Again, Again, Again

A Collection of Poems

Conor Grogan

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Seth Livingstone for the concept of the Nano Poem, which you will see in Section III of this text. The Nano Poem is a form originated by Seth, intended to be a short, contained poem consisting of 4 lines, the last of which is meant to be indented.

Copyleft Conor Grogan, 2011 This work of art is free, you can redistribute it and/or modify it according to terms of the Free Art License. You will find a specimen of this license on the site Copyleft Attitude http://artlibre.org as well as on other sites.

This book was published in the United States by me, Conor Grogan, under the guidance and advice of Natty Pilcher.

This book is dedicated to my friends and family. Specifically Tom McOscar, who helped to spark my passion for poetry; Seth Livingstone, whose poetry has acted as a constant source of inspiration; Sarah Brewer, who has always been there for me; and Natty Pilcher, without whose knowledge, advice, and friendship this book never would have come to be.

Suggested Music for Reading these Poems City and Colour Andrew Bird Johnny Flynn Sufjan Stevens Josh Ritter Modest Mouse Paul Simon The Tallest Man on Earth Mumford and Sons Bon Iver

Contents I. 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 Autumn Untitled herbs from the garden Lightning, God, and Love Letters Magnetic Poetry Baking, or, My Father Always Buys Me Candy When We Drive Somewhere love Birds On Taking a Creative Writing Workshop at The Beach topics for conversation Whistle me a Lullaby Bloody Summer Air Organs, Art, and Other Church-y Things vacation my name feels safe inside your mouth Again, Again, Again

vii

II. Nano Poem (I) Nano Poem (II) Nano Poem (III) Nano Poem (IV) Nano Poem (V) Nano Poem (VI) Nano Poem (VII) Nano Poem (VIII) Nano Poem (IX) III. you will know me by Whitman's love for Nature moonlighting habiting Dismembered Far Away with Words as with Paints viii 35 36 37 38 40 41 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

42 43 47

The way we grow up Letters (between ex-lovers, one of whom moved out west) to help you sleep at night. IV.

51 52 54 55 56 57 58 59

a community everything i own To Ginsberg a Prayer On the end of August 2011 in the Morning how often have i loved you aloud? This, too, is for You.

ix

Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure. ~A.E. Housman

Again, Again, Again

I.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned. ~Paul Valery

Autumn Autumn evening, burnt red and orange dashed out across the sky. Novemburst of colors precedes twilight. I want to sit on this hill watching you, watch the sunset.

Untitled I. What do you say to a lover who is leaving? Take care. i don't know any better, but i wish someone were praying for me; don't let him fall too far [from grace.] II. i like the way your hair falls on your shoulders, i like this and that of you, holding my breath into that eternal approaching night while i wait for you to find me here in the churchyard by the warehouse where all your dreams are hid. III. When you've drowned out every last hope of reprieve and everything is a no more is leaping out the twelfth story window of this apartment building nobody will survive but we'll all be safe. We have everything to lose. IV. She handed me her heart and said I've saved a song for you, too. Don't wait too long to open it. Her heart was an apple i lifted to my lips thinking, How could she think i would take good care of this? How could she know that i wouldn't break it? 6

herbs from the garden and so many beautiful eyes are what i want to bring you -whenyou sleep at night. herbs from the garden and bowls full up with my tulips are what i want to bring for kissing you into the morning.

Lightning, God, and Love Letters i wanted to write you a letter that would say how sorry i am, but nothing in this room inspires: Your hair's a blanket of love[falling]stars. Where are all of our tomorrows? You would think that sounded corny. i like turning on the stove and the stereo when i leave the house. 1 Listening to this music is like having God inside your veins. Lightning rips across the sky; this is the way in which you love me. Think of (raindrops keep falling on my head) the way rain pours through our clothes, dampening my chances of a dry evening with you. Now all i can think of is your figure silhouetted by the fire. i'm sorry.

