tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35348410011734867362024-03-16T09:53:13.465-07:00Dale Jensen's Poetry PageDale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.comBlogger227125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-32340943053247970532024-01-29T10:51:00.000-08:002024-01-29T10:51:28.743-08:00Notes for Auto Bio<pre>
i take my pasts each
examine them
each in a sepia of its own dust
through which i can see
only when i look away
one was college natural but sometimes it stressed
once my father called me
a communist drug addict
and generations of hands came down
in the flick of a half second’s time
and decades later i found myself asking
exactly whose political mechanics i’d betrayed
and how many of his own ancestors
my father was betraying
in another i slogged on through thirty years
of full-time work on the gravity of nothingness
my fingerprints are all over its surface
but the box seems completely hollow
all but the details grown over
by layers of mechanical dust
seen through the stone age of my imagination
as on the mechanical back of someone else’s android hand
and the lifetimes of memories of people i’ve loved
of your lives entangled with mine
so many of you freed now
in the mechanics of what could be called fate
but is only a weird form of temporal physics
and my rage that time’s just another machine
with my and everybody else’s living meat
throbbing like pain momentarily held within it
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-24973746927651275462024-01-02T10:03:00.000-08:002024-01-03T10:27:28.825-08:00Listen<pre>
listen to me
i’ll listen to you
i’ll try to listen to everyone
who isn’t me
if you will too
so know then
that we are all different joints
on different fingers of the same hand
and that there’s another hand as well
that we have never heard of
so listen listen
if you speak i will listen
so that both hands can speak
and listen and move
as two hands together
</pre>
Written in late 2023Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-33270867923989352262023-12-02T10:09:00.000-08:002023-12-02T10:09:03.988-08:00Invitation (for Judy)<pre>
so walk with me along this ocean’s edge
the island springs and rocks along the beachfront
the cold wind houses noises makes the long walk reminiscent
of other seasons when flowers sprang with faces
of bedeviled carnivores at war have you tasted the ice cream?
smoky clouds still numb away the horizon
quicksand and a sputtering ocean knick-knacks lined across the harbor
to talk about dream is silly as steam evanescent in the warming weather
someone has been bouncing bare toes on the beach
someone has been making sea lion sounds at the hot dog stand
someone has been celebrating weather by reinventing it
a long leap for landmass and a lush dance of sand
a trill a thrill a leap of words and bodies
a reanimation of the whole soul hallelujah i love you so
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-68365883670739990532023-10-09T09:51:00.002-07:002023-10-09T09:51:45.018-07:00The Trip Back<pre>
a hurt youth face garments of open sky and laceration
he was easier as an earthquake now
he flew on outstretched arms of his own leather
uncured and vulnerable history pacing itself in its own gold threads
troubled unsaid the sign melodrama ape awakened
and fake fits in the nursery alive as inside his ribs
and take it as biography made uneasy
tumbled when born but have always bartered
steepness when chutes had already opened
i call that beautiful because they wear their beginnings
a child myself stop myself there
the chide is father to the monkey wrench
i was crying over a spillover of red ant stings
people wrestle all night with their own angels
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-24336877379554282432023-08-27T11:43:00.000-07:002023-08-27T11:43:14.447-07:00The Sparrow at the Door (ChatGPT after Mary Oliver)<pre>
This poem isn't really mine. I generated it via by inputting the entire poem "The Mystery
of the Dancing Windows" (which is also on this blog) into ChatGPT and asking for a poem
in this format in the style of Mary Oliver. I didn't ask for rhyme or for the last
stanza. I think that ChatGPT isn't as good at generating poetry as it is at generating
fiction (see "The Eldritch Mariner" on my companion blog <b>Things I've Done for
Blood</b>), so poets may be a little safer than prose writers from AI "writing".
Although the prospect of hybrid written/generated work is possible.
<b>The Sparrow at the Door</b> (ChatGPT after Mary Oliver)
Beneath the tapestry of time's embrace,
A sailor from a bygone age did stand,
Knives like shadows, a creeping lace,
Upon his leg, a touch from some strange hand.
