Three Dance Poems—the first is brand-spanking new.

Recklessly Twenty-One

Full out one more time.

Fast. Eat the space 100 times.

Tilt. Torso reach down and side,

leg lift high, higher, highest to right 

flip your body, fast. Now lunge.Do it again.

Do it once more. Once more. Once more.

Splat. Stars. Blood. Ambulance. Blurred ER.

The oral surgeon looks like a young Max Von Sydow. 

He investigates, stings me, forces open my bleeding mouth.

How many hours in a spotlit dentist’s chair in the dim cave of that OR?

No one else helps us. We are alone and I am in love with him before 

he’s finishes wiring every loosey goosey tooth. He’s more gentle, even 

with glinting steel, than I ever imagined any man could be, and, once I’m 

good and numb, I forgive him everything, unaware that the next day I’ll face 

the world with Leslie Caron lips, chipmonk cheeks, metal criss-crossing 

broken teeth, and not yet recovered from my reckless break-up with Jim.

Bare Feet on a Tile Floor

Bob Dylan and I are growing old together.  

These days I rock to tunes in the Florida room. 

I walk with a cane, dance without it.  A mystery!

My dog worries as I whirl and watches from the safe couch. 

Once I wore pointe shoes. Wore them to death!

I’d wait until my slippers were useless, then take

the subway to Hell’s Kitchen. The old man at Freed’s

would fuss over the fit and I’d hand over dollars. 

No human audience for my dance needed now.

Hips swish with guitars, my feet, drums, and my head, 

arms take the melody in my return to the high desert, 

to my company of barefoot dancers. On late Sunday

afternoons, costumed in loose white pants, skimpy 

tank tops and Panama hats, we performed 

for Albuquerque’s brown and white families in the city’s parks.

“Hot chili peppers in the blistering sun” sang Bob

as we circled with partners then all together across hot 

green spaces, covering ground fast, with strong young legs, 

supple torsos. During the verses we’d each solo, while the others 

reclined on the grass, hats over their hearts. Laura twirled her lament, 

Robert shot his enemy with a finger gun, fierce and convincing,

Randy escaped in great leaps from the Sheriff’s posse, I bent 

back, face to the sunset, leg extended, hands folded in prayer.

Soon after the company broke up, the first swath of AIDS 

cut down Randy and Robert. One had his lover nearby, 

the other, disowned by his family, died broke and alone 

in Long Beach, California.  Golden Linda, my drinking buddy,

my roomate on tour, died young, too. She kept on with Cutty Sark, 

fine wine, finally cheap vodka until cirrhosis got her.  We touch 

again when I dance to Dylan on the radio. He carries us all along.

published by Mojave River Review, 2014

Alice Turns Adam Down

"So, you see, you are simply the wrong partner

for this part of the dance. I'd thought 

someone in a blue shirt, with a side part 

in his blond hair, and your hair is red. 

So even if you changed your shirt to a blue,  

I wouldn't, simply couldn't, choose you.

Dance with someone else, why don't you?

You could dance with the woman over there 

wearing that very long string of pearls.

Or how about that woman in the long red dress. 

Do you like long dresses? Or someone else?

Oh. You often wear blue shirts, do you? 

You don't care for long dresses or pearls? 

You like my green eyes and so choose me? 

But that doesn't matter, to me, you see. 

You are simply the wrong partner for this part of the dance.”

Published in my collection, “One Day Tells its Tale to Another,” 2013

On Feeling a Certain Age

That’s me in the photo. I was 19, performing in a Juilliard dance concert. My partner, Mark, was not looking at my ass; he was looking at my supporting leg, making sure that he was supporting me en pointe. I’m posting this photo of me at 19 and these poems because I don’t feel strong today, and in the tradition of Emily Dickinson’s “This is My Letter to the World” sometimes you just want to throw it out there. I have some nerve including poems of my own with one of Emily’s, but there you go.

This is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me,-- 

The simple news that Nature told, 

With tender majesty. 

Her message is committed 

To hands I cannot see; 

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me! 