You never know what you'll find when you get back. My father always used to run back into the house just to make sure he hadn't done this. But I like the uncertainty of it all. 8

Magnetic Poetry Where, when, which, wander over her blue-sky-thick, Monday nevers. My neon moon roundabout wantings don't shattershift us there between the knowing and the city whistle rhythm.

Baking, or, My Father Always Buys Me Candy When We Drive Somewhere i wanted to bake a cake for you, but my knowledge of cooking is limited, so i settled for the one in my dreams. Made with flour, candles, vanilla, sugar and secrets; it was delicious. First, though, i had to stop for ingredients in a dimly lit gas station convenience store where we (my father and i) walked through the aisles looking for candy that he had missed from years earlier driving down this same road. When i was young i would accompany him grocery shopping. And when we stood in the check out lane, he would ask me what i wanted, pointing at the candy. And i would always pick whatever he was getting because i wanted so badly to follow in his footsteps. i want to say that i'd like to harvest the night, plucking the moon from the stars like an apple out of the trees, like the silhouetted figure on the bottle of wine that we saw in the store on that candy driving folk music day; it would sound poetic. But now that it is, so often, Me who does the driving when we go somewhere, i still wait to see what it is he's going to buy before i make my decision because, even though tonight we'll share a beer together, one day he'll be gone, and i don't know how i'll ever be a father.

10

love Birds two Birds (soon startled into flight) Sing Spring outside my window in the morning. I drink coffee with my breakfast and I love to hear them whistle love to one another in the sun.

11

On Taking a Creative Writing Workshop at The Beach The weather's going to give it immediacy tell us something we wouldn't know just by looking at you. The browndead pine needles on the ground here act as the perfect foil to the vibrancy of baby birds and the sunlight falling on them. But what is there relation to the crows so often an omen of death who woke me up out of a less than permanent sleep at two in the morning, in the dark and the still green pines? The cloud-free sky is pouring sun on you like being bathed in God's fingers on the highway; the chlorophyl green leaves are dripping light. I think I'm becoming my father.

12

topics for conversation There were, to begin, god's little fingers, or, fingertips, to be precise. They weren't quite so big as we'd imagined. Small, like packages being sorted in a warehouse somewhere. Occasionally we find ourselves speechless, which is to say, nothing we say matters. Maybe, if we talked in the Here & Now, there would be no more speaking like there's no tomorrow. The suddenly sunshining of your radiant face is more like the all day romance of bees and the flowering nectar that the they love so, so much. But even tiny things know how to be heard. I don't think my voice carries like some others'. But that's okay for now. All I want is someone to listen. To my line break ramblings while I love them in the dark and in the meaningful.

13

Whistle me a Lullaby I tell her Autumn is the best season, but she says she'll stick with spring. She smiles and whistles me to sleep. In my dreams she has these freckles, just above her shoulders, I want to pull her aside and tell her I don't know if you've noticed, but you have the most beautiful smile. I stare up at the constellations looking for some sort of a sing-the-body-electric whizz of lightning and lipstick kisses, butterflies to drift between our eyelashes and other sappy, sentimental things. I tell her, Sometimes I wish that I had a balloon I could fill with all my hot air what I mean is I've got this crazy notion to just float away with you.

14

Bloody Summer Air The pinkorangeblue sunset and the cloudmoon that it painted are sweeping out of the daylight sky and into the blood blue night. Tonight we jumped into water from a line of rope hanging on a branch in the electric air sparked alive by summer. If we had been less careful one of us might have slipped. Cut something open. And bled out. Red would have poured when the blue, blue blood ran into the air turning it our traumatic crimson. The sky, too, will swift from blue to red as Night comes into contact with the oxygen of morning.

