It’s Time for your Operation                         


Now, which ache, pain, or disorder led to Peter and Pat being at the hospital checking in for Pat’s major surgery, doesn’t matter at all. All that matters, is that her day had come at last. So now they sat, in a bare beige box of a waiting room. Peter sat idly thumbing through magazines. Pat nervously studied the otherwise empty bland, silent, room.
After some minutes, Peter said, I need to use the men’s room. You okay here alone?
Yes, sure.

So, Peter left Pat alone. As she idly picked up something to read, a man entered, and took a seat across. Pat glanced up from the page. Oh—blank face he has—tiny eyes. He is looking away. He is quiet; good. So. And, at last, an interesting article to read—thank God.
But—
Miss. Miss.  
The man. Look up.
Yes? 

The man said quietly, Are you here for surgery today?
Yes, I am. Why?
Are you nervous at all—about your surgery today? 
A bit, I suppose.
I bet you don’t know the real reason you’re here. 
Squint, but—what’s this—
Ma’am. I’m really sorry for this, but—you got to know. They told you you need this. But that’s a lie.
His eyes—what—
You’re not sick like they told you. No—you’re not.

His eyes—somehow—turned different, now.
—where the hell’s Peter—
Leaning slightly toward her, the man went on, saying, Have you really pictured what’s going to happen after they take you back there? You’re about to go back there to be slowly and methodically wounded. Really badly wounded—you know? Then, after today, it might take months or years for you to recover—if ever. It’s all an experiment, you know. They say you need this, that it’s to help you—but that’s a lie.  You don’t need to be here, Ma’am.  

She stared—motionless, afraid—don’t move—Peter, come back, Peter—her hands clenched hard as if holding on for life above a great drop.
Heh, he said, shifting in his chair—heh. Heh. They call it—an “operation”. Heh. Not hardly strong enough of a word for what they plan to do to you. They’ll use this blade, that blade, this drill, those saws, each tool designed to inflict a very particular type of injury. Heh. Heh.
Peter. Where’s Peter—

You’ll be knocked out lying there, with them shouting over you things like, scalpel! Forceps! Yes, heh! You won’t know, but they’ll be yelling scalpel forceps sponge sponge forceps scalpel hollering, and cutting. Cutting, and hollering—

—no—no—let go—let him go on. Breathe, calm—Peter’ll be back—this is just—nothing. Don’t look at him. Don’t look. Like—yes like you did way back driving to work in that stopped dead traffic by that red light waiting by that scary big teenage preacher, always there on that same curb you passed every day; scary, in his black suit and wide tie, holding his big black bible-book parted open, bellowing the word of God at the top of his lungs, staring at you, staring—always there every day—even in that blinding hard downpour that day—just don’t look over—these’re all just crazy. Just harmless. Just—don’t look. Just don’t look at th’ miserable drenching downpour soaking him to his skin, sluicing ice-cold to the gutter, or his book, or his yelling down, out, ’n away—no! It’s just sad. It’s just miserable. These kind are just miserable. Feel sorry. Just feel sorry. 

These can’t be saying the true words of God; no, these just shout loud-n’-long, all nonsense, all deluded, all ignored—‘n every time over’s just thank God, ah, the green light. Green at last—but where’s Peter—

The man went on speaking into the side of her face, saying—and when its all over, they’ll roll you into what they’ll call a recovery room. They’ll bring you around. You’ll think it’s nearly over. But the real torment’s just begun. They’ll surround you laughing loud down in your face as you waken to a world of pain—pain so horrible, that you’ll immediately regret having let them do this to you. You’ll hurt so much, you ‘ll wish yourself dead; maybe even wish you’d never been born. How fun! How fun! Then—and get this—for the next few days, they’ll toy with you. When your pain is most terrible, they will sedate you, and—and all will sink to gone, but, heh, you’ll slowly come around again, rising into torment, then, sedation, again—down, then up, back into torment—cranked tighter, harder, worse and worse every time—until they tire of you. They’ll cut you loose and send you home. 

