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UTD Spring 2003 - Poetry - with Professor Rainer Schulte

Nick Ippoliti - singer/songwriter & Aesthetic Education Specialist

Whats left standing in the Garden?

 

69th year.

Water,

turned soil.

Bright and full.

Stiffened and crooked

 

fingers bowing vines

nestle in abundance,

like a flock of heavens angels

waiting for god

to break bread.

 

Give us this day.

 

Dry flakes fall as

juices melt between thumb and first.

Tiny specks

disperse like a street gang.

 

Rising from one knee,

in possession.

Turning like a troubadour

facing toward kitchen.

 

Olive oil waiting.

Sweet the virgin.

 

Lips accustomed to

My menu

Do not open.

She does not move.

 

From stiffened and crooked vines

a Violin Sonata,

carefully bowed

across her cheek,

 

feed her

69 years of harvest.

N. Ippoliti  2/26/03

The Return of Song

 

Waiting on a hillside rhythm

like asphalt yearning for the plough.

 

Lush, V-shaped valley

weeps like a siren

 

missing her forest muse.

Disappearing darkened cave

 

removed like lucid eyed ear

listen for negative space.

 

 

 

 

In between the pelt

Of the windowed sleet

 

And the crack

of the crows back,

 

A union of feather;

high pitched, sound the

 

cluck of a war drum

every tip, a sky warrior.

 

        Paired lips

echo baritone and tenor.

 

Feeble concrete

sharpen bass and alto.

 

A stringed perfection

Spun from spider

 

Trace all I love

Back 1500 miles.

 

        The birth of 5000 nations,

Unionize this anti-mission,

 

Bathing nude under the

Damp of this season.

 

I fertilized the eternal
spirit of your earth.

 

It does not exist

before this.

 

        Ghost town

Laden in white

 

Write verse in

Hardened rain

 

       Poets Cadenza

 

I

 

The citys last

of the great poets

wait

on an elevator,

anxious for light

of next year

to raise a voice of praise.

 

Poets Hotel

empties echoed

song,

purging

thin skinned

arias

onto the

shallow

swallowing

wake of

Fame Street.

 

Off beat one

time,

one six-string chord,

heavy handed

returns

no applause

and the stardust

weighs as heavy as a

nine to five.

 

II

 

Fingers pretend

to desire print,

picture as picture

of haired Stars.

She wins them

with her bow tied

brown boots,

knee high skirt

twisting a

smile.

 

Tallest smile.

 

I step in

she steps on

floor four.

 

I wonder if shell keep a light on.

I bet shes home in Springland,

 

hearts the shape of clouds -

I kiss this cloud myself

In Ireland,

Scotland

and Italy.

And there she

goes -

remember the poet

of the sunrise of wine;

singing

as hurried

starred elbows

elbow stars

bashful.

 

III

 

Poets write not

this time:

express-less,

belief belly up

in craters.

Crowd thins

Voice soars

like a crow,

steady,

faithful

 

IV

 

Hanging

hip fringe

whips her upper

thigh as a

lava scarf

necks a delicious

tune.

Tallest smile

kissing me.

Talk would settle

my five curl layered crumb;

pinpricks of hair

raised by

this melodious caress.

 

V

 

Even in it

I am apart from,

Glass down

       apart from.

Turn

       apart from.

Words

    

 

 

  apart from.

Dinner resting on

the sill of applause,

throwing its crumbs

to mouthing audience.

Simple.

Diamond

after diamond,

arched;

 

Tallest smile.

 

VI

 

Culture divided like

a slip knot;

bark chaffing tree,

hanging hills

like one hundred pregnant

mommas -

missed.

 

Boned away

boy - charm -

 

cowboy - rides

the sorrow train.

 

This nights prelude

opened with

three chairs surrounding,

I am in this one.

 

Six hour waltz,

 

One-two-three

Two-two-three

Three-three-three.

 

I am left only this voiceless chair.

I am left only this star-less night;

how short the smile appears

through

words.

       

       

 

 

N. Ippoliti  3/7/03

 

Yankee

 

First, the headlights

Spot-lighting Yankees.

Queer moment, dazed

As foul poultry-questions

Fire like bullets from

Red and black

Circling Rodeo

Pick-up.

 

I, the boy and              

Weakest of our herd

Stand there like a lame

Calf, lasting supper;

No Shepard, no staff.

Flock scatters

Like Fall seasoned leaves

Caught in currents of

Winters gasp.

 

I am his bull

 

Mounted.

Lassoed.

Dropped.

 

Backside skull softens

Against nights barren asphalt.

 

Extending before my oceanic eyes;

An Ash Wednesday palm

Will not forgive.

 

I hear grape size gravel, gruff

And lewd, mixing with

Brain-shots of my momma,

Plaster and ammonia

Permeate my minds darkroom.

The negative illuminated kiss

Bites into my cheek,

Like a rabid dog.

 

You are going to kill me.

 

 

 

N. Ippoliti

The Writer

 

All these years of trying

and being better than you were

 

as a child,

 

forget them.

 

Every hour spent trying to uprise

the spirit.

 

Every year  

counting minutes.

 

Every Council concluding

 

this was not meant for you

to eat,

 

You happened upon

this metaphor,

 

And like a cowboy

you spun circles

 

hand in gesture

 

cutting throats.

 

You are not

the dream.

 

Keep dreaming.

 

When nights slow

and we all have places to rest

our dreams,

 

all of us:

 

we will call you an artist.

 

Leaves will float like inter-tubes

and not turn water rust.

 

Buildings will mean to stand.

 

Money will mean to trust.

 

Color will mean to color.

 

And you

 

yes

 

you

 

alone,

 

will stand

 

an Artist;

 

reserved the right to truth

 

a star

 

the worm.