Celebrating Amy Trussell RIP June 3, 2021/Robert Graves & The Illusion of Writing Poetry For a Living Wage/ Advice From Amy Dickinson

First of all,  thank you Eddie Rosenthal* for removing the dastardly "ghost box" from this blog*   

*Higher Source Sites

websites since 2001

https://highersourcesites.com/ 

ON i-PHONES, SOME POEMS ARE MISALIGNED. SHOULD YOU ENCOUNTER THIS PROBLEM, JUST TWIST YOUR PHONE TO THE HORIZONTAL TO READ THE POEMS CORRECTLY.

Goodbye, Amy Trussell but for your place in our hearts, minds, and on the page. 

Amy Trussell  

(June 15th, 1959 – June 3, 2021

                                                                    by Ed Coletti

 

           She dwelled in worlds of

moonlit deer and upon her

own habitable moon as well

 

Perpetually dancing she

in several parallel worlds

flourished through suffering

diversely alchemical effects

 

Amy uncomplaining

so kind and such a poet

who could make anything

real while she suffered

in and out of doors and

she later did write of doors

with the wolves sniffing at them

 

Amy trailing the veils she wore

like numerous troubles blown

behind by ever lengthening stride

and by dancing visibly and invisibly into

her numerous fierce winds and milder breezes

 

She gently cultivated fruits and flowers

in Martin’s community garden

along a stretch of Yulupa behind

the Methodist Church where she with

her frayed fingers dug in the dirt

 

Amy worked both to feed the hungry

and simply to work the earth-given soil

on her native planetoid equally as authentic

as other worlds she created and where

she likewise thrived and the evidence

endures in the verses she’s produced

---

Poems by

Amy Trussell

Poems by Amy Trussell

Blade apples

Aggie was like a mangrove tree
                           Legged into the reflecting pool
All black eyes and non cooperative tresses
      "The old man will reveal himself to you soon"
                     curing bat wing     nailed upon the door
looked into her windows
gypsy moth alighting
                          hot paste of poke root
will help you turn the corner
                pods of black medic     hang from the rafters
                                    grimalkin died last February
shakes the brass candlestick
                               while I am in there bathing   never getting clean
Oya with her blasting gelatin
                anger coming back at me     little urchins in the yard
Setting traps with cords and blade apples
                          If you dig any closer to the grave
You'll be neutralized
hopefully the flesh has been entirely consumed
      and there's a nice neat skeleton in there
If you bury near water, you bury deep
                     Rusty knives of the landlord come up in the flood
Why do the hawks sound so lonely today?
There are three of them, they should keep each other company
Its because the leaves die in the bowery
                Alongside the green thumb that fed them
with fish blood and meal
card of several pentagrams in the umbra's cape
Shade Lady come out with me tonight
           forked mother tongue
                     embrace me each way
"I'm healthy except for this" he said
                               The last time they saw him

                        

                   

Science and Dumb Luck

Science and Dumb Luck

Looking beyond the veneer of strife

for a door, real or conjured.

Or if  I'm to remain on this

lopsided planetoid, the search

goes on to find what's right and holy

in this crumbling civilization.

Essential co-mingling of science,

and what mother called dumb luck.

But made with simple ingredients

on its journey from the larder to hearth .

Yes the yeast is part of our DNA

and therefore familiar when you

smell it tumbling from the oven

or mixed in barley malt for a sour mash.

It's properties are as dependable

as the wolves sniffing at the door. 

The cleansing of the hands to bring forth

an edible sculpture, and meditative bend

toward measuring and sifting.

Invigoration of breath upon smelling the risen.

Please bury me with several golen loaves

like my foremothers of the matriarchal days

in the valley beside the Danube.

Amy Trussell

 

There's no money in poetry, but then, there's no poetry in money either. - Robert Graves

MY ONGONG TITLE 

Hence, as always, the title of my blog is "No Money In Poetry."  While some folks consider it to be somewhat negative, I expect that most of my readers fully get the drift of it. (see below)

The concept of writing poetry for a living wage is illusion. I write poetry for the sheer passionate joy of creating a poem which pleases me and perhaps others. I do know when I am accomplishing this. Secondarily, I also feel the satisfaction of publishing and thus sharing where I can. This pretty much has been my modus operandi for fifty some-odd years. My accountants advise me that I should be deducting business expenses. I choose not to since that would feel like I am nourishing the illusion.  Furthermore, having run my own consulting business for thirty years, I've developed s healthy distaste for the bookkeeping involved in operating a "business" particularly a sham enterprise tailored to reflect miniscule revenues in order to get write-offs.

Emily Dickinson

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)

Thanks to Dave Holt for this.

Your responses to anything in this blog are most welcome and 
invited.  I've decided to switch away from  using the Blogger 
interface for this purpose.  Instead, please email me 
edjcoletti(at)gmail.com.  I look forward to hearing from you.