Pat Nolan
ENCOUNTERED PHENOMENA
When I want to hide
something from myself
I put it in plain view
the distant past can be five seconds ago
if nothing else I did well on the phone today
I must have mouthed all
the platitudes about art
at one time or another
a blustery spring day throws the trees
into spastic dance plays the Aeolian harp
between my ears as in ancient times did I
(poets don’t write epics or odes any more
only episodes)
significance of the bronze temple bell
struck once
at birth
reverberation decaying
into silence over a life’s span of years
warm breeze invades my cool shuttered room
day passes the halfway point
a center pole
in the tent of time
hands up stretch eat
something
come back
to earth
incubation over
spring arose and
released the first wave of flying
flitting things
don’t wonder
we are not alone
other life precedes and will likely follow
our span if even tens of millions acid
reflux the chalk of time will soothe
powerless
the illusion of power
all the more dangerous
silence
in the presence of others
like a foreign language
becomes suspicious
“what was I thinking”
BLIND SPOT
What’d I do with it had it just
in the other room
under yesterday’s
paper
not
no right there
that last letter
where it was all along
mischievous chiding self
clucks a tongue
with cliché
memory shot or
preoccupied
talk show interlude
the bizarre questions existence
to posit comfortable fantasy
don’t know
never will
don’t care
what’s mine
and what’s more is mine
and more is more
my gain my loss
at tax time
but mainly
I’m strictly for me
and if not for that
then what I see and it
belongs to me
as part of that
solid matter
I have no choice
but to believe
even though
it’s always there
I am not always being there
CONNECTIVE TISSUE
Hummingbird pink
flowers implied
could have been a raven
wing spread on misty blue
cat focused world shut out
bug or bee bigger game could be
attention span’s fragile gossamer
look away gone away
look again gone again
a flight of geese across the page
at the source of alphabet
AUTUMN
Birds up before dawn nap at noon
woman with twin babies pushes a double
stroller self in exile safely said silent
the machinations of the soul appear as
a huge check-off list attended to daily
at each point in time another clue to
identity then the no-identity of no-time
the imperfect circle that expresses a span
shadowed in regret the day continues
vague success of kicking the machine
light filtered through a paler blue
wheels on the truck spin backwards
all the dogs on the block visit the same
message board and the shaggy one
eared cat even walks mean nothing
set in stone yet the breeze more ancient
a testament to every breath man in hat
occupies the meditation of his walk
from light to shade the heat of the day
leavened by the not-so-distant sea
LIKE AN OLD JUNKER
Rusted muffler
rough idle
oil leak
tune up
way overdue
steering shot
dents and dings
bald tread
on all four
brake squeal
granny tranny
(needs lotsa help)
clutch slips
one headlight
high beam only
pitted grill
Mexican blanket
seat covers
radio ripped out
windshield crack
but amazingly
never out of gas
LIGHTNING NAPS
Lightning naps and other
engaging forms of sleep
day marches through
its artificial compartments
each hour an additional
weight to listless life forms
who like dust alight
whenever the breeze blows
among open magazines and
piles of library books
over worn socks nightwear
school notes hair brushes
facsimiles of an existence
scattered or strewn as
the archeological refuse
of a dig in progress
who’d dare disturb this
sanctum with wakeful thought
radio drones on persistent
static or a steady rain
a backdrop for the weaving
of dreams into memory
FORCED MEDITATION
Why do I worry
this moment has already happened
I am always
sometimes
just barely
in the past tense
shallow breeze hot dry tree
debris scutters lethargically
the spirit of chaos
visiting in
the guise of smoke
an outsized narcissism
what I do and why I do
belong to different camps
must there be a reason
river as the source
a continuing flow on
the horizon of consciousness
beyond the tall trees world
wide to the peripheries
perspective of a lifetime
not a path but a field of attention
span of spontaneous transformations
Pat Nolan's poems, prose, and translations have appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in the US and Canada as well as in Europe and Asia. He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry and two novels. His most recent books of poetry are Exile In Paradise (Nualláin House, Publishers, 2017) and So Much, Selected Poems Volume I 1969-1989(Nualláin House, Publishers, 2018). He also maintains Parole, the blog of the New Black Bart Poetry Society. His serial fiction, Ode To Sunset, A Year In The Life Of American Genius, is available for perusal at odetosunset.com. He lives among the redwood wilds along the Russian River in Northern California.