15

Organs, Art, and Other Church-y Things Organs in churches sound somehow better; I like Odes to The Lord and Amen cadences. You shouldn't throw stones in stained-glass cathedrals; this artwork is far too beautiful for rocks today. If I ever were to paint I think that a single drop of cream, wiped from the rim of a mug, would be my subject. She says we're leaving soon, you can try to keep up. I remember when we talked by candlelight; everything was crooked and she told me I'm just all about time-travel today. If we're talking like in metaphors then maybe we should cut to the chase; you are my sun is the trees are the waves breaking on the shore is me. The cathedral-bodied tattoo angels are smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Wherever we go they follow us with kissing at our knees and at our cheeks. We walked by the sanctuaries and let out howls like they were cries to the lord.

16

vacation i'm on the sand stuck between ocean waves and young, drunk folk song covers. A man says i'm just learning to be young now. If i didn't eat them, apple cores would litter the coast. Instead we find seeds, buried in the sand. Later, i return home drenched in riverwarm moonwater with friends. Nights spent out are not my family. What about sex in the back of a car? i love looking out the windows of my house at night when there's snow on the ground.

17

my name feels safe inside your mouth When your heart slides up next to mine (under the covers) and you tell me about your day i begin to wonder all about the daily small surprises like pretty girls standing in the snow, the way flowers press up against car windows in the driveway, and the gloriouslysunsetting of dusk behind my neighborhood. And of the less surprising: Your hand on mine, the way sunlight looks when it's caught between leaves, and how my name feels inside your mouth.

18

Again, Again, Again I crash my face into the wall on purpose, many times, and it's Crickets in the summer air. Holding the electric fence. Vacant vibrant eyes. Metal in my mouth. Vivid fucking the sweat off your body. Tumble thigh flesh spectrum Makes my heart beat faster, blood breathe deeper, skin scream stronger through all the oh gods and the fuck mes. I asked you how to Sing myself into fiery bouts of psychedelic, blues-racked frenzy. I asked you how to get a job. ***** The silence that accompanies summer sunsets isn't the same, depressive quiet that follows snow. It's the friendly, warm embrace of touch tickle grass blades and funky heatwave barbecue distortions. 19

II.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself. ~E.M. Forster

I. On Leaving Leaves begin dropping to ground around this time every year; sometimes we forget to fall. I wish you would come with me.

23

II. College Days In the autumn chilly morning my huddled, wrapped-up figure shuffles across campus towards you don't leave just yet.

24

III. TOGETHER. I need you. i love you, i need you i love you, i need you i need this love for the sake of you please come away with me.

25

IV. My Eyes do the Translating. The motion of the nighttime city lights is a flashsnap jumble of broken morse code messages some days I am lost in translation.

26

V. Anywhere, I guess I asked what I could do it's too late for that; where do we go when time's all we've got? your guess is as good as mine.

27

VI. with a bang. This is the way the world ends, I guess I'm supposed to whimper, not now maybe later; who has time for that stuff anyway?

28

VII. too much. liquor Cross campus walks are whistling. i stare at my palms and play with sweater lint. My hands are small creatures taking off her clothes. i can taste the vodka for a week.

29

VIII. a day in the life. I lift a cup of coffee and my hand shakes. I need daily reminders to shower. The mail hasn't gotten here yet. I go to a seminar and its dinnertime.

30

IX. impromptu self-expression Thelonious Monk solos on epistrophy. future is a beautiful word. i kiss a coffee-ringed napkin covered with the numbers of someone beautiful.

31

III.

Always be a poet, even in prose. ~Charles Baudelaire

you will know me by Whitman's love for Nature. My fists aren't fists. They're grass blades tickling your feet. i decided to forego wrists altogether, replacing the muscles with deep, green sinew. i'll give you soil and fiber and all the small bugs that have taken to me (it's all i have to offer). i drink water and sit in well-lit areas. i live without thumbs (it was the only thing harder to learn than breathing the sun). i'm photosynthetic. Green will be your favorite color.

35

moonlighting Living in the city is the shadows of tall buildings. He blows cigarette smoke in my face. We moonlight in the street and hope that the birds don't notice we've stolen their songs. Later, we shotgun. Ideas web out of us and are hard to catch like fireflies. I have my vices, too.

