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Robert Chianese earned his B. A. from
He is
a Mitchell Laureate (1979) for an essay on sustainable societies and founder of
the Sustainability Council of Ventura County.
He writes and lectures on the humanities and society, the relationships
between ecology and American art, the American Arts and Crafts movement,
sustainability, and utopian societies. As a poet, he has published an artist’s
book of photographs and poems entitled Hall Canyon Suite (Art/Life Limited
Editions, 1998) and a chap book, Bonfire and Dreams: Poems of A Man’s Life (2000). He plays the tenor banjo and the
ukulele, drums with men and women, and underwent the “Wilderness Fast”
initiation ordeal in 1998. He and Paula Chianese have
restored two craftsman houses in
The
Chickasaw Plum appreciates the distinguished Dr. Chianese’s
contribution of the following two sonnets.
Pruning: A Sonnet
By Robert Louis Chianese
When cold sinks
deep and lingers long,
it’s time to prune, yet
Leward quipped:
“When blades are
sharp you can’t go wrong!”
But mark a winter
date and clip
the peach and
nectarine each time,
though apricot must wait
three years,
and sculpt the grape
its three-bud vine.
Untangle apple
boughs and pears.
I prune myself,
keep buds that bear,
lop dead ideas and
dreams I’d spun
of dandied selves I’ll never wear.
Old friends,
asleep, past budding, yawn,
then sigh awake and
feel undone
by someone with his
dead wood gone.
Still Life With
Still Life with
By
Robert Louis Chianese
High
wattage in the fruit bowl lights up a room with spray,
fingernails
abuzz with acid.
Thirteen
sections under nets of lace
hide
the kid-food zowie, the sodapop
brass--
a
neat trick, an obsessively measured shout!
Roll
a glittering pearl on your finger tip,
bite
a wedge with front teeth -- too sharp;
packets
of springy pulp explode.
Molars
flood gums with crushed juice.
Your
breath floridian, californian,
sunkist circles zing your
lips,
orange-tainted,
orange-struck.
The
rasped throat holds its color;
chased
with water, its clean clear bitter sour lasts--
enamel
scrapes enamel.
Anthony
Hecht -- Hecht (1923-2004). Was
drafted into the US Armies 97th division before completing his
studies at
“More
Light!” takes its titles from the dying words of
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. This is followed by a conflation of the names of
the philosophers Bucher and Arendt and in the first
three stanzas, the execution of a 16th century prisoner during the
reign of Elizabeth I. The condemned man was probably a Protestant heretic. The
scene then turns to a documented execution of two Jews and a Pole at
More
Light! More Light!
--Anthony
Hecht
For
Heinrich Blucher and Hannah Arendt
Composed
in the Tower before his execution
These
moving verses, and being brought at that time
Painfully
to the stake, submitted, declaring thus:
"I implore
my God to witness that I have made no crime."
Nor was
he forsaken of courage, but the death was horrible,
The sack of gunpowder failing to ignite.
His legs
were blistered sticks on which the black sap
Bubbled
and burst as he howled for the Kindly Light.
And that
was but one, and by no means one of he worst;
Permitted
at least his pitiful dignity;
And such
as were by made prayers in the name of Christ,
That
shall judge all men, for his soul's tranquility.
We move
now to outside a German wood.
Three men
are there commanded to dig a hole
In which
the two Jews are ordered to lie down
And be
buried alive by the third, who is a Pole.
Not light
from the shrine at
Nor light
from heaven appeared. But he did refuse.
A Luger settled back deeply in its glove.
He was
ordered to change places with the Jews.
Much
casual death had drained away their souls.
The thick
dirt mounted toward the quivering chin.
When only
the head was exposed the order came
To dig him out again and to get back in.
No light,
no light in the blue Polish eye.
When he
finished a riding boot packed down the earth.
The Luger hovered lightly in its glove.
He was
shot in the belly and in three hours bled to death.
No
prayers or incense rose up in those hours
Which
grew to be years, and every day came mute
Ghosts
from the ovens, sifting through crisp air,
And
settled upon his eyes in a black soot.
ALMA LUZ VILLANUEVA, an internationally
renowned novelist and poet, Ms. Villanueva is a member of the Creative writing
faculty at
WE DANCE
--This dance
is the joy of existence. Rumi
Going to visit mi hijo, Marco, in
the
hours late- storm, snow, ice- flying
up from
Mary, finds me in the dark, we stop to
eat curry noodles, talk, laugh (he's so
happy with her, I'm so
grateful that
he's truly loved, that he truly loves
some
one more than himself
at forty)...he finds
us, smiling his joy- I think as he
sits
beside me: What a beautiful man, a
beautiful
boy has become a beautiful man, mi
hijo. The next morning, early, he's
always up
early for silence, beauty, he makes me so
strong coffee, points me to the snow/ice
magic/wonder covered
Sentries, from his wide windows where I
sit in his favorite place, that wide
view of the
Sentries, the fields below, small lake
frozen, glittering in the just dawning
Sun's
light, I'm dazzled, entranced, suddenly
so
young I have no words for this beauty,
this gift from the from the storm, snow,
ice,
my son's early morning silence, so I
simply
laugh. As Marco dresses for work (family
therapist, I laugh,
this wild uncensored kid,
counselor) at the high school, he's framed by
the snow/ice magic/wonder covered
Sentries,
and I say it, I find the words,
"You're such a beautiful
man, Marco," my eyes fill with
tears, he laughs, I
laugh, oldies spill from his computer,
and we
dance because we love each other, this
beauty, this
silence filled with
music, this snow/ice/magic/wonder,
this joy, we dance.
--
Amor, tu madre- Alma Luz Villanueva
For more information see: www.almaluzvillanueva.com
SIR GAWAINE ROSS - Massachusetts Poet Sir Gawain Ross
is a frequent and appreciated contributor to “The Chickasaw Plum”
Meeting Sara
by Gawaine Caldwater Ross
Peter bought a broken down step van
leaking a gallon of oil
every ten miles,
so we did moving jobs
for six weeks,
hauling so many pianos
up and down stairs
and working 16 hours a day
it was a great autumn.
We moved Sara and Dave
for three days
because the boxes
were all labelled and ordered,
and we couldn't
mess up the order,
(or Dave would lose his mind)
Sara the whole time
in lingerie,
her blonde hair falling
and bouncing on her bosom,
I swear
I deliberately forgot my gloves.
I called her at
to ask her for a date,
she'd just been dreaming
about making love with me,
so we met
at a friend's house
because I was homeless,
but liked.
That was important.
We would screw
in anybody's home,
we were shameless and young,
the love radiant,
and
it still radiates.
Never While
Gawaine Caldwater Ross
(Never while richness of greenery
Stands a shield for prurient minds)
- William Carlos Williams, Abroad
Mr. Williams, with all due respect,
the grass, she's
pubic , and the
vernal pools cool in the shade
reflect light like my lover's eyes,
and the skin of the snake, so smooth,
so firm, muscular, rampant
in caverns,
and the spermies, they're like snakes too,
as is the lightning,
which is why they called the
lightning snake spirits the
Seraphim to begin with.
And the clams with succulent stuff inside
are no less sexed than the
alley cat squawling to get laid.
Oh I think Nature's very sexual,
the stamens stick out all proud
with pollen, the fragrant nectar
draws the man like the bee,
around the shaft and hole of life.
Praise the Tree of Life! The Cosmic Pole!
The Solar Shaft!
Praise the Hole it belongs in.
Verily, verily, holy is the Earth
in all her venereal
verity
The
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