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ENCOUNTERED PHENOMENA
When I want to hide
something from myself
I put it in plain view
the distant past can be five seconds ago
if nothing else I did well on the phone today
I must have mouthed all
the platitudes about art
at one time or another
a blustery spring day throws the trees
into spastic dance plays the Aeolian harp
between my ears as in ancient times did I
(poets don’t write epics or odes any more
only episodes)
significance of the bronze temple bell
struck once
at birth
reverberation decaying
into silence over a life’s span of years
warm breeze invades my cool shuttered room
day passes the halfway point
a center pole
in the tent of time
hands up stretch eat
something
come back
to earth
incubation over
spring arose and
released the first wave of flying
flitting things
don’t wonder
we are not alone
other life precedes and will likely follow
our span if even tens of millions acid
reflux the chalk of time will soothe
powerless
the illusion of power
all the more dangerous
silence
in the presence of others
like a foreign language
becomes suspicious
“what was I thinking”
BLIND SPOT
What’d I do with it had it just
in the other room
under yesterday’s
paper
not
no right there
that last letter
where it was all along
mischievous chiding self
clucks a tongue
with cliché
memory shot or
preoccupied
talk show interlude
the bizarre questions existence
to posit comfortable fantasy
don’t know
never will
don’t care
what’s mine
and what’s more is mine
and more is more
my gain my loss
at tax time
but mainly
I’m strictly for me
and if not for that
then what I see and it
belongs to me
as part of that
solid matter
I have no choice
but to believe
even though
it’s always there
I am not always being there
CONNECTIVE TISSUE
Hummingbird pink
flowers implied
could have been a raven
wing spread on misty blue
cat focused world shut out
bug or bee bigger game could be
attention span’s fragile gossamer
look away gone away
look again gone again
a flight of geese across the page
at the source of alphabet
AUTUMN
Birds up before dawn nap at noon
woman with twin babies pushes a double
stroller self in exile safely said silent
the machinations of the soul appear as
a huge check-off list attended to daily
at each point in time another clue to
identity then the no-identity of no-time
the imperfect circle that expresses a span
shadowed in regret the day continues
vague success of kicking the machine
light filtered through a paler blue
wheels on the truck spin backwards
all the dogs on the block visit the same
message board and the shaggy one
eared cat even walks mean nothing
set in stone yet the breeze more ancient
a testament to every breath man in hat
occupies the meditation of his walk
from light to shade the heat of the day
leavened by the not-so-distant sea
LIKE AN OLD JUNKER
Rusted muffler
rough idle
oil leak
tune up
way overdue
steering shot
dents and dings
bald tread
on all four
brake squeal
granny tranny
(needs lotsa help)
clutch slips
one headlight
high beam only
pitted grill
Mexican blanket
seat covers
radio ripped out
windshield crack
but amazingly
never out of gas
LIGHTNING NAPS
Lightning naps and other
engaging forms of sleep
day marches through
its artificial compartments
each hour an additional
weight to listless life forms
who like dust alight
whenever the breeze blows
among open magazines and
piles of library books
over worn socks nightwear
school notes hair brushes
facsimiles of an existence
scattered or strewn as
the archeological refuse
of a dig in progress
who’d dare disturb this
sanctum with wakeful thought
radio drones on persistent
static or a steady rain
a backdrop for the weaving
of dreams into memory
FORCED MEDITATION
Why do I worry
this moment has already happened
I am always
sometimes
just barely
in the past tense
shallow breeze hot dry tree
debris scutters lethargically
the spirit of chaos
visiting in
the guise of smoke
an outsized narcissism
what I do and why I do
belong to different camps
must there be a reason
river as the source
a continuing flow on
the horizon of consciousness
beyond the tall trees world
wide to the peripheries
perspective of a lifetime
not a path but a field of attention
span of spontaneous transformations
Pat Nolan's poems, prose, and translations have appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in the US and Canada as well as in Europe and Asia. He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry and two novels. His most recent books of poetry are Exile In Paradise (Nualláin House, Publishers, 2017) and So Much, Selected Poems Volume I 1969-1989(Nualláin House, Publishers, 2018). He also maintains Parole, the blog of the New Black Bart Poetry Society. His serial fiction, Ode To Sunset, A Year In The Life Of American Genius, is available for perusal at odetosunset.com. He lives among the redwood wilds along the Russian River in Northern California.
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