36

habiting We inhabit small places. I go into town and walk through a cemetery. I make us late for the bus looking at books. I'm in the habit, lately, of pulling you aside. I call him a genius when he plays the violin. It took me forever to learn how to whistle. Remind me what it is that nuns wear? We go for dinner and I'm not in my chair. I know you don't believe in higher beings. The frogs tonight sound beautiful.

37

The Leaves and the Wind perform a ballet. First Afternoon. Have you remembered finger painting? If your hands are paint brushes, then I guess your fingers are the bristles. I mean, have you pieced together your childhood? We walked down by the stream to collect broken bottles. I said they looked beautiful in the light. You said you wanted to breathe. If kissing is like flowers, than making love is more like honey dripping from a spoon. Autumn was in the air. Do seasons even have scents? I love cold, brisk autumn winds and the smell of leaves, right before they fall. Second Afternoon. Those leaves have fallen since we were last here. Gunshots are ringing in my ears and then they're not. The architect that built these houses knew what he was doing. This one reminds me of the lake house. A roadkill chipmunk has one large incisor while you admire his legs. You place your foot against the concrete and turn around. You say Bananas. I say apples. You counter with fruit and then palm trees. Autumn isn't in the air. It's in the leaves (they should be dancing in the wind). 38

Third Afternoon. I imagine Tim O'Brien married to his prose. I imagine he has a love affair with poetry. I am standing under the foliage. In the morning we talk about names. What did Wittgenstein think? I'm apocalyptically sorry about the ride. Here is a book about Margaret Fuller. These are my thoughts on cracking knuckles. You sit in a room surrounded by concentration camps. While I have a love affair with Fall and the Leaves marry the Wind.

39

Far Away wake up, wake up, wake up. On the shores of a distant planet talk about home. Remember only one moon? Stay up to see the galaxyrise. All(good)children kiss their mothers goodnight. I'm hoping that you'll wish me well. I watch Soldiers on T.V. return Home from hell. Bring me the words that help you sleep at night.

40

with Words as with Paints We are ourselves in a painting by Pollock. Too many colors makes me feel lost in a crowd of us. You eat leftovers at the table. Your face isn't the same. Words paint a picture on the page and don't ask why? I wear my inspirations on my sleeve. My mind draws connections to: elephants,bedsheets,cookies,wires.

41

The way we grow up My hands are full of dirt. I think this belongs to you. What if we were all tables and chairs? That's not possible. I guess you would still like crappy music. And I would still love you. What if we were all bugs? That's definitely not possible. Maybe we should all just pick daily flowers instead. Kids know how to love them best. Turntables, tears, and typewriters. Other old things beginning with t. These are why make-believe is fun. What if make-believe is a game grown-ups play, too? No, I didn't say most, I said best. You can't be always in your own head. Taxonomic nomenclature is Danaus Plexippus are gorgeous? I am you are he she it is being conjugated? What are you saying? Anger is easy and You are a dreamer.

42

Letters (between ex-lovers, one of whom moved out west) I. California isn't what we thought it would be; not quite sunshine all the time, more like concrete and cars. I don't like the hectic here. II. The house isn't the same without you, your scent having left our home a week ago. The crickets have started chirping too loudly. I miss your cigarettes. III. Nighttime summer moistly air. Wet grass and fingers peaking through chainlinked fences. redyellowbrown crunchy leaves. snowfall. These are the things I miss the most, i think.

43

IV. Oh woman, won't you meet me here in an hour or two? You don't understand; pasta dinners by candlelight were only my way of saying i miss you. Come to the tree under which we first kissed. Your cigarette smoky singing might remind me of your lips. V. Birds of Paradise, blue blue skies, spanish architecture, and real mexican food; The odds and ends of west-coast life are getting to me. But don't think I forget you. Unkempt grass, cold air, pines, and deer; east coast life hasn't left me yet, either. VI. i miss You. i bow my head before the God of west-coast living. i pray for forgiveness before absolution. If i sound religious it's only because you're not here.