But—ha! Ha! Your old life will be gone. Your new life will be—pain. So much pain, that you’ll cry inside, Why did I do this to myself? What was the reason? Was there ever any reason at all? You’ll struggle for hope. And sure, in time, things will calm a bit. But the pain will nag you. So you’ll go back. For more scans, examinations, tests—then they’ll tell you, hey, listen, Just one more small procedure will cure you. Oh yes, yes, don’t worry. It’ll be very small. Another minor operation’s definitely required, but—it’ll pay off. You’ll be totally well again. In your desperation, you’ll have no choice but to agree; bad memories slather’d o’er in the turned back to time, so, back here again! He. Hee. Te’heeeeeee! Yah, back here, for their pleasure, again—and again and again and again, as many times as they see fit! Because, you know—because your world’s not your world anymore, it is theirs! 

So now—tell me. Do you still feel good sitting here waiting for them today? Hey, listen. Enjoy these last moments you’ve left in your old world, because they’re about to blast it away after they take you back through that door—there’s a reason we’re the only species who cut each other apart for fun, and put each other back together again! There’s a reason and you—you are part of the very sick reason ah ah sick yes very sick sick sick sick reason—

Blam! 
Blam? 
Whut?

Hup, flinch, and duck! A blast of red engulfs the world, earsplittingly loud; the horrible crazy yelling man disappears, gone, transformed into a hot red boiling mist expanding out,  dissipating away from what’s left, which collapses, tangled, torn, red-soaked and sodden, onto the floor, a steaming bag of rags, and there, stands—the drenched crazed boy preacher, shotgun lowered, muzzle smoking, face pushed in your car window—why the hell’d y’ roll down your window, in this pouring rain—You, he shouts—you passed by every day, even now where I stood freezing in the rain, suffering to bring you God’s word, yes, God’s word—to save you! To save! But; look at me, soaked and suffering; why did you not help me? Why did you not help! He reaches in, grasping, yelling, You need punishment! 

Punishment! Punishment scalpel forceps punishment sponge sponge punish forceps scalpel punish’ no! No, no—you’re yelling, No, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—dear God, let the light turn! Let the light turn—now please, dear God—
Green!
Thank God! Bu—
Blam!

A final blast of red engulfs the world, earsplittingly loud; the miserably drenched raving holy boy yelling at you disappears, gone, transformed into a red roiling mist expanding out dissipating away from what’s left, which collapses, tangled, torn, red-soaked and sodden, onto the floor, a steaming bag of rags, and there, stands—Peter, leaning, shotgun lowered, muzzle smoking, standing where all the crazies had been, but now, thank God, all’s gone.
Peter! My God, my God!

It’s all right now, Pat. Come on. It’s time to go in the back.  
Uh—thank God, but—why’re you all in white? Those gloves, that mask, the—are you really Peter? Why do you look that way? Why those clothes? Why—my God.
What?

Where did you get that gun? You don’t do guns. You’ve never done guns.
Peter waved her face into silence.

Never mind. You are safe now. The only important thing now is—your operation. Come in to the back, they’re waiting.
Hear them? They’re calling. 
It’s time for your operation.


 

The river is another companion

The surprising stream was with you 
The mystery was carried away with the flapping sound of water 
Come down from the stone navel
Weapons wear torrent clothing
Hear the heavenly call throughout the centuries. 
You made me mound 
You are crazy and fickle about me
But a clear beauty blossomed under the current 
 Let's float in the waterfall
 Make love to the river.
 Fill the bubble with love
 Our fate is written on the gravel
 You are flowing with the river 
You are flying in the moisture
 That made my pores are wet. 
 Dreams wake the beauty of the boat
 Moonshing washes away sweat stains
 Drowning in your flow. 

I don’t believe you actually hear me.

You listen too strongly 

and can’t begin to fathom 

The continual storm of impulsive implications 

that jut themselves into my jugular.