Windows joined the cosmic ballet,
Dancing to the rhythms of the wind,
A language only they could convey,
In whispered tales that the stars pinned.
An hourglass, an ancient voice,
Sang an aria of grains so fine,
Each note a choice, each moment a rejoice,
In the symphony of hours' design.
From plains, a sparrow's mystic flight,
Badge and spurs, a tale to tell,
A pizza's scent in the fading light,
A messenger from some enigmatic dell.
Detective's gaze on the cellphone's screen,
Not for words or messages, but fleas to seek,
Mysteries in tiny worlds unseen,
In the digital realm, a puzzle to peak.
"Ribbit, ribbit," the canary's call,
Echoing through twilight's hush,
A cryptic song that befalls,
A chorus woven from nature's brush.
The emperor, with robes so grand,
Bows not to realm, but inner grace,
A moment's gesture, a whisper in the land,
A monarch's humble, silent space.
Kumquat's revelation, humble and profound,
Beneath its boughs, the earth does lie,
Flat and still, beneath its sacred ground,
A secret known only to the sky.
Before the stadium of feathers, a scene unfolds,
Detective's voice a compass true,
In tales of knives and mysteries old,
The case unraveled, the truth in view.
In Mary Oliver's spirit, we explore,
The sailor's journey, mysteries to embrace,
Knives and windows, a symphony's lore,
Nature's secrets revealed in gentle grace.
</pre>
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-68024203252202684382023-08-26T09:54:00.000-07:002023-08-26T09:54:22.581-07:00The Mystery of the Dancing Windows (or Feed This into Your AI)<pre>
a medieval sailor finds that a parade of knives is creeping up his leg
windows dance in response an hourglass sings an aria
out of the plains just west of town a two-ton sparrow wearing a badge
and silver spurs stops at the sailor’s door with a pizza
a detective examines his latest cellphone for fleas
ribbit ribbit calls the canary the emperor bows
a kumquat discovers that the earth is flat
especially under its tree
the detective explains to a stadium full of feathers
how the case was solved
</pre>
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-15476391948239137312023-07-31T10:37:00.000-07:002023-07-31T10:37:01.305-07:00Middle School<pre>
I i extend great days
encourage youngsters
to be required by state law
all students will not run in the hall
all students will salute the food in the cafeteria
all students will enjoy their rodent lives in the film that
every student will have a current
you will take this task seriously
all students will lock their happiness and joy
whenever asked to by faculty and staff
you will invite your mother and dad to
one’s education held in the auditorium in december and
the edge of a cliff may affect study materials
you are here to learn
II each student is furnished the bell in emergency
each student will also be a phone number
home rooms are assigned in the anticipation that
are the lockers located in the students
III never wear which will not conform
to average adult employment
never open an attitude of respect
for a tin can of other students
dissections continue
until school is dismissed
IV during the animal’s sleep
modification will be fully gloved
you are arousable
the walls of the room dissolve
to the hot wet inside of your ribcage
you do not need
to consult the principal or school counselor
you can hear the gentle breathing beside you
is also sleeping like you are
the side of an animal you cannot identify
its warmth radiates from you
V make it a point to know your counselor and dental appointments
a note from your guardian or parent or telephone
the note should include your upset stomach
VI zits are the flit gun wounds
of adult hormones!
grey is a mass of colors
their admixture is worshipful!