44

VII. I want to fall asleep holding onto your hips. Not this way, computer screen illuminating my body; who needs that when we've got moonlight? tiny things still scare me VIII. My comunista loving always did make you nervous. Sharing isn't exactly in your blood, is it? Please tell me you still take showers alone. The sound of the water hitting your skin was the petrichor that followed our lovemaking din. IX. I prayed the Rosary to sleep last night. Father told me that I liked to meditate as a child. You always asked me why I was a Buddhist, and I think it's because I'm a Catholic. Praying to The Lord is like meditating on acceptance.

45

X. Genuflecting for anyone but you always seemed a bit like lying. What words do you read for inspiration?

46

to help you sleep at night. i thought i'd sew you confection mesh dreams of towers in progress, our futures, fluffy pillows, and clever jokes into a Quilt. a Quilt for you to wrap yourself in each and every night when you tumble into the land that you and i call sleep. a Quilt to cover your eyes when they blur from the stonecold dampening that we call night. a simple, starsoft Quilt made from the patchwork of our nights together.

47

IV.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. ~T.S. Eliot

a community i am i am i am a prayer for better times in your future we cut paper into small likenesses of ourselves and our friends. This is me, and this is you, and this is everyone we know. Paper people holding hands are a lot more like us then you might think Loving. Fragile. And Connected.

51

everything i own i have collected many things over the years that are not mine stolen things, nothing that i meant to keep objects i forgot to give back and am now too guilty for returning Textbooks on loan the C.D. of a friend articles of clothing they make moving difficult packing away everything one; by; one; and coming across something i shouldn't have i can't throw away what's not mine

52

so they follow me everywhere like mementos of forgetfulness reminders of when i'm not perfect

53

To Ginsberg holy holy holy (Ginsberg!) the hills outside my window are presently becoming more ! and ! more (holy) a desire to kiss the world (the small is holy) we plant ourselves outside like odes to the earth fingers should rootlike sproutingly green pop up from under the dirt grassblades are always my wanting. i love you. is all i can say now that doesn't still sound tired.

54

a Prayer i don't want your neverknownothing arms holding me here much longer. The punch-drunk humor on my face is no more dilly,dally,boyhood-make-believe not illimitably kissing you into the dark but holding you, quietly, (in,a) sunlit slanted room together. (amen

55

On the end of August, 2011 The summersunsets around here are beginning to look like autumn the greenbrown leaves and the grass taking on that muted, grayish hue. Dusk is looking more the way it sounds: like dust. The au[tumn]gust daylight is orange more than bright summer yellows bumblebees and flowing dresses are the style here i am nervousickanxious for The Fall.

did i mention that i love everything autumnal?

56

in the Morning

i'm still sleeping.

i bring breakfast to you in bed.

Tell me about your dreams. 57

how often have i loved you aloud? how often have i loved you aloud? And how many times now has a laughandletlivelover creaked your bed into oblivion? That lover of rhythm. i knew you before i knew how to love you and naming every leaf or tree or bug didn't help. If everything we do is a pale imitation of the first time my first cigarette on the college balcony with a pretty girl. then what does that mean for shooting stars. getting lost. grilled cheeses. and Buddhas? What about black forest midnight highway driving by moon halo light?

58

This, too, is for You. i like to hide [little things] parts of myself away like: a Book that i loved. my name carved into wood. a Harmonica. Old photos. your name, too. For other people to find in their brand new house, long after this and i and that have left. Crooked, knifecarved names are no new thing.

59

"I have a theory, really it's an analogy, that if time... Rather if matter is made of atoms and when you smash an atom it releases all this energy, that time is made of moments and when you scrutinize a moment in a poem, it also can release a kind of energy." ~Billy Collins

Conor attends Hampshire College. He generally spends his time sequestered in his room, listening to music or, occasionally, writing poems. His email is: connor.grogan@gmail.com If you liked anything here check out chutethemoon.weebly.com