by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
Save the whales. Save the dolphins.
Save the bored housewives.
Save my hands, so often cupped over the sorrow in
being alive. Save the beautiful
made-up cherries of delight
I feel everywhere in your presence.
Save the sprawling landscapes
of late night cafeterias of the mind.
Save the often forgotten radios of our flying dreams.
Save the hand-printed love
letters of early morning light. Save the inexhaustible
curiosity of a small interior poem of silence.
Save the naked air.
Save the Spanish tongue of Neruda.
Save the sparkle in
the brushstrokes of a Picasso.
Save storm and the rainbow.
Save the North Sea. Save shadows.
Save all hearts from
beginning to break again.
Save the ripped apart sky from
the rain of so many angry bombs leaking inside.
Save the secret handshake. Save the Pandas.
Save the sea turtles. Save the roses. Save the last dance.
Save the sailing boats and floating planes
of melting romance. Save whatever makes
no sense. Save this feeling. Save the butterflies
with passionate, provocative kisses.
Save the question of imagination. Save the end
of the poem until you really need it. Save the
world from itself. Save your wild goodbyes.
Save every word.
by Darryl Price
I must apologize for only having words
with me. They seem so little to give and
offer you. All their hats seem to
have been around now for quite some
time. Others before me have worn them far
better than this. This makes me sad,
because sadness is not what you deserve,
because what I want to give you
is a kind of freedom, of knowledge
about the feelings you deliver to
me just by being around in the
world. Even that sounds less than sincere.
I wouldn't accept that opening offer either. Flowers like
those just don't belong in this conversation,
not yet. Not by a long, hanging shot.
I'm trying to give you something you
can accept without regret or debt, something
you'll recognize and remember, something we alone
share in our midst, a thing that
exists solely because of our presences together
and not out of mere circumstance. A
belief that is at once a beautiful
truth and a ringing bell, that does
not fall over into thorn bushes if
it rains too hard. Not a plucked
sun, but a celebration of all suns.
Words don't fail me now, there's just not enough
of them to write your name between
the so few stars. It's impossible to
align our planets. This I know. I
am not asking for that kind of lit-up on a stage
miracle. We grant what we can out
of our own beneficence in this life.
I only want the chance to say
into your ears the best words that come
naturally from the well within my core-self.
To not be a liar with you.
To not be a coward in the
face of a world of doom. To
give the gift that belongs. To
say that in spite of the frost
that accompanies you in your stocking feet
I will meet you there. That being
said I don't know if these words
are good enough to bring you this
message. I bless them as best I
can and set them between all the bars on this life's window ledge
like my own tiny doves. They know
their own hearts. That's all I can
ask of them. But of you I
ask nothing. You are enough. And when
they read this to you do not
hate them for their ignorance about the
dance, but teach them the steps that
made you laugh, that let you cry,
that lifted your eyes again, and caused your smile to turn on.
A Song the Lorax Taught the Table While We Were Playing Cards Late into the Evening by Darryl Price(original first draft)
The trees have become afraid of our love song. They used to bend forward with all their might, clicking into place and building impressive physics. Now they carry their frames backwards and upward trying to flee something always behind us. We were not good shepherds. We only wanted something to eat and a
place to sleep. You can see it in the faces of the colonized leaves. They hate us. The trees have become afraid of our love song. It used to mystify them and bring them into listening range. Then we fired the first shot, we swung the first axe, we cleared centuries of their stories and put them in toothpick jars.
They used to love our determined broken trails through the snow, but now they toss the moon high above our heads and weep. Their armor is broken all the way through. Even the haunted forests have become more abandoned than full of millions of tiny lights. The trees have become afraid of our love
song. They are shutting their eyes again and ascending to the heavens without us. Maybe at the top of the world they still throw flowers at each other. The trees have become afraid of our love song. They hear it now as the end. Their march is no longer to reach the center of everything, and join in a
beautiful, joyous windy celebration of branches and bark. They need a healing circle, but it's all in their heads now. Only the saplings have the old dreaming heart, but even they are caged and kept behind miles of tar and soot. The trees have become afraid of our love song. That seems a real shame. Where
do we go from here? A butterfly with something important to say is still going to have a very tough time being heard as anything more than a butterfly up to butterfly things. The trees have become afraid of our love song. It is printed on their hardened faces. They do not agree with the meaning of lots of space. The trees
have become afraid of our love song. But some of us want to understand again. Some of us would like to be part of the healing circle without causing any pain to other living beings. Some of us will always admire the fierce beauty of their construction and join the council in the sky to pledge our own individual
devotion to their rooftop safety in this craziest of worlds yet. The trees have become afraid of our love song. But, this song before you is a poet's attempt to make contact and say we are indeed friends forever. You will always be included in our thoughts and prayers. Nothing would be the same without you. Thanks for such a lovely hill. .