Emily Dickinson

-------------------------

Whirl

Wanna,wanna, whoop de loop.

Hold my baby, kiss my mom,

dance the way I used to do.

Desktops, blacktops, cut and paste,

speed down hills, learn the rules,

Sister Saint Marion, married to Christ.

Sixteen, life-green, pink tights, Swan Lake,

an Italian summer, a Venetian romance,

NYC my campus, Matisse, Philip Glass,

then mountains, desert, New Mexico’s gold, 

headstrong, headlong, swayed by applause,

wandering through canyons colored by God.

A year spent in England, the Isle of Wight,

rock seafronts in Cornwall, Land’s End of the world,

a pause for the Maritimes, soft greens, booming tides.

Then my bearings got lost. I was drunk on the street--

had nothing but loathing till they lent me a hand.

Wanna,wanna, whoop de loop.

Hold my baby, kiss my mom,

dance the way I used to do.

My mind’s got some fluff but she copes well enough. 

I’ve foundered in Florida with its heat and humidity, 

glorious beaches, and churchy stupidity.

I have a sick heart so I do less and less, 

but I write at an old French writing desk.

I could use a cruise, a steadier step, 

a long walk in Paris with Johnny Depp.

It appears gone for good are dramas and bothers, 

threats and therapists, drunk, needy lovers. 

And... lovely, lovely, lovely is my cat’s furry belly.

After Another Reading of Raymond Carver's "All of Us"

Young, strong, brave me, doing all that!

Dancing, teaching, performing, making this,

making that. I drank great draughts

of art, all kinds, you name it.

Used the fine work out there

to define, refine, defend my being,

my sincere effort to soar.

It was almost glorious.

There was, of course, a catch. For many

of those nearly triumphant years, I slogged

through a swampy mess each night.

Yes, every night. I'll stand by that.

Same old, same old. So and so loved me, but

I wanted you and you wanted her, then her.

And for all that time I couldn't get free,

couldn't toss you off, over, away, used Scotch

to dull my fury and so became more pitiful.

From here, out of all that, well-rested,

I can see that awful catch of mine

has a place at the table, in fact, near

the head, across from the almost glory.

My foolishness can be read, watched,

listened to, painted. And it has been.

Will be. Now it's time for some lunch.

Alice Turns Adam Down

"So, you see, you are simply the wrong partner

for this part of the dance. I'd thought 

someone in a blue shirt, with a side part 

in his blond hair, and your hair is red. 

So even if you changed your shirt to a blue,  

I wouldn't, simply couldn't, choose you.

Dance with someone else, why don't you?

You could dance with the woman over there 

wearing that very long string of pearls.

Or how about that woman in the long red dress. 

Do you like long dresses? Or someone else?

Oh. You often wear blue shirts, do you? 

You don't care for long dresses or pearls? 

You like my green eyes and so choose me? 

But that doesn't matter, to me, you see. 

You’re simply all wrong for this part of the dance."

Classical Radio

Claude Debussy

I am listening to Debussy and so here are two romantic pages from my book, One Day Tells its Tale to Another. We all have these moods, don't we?

All is Ready

I have bathed in patchouli oil and my heavy hair is lustrous from brushing.  I am wearing my gold ankle bracelets with the ruby charms that my love gave me when we had been married one year.  My robe is fuchsia silk and under it I wear black satin that bares so much of my olive skin. Anise and cinnamon tea is prepared and I have purchased date and nut sweets.  Our home is cool as the breeze from the Bosporus flies through our rooms with the movement of the fans.  Aimee’s husky voice drifts through the apartment.  My public garments hang out of sight.  I do not need their black modesty here.  Gold brilliants hang from the veil I wear tonight. He will remove it when I finish my dance.  Or maybe he will not wait for my dance to finish.  My husband will return soon from the dangerous West, and I am ready for him.  We will recline on tasseled pillows and I will tell him of the baby that is growing in my womb; we two will become three. I am happy to be so beautiful, so beautiful for him.

At Harry’s Bar

The piano player stole souls.

They came close--to cling to the wool 

of his trousers, his foulard tie,                           

his worn jacket and blue cotton shirt. 