i hold your abrasions in my heart as useless
i chamber within myself
and volcanic explode in enthusiasm
your cardface temple crumbles
the hill on which it sat is one
character in a lifetime of players
all you taught me was wrong
all i learned i hope was true
i salute you as a rock i step over
all the rest of us
walking
onwards
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-28220579574829767262023-06-17T10:45:00.001-07:002023-06-17T10:45:43.467-07:00Business Art Sonnet<pre>
o suffle me loong foo rort
o suffle id doon o
fur the leem iss o o hardt
fur the hardt isso isso
prof ver a soaky soaky
noblique a hex itching rinds
so leek clog are c’t hollow
sof mir usiness hoggy so
ganizat quaintance lict a lict
nob purpo orcer amat o
ti pladform bulltinis ape hex
ti latdorm hey a haney haney o
slob clog a rasende oser dex
zat clog a rasende soaky soaky o
note: rasende is Danish for furious
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio </i>(2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-24507114978057056632023-05-01T10:18:00.002-07:002023-05-01T10:18:45.184-07:00Monday Afternoon<pre>
i’m gonna get tattoos
i’m gonna get little file cabinets
tattooed all over my forehead
with all of the file drawers
closed
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-3929443455904793172023-04-05T13:06:00.000-07:002023-04-05T13:06:53.030-07:00Peter Pan<pre>
this life i cast before myself like a shadow invisible to you
is my own private joke:
sixty year old heart seventy year old lungs
hid beneath skin that looks twenty-five
someone mistook me for a student last week
almost all my friends look older than me
but they’re all healthier
especially wendy
who is twenty-five
people tell us we’re a cute couple
when’re we getting married
i think of her almost as a daughter
it’s appearance that you applaud
mainly because no one wants to see inside
where it’s dark
and there are thousands of cupboards
filled with ripped hearts
and hypochondriac livers
and memories congealed in greasy plastic bags
all in the dark
with nails driven deep in the doors
and coated with blood
that long ago dried dead
around them
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-71451994426432199142023-03-12T11:57:00.000-07:002023-03-12T11:57:44.206-07:00From a Dream<pre>
last night i dreamed i was
stuck in a room full of sleeping old men
and that it was the house where i grew up
and that i knew most of them
as my own mediocrities
the moon shone through one long high window
i marveled at its yellowness before clouds overcame it
i stepped carefully between the men’s spread mattresses
mattresses everywhere
these old guys two or three to a mattress
all asleep half of them snoring
as i tip-toed in the dark until i got to the front door
where the rhythms of their snores paced the motion of my hand
as i reached for the doorknob in the weird yellow light
there was just enough space to swing the door open
and stand in the face of the cold alien air
i saw the lawn the street
the old sycamore that i remember from as early as i can remember
how quiet out there deep three a m
i stepped out closed the door and the cold air took me
the snores seemed so warm i could smell their breath
and taste their breath in my own mouth even away from them
nothing moved even the squirrels were asleep
blocks away i could hear a car running
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-25703625645624186712023-02-07T09:45:00.002-08:002023-02-07T09:45:33.521-08:00Life Among the Bubbles<pre>
this year made a nice family out of the garage
with pale green then cream
fine newest
winter
i suppose in a way winter’s new
lotsa pizzazz
with an earnestness that would impress any fair-minded person
have a glass of wine
relax
take an off-season vacation
hear voices
a physician in hell has no motility
so you won’t get any surprises
the sex
the sex
the sex
the bubblist movement
that decisively broke with renaissance aesthetics
a twenty-two foot statue
of a nude man with the head of a chicken
he found
a dark brown shard of pottery
she wears dark sox taking off her athletic shoe
it fascinates the archaeologist
have been touched by a monk or a pilgrim
she gesticulates about an intellectual matter
you can almost put your finger anywhere here
and discover antiquities
she wears black
her hands are more perfect
than any renaissance sculpture
we can’t stop construction
red plastic shoes
it required them to build a raised
o please don’t go upstairs i don’t know you yet
the sex
the sex
the sex
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-70324423634846258972023-01-02T14:21:00.001-08:002023-01-02T14:21:26.051-08:00Official Notice<pre>
we regret to inform you of the loss of your life
you may have missed it it happened
several hours ago when the river suddenly woke up
and it became its own raft your life
and rode the current into the blues of the sky
while you were still fighting trying
to dig your eternal notion of a graveyard
to plot some way to institutionalize the clouds in front of you
is it happy? we don’t know
it’s still ascending not sending back any letters
but maybe if you go to the souvenir rack
and pick out a really pretty postcard
it’ll come back to you