Forever Stars by Darryl Price
The time to be remade as authentic men and
women is finally come, deeply creeping up
our shores with its final blessing in hand. We've been
living here among the nameless reminders for
lost centuries and they have done their colorful
dances all around us in the hotel lobby
of the heavenly hosts. Sacrificial soldier
bees have kept their favorite lilies coming to
the happy surface for electrical shoulder
stimulation and visited every other
monastery on the planet. Ambassador
butterflies have landed and left the wind sprinkled
with a new jam of the same forever skies in
a velvet tribute to the sadly fallen. The
missing moons have spread their smiling out robes over
the world's sleepers like a glistening dreaming wave.
But now the tatters of our tears must tell as well
another tale. Something else must be done for those
who know us not. A new world is coming. We must
leave for sharing a guiding kind and strong music
once more for its mindful passage to the unknown
spaces ahead so that it always includes the
best things we remember as beautiful and good.
This is no time to worship ancient shells. Oceans are gone.
Don't think water. Think people. There are those who will
always drive the submarine to the coordinates
to halt the end of the world, but they won't stick
around to watch you blame each other. The time is
on its own as are we. There are fascists inside
every species. The garden should remain open
despite the dangerous flying insects. Its gates
should always spell friendship and hope. This is no time
for coded cries for help. We must gain the wall and
keep it in our hearts that what will always come is
what we have given to be made truthfully in
our selves. This is the unbreakable mystery. dp
by Darryl Price
If the love never came you must have been
Dragging your feet. If the hatred carved your dreams
Into warning signs, you must have been looking in
The wrong direction for that ever-glorious ghost army.
If the love never stayed lit in the hills
You must have been asleep in the hay. If
The eyes of the angels turned to stone you
Must have been dipping your hands into the wrong
Fountain. If the love dissolved into the rug like
An imaginary spill you must have been lost in
The crumpled lane of clothes on your floor. If
The game was thrown into the garbage by mistake
You must have forgotten your own name when you
Were asked to sign for your soul. If love
Is too tired to continue you must be feeling
Pretty much alone by now. There is a sea
Of nothing but broken stones, but if love were
To sail there, each one would sprout, and where
The hint of a green continuation begins so begins
The trickle of a world of possible flowers. If
Love never came down the road there would be
No need to go anywhere ever again. If the
Hate can make you wonder what is the point
Of an organic truth, you must give up your
Dancing shoes forever. If the love never came we
Never existed anyway. If the love never came we
Never got the chance to say out loud the
Whispered promises of the graceful winds at our bursting
backs. Nothing is over just because everything is changed
or changing. The love comes from you or it
comes from nowhere. If the love never came you
must have been spending your money at the race
track of the current lies. If the love never
came you must have given them the wrong street
For delivery. If hate can make you nail your
Windows shut the sun might as well go home. dp
38
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Being creative is fun. The trick is to make it fun for someone else. That doesn't mean it's not hard work or not a challenge. It's always a challenge. What I want my poem to do is to light up and spin around and make a beautiful noise. I do my best, but realize I can always make it better. I'm delighted when the poem works for someone else. And the cool thing is there's always a bit of mystery about what makes it come to life in the first place. I love that.
This poem first appeared at Metazen thanks to Marcus Speh.
I find this beautiful and emotional with great dense imagery and music that carries it from stanza to stanza. the title is perfectly understated for the poem's essential message which is anything but understated.
This is fantastic, D.P. i think it's my all-time favorite of your poems, all the images are so strong and specific, the language quite beautiful.
I can never find the right vocabulary for expressing my appreciation and understanding of a poem, whereas I can be pretty exact about the equally difficult-to-define appeal of a short story to me,but I'm with Kathy here. This poem is grand. It is expansive, inclusive, its gesture is an almost psychedelic opening out, its tracing of patterns of growth and light is exhilarating, its love of life in forms promiscuous and contagious.
