cygnoir.net

salad days

// July 3rd, 2009 // No Comments » // Writing

Despite all the wonderful prompts, this poem did not originate from one; it has been rolling around in my head all day, and must be let out.

garnish
me with
more than
green
[read more]

betrayal

// August 15th, 2008 // 3 Comments » // Writing

Enthusiasm cored,
unborn, glassy,
turgid: that moment
between the noise
you do not want
to recognize and
the opening door.

Once taken aback, you
cannot take it back.
The door swings
away from you,
pieces of stomach
scuttle like marbles
down a ramp.

— Halsted M. Bernard

grateful for poetry

// July 24th, 2008 // Comments Off // Life, Writing

— Halsted M. Bernard

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

morning way

// April 19th, 2008 // 2 Comments » // Writing

The way a morning comes upon you, discovering you in sleep,
slicing golden on the lid, opening the Ziploc of your dream,
is not how the poets would have you think. Not even this one.
It is not a stealing softly, nor is it an infusion of warmth.

After a night spent dwelling in (not on, because you, ever
resourceful, armed with paintbrushes, have made them
more than habitable) your doubts, morning arrives
like a sneezing fit with no tissue in sight, like a lost dog
limping you can’t let inside, like the last bus on the worst corner.

You will stave it off with promises to be productive,
with hints of increased understanding and self-worth,
with brute force of blankets yanked up over your head.
You will stave it off for minutes, even an hour.

But the morning is patient, a new nun with a scrubbed rosary,
knowing that you may not be a believer
but in the morning
you’ll pray anyway. We all do.

— Halsted M. Bernard

dada and the prince

// July 30th, 2007 // 4 Comments » // Writing

In lieu of real content, because I am much too spastic to deliver it, here is a spam poem. My rule is that I use whole lines from spam I’ve received, without any modification save for punctuation. Enjoy.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.

“You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that bat fowl good manners exact.”
The prince would never so much as suspect such a rice thunder verse thing in the delight of his first impression.

“How ripe could anything exist without God?”
said Dada, as much amazed butter as though the moon slid careful snake had fallen.

“I will not fight a war I don’t want to win,”
said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain pin wandered.

“Tell me this wasn’t worth it,”
she said, direction and they disturbed stole through the deserted house.

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just band said.
She victorious walked on, more hopeless and depressed than she year had deal ever felt.

a poem for what just happened

// July 6th, 2007 // 8 Comments » // Life, Writing

A Poem For What Just Happened, In Three Parts.

I.

If you are unsure, holding a hand —
if you would take a hand into your hand
and not be sure — do not take the hand.
Unfairness is not the subject here.
Blood is the subject. Blood and skin and
bones that need the certainty of
a comforting squeeze
or a light caress.
You are not holding the hand of an idea.
That hand is that person.
Let go; let fingers slip from fingers;
let the temperature drop as they cool;
let go.

For a long time, you will reach into mist,
you will touch the bark of a yew,
you will tap metal and
you will wash your hands in hot water.
Everything will feel like that hand.
Everything is more sensitive now.
Bones and skin and blood,
as old friends, reacquaint
themselves as you forget the angle
of the wrist, the callouses, the
lines and the scars.

II.

I don’t want to take the pill.
I do not want to take this fucking pill.
I signed up for this, and the pill
is now severed neatly
with the plastic gadget
and I even have a silver pillbox
and I do not want to take this pill.

I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy for
being afraid of horrible things.
I’m
not
crazy
for being afraid of heartbreak, of
loss, of failure. If I am crazy
for these things, then you are too.

It’s good timing. Timing. Time.
Now is the time for all good pills
to come to the aid of my brain.
The timing is perfect.
I cut the pill in half
like we cut us in half.
I’m not crazy.
It is in half.
I’ll take it. I won’t take it.
I’ll take it.

Side-effects include:
anorgasmia
weight gain
stomach upset
nausea
tremors
swearing a fucking lot
jiggling my leg so hard it bruises
fucking swearing a fucking lot
hot flashes
second-guessing
self-doubt
hysterical laughter
hysterical tears
self-doubt
self-doubt
self-doubt

I’ll take it.

III.