glowing
</pre>
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-86081863233617466712022-12-12T10:25:00.000-08:002022-12-12T10:25:34.640-08:00A Working Class Kid Goes to College<pre>
the floor in the story asked us to just be quiet
so we tip-toed around on the walls
wings tucked under our jackets
crowns having fallen imaginary
loose to space past memory
the law of gravity undeniable as soiled undergarments
outside the building toy animals
a goat a dog a donkey
an ox a fox a lynx
a set of sixteenth century peasants
plot revolution
but none of them looks in the mirror for very long
the little black and white dog
the kind you see in roman mosaics
felt modern tinted sunglasses now
and wagged his tail waiting
for those bulls with wings those spirited ancestors
to greet him at the door
his paw nails are longer now
he can walk walls
their tales of castles and finery
were still cute to him cute
he knew all their palaces by name and reputation
he didn’t know he’d never been inside one
these gods
he’d venerated for what seemed like thousands of years
could teach him to savor the birds
that he knew he could catch up with now
but for the uneasiness in his belly still puffed up with dog food
he was known he was sure later for his foul breath
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-79234001196728044112022-10-21T10:15:00.000-07:002022-10-21T10:15:57.420-07:00Expectant Buildings<pre>
last night in a swirl of dream
i walked with field gnomes
in the vacant lot where i grew up
they smiled so comfortably
in their small quick strides beside me
suddenly two singers called to them
from separate second floor balconies
and the entire slum around us was gone
so sing to me in the voice of the ocean
that carries cities of fish in its tide
sing to me in the voices of sea bottom sand
that the water smoothes into cloth in its ebb
sing to me in the voices of expectant towns
that i hear near their infancy in the slow rolls of water
sing to me in the foam of the tide
that rolls in like the lifetime of butterflies
so i found myself happy
in the songs of the gnomes
in the meadow where i grew up
in the bright field of flowers
with no nightfall
in dream
</pre>
from Auto Bio (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-69174480832202448342022-08-14T15:59:00.000-07:002022-08-14T15:59:00.366-07:00For My Parents<pre>
drawing their dreams
in carts
behind them
like horses
forever pulling bricks
for their own stable
making dragons
of small
rubber-armed windmills
finding a field
too green
a road too rough for stopping
they want to continue
one generation
after another
here
on the same road
to the same place
just over
the same hill
</pre>
from Auto Bio (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-80463134345909216732022-07-12T13:14:00.000-07:002022-07-12T13:14:28.402-07:00Finding Bones<pre>
some day a dog will get loose
find the patch of land just far enough past the yard
dig them up the bones the ones
the police looked for for twenty years
before they got back into their cruisers
and headed for the home planet
the force of narrative will goad the dog
into carrying the bones home
despite their glittery brightness
their strange really strange taste in his mouth
and he will guard them as his own
despite the will of the pack leader in the house
even when you’re small some things are your own
a dog could think that a dog can think
and they’ve found that the genes that make small dogs small
don’t make them think they’re small
the class system here is purely physical
and you don’t have to think about it
if no one else can steal your treasures
</pre>
from <i>Auto Bio</i> (2010)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-4903500340403882162022-06-11T10:44:00.002-07:002022-06-11T10:44:57.198-07:00The Second Breath<pre>
my brain is getting painted this dull universe
your shy nondescript taking darts
and your check your time say
mommy can't we buy a we?
rutabagas here go lift the day
sweating a car outside
idling badly as a scientist
can only say wow when go crash down the hall
she stopped for an instant
conversation in the tar pit with invisible flesh
words no longer they go
and you dance
you dance on tires
all the dolphins peopled by career oranges object
what wonders must be across the ceiling in my living room
what wonders must be across love overcame them all
a huge leap houses zoom in
stop conversation
houses zoom in a huge leap
she turns says what wonders you have in your head
at ground move
your sky neutral
you see together
you dance
</pre>
from <i>Oedipus' First Lover</i> (2009)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-31240193711630797422022-05-12T10:59:00.000-07:002022-05-12T10:59:03.719-07:00Good Earth<pre>
this is the excuse of pleasant folks:
medusa's head bound by a silk stocking
is kept incognito inside a desk
open hands clap until they are housebroken
and cyborgs with dog heads
sniff
around perimeters of fish ponds
dreaming of the blood the blood
in the sunset come and go
singing of daily mop and glo
o dead god buried in the wheatfields of south dakota
what commercial trumpets your theme song?
do you rise like a missile at night
wet-dreaming of marge the plumber?