Great piece of writing, DP. Those closing lines:
as any dream lingering on the edge of sanity
as well as the boy who forgot to go
home and grow up as well as the girl
who fingered her hair and smiled at the boy
as well as vanished years that tumbled into rainbows"
...have such a settled ease. Wonderful sound when read aloud. "Rainbows" is a perfect word to end the piece. Strong imagery throughout. I like this a great deal.
wonderfully cataclysmic. since i'm also 'lingering at the edge of sanity' at the end of term, i'll have to give this another read, but it made me tumble already and i'm clinging to the 'tiny spastic hope' that you hold out to us. you're a virtuoso, d.p.
Indeed, I think Susan, Kathy, James, Sam, and Finnegan have it right here: Grand/Expansive/Wonderfully cataclysmic.
There's a depth of feeling, of possibility that's remarkable. Beautiful.
no point in adding to what has already been said--for me, it works.
This is the best of your poems I've read, D.P.
Every image, building and building throughout, was like biting into a favorite fruit and then the following sensation of how completely that single bite can nourish the body or, in this case, the mind and the throbbing core of a soul. I hear my own heartbeat in these words, man. Just wonderful.
Wow, very accomplished and beautiful. Well done.
Though the structure wasn't as much to my liking (felt kinda like a pop song), I felt there were some great, poignant images here, mostly the folded map and most of the last stanza.
This is the head of a sunflower like a pop song.
Love the sense of interconnection and expansiveness underneath the beautiful imagery and language. Very nice work.
you changed the title, didn't you? it's good that way.
Yeah because of John Woodington's comment above. I figured that's the universe giving me a free one.Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Thanks for noticing, Finn.
"Like a folded map I've kept for all these years." Love this line and image.For me this is the heart of the piece, it folds in and unfolds from here...and yes, psychedelic.Thanks, D.P.
Thank YOU.
A grand way to write about spring and nature without making them precious.
Good stuff, D.P., I'd love to hear someone (who knows how) read this at a recital. The "as well" device bumped once or twice in that it called attention to itself (to me) but in recital it would be magic. Thanks for some fine poetry.
Thanks Derek. The truth is I was just trying to write something interesting. I only used the device because it happened naturally as I was coming up with ideas for this piece.I appreciate your time.
ooooohh, I really loved this, D.P., the lights, spin, and beautiful noise of it all.
Gotta say that I feel honored that you changed the title because of me. Finally I am a gift horse.
John, your gift made the poem even better. I mean it. Thank you.
As one to you applies unconventional line breaks to poetry, as well, I have great appreciation for what is constructed here.
"the moment the feeling flag slaps its stitches against
the pantlegs of the day begging for an icecream" - I loved this syncopated line. Divine.
Amazing. Thank you
D.P., my reading of your beautiful piece is online at http://bit.ly/9LSRqs - this was a hard one of many takes. also a friendcast at http://bit.ly/6EWBfW - enjoy!
Finn, your reading of the piece is perfect, my friend, and so beautifully done. Thank you so very much. I love it. Maybe we should post it on Fictionaut as a freebie? At any rate I am honored by your efforts. Great job, perfectly rendered with wit, talent and passion. DP
Beautiful. I am at a loss for words- this speaks volumes to me, as someone who has written poetry but just started exploring the different aspects of figurative language. The images are vivid and concrete and I loved the lyrical movement of this poem. Musical and inspiring. I don't know you or many people on this site but I'm trying to comment more. This piece just fucking blew me away. Well done.
exquisite
"What I want my poem to do is to light up and spin around and make a beautiful noise." You did it, D.P. this is marvelous and i'm in love with the title and all of this.
...don't think I'd read your great author's note before...
Very uplifting. A great swoopy ride.
This is completely wonderful.
What a beautiful poem, Darryl. I love the device of "as well as" connecting so much poetic vision together. I love the romanticism of the piece too. It makes a pleasant ache. Ah, to be loved like that, one surmises, would be grand. xo, H
a couple of observations about your poems, D.P.: to me the voice is the most compelling element, always present, and like a friend who can by turns act the clown and be serious, knows where to find the beauty and truth and is there to tell you what you need most to hear to keep hopeful in a not so hopeful world. And I always read your notes to poems, in their own way they are as amazing as the poems, and I wish I had a book of them to open and read at random.
DP, as always you deliver.
I love Morgan's comment the most and wish I had it in me to write something so perfect about the way you write and this poem in particular.
