyeurs.

I wait with spoon in hand to stir the pot,
but fruits fall apart and jam boils over.

If I could--instead--I would play
the lyre and sing to IRS, setting what I own
in words and tunes, but that wouldn’t make
much of an impression since my offering
would not be the IRS jam. So, by now,
I’m taxed all right out of my mind.
Still, I muse, someday, I may envy the gallantry
of a knight putting a levy on those who squeeze
what little’s left, out of me.


prompt: your take on taxation this year
April 15, 2011 at 10:23am
April 15, 2011 at 10:23am
#722322
No sweetener in this one
ans numbers grovel, quizzical lines pop up,
signs point to additions, equaling
nothing I can grasp, and accountant’s pen,
without consulting any instruction manual,
doodles, drawing traces, right or wrong,
as he exposes last year’s past on paper
for vampiric voyeurs.

I wait with spoon in hand to stir the pot,
but fruits fall apart and jam boils over.

If I could, instead, I would play
the lyre and sing to IRS, setting what I own
in words and tunes, but that wouldn’t make
much of an impression since my offering
would not be the IRS jam. So, by now,
I’m taxed all right out of my right mind.
Still, I muse, someday, I may envy the gallantry
of a knight putting a levy on those who squeeze
what little’s left out of me.

prompt: your take on taxation this year
April 14, 2011 at 10:26am
April 14, 2011 at 10:26am
#722229
After clouds exploded
with pomp and boom
smashing into one another
in a chain reaction stretching
through an incandescent sky
like thousand tongues on fire,
one lonely palm
with spiked fronds
twitched and tottered
in the storm.

What did the tree feel,
seeing that flash
the last second
before lightning hit?

Were it possible,
even a skin graft
would be useless now.

prompt: thunder and lightning
April 13, 2011 at 10:43am
April 13, 2011 at 10:43am
#722148
An intrepid snake slithered
over my feet, then coiling,
lifted its head to observe
me snapping cloud pictures,
palm trees with shredded leaves,
and my neighbor David’s pinwheels.

Such moments of grace, whirling
twirling to the tune of camera clicks…
Wasn’t I supposed to scream?
Wasn’t it supposed to slink away?
Now, how can I call snakes odious
after one of them with friendly vibes,
radiating gentle curiosity,
observed me? And
who says forked tongues
only spit out poison?

the theme of “supposed to”
April 12, 2011 at 9:07am
April 12, 2011 at 9:07am
#722074
Eyes, two sparkling lanterns
with dash and dagger,
he clung to the blue plush
cookie-monster,
exercising his "No"s,
exploring tantrums,
chases, races, all havoc,
and our apprenticeship
in surrendering, and
he sprang ahead.

Hanging behind,
we urged him on
with quick applause.

Yet, we're still outside
peeking in, perplexed,
same as when he turned
twelve or twenty-two
and crept past
what we hoped he could do
or is this the residue of
our euphoria from the time
Baby held his head up
and learned to crawl?

prompt: the terrible twos
April 11, 2011 at 8:27am
April 11, 2011 at 8:27am
#722009
Monday morning...
I covet youth,
having wings,
running loose.
Time pours through me.
Mirror doesn't fib.
What I observe matters
like my lips boasting a blue tint
Doctor says it's
from the heart.
Finally, blues inside
are bursting on my face.


prompt: Blue Monday
April 10, 2011 at 11:20am
April 10, 2011 at 11:20am
#721939
At the time when women were just learning
to breathe and whistle their animated tunes,
my friend Ann Bridges, in Northport,
rented space on top of Bentley's hardware store
with many windows, wafting summer's heat
or winter's cold, where three times a week
we converted brushstrokes into harmony
without polluting the room with words or directives
about colors that mix or make mud
while we tried to fit countless faces
inside the face of a nude who molded herself
to a chair in a haphazard pose, causing me
to look away, feeling guilty for snooping, and
for all the visions touching me inside.

          Prompt: art by women, women painters in history or now
April 9, 2011 at 10:08am
April 9, 2011 at 10:08am
#721878
At the ninth hour,
you dreaded the thought of entry,
reluctant, empty-handed,
and with no clue,
if only to derive applause
from the choreography
of flesh and bones.

After nine months,
you stepped on stage
without rehearsal,
steeped in hope for a gust of will
to enact Ophelia,
engaging yourself to break free
from the written script.

After nine years,
or was it ninety-nine,
the chain with the nine jewels
bruised your neck.
Injured, you whispered aside
in the bosom of performances
and caught a long-traveling ray
all the way to the exit door.


Prompt: Significance of number nine

April 8, 2011 at 9:51am
April 8, 2011 at 9:51am
#721823
                    “I bring an unaccustomed wine” _Emily Dickinson


“I bring an unaccustomed wine,” said she.
Sneaking in, I peeked at the locked door
of her wine cellar. She laughed at me
and shook her head, for I’m known to spill
my drink--rare, fancy, or cheap.
“Taste this one!” She offered me a sip
from her own chalice, and ever since,
I am smacking my lips.

Prompt: the need for wine or beer
April 7, 2011 at 7:47am
April 7, 2011 at 7:47am
#721732
From the trigger-happy sky, my grandmother hides in belief,
her lips twitching with prayers, while Thor hammers clouds,
branding ears. We slide down the banister, twisting to rumbles,
and ride imagined chariots to land on the stone-surfaced hall.

Outside, lightning bolts tilt through silhouetted trees to create
the god's gunpowder art. Inside, my grandmother rubs her knees,
to let her gestures reveal her private sign language, asking why
we are not scared, why we take chances. Yet, we keep at mischief,
knowing, in the celestial sense, frolic defeats fear.

Thor, Norse god of thunder

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1253431-Beetlebung-and-Kettlehole--April-Poems/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/12