What's Going on in Their Head, These Surrealist Poets...

It’s been awhile since I’ve ridden a bike.
When men are idle they’ll hold a hand to their face.

Although I can honestly say I can only remotely grasp short phrases, or sometimes only words, within surrealist poetry it’s these few words that leave me questioning and wording. What the hell is going on??? Is it truly “normal” to refer to a bike, a beaver, and REO Speedwagon within 3 lines of a poem? Probably not, to the ordinary eye, but to the surrealist it seems the “odder” the poem or art piece the better. So as a reader, what do we do with Craig and other surrealist poets?
The part that gets me the most is the awkward twists that occur just about the time I am sucked into an idea. For instance in the poem April:
A scraping sound,
Like someone writing his name
in big letters
in the gravel with a Wiffle bat.

It’s the sound of my shoes
skidding over the ground
as I’m dragged by my armpits
in short bursts
from the Buick into the woods.

It all makes me think of
the shadow of a waterfall,
a description of a church,
the absence of metaphor.

These are my last thoughts
is what I’m thinking,
my cardigan ruined,
the Buick almost out of view.

This first section creates an image in my head of a mother dragging her naughty little boy out of church. He is dragging his heals because he knows what will come when he gets home. The mom bypasses the car and heads straight to the forest. Here we go---let the ride begin. In a few words, a vivid image is created of a shadow in a waterfall. Then Craig throws in a little twist with the absence of metaphor. So if metaphor is absence what does this do to the poem? Is everything he is saying literal? Is the character truly being dragged by his armpits into the woods? What does this all mean? Since the boy thinks these are his last thoughts, does he think he is being dragged to his death? Now that I am actually talking about the poem it appears to be the stereo-typical death or kidnapping of a child. At least, the portions that you hear on the news. As the poem continues…
She had said she wanted to hitch-hike
across the country wearing
a pair of cut-offs and a taco hat.

She had cupped my neck with her hand
and whispered this into my ear.

Now it appears to be an older character that is with his lover. What leads me to believe this is the way she cupped his neck with her hands and whispered in his ear. This seems to be very sensual. Although, I may be wrong. It just seems the way she wanted to hitch-hike in her cut-off shorts reminds me of a young couple going on an adventure across the country. Huh…
So why the shift and uncertainty? Of course it is intentional but it makes me crazy. I just want to understand.

Surrealist Poetry

I crave your mouth... by Pablo Neruda
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Call and Answer by Robert Bly
Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days
And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed
The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?

I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense
Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!
See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”

We will have to call especially loud to reach
Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding
In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.

Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t
Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow
Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.

How come we’ve listened to the great criers—Neruda,
Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now
We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?

Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.
Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?
Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.

What Might You Find in the Shed of a Gardener?

Why--you may ask when you look at the plethora of tools,
hanging on individual hooks lining the wall,
many unused, never to be used by the muddy hands of the gardener.

Some have been gifts, or others I picked up—
maybe at the garage sale down the street, or a fellow gardener
was willing to part. Perhaps I found it in the garden I claimed to be mine.

Others came with meaning. The rusty blades of a hard used tool
that came with sweat stained handles. My grandfather’s hands—
so many memories, I find it odd why I was so lucky to be holding his tools.

My hand fit the grooves that had long since been empty. I rubbed
the handles that lined the wall of the gardening shed and realized—
although, some handles had never been used and others were worn

a story could be told and would be told-
in the shed of a gardener.


I Must Admit, I Wanted To Be Sandy

and have Danny
boy from the beach,
all to myself

love at first sight,
for the secret bird
never expected to meet again
the man with the smooth skin
and letter-man’s sweater
soft voice
and gentle kiss

blessed with virginity
wholesome and pure
gone bad
a member of the ladies
Pink to be exact

tough
untouchable
and bad
the man from Rydell High

snap of his finger
sly dimpled smile
the tilt of his head
in my direction:
Come on Sandy, let’s dance.

Poem from Valparaiso Poetry Review

SMALL GIRL IN A GIFT SHOP
The nested boxes fascinate her most,
Each with an elephant carved on its curved lid.
She stacks them in a teetering pyramid
A time or two, but soon becomes engrossed
In putting the scattered pieces as they were:
A puzzle whose solution seems to mean
Not everything that matters can be seen.

Her mother calls, and like a conjuror
She turns and rises, flourishing with pleasure
The finished puzzle, cunningly compact,
In whose dark center, shapely as a fact,
There might or might not lie some tiny treasure.

© by Catherine Tufariello

A man with a story

As I glance across
the oblong table,
I know
you have something,
something to tell.

Will it be a story about the many miles you hiked?
Or about the absurd job the president is doing.
Will you tell me about the time you met your beloved?
Or when you left home to be a hero.

I can see it,
it’s in your tender eyes.
There is little doubt of where you have been.

The creases under your eyes
tell of family,
and the dirt under your nails,
tells of hard work.
The laughter in your voice
tells of happiness,
and the gentleness in your touch
tells of love.

You are a man of many,
a bearer of substance,
a man of wonder,
filling the space that otherwise would remain empty.

Don’t worry.

Don’t think your stories
will go untold.
Today is my turn,
woman with a story.

Mama, where's the moon?

You ask,
in your persistent voice,
never missing a beat.

The questions
of when,
why,
and where

or perhaps,
how come.
What it must be like.

You aren’t entirely sure,
what it all means.
Or does it really matter?

Maybe through questioning,
or searching,
you will find reason
and begin to understand.
Or not.

You trail off
in tune,
humming the beat
to the infamous song on the radio

The song will continue to fill the air
until
you get bored.

You glance in my direction,
with knowing eyes
and ask
Mama, where’s the moon?

Before I can answer,
you let me know
it is hiding
and it will be back tomorrow.