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Archive for the ‘Charles Pierre poetry on Blogfinger’ Category

Greetings from Manhattan. Walking and poetry are both rhythmic activities that I have tried, in several poems, to bring together to create a unified effect. Here is “A Couple” from my 2010 poetry collection, Brief Intervals of Harmony.

 

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

 

Upper East Side, New York City. August.2014, By Paul Goldfinger ©

Upper East Side, New York City. August.2014, By Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge

 

 

A Couple

By Charles Pierre

 

That man and woman walking side by side

almost glide together through the evening,

parting the oncoming crowd with a singleness

of rhythm that erases the differences in height

and stride. Palm to palm, with fingers entwined

and arms swinging between them, they keep

their shoulders straight and eyes fixed forward,

talking without turning aside, letting the words

swirl around them in a cloak of conversation.

His left to her right, they reflect one another,

both wanting an equal partner but remaining

self-possessed, the emptiness of darkest space

less a threat than if each were facing it alone,

though their need for connection goes mostly

unconfessed: a solitary pair accustomed

to the same pace, limbs moving in unison

through the rush of wind leading night’s advance.

 

 

Frank Vignola plays Gershwin.   “Our Love is Here to Stay.”

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“Whiteout” by Moe Demby, Blogfinger staff on Broadway in Ocean Grove. © Jan. 2018.

 

Christmas at the Shore

 

By Charles Pierre

 

A lone rosebush,

hung with seaweed

and bits of debris

Surrounded by pieces

of frozen driftwood,

stretches and bends

to the sunlight

with one last bud

along a quivering branch

saved from the shadows

that darken the marsh straw.

 

 

BUCKY PIZZARELLI and friends and strings: “It’s Easy to Remember.”

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Spring Lake

“Here’s That Rainy Day.” Spring Lake, NJ. By Paul Goldfinger ©. Undated.

Spring Pool

By Charles Pierre

In the hollow of my hand, a pool is born
of an April downpour, the sudden flood
filling every crevice of pinkish skin,
the lines of life and heart and mind engulfed,

a breeze etching the surface with ripples
that push against shores of padded flesh
around the palm, some overflowing the bank,
others sliding back toward the deep center,

the wrinkles on the bottom of the pool
brightening, as the rain that fell so fast
passes, and sunlight pierces the water
settling at the end of my outstretched arm.

BOB DYLAN:

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Hi Paul:
     Greetings from Manhattan. For a writer, finding a voice often requires leaving home for a new place in which to live and work. Here is the poem “Voyage” from my collection-in-progress, Circle of Time.
Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Voyager takes flight. Sanibel Island, Florida. 2017.  Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge.

 

Voyage

By Charles Pierre

 

I first heard the call of wind and wave

on the unlettered shores of Centerport,

 

where cold silence and polite reserve

were anchored in the faces of locals,

 

where my tidal need for a voice

swept me from our sheltered harbor

 

to the voluble streets of Manhattan,

where speech and salt air flow as one,

 

where the daily work of shaping words,

from dawn starts to starlight corrections,

 

is a line-by-line voyage through image

and phrase, an uncharted sailing away

 

from my mute early life, toward home

in the sea-borne sounds of a new poem.

 

MARIAN McPARTLAND:

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. In the northeast, late November weather can be hard on holiday travelers — but offers opportunities to a poet. Here is “Revision,” a poem from my manuscript-in-progress, Circle of Time.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Autumn: a country lane in Walden, New York. The Hudson Valley. c. 2013. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Autumn: a country lane in Walden, New York. The Hudson Valley. c. 2013. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Revision  

By Charles Pierre

On this mild morning in late November,
I sit writing near a small country spring,
where busy sparrows and squirrels sip
from the trickle amid grasses and ferns,
while falling leaves catch in the branches
of a few bushes or stick to wet rocks
and clumps of dirt in the surrounding pool.
But by ten, clouds drift in from the north
to erase the mellow sunlight, as nature

reworks the composition around the spring
with strong winds and a deepening chill:
the grasses and ferns, leaves and bushes
raked by gusts; the sparrows and squirrels
fled to shelter in nearby woods; the trickle
of water blown as spray from the rocks
and dirt of the drying pool; and even I,
notepad and pen slipped into my pocket,
gone home to write about autumn’s nip.

STAN GETZ  “‘Tis Autumn”

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