They nestled in the creases lining

his slight smile and hung from his arms

as they ranged across the keyboard 

with soft or scorching fingerings.

Melisande resisted, remained intact, 

in place, unbent. Her's was an anima

with defenses against bar room thieves.

Notes sailed past her pale skin--

could not pierce pores and steal in 

to capture her bruised and tender core.

As he played on through the hours

his power soared and dismayed Melisande. 

He would not have her. He would not.

Sipping gin, she glanced up from the safe, worn

mahogany where she’d fastened her gaze.

The patient mirror behind the bar

had been waiting for her dark blue look.

There the melody in his eyes, his soft brown eyes,

shot through glass to reach for her, gently.

Through the haze his invitation glowed with promise.

Slipping from her stool, conceding once again,

Melisande went to him, body and soul.

Me at the Thomasville reading. I don't know why my hands are in fists.

One-Stop Book Tour, More Kittens, A Bigot, A Nazi, Jesus, and Folk Singers.

In the middle of August I drove to Thomasville, Georgia to participate in a book event, sponsored by The Bookshelf, an independent book store, at the Thomas County Public Library. I had a fine time reading from my poetry collection, One Day Tells its Tale to Another, sitting at a table among 17 other authors, chatting, listening, networking (I think), enjoying the bookish milieu. For luck I wore both strands of pearls my mother left me, and they worked: I didn’t stumble, wobble, freeze, faint or burp. I even sold some books. After the reading I drove to Tallahassee, checked into a swankish hotel and read or watched movies on TV for two days because it poured off and on my whole weekend away. I did visit the old state Capitol, had it all to myself, and read about the political history of Florida. Most of that was as heart-wrenching as I expected it to be, but there were shining moments. Did you know that the pioneers in protecting the state’s ecosystems were  women?

Another litter of backyard kittens was born in June. Their mother has disappeared, but they have a champion in Peach, a gorgeous little guy who was born in the spring. He watches over the four toddlers and my brother and housemate Drago and I feed them twice a day. I am going to get them all fixed (somehow) when they are old enough, or our backyard will, at least in terms of cat population, will be like Venice or Rome.

Last week there was a raging bigot hanging out in our Florida room.  It was the first time I've been afraid of being alone in our house with a man, or woman, for that matter. I didn't like the way he called me "dear" and I didn't like the way he went out of his way to assure me I'd be safe with him--he wasn't going to cause no trouble. Bud the roofer finally came to fix the leaks. This has been a summer of deluges here on the Panhandle. Bud has MS and the heat is bad for him and I'm sorry about that. He came inside every now and then to cool off and drink ice water. I was watching the ceremony commemorating Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The first time Bud saw the camera pan to Pres. Obama, he said "I'd like to shoot that man." He's ruining this country." I said, in a civil voice, I'm a Democrat and I voted for him twice. Bud shook his head a few times at the speaker, King's daughter, I think, then went back to the roof. He came back in later when Obama was on screen again, and let it rip. "He has no right to be President-he's not a citizen-he should be in jail-he's a Communist, a Socialist, a Muslim, not a Christian. I said something about it was the 1% who hold the wealth in this country that are hurting it and Bud said, "If they have that much money they worked for it or inherited it," and I, raising my voice, said that they stole it or their family stole it, and he said, "Every man is entitled to the money he works to git," and I said I didn't want to talk about this anymore, that I was getting upset, and thank you for fixing the roof. Luckily, he was finished with his work and as soon as he went out the door I locked it. I was shaking. Smoked one of my brother's cigarettes. My gut told me to get out of Florida-then I thought, no. We all can't leave the state to people like him.

I went to the bank Saturday to cash a royalty check for $19.60. The guy in front of me had an Iron Cross tattooed on his neck. I wondered, hopefully, if it was a sloppily done Maltese Cross. Then I looked down and he had a big swastika on his calf and other mean looking tats. I put more space between us. What's was going on with my Karma last week? The bigot roofer Wednesday, and and then a Nazi?  Jayzus!