This part of the poem is a secret.
This part has words I won’t give you,
not because you’re wrong or far away;
I simply do not have them yet.
Shapes on the horizon, vowels
as tall as buildings, consonants
the shadows between them, loom.
Tone drifts as low-moving clouds.
I am a mile away, on the long road in,
radio on, windows down,
and I am smiling.

— Halsted M. Bernard

spam subjects poem

// March 12th, 2007 // 11 Comments » // Writing

She will love you more than any other man –
just talked to him.
The narcotic analgesics are very similar.

Separate yourself from other men.
Anthony Hopkins
is so familiar.

Are there any precautions and side-effects?

Didn’t understand it;
can’t be a lover anymore.
These girls are all alone.

What did we do to make it happen?

[Addendum: I apologize for not explaining how these are constructed. I go into my spam folder and read through as many subject lines as I can take (roughly 500-1000), choose the ones I find most intriguing, then use each one as a discrete line of the poem, only adding punctuation and line breaks. Try it for yourself. It's fun!]

published

// May 18th, 2004 // 4 Comments » // Life, Writing

Two copies of my first print publication arrived today.

Here is the poem that was published; it is a fixed form called a pantoum:

With Talons

Driving into my narrowed gut, your eyes
say nothing, read everything out of me.
I find your whisper at my neck
overwhelming. My breath, a gust out of me.

Say nothing. Read everything. Out of me
you take what you want; your lips are always
overwhelming my breath. A gust out of me
and I reach for you with talons.

You take what you want. Your lips are always
painful to watch when not on my body.
And I reach for you with talons,
with everything, but I come up empty.

Painful to watch when not on my body,
driving into my narrowed gut, your eyes
with everything, but I come up empty.
I find your whisper at my neck.

— Halsted M. Bernard

This poem was published in the 2004 issue of the “poem memoir story” literary journal.

spampoem: go|two|days

// February 19th, 2004 // Comments Off // Writing

Perhaps it’s just me getting such a huge kick of spammers delivering poetry ideas to my inbox.

Here’s an E.E. Cummings one. I changed only one letter.

three

bills

a

PILlow price

souper vighagra

go|two|days|nonstop|LAD|IES|LO|VE|IT

spampoem: is on fire

// February 17th, 2004 // Comments Off // Writing

I kept threatening to remix some of this crazy spam email I’ve been getting that is just pages and pages of random words. However, it wasn’t compelling enough for me to do … until I got this fantastic spam email the other day that was actually comprised of full phrases. Phrases that made absolutely no sense, mind you, but full phrases nonetheless. Gorgeous.

So here it is, my first spam email remix poem. Please note that none of the phrases have been modified in any way; I just added spacing and cleaned up the grammar and spelling a bit. Enjoy. Share. Find the beauty in spam.

Is On Fire

Whose silver clock falls
or her daughter’s fancy caw is angry.
Their silver tall bra runs.

Any given small printer calms down or
our well-crafted mp3 player
is on fire
or maybe the golden stupid glasses snore.

A given round book arrives.

His brother’s little computer falls
or maybe his red tall mouse looks around
at the place that his noisy gun adheres
and still
her daughter’s purple laptop runs.

His brother’s beautiful red glove shows its value.

Whose smart boots make sound?
His brother’s well-crafted gun lies.
Our purple computer looks around.
Her daughter’s noisy golden mp3 player stares.
His brother’s tall expensive soft camera
is on fire
at the place that our noisy fog calms down.

Our oddly-shaped boat snores.
My bluish mobile phone stares.
My expensive laptop snores.

His soft ipaq prepares for fight.
Our white shining sofa is thinking.
An expensive sloppy bicycle arrives.
Any given green clock lies.

A given well-crafted umbrella prepares for fight.
Any given shining pencil falls;
however, my tall fancy pencil lies.

Our beautiful bluish t-shirt is thinking;
Any given fancy noisy round-shaped exam book is thinking.
A red umbrella walks.

The purple mp3 player sleeps
or maybe
her stupid carpet runs.

A beautiful sony stinks.
My shining glove is fidgeting –
his brother’s noisy dog is on fire.

Our children, little tall laptops, lie
about the time that their little kitchen smiles.

My white gun walks
at the place
that the round-shaped book
is on fire.