BY JAN HAAG

INTRODUCTION + POETRY + ESSAYS + MUSIC + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART

HAAG'S BIO

ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS



THE 2009 POEMS


INDEX


BRIGHT GREEN

#01
02-28-09/ 09-06-10

Ooooo I may be turning bright green! -- eating powdered barley grass again.
I read on my heater: “Do not lift my cover. “
That sounds too essentially Haagian to me, so I peer
more closely. It says “by” -- “Do not lift by cover.”
So, it’s not a spy in disguise, but simply what it is! -- a piss-poor
heater, barely capable of heating itself, let alone my high-ceilinged, colossal
studio in this old nunnery kept warm by my passion and the open
oven of the kitchen stove. We work together:
greening our share of the planet.
Very small, that share, but not undelightful.
The weak winter sun is waning again, back into the clouds.
The day grows grey, matching its color to my whitened lips,
pulled tight in a snarl of creativity: Green, you say, bright green
is the color of the hour -- as we strive to keep our heads above
the engulfing melt down tide, of which,
as I look out the window, there is no evidence.
All is blissfully bland under the tangential, bright-to-colorless sky.



WHO’S TO SAY US “NAY?”

#02
03-10-09/09-06-10

I think later in life we become convinced
that, since we have lived as long as anyone else,
we know as much as they do and stop
taking advice. We listen carefully and then
do as we please.
Who’s to say us nay?



MY OWN HELL

#03
03-22-09/09-06-10

I feel like I am going through my own very private hell
while the world goes through its meltdown, the financial
world works through its greed.
I study and suffer my hives, my heat,
and the brilliant gold of the shimmering sun lodged in heart/chest.



MY OWN HELL II

#04
04-19-09

I wander from moment to moment
lost to the meadows of my own dreams.



MITES

#05
06-15-09/09-05-10

I wander from moment to moment
lost to the meadows of my own dreams.

“The mites had lived and built
their dens in the wall for a thousand years,

and had eaten it away from
the inside,” Li said. For thirteen dynasties the mites

lived in Xi’an’s city wall -- chewing.
My walls crumble as well. Will the archaeologists

come with their insecticide and new,
more permeable, earth to spray me? Thirty years ago

I wove in and out of
the three arched Hanguang entrance ignoring the inaudible munching

in the wall, ignoring the smell
of old earth and the young pomegranate trees.



FROM THE JOCASTA POEMS

#06
06-18/07-11/09-07-10

INSIGHT


Once you’ve read the JOCASTA script
and fully comprehend it,
you will see that the answer
to the Sphinx’s riddle being “man”
is not insignificant;
and the fact that Oedipus killed her, the Sphinx,
to marry the queen, to become king,
is profound.



DO THIS NOT THAT

#07
07-11-09/09-07-10

I sit here, even at seventy-five,
in constant fear of being
interrupted by my mother
though she has been dead
for twenty-three years.

Always tensed up,
even playing a picture puzzle
I wait for the preemptory voice
to tell me to do something else:
the dishes or the vacuuming,
to go to bed, or wake up,

sit still or move about.
Dread sits in my heart
like an unkillable fly on the wall,
watching, waiting, pouncing --
gently, but nonetheless -- pouncing.

What you do is not important.
Do this!
Not that!

Sorry Mama, I don’t mean to criticize,
but the dread has never
stopped. Even the doctors
are amazed that I
seem unable to relax.

Do this!
-- and resistance
shoots up a flame
to consume my heart.



WHY SHOULD I WORK SO HARD?

#08
07-11/12-09/09-07-10

Why should I work so hard --
when I can’t stand the sound
of my own drumming?

I could practice a thousand years
and never sound like Swapanji.

Listen to Swapanji.

Live in bliss.
Live.



SHIVA-PURNA

#09
07-12-09/09-07-10

With the white lightening-flash
of his belly exposed,
his paws curled in ecstatic rest,
one blue eye watching
to see if I notice
-- and I do --
he sleeps the sleep of bliss.