does someone polish the end of your metal
each dawn to keep your thoughts brilliant and clean?
we are all multicellular now
phone us
we are still searching the plains
looking for medusa's teeth
planted
inches deep in the soil
</pre>
from <i>Oedipus' First Lover</i> (2009)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-24680815340869368632022-04-02T09:39:00.000-07:002022-04-02T09:39:09.075-07:00Swimming Pool Rotunda<pre>
be crowded within yourself
empty pass by pools of televisions broadcasting antique profundities
sing along with shepherds who’ve reburied their sheep in house twine
watch the aching of stone at your local amusement park
and what if other people too
will be walking blind in swimming pools?
after long walks inside clouds
radios run antelope down their own antennae
the magic opportunity a new skill
a new memory in the same place as the old one
the steamboats of a leather navy in your coat pocket
you can reorganize yourself as a truck bearing crabapples
sounds lubricated under the steamroller of belief
it’s so seductive a debt of bone a cloudscape softened to cotton
</pre>
from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-15331866585134075612022-03-04T10:49:00.002-08:002022-03-04T10:49:51.144-08:00A Jealous Universe<pre>his hips and she was suck
he comes into your party
i could see muscles twinge
and i know
leans against a wall
my landed neck i watched in her thighs and calves
excited and she in this new fingers
i could understand
my landed i neck i watched
she was possessing
talk
i could see him
i could understand
soon
he doesn't move
she was his eyes shown early
he was possessing
i would have
like tired eyes and starved strong
people and some
began to leave
i felt each stroke in their van yet
knowing the routine
begin to wonder about the cars
the long feet saturday an apparition
i could see muscles twinge
no routine heard you cough once
they were possessing the walk
all of us alone the desert sea
on the lawn
</pre>
from <i>Oedipus' First Lover</i> (2009)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-27796305827067580532022-02-08T10:07:00.000-08:002022-02-08T10:07:37.561-08:00So Yesterday<pre>
so yesterday you tamed a cat into a lion
hung a picture of the world on a wall of stars
drove the whole road home from there
to your own rooms that are paradise
and invited it in for a drink
today the sky is so blue and distant
and yet so friendly
a miracle that comforts you
with its peace and its vastness
</pre>
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-56997842505379596592022-01-13T09:59:00.000-08:002022-01-13T09:59:01.598-08:00Its Elegant Steel Cage<pre>
behind the door plored is advisable
like that died at the wheel evidence with caged lips
but hats will be wallpaper the original stables entering a cloud
where princes and elevators built abattoirs within waiting rooms
the voice which literally cause were gamekeepers
is a journey into the basement
of a lime-green monkey hidden in the cupcakes
snap that picture and crude pants depart
that means fewer meds year round and hey you
more coffee i’m brewing chewing gum
floating foundation we did some myself upward
he passes the supermarket
speechless within shock and admissible speed
we were holidays then back when an attempt at charm
taking saying thank you very much
that repeating riff for thirty-eight years
always adding her strange boil
was quite the poker escalator especially when the door broke down
less a mean spirited wearable wreck
than a jerk with finders’ fees designed
to prevent earthquake damage the door?
it’s still there glad you asked
they tittered beside the drinking thank you
and the curtain went up and wouldn’t it be for water this time
but it’s a bright sunshiny day always has been
and the apple reflects so mooooooo
</pre>
from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-40849016844405654312021-12-17T10:37:00.004-08:002021-12-17T10:37:43.858-08:00she crosses herself<pre>
she crosses herself
every time a motorcycle goes by
one of the wheels
the blood roaring into her heart
the other wheel
the blood rushing out of her heart
into the holy world
of her body
</pre>
from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3534841001173486736.post-38961851542040701262021-11-08T10:13:00.000-08:002021-11-08T10:13:08.235-08:00Re: Frigerator<pre>
death is the
last
thing
in the freezer but
it's stuck
on the back
wall
and you can't get it out
without your fingers getting
awfully
cold
and the freezer getting
awfully
bent
</pre>
From Oedipus' Firt Lover (2009)
Dale Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11735736270489643485noreply@blogger.com0