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Archive for the ‘Poetry on Blogfinger’ Category

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. To observe the leaves changing on the trees from April to December, is to see, in a vivid way, the pattern of life that governs us all. Here is the poem “Late Autumn at Centerport,” from my 2009 collection, Green Vistas.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Rhinebeck, New York. Mid-October, 2017. Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Late Autumn at Centerport

By Charles Pierre

Spring unfurled from ripening buds,
and a balmy summer preserved
the deep greens of oak and maple
on hillsides across the harbor

A month ago, the reds and golds
were bright distractions, but today,
descending a hill to this beach
through the bitter December air,

I feel the withering absence
of colors that once filled the trees.
Fallen leaves are now visible,
black and rotting in the shallows.

Here, the full cycle of seasons
has yet to pass, but today,
having seen this much of the year,
I know my end ahead of time.

 

CHET BAKER:

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Hi Paul:
     Greetings from Manhattan. When March ends, and the last few patches of snow melt from the yards, and ice disappears from the ponds, those of us who live along the coast shed our heavy coats and head for the shore. Here is the poem “Orient Point,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.
Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Early spring morning. Deal Lake. Ocean Township.  March 29, 2015,   By Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge.

Orient Point
By Charles Pierre
To find words again, after winter’s pause
and the stifled months of life ashore —
to hear voices, if none but the shrill sounds
of sailors boundless in April winds.
I slip from silence, English my ship and sea.
Speech as fresh as the first mild gusts of salt air
billows my cheeks, flying from my lips
to take me as far as sound can sail —
Speak, as if spring is all there is!
——————————————————————-
BEN PATERSON TRIO,:  “Here, There, and Everywhere” by Paul McCartney;

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. Over fifty years ago, my grandmother said a few things to me shortly before she died that I knew would eventually find their way into a poem. Here is “Grandmother’s Note” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Paris. By Paul Goldfinger ©

Paris. By Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Grandmother’s Note

By Charles Pierre

 

Looking for less with each added year,

I’ve begun to live in the small space

that surrounds me now, in the shadows

 

that gather at my feet and follow

as I walk along, and in the breezes

that take my shape for an instant,

 

leaving nothing but gentle creases

in my hair and a cool ripple

over my skin. Expecting little,

 

I go where my handwriting leads me –

become just a sound, a word, a phrase,

part of the impression on the page

 

for a moment, not an old woman

with the obvious lines of age, but

a clear thought in this surrounding space

 

CAL TJADER: “The Night We Called it a Day”

 

Charles Pierre. Photograph by Marcella Kerr. ©

Charles Pierre. Photograph by Marcella Kerr. ©

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A favorite room----at the Gasparilla Inn, Boca Grande, Fla. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

A favorite room—-at the Gasparilla Inn, Boca Grande, Fla. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. It is surprising how far you can travel, just by sitting quietly at home in a favorite room, surrounded by familiar objects. Here is the poem, “A Room in New York,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

A Room in New York

As I sit at my desk, the morning sun begins
to fill this room with slow-moving planes
and angles of light. They glitter my windows
with Atlantic waters and whiten the shades
with New England snow, brightening
my blue sofa to a field of wild asters
in Nova Scotia, and my varnished table
to a forest of yellow pines in the Carolinas.
Rays skim the spines of a thousand books,
where peaks of an Alpine mountain range
shimmer on my shelves. When beams reach
my oriental rugs, the colors of Central Asia
shine up at me. As I write, city and wilderness
move in unison with the sun’s slow passage
through this room: each flame-suffused image,
each act of attention to the way light works,
leading outward to a world beyond walls.

 

Max Raabe and Das Palast Orchestra

Live at Carnegie Hall 2007

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Ocean Grove beach. Winter. Paul Goldfinger photo © Blogfinger.net

Ocean Grove beach. Winter. Paul Goldfinger photo © Blogfinger.net.  click to enlarge the” ocean’s moods.”

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. In winter, one can walk the empty beach at Ocean Grove and, at any time of day or night, listen to the various natural sounds of sea and shore. Here is the poem, “Listener,” from my book-in-progress, Circle of Time.

Happy New Year,
Charles Pierre

 

Listener

By Charles  Pierre

At the easternmost end of town, where nothing
but empty coastline greets the incoming waves,

I follow a path through the dunes to this beach
and listen long as the ocean discloses its moods:

just past sunrise, when whispers of Atlantic wind
crease my hair and lift sea straw against my legs;

at sun-sharp noon, when rushing tides roll and build
to high-arcing breakers that pound the rough sand;

late in the day, when slant light and muffled breezes
cover the surface of water with glittering shingles;

through the evening, when currents run black
on whistling gusts, and a violet haze mutes the sky;

at midnight, when the air is still and low surf
rustles onshore; and afterward, in the hour

before dawn, when the ocean shares a deep silence
with the land that slopes down to its rippling edge,

as the waning moon leads me back from the beach
to the shadowed dunes and narrow path inland.

 

SLOVENIA SYMPHONIC ORCHESTRA.  Xerxes Act 1, George Frederic Handel

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Serenity. Sunrise in Ocean Grove. By Bob Bowné

“Serenity.” Sunrise in Ocean Grove. By Bob Bowné

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. I was struck by your quietly beautiful photo, “Beachfront Sunrise,” (posted recently on Blogfinger*), and your statement that you preferred sunrises to sunsets because “beginnings are happier than endings.” Here is the poem, “Dawn,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

 

 

Dawn

By Charles Pierre

 

The first hint of morning on the ocean

is a trembling of shadows,

 

a dark hovering of muted tones

that moves with imperceptible pace,

 

a vanishing medium through which

the day brightens and widens,

 

the new light going on for miles and miles

in the shine of emerging surf.