“Be tempted, Ma,
but don’t touch.”



PRIAPAS

#10
07-14-09/09-07-10

The world is overpopulated now.
So what do some men do? --
spend their time trying to fertilize infertile men.
They announce it on the media
as if to celebrate:
Artificial sperm, made in a test tube!

If you think back far enough
all of us are related --
and yet can’t bring ourselves
to use that experimental money
to care for the children
already here.



THE LOSS OF STRANGE DREAMS

#11
07-14-09/09-08/15-10

I’ve always been able to manufacture life
out of my wakeful dreaming,
to construct artful palaces
within a body
skinned in
velvet.

And now? Now, I stand
by the wayside, naked,
without an envelope,
looking for the post
box no longer needed
in an age
of e-mail.

The road stretches out,
but the shoes are tight.
My India-toes long for
Shiva’s freedom
to wander,
to
sit within
the charnel grounds.



NEW POEMS PILE UP

#12
07-14-09/09-08/5-10

New poems pile up,
windblown leaves against
the corners of my threshold heart.

I don’t mind the tingling,
the driving itch to fly off past
the moon -- to Jupiter, perhaps,

or Jupiter’s Io,
to its lava flows
and lava lakes,

to exist within its intense radiation,
bathed in energetic electrons,
protons, heavy ions.

With iron coreand a neutral cloud of atoms,
Io orbits, glowing, in the ultra
violet.

Giant caldera pock
its sulfurous surface, its
mountains taller

than those of earth.
O give me a tall mountain
and fear to climb it,

that I may sleep again in my
Nirvana-quiet
dreams.



MOUNT RAINIER
THE PLUM TREE

#13
07-16-09/09-08/15-10

Today, they, the Parks Department, amputated,
almost to death,
the limbs of our Mt Rainier of a plum tree.

If you want to know what it was like,
see Mt Rainier in a heavy snow fall.
It looked like that --

in the spring, in bloom,
riotous with blossoms and bees.
And today, in full fruit,

they chopped it down
-- all its “wedding-tree” like branches.
Now, only a slim, elbows-in skeleton is left.

Gone!

Its spill of blossoms are no more!.
The young lads, so the police claimed, used it
as a rendezvous, smoked pot, traded pills and powder in the dark.

And, since the cops couldn’t deal with them:
Cut! Buzz! Saw! Down comes a 100 year,
awesomely beautiful, old tree.

Freud’s first interpretation was right I fear,
the father wanting to kill the son,
erase beauty from the earth.

Soon we’ll be left with the bare earth
to resuscitate when we could have easily
just helped it to breathe.








Copyright © 2010 through 2015 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jjhaag@gmail.com



THE 2009 POEMS

INDEX


01 -- Bright Green, 02-28-09/09-06-10

07 -- Do This Not That, 07-11-09/09-07-10

06 -- From The Jocasta Poems, Insight, 06-18/07-11/09-07-10

11 -- Loss of Strange Dreams, The, 07-14-09/09-08/15-10

05 -- Mites, 06-15-09/09-05-10

13 -- Mount Rainier, The Plum Tree, 07-16-09/09-08/15-10

03 -- My Own Hell, 03-22-09/09-06-10

04 -- My Own Hell II, 04-19-09

12 -- New Poems Pile Up, 07-14-09/09-08/5-10

10 -- Priapas, 07-14-09/09-07-10

09 -- Shiva-purna, 07-12-09/09-07-10

11 -- The Loss Of Strange Dreams, 07-14-09/09-08/15-10

02 -- Who's To Say Us "Nay?" 03-10-09/09-06-10

08 -- Why Should I Work So Hard? 07-11/12-09/09-07-10




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BY JAN HAAG


ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS


INTRODUCTION + POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART

HAAG'S BIO

21st CENTURY ART, C.E. - B.C., A Context