This is my favorite of your poems thus far. Such energy and momentum. I loved the string of "as well as" and what a closing stanza. Congratulations.
original, moving and well constructed. It really builds. And a terrific use of the "as well as" device.
Wow... beautiful! I love "as well as you still crammed into my heart like a folded map I've kept for all these years".
devices often come after the fact as well as facts often come after devices - here I'm sure it help to run off thess topsy-turvey images of a boy who forgot to go home or grow up from the hand of one who did but doesn't forget.
Loved it, will check out more as well as more again
Not wanting to be redundant, but like many others have said, the imagery is...well, mindblowing! This is the first poem of yours that I have read, but I know now that I am in for a real treat. Some mind candy,if you will.
I am not a poet, but reading yours, I wish I were.
You're a magician, Darryl. I started reading SUNFLOWER, then I heard someone reading out loud. It was me. This stopped my voice: ". . . a tired old poet making a sad grunting noise through his chin as he types with one finger . . ." A heartfelt "thank you" from all old coots, like me, who are forced to type with one finger. Like Linda Kay, I wish a were a poet. Absolutely gorgeous transfer of thoughts to words.
Yes, yes. The ebullience of this piece is so infectious, and the rush of images provide wonderful surprises right up to the end. I especially loved encountering "your mowed down old moose slippers"--that description felt just perfect to me.
Good poem! Do you know the work of Stephen-Paul Martin? Some of his stories work in the same way your poem does. Try Not Quite Fiction, The Gothic Twilight, Fear and Philosophy, or The Possibility of Music by him.
"as well as you still crammed into my heart
like a folded map I've kept for all these
years or a message I've never been able to
code out or like some pyramid on the horizon
I just can't seem to ignore anymore even though
I want to as well as the milkyway flying
through outerspace like a swirling rush of water all
lit up from within from its own blushing crush
on life"
Very cool. Very cool.
Darryl, I think you've actually become one of those few writers who can palpably change my state of mind (for the better) with each word and sentence. Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman - Price. High praise!
This poem's got a lot of headlong energy and movement to it. Rhythm and alliteration - check.
My favorite line: "like some pyramid on the horizon
I just can't seem to ignore anymore"
A really bad poetry teacher at UCLA once said to me "image is everything". He did not believe in the narrative, the haiku, the limerick. Reading this, I may have to agree with him. Each image a painting. And Mr. Flawnt's reading of it is lovely.
Well this is the first piece of writing of yours I’ve read and I’m already a huge fan. This poem speaks. One of my favorites ever, I think. Your author’s note and comments above really resonate as well. Must check out more of your work soon!
'What I want my poem to do is to light up and spin around and make a beautiful noise.' - it does! it does! & the title is to die for. Bravo x
as well as the milkyway/ flying
through outerspace like a swirling rush of water
The whole poem has such a lovely rhythm to it, Darryl.
I don't stop much at poems, but this one stopped me and held me. Some fine lines. "The girl who fingered her hair and smiled at the boy."
Darryl, you have forced me to admit my continuing love for my ex-husband. Pretty powerful.
Dig it! Lyrical. Visual. Animated. Establishes a nice syncopation with the first line and rides the groove through to the final beat. Bravo!
Goddamn. I said GODDAMN this is good.
This is quite a beautiful piece of work. I love the expansiveness of it and the lush language... :)
Beautiful dense imagery about love and the passage of time.
Darryl, I just love the imagery in this poem, running over and past each other like the flow of a waterfall. FAV
Darryl, reading this poem has the voyeuristic reverent feel of strolling through a love museum. Totally worth the price of admission.
How did I ever miss this? Thanks to the vids of you with Bill Y, I was brought here. LOVE this piece, Darryl. It is so original, and so YOU!
Fave.
Glad to have discovered your work. Beautifully done
I'm not sure about a few of the line breaks, but overall I think this is an excellent poem, smoothly flowing and full of nice images and verbal music without a trace of mawkishness or cliché. I think the word 'skull' would make a great alternative to 'skeleton' on the third line, however. But it's nice to see someone who has a good ear for running enjambments, which is a quality sadly missing from a lot of current vers libre. It almost has a sestina like quality, as though a sestina-type form was written by ee Cummings. Well done.
Thanks,Iain. The skull image is pretty doggone cool I have to admit, wish I'd thought of it, but at this point it's an honest examination of what I saw and felt at the time.Thanks for the visit and comment--very much appreciated.