Speaking of Jesus, I’m halfway through Reza Aslan’s fascinating book Zealot. I often promise myself I’ll read more nonfiction, and when Drago finished this book, and I’d finished another Donna Leon mystery, (speaking of Venice) I plunged into the first century, Common Era. I recommend Zealot to anyone who is curious about the historical life and times of Jesus of Nazareth. And who wouldn’t be? Okay. Many of us. One thing though: there is a hell of a lot of rampaging, bathing in blood, chopping off of heads, all that. Aslan reassures us that violence has been with us all along. I knew that, but damn!

Yesterday I read again, but this time close to home. My friend Katrina and I went to an open mic and music performance in Lynnhaven (so, one town away--a tiny tour.) The other performers were folk singers and storytellers. The afternoon tripped along with guitars, bass fiddles and some heart-stopping voices. Warm people, good music--the best parts of Southern. It was a fine start to September.

Drago, Book Promotion, a Poem about Waitressing and a Video of Gabriel Orgrease Reading "Lavender, a Liberal"

My brother Drago is a Catholic Buddhist. He has been lighting many candles in hopes of influencing the choice of new Pope. I hope this works and Drago has a say, because he knows what he's about, whether it's teaching yoga, explaining the basic concepts of Singularity to me or to someone with a chance in hell of understanding what he's talking about, or 16th century English literature--which brings me, in a clunky segue, to me.

As you may or may not know, I have written a collection of poems and it has been published by The Linnet’s Wings and is available on Amazon and through Create Space. For some reason, if you buy it on Amazon, I, the actual author, only get $1.47 out of the $16.00 price. If however, if you buy it from https://www.createspace.com I get $4.67. It is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, and I’ve put my reviews, which are also on Amazon where the book has a 5 star rating, (but don’t buy it there!) on my website, http://www.nonnieaugustine.com. So, that’s about that. I do not like having to promote my book this way, but there you go. I’ve never been businesslike and I’m not just saying that to sound artistic. When I was four I decided I wanted to be a ballerina, and decisions like that one have kept on coming throughout my life--dancer, special ed teacher, obscure poet. I did pretend to be a secretary at one point, but I wasn’t very good at it, and I had only a vague idea about what my boss did. My secretary days were after I stopped dancing and before I started teaching. There were also a few stints at waitressing that taught me many things about myself and life that I hadn't learned in dance class and, happily for me, I got a poem out of them. It’s in my book. Oh, hell. I’ll post it here because you may not buy my book just to read my poem about waitressing.

THE FRIENDLY WAITRESS

On my two-top young lovers gaze at each other and share

her linguini, his prime rib. He butters her bread and she purrs. 

Three salesmen drink and eat and stare at my body. 

I try not to mind; they'll tip me 20%.

Our king, the Chef, rules his steamy realm 

with steely eyes, paces his rum. Before closing

he’ll be maudlin, desperate. The sous chef flirts, 

quips, chops and slices. We like him for his cheer. 

The old Greek grunts as we pick up his exquisite meringues,

tarts and layer cakes. Dishwashers talk trash in broken English--

not the paper-pale junkie. His silence is frantic.

I hoist my tray with six covered dishes. My back and feet

scream “Quit!” At my six-top a tired toddler's flung 

mashed potatoes at his sister, the floor, their table.

 If I clean up the mess now, I’ll fall behind; drinks wait

at the bar for the three-top, I need to take a dessert order

from the lovers, clear the four-top because the fucking 

busboy is hopeless. Two more years and I'll be a teacher.

Will I make it? Will I still be kind?

Lest you think this collection, which you may or may not be thinking about buying is full of swear words (it’s not--just a few) or dour, here’s a wonderful thing that a poet friend did to my great delight and surprise. He made a video of himself reading one of my poems. Gabriel grappled with a line or two and he kept that in his reading, but I love it all the more for that. (I am writing in a peculiar voice today. This is something that happens from time to time. It may be because I am embarrassed about promoting my book. Dunno.) Here’s the link to the video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=afnBroeRGyI

  

This is the car I drove in Albuquerque from 1973 to 1979.  There isn't a poem about it in my book, so I've given it a picture here.