 

LONDON PHILHARMONIC ORCHESTRA.    Peer Gynt Suite #1, Op 46  “Morning”   by Edvard Grieg

*See the post  “Fishing Pier at Sunrise “by scrolling down to Nov. 21 where it has been brought closer to Charles Pierre’s wonderful sunrise poem, “Dawn” where he makes reference to the image in his introduction.  *

 

 

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Greetings from Manhattan. In almost every town and city of the country, one can see a Civil War monument, usually with a lone soldier in uniform at the top, his rifle by his side. Now, one hundred and fifty years after the end of that war, many of these statues show signs of deterioration from long exposure to the elements. Here, for Memorial Day, is the poem “Statue in the Park,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Gen. G. K. Warren, Union Army. STanding on  Little Round Top at Gettysburg National Park,

Gen. G. K. Warren, Union Army. Standing on Little Round Top at Gettysburg National Park.  Official Park photo.

Statue in the Park

The stone hero is becoming mortal again.

Ordinary weather has undone the work

of Civil War. Sun and cold, rain and snow

strike his head, as brothers once struck

each other, in a climate beyond season.

Below the folds of his coat, two lovers

walk in a trance, far from history’s maw,

their cadence owing nothing to the slog

of soldiers or the slash of glinting swords

on a ravaged farmstead in Virginia.

 

Earth is recalling her boy from service.

Granules flake from the featureless face,

blending with dirt around the pedestal,

a wind from the river scattering him

throughout the park, sending him back

to his people on a Sunday afternoon,

his final sacrifice now part of the leisure

they have worked all week to secure,

his dust dispersed, in silent ceremony,

around the gentle steps of the lovers.

 

THE BUDAPEST STRINGS  “Lullaby”

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East 100th Street by Bruce Davidson. ©

East 100th Street by Bruce Davidson. ©

By Paul Goldfinger, Photography Editor  @Blogfinger

The cities of America went through tumultuous times during the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Many experienced social upheaval and riots. Asbury Park had riots over the July 4, 1970 holiday which practically destroyed the west side of the city along with a famous tourist industry and a thriving shopping district. It is only now coming back.

This exhibit at the Princeton University Art Museum is about New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles.  The works are mostly still photographs by eminent artists who “made their bones” photographing these cities during very hard times. There also are some powerful videos of race riots and violent demonstrations in Chicago during the Democratic Convention in 1968.  It is a superb photography exhibit which is being shown all over the country. It will be shown at Princeton until June 7, 2015

Bruce Davidson is one of the most famous of these photographers. He is well know for his NYC work including his 2 year project called “East 100th Street” where he followed residents of one block in Spanish Harlem during the late 1960’s.

Here is a link to one of Charles Pierre’s poems in Blogfinger where we used a photograph by Bruce Davidson in New York.

https://blogfinger.net/2014/11/05/a-poem-by-charles-pierre-boardwalk/

This still is from a video being shown of the rioting at the Democratic Nat. Convention 1968. Paul Goldfinger still

This still is from a video being shown of the rioting at the Democratic Nat. Convention 1968. Paul Goldfinger still

Still shot from the Democrat convention riot video. Helmeted police use clubs on the crowd.

Still shot from the Democrat convention riot video. Helmeted police use clubs on the crowd. 1968

Bruce DAvidson image from the Princeton exhibit.

Bruce Davidson image from the Princeton exhibit.

JACK TEAGARDEN    From the album When Jazz was King

 

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Charles Pierre.  2009. By Marcella Kerr.

Charles Pierre. 2009. By Marcella Kerr.

Hi Paul,
Greetings from Manhattan. At this time of year, as temperatures warm along the coast, one can see sailboats being moved from winter storage on land to their berths at marinas. And as the wind picks up, one can hear their rigging striking the masts. Here is the poem “Tuning Forks,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

St. Thomas, USVI.  Paul Goldfinger photo.

St. Thomas, USVI. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Tuning Forks

It is past midnight, and the sailboats
float side by side at a sheltered marina,
in stillness so complete that not even
a lapping against the hulls can be heard.
Yet high above the water, at the tops
of the mastheads, the rigging of each craft
starts to ring aloud in a rising wind,
the ropes and cables striking the masts,
sounding possible routes to new lands.
The musical tones, in random clusters,
sailing out from the crowded harbor
toward an uncharted ocean of dark.

JESSICA MOLASKEY with Stephen Foster’s “Beautiful Dreamer.”  From Jessica’s album Pentimento

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. At this in-between time of year, when winter slowly becomes spring, nature reveals itself in the starkest of terms. Here is the poem “Hickories,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Hickory in winter.  Flickr.com.

Hickory in winter. Flickr.com. Photographer unknown.

Hickories

Best to see them bare, in earliest spring,

at the end of March, when the uncertain

drift from winter shows them in bark only,

standing and branching in jets of wind

over the cold soil. At this unadorned time,

with neither snow nor foliage to hide

their rough wiry forms, they move

in routines severe yet clear, as if

ingrained in their fiber is the sense

of making do, making beauty with the least

costume and fewest movements, making do

in rhythmic turns from shade to sun,

from night to dawn, from winter to spring,

in the uncertain drift through minutes

and days and months, in space

as bare as the trees themselves, in silence

as bare as the trees themselves.

 

BLOSSOM DEARIE:

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