Archives for posts with tag: Ian David Arlett

Notes: Dennis Tourbin was a lifelong Montreal Expos fan. I have no idea what the penguin symbolizes. Ian truly loved to laugh.
Peterborough, Summer 1978, four poets read their poetry in 3-5 minute spots on CHEX TV’s noon hour variety program. The four poets were Ian David Arlett, Ward Maxwell, Riley Tench and Dennis Tourbin. Overall, thirty segments were aired.

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by Ian David Arlett.

Peterborough, Summer 1978, four poets read their poetry in 1 minute spots on CHEX TV’s noon hour variety program. The four poets were Ian David Arlett, Ward Maxwell, Riley Tench and Dennis Tourbin. Overall, thirty segments were aired.

Northern_Catalpa_Leaf
I have pushed too hard,
                          too fast,
                            too far.

I’ve busted the lock.
The lock is bust and
I’m suddenly wailing.

Ridiculous me, so mortal, small,
                           so easily enthralled
with ridiculous me.
I tend to grasp
               to seize
                  too fast
and to come up short
on my expectations.
Damned, vainglorious
                expectations.

I am thrust to coolness
that trembles through me
                like a palpitating breeze
                through the cool catalpa leaves.

like a cool catalpa leaf
                I suddenly sense
some caterpillar thing
give breath to wings
that fan across me and
suddenly I shake
                uncontrollably.

 

Adolf Hitler was in this dream
in a downtown hotel in Manhattan.
He had riding britches and a funny
hat and
everyone called him,
“Mr. Chips”

He walked past a slot machine
in this dream.
He walked through a garish
hotel lobby and onto
the sidewalk.
He hailed a cab to go see
the stock market.

The first thing the next morning
I went for a walk along Aylmer Street
with a big black dog.
That dream was still inside my head.
I couldn’t believe it.
Everyone called him,
“Mr. Chips”

by Ian David Arlett

Contrast Ian’s style with Dennis Tourbin’s. Both work Peterborough effortlessly into their work.

Peterborough, Summer 1978, four poets read their poetry in 1 minute spots on CHEX TV’s noon hour variety program. The four poets were Ian David Arlett, Ward Maxwell, Riley Tench and Dennis Tourbin. Overall, thirty segments were aired.

Second poem from Ian in the series. It seems appropriate a boat on the river in the background appears to drive through Ian.

Peterborough, Summer 1978, four poets read their poetry in 1-5 minute spots on CHEX TV’s noon hour variety program. The four poets were Ian David Arlett, Ward Maxwell, Riley Tench and Dennis Tourbin. Overall, thirty segments were aired.

apollo-durer

I miss some splendid otherness
as on the pond
the sun comes up.
A lonesome distant frog chirrups.
Mystic fingers—
spiked with light—
play like fiddles on the water.
Am I never going to fall in love
again?

Sensible men are still in bed.
The city’s face is still with sleep
as through the fog a song
repeats.           At my side
half empty bottle,
fallen coppers,
golden weeds in disarray,
a crumpled angel where I lay and
on a stump
my rumpled shadow.

Disgusting Love that makes the heart
so weak and vile.
Oh wonderful Love the strength and
Truth.
Stupid, useless, excellent Love,
I miss your splendid otherness,
I need to feel your fingertips
or else I’ll drink you
clean away.

Ian David Arlett
image Albrecht Durer

Seascape with Distant Coast circa 1840 by Joseph Mallord William Turner 1775-1851
The sea gossips all day
at the green back door,
“I have come from Dunkirk,
I have come from Marseilles
and Dieppe.”
Death is half as cold as
that ocean there.
We do not swim but run in and out
with childish shouts and chilling spray.
The sea keeps talking all day,
“I was with Jason,
I shook hands with Homer.”
Or, other times, more silently it
trembles in the night and deposits
traces of the dead, a battered boot or
bow plank.
By the moon we sit on a stone
that’s as cold as the moon on
a beach more empty and
while you sleep
behind the green safe door
I watch them come —
those sailors from the old wars
up into the dark
with hollow eyes and broken arms.
In the morning the gulls go keeling
calling to the ocean while
we prepare breakfast.

And the sea? The sea is shouting,
“I have come from Rome,
I have come from Cathay.”

Ian David Arlett
painting: Seascape with Distant Coast circa 1840 by J. M. W. Turner 1775-1851

flood3

I don’t know what the flood
is up to today
I didn’t read the morning paper
or hear the radio tell the news about
stealers, rapers, and hurt lonesome people
I didn’t see the T.V. yet so I didn’t see the
latest about the muggers and killers
and the hurt, lonesome ones.
I didn’t want to listen to the flood today.
I wanted to rest from the flood today.
I didn’t want to get lead blind by
the sex jag or pushed around by the war game.
So I sat in a chair today in Ward’s kitchen
and wrote about the flood and the
waters rose up and moved over me.
And then someone turned the radio on
and underneath a blanket the T.V. yawned
and blinked and burped up facts and
I remembered the wind on the road
and I knew that I should be gone.

Ian David Arlett

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