Nonnie Interviews Herself

Clifford Garstang, http://cliffordgarstang.com/?p=3412, the editor of Prime Number Magazine, published by Press 53, has invited me to participate in The Next Big Thing series, a chain of self-interviews where authors talk about their new/forthcoming collections and projects. Thank you, Cliff. My book of poems has only just been published, so this is a welcome and timely opportunity for me. Answering these questions has also helped me climb some of the way out of the hole dug for us all by a shooter in Newtown, Connecticut.  It feels good to write.

 If you click on Cliff’s link above, you’ll see not only his answers to this list of ten questions, but you’ll see links to the writer who tagged him as well as links to the blogs of all the writers whom Cliff has tagged. Down at the bottom of this page I’ll link to the Diana Ferraro’s  and Marty Lopez's blogs and they will link to other writers. We are all answering the same questions, and you can discover new writers, or read about the projects of people you know, by following the links. So here goes:

What is the title of your book?

My poetry collection is called One Day Tells its Tale to Another, published by The Linnet’s Wings. on December 16, 2012.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

My poems are loosely based on my life. There is one about a witch, and two about murderers (one of them had good cause) and I’m neither a witch or a murderer and the very last two lines in the collection give advice, and I’m not usually a giver-of-advice, but all the poems come from something in my experience. Although it may be that there is only a line that links directly to what I’ve seen, heard, touched or been touched by, each poem goes through me to you, hopefully. When I read a favorite poet, there is a sigh, or flash, or breath of connection and my inner world becomes slightly, or vastly, changed.

What genre does your book fall under?

Poetry: with and without rhymes, formal (well, there are two villanelles, one sonnet, and a sestina. (Writing sestinas is a form of masochism.) informal, with serious themes and not so much. I have a poem about Chinese noodle soup, for instance, and there is a poem about taking care of my mother during her last year of life. There are some sexy poems, too. Breasts are mentioned. And lips. They are one to two pages long; no epics or allusions to Greek or Latin poets. And there are pictures in my book of poems! My brother Robert Knisel’s wonderful photographs start each section. (I can say that because this is, after all, my blog.)

 Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

What a question about a poetry collection! I have to skip this one because I’m heading into crazy daydream territory and I’ll never get on with the interview. In fact, there might be a poem about George Clooney simmering. Johnny Depp is already in my book. No. I’ll do the next question.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Um. No. I can’t do this question either.

Was your book self-published or represented by an agency?

The Linnet’s Wings, a literary magazine, published my book. It is available online through http://www.thelinnetswings.org. Click on SHOP, but please read the stories, poems, flash fiction, micro fiction, and editorials in the magazine, too. Marie Fitzpatrick is the managing editor and she manages it artfully. It is also available on Amazon. The link is to the right on this page.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Nine years.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. That’s probably a stretch.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

In 2001 I had open-heart surgery (I’ve had two!) and soon after developed a crush on my cardiologist. I had a dream about him, and an image from the dream became the first line of the first poem I’d written in many years and I’ve been writing poetry and fiction ever since. Here’s the poem:

IN TIME,

we will walk on gravel paths 

studded with gemstones.

Our plates and bowls will be chipped

porcelain exquisitely painted.

When we drive in our weary car

we will listen to Mozart.

Sunlight will fade our carpet

and our windows will be

draped in fine French lace.

We will dress for work

and undress for pleasure.

Sway and I’ll steady you.

If I should slip, you’ll put me right.

Each will soften the landings

of the other’s great leaps.

As we sit at this café table 

in Montmartre, sheltered

from the downpour, I see our future.

I will write it down on torn paper, 

using a sapphire pen.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It is safe for me to say, I think, that if you read this blog, “Augustine’s Confessions,” you will enjoy reading One Day Tells its Tales to Another. I hope so.

Diana Ferraro will be talking about her book, The French Lesson, on her blog http://dianaferraro.wordpress.com on December 20.

Marty Lopez will be talking about his book, Void & Sky, a Collection of Prose & Poetry, on his blog http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/ on December 28.