Tearing and gnawing at flesh-

Pulling until skin snaps like spandex-

And I’m bleeding again.



But once the smeared scars sink 

Into my skin and 

I’m healthy like before,

Except now I am a liar.



So I scrape and saw away a little bit

At the end of every day and

Bruise my own cheeks for the sake of honesty.



And now I’m back at square one,

With your ears wide shut

And your eyes closed wide-



Why is the never-changing truth

That if I do not bleed, I must be lying.

Lizard

I sit on the parched front porch;
around me the house is falling down,
soon my rocking chair may fall through the verandah.
The lizard under the shadow of the rock looks at me
as though I am its new tenant.
My skin is dried and crinkled like my landlady lizard.
I may shed it soon.
Perhaps human skin is the latest lizard fashion —
Lazy Lizard, poke your tongue back in.

Old Elijah in the pawnshop looked at me between rows of watches,
'Latest crocodile skin bags, Sir.'
I wondered if his wife had died.
E.Levy's Emporium; goods bought, sold and exchanged.
Amongst broken guitars, pictures of flowers and chipped vases
ruled 'Lijah,
amongst his rocks, in their dusty shadow.
'Lijah Lizard, put your Woolworth glasses back on.

The sun beats down on my little verandah.
Here I am sitting like a guard watching my own Sahara.
Join the French Foreign Legion.
See the sands.
Allons enfants de la patrie.
French generals, German captains
dwelling in the shadow of Moroccan rocks,
Legion Lizards, put your képis back on.

It is near the end for me now.
Perhaps it is best to rest
instead of cramming in all those little things
I would like to have done.
I wanted to see the big city.
Still, there is an even bigger one
waiting for me now,
waiting for me in the shadow of the rock of ages.
Leaving Lizard, put your halo on.

9/1959

 
A note on 'Lizard'

'Lizard' was the first poem I ever wrote. I was seventeen, suffering teenaged angst & concerned about my mortality which, for some reason, seemed particularly fragile at the time. I don't know why but I decided to write about it, perhaps write it out of me or clarify my feelings. It ended up being a poem; & in the course of writing it my attitude towards death turned around. I was quite happy by the time I'd finished. I cannot remember if there was much revision. I have a feeling that there was little if any. & even then I wrote at a typewriter. Something about the separation between writer & instrument – you have to hold a pen; there is a distance between your fingers & a keyboard. It's like the start of a relationship. Those tentative touches to test the waters.

I knew no writers, though my mother wrote verse for the women's magazines of the time, knew poetry only through college & that part of my first year at University when I attended lectures. I think we did Eliot & Yeats at Uni, but everybody else I studied had been dead for at least a century. I was unenthusiastic about it. I was a musician, a classically-trained contrabassist. The cello would have been my preferred instrument – it still is the one whose sound I love the most if I put aside the personal sound of Miles Davis - but I was a lover of jazz, & the bass was an instrument for jazz.

But here I was writing. & sufficiently impressed by what I'd done to write some more. Three poems altogether, in the space of a couple of weeks. I showed them to my mother who suggested I send them off to the N.Z. Listener, a colonial imitation of the English Listener, the back with the radio programs, the front with articles & reviews & one or two poems in each issue. It was one of the few serious outlets for poetry at that time available in N.Z. I didn't know what literary journals were, or little magazines. Unsurprising, because I think there was only one of each in the country then.

They were accepted. 'Lizard' was the second poem published, just after my eighteenth birthday.

I still played & wrote jazz. But when I returned to university the next year I had the cachet of being a Published Poet. Yes, definitely capital letters. I didn't consider myself a writer but others did. I was asked to edit the University Literary Society's annual publication. I became involved with other writers. I discovered Poetry, got influenced by people who wrote it, felt I had to write, wrote crap for the next three years. There was nobody I knew who wrote like I did when I started out so I started to write like other people who I really had nothing in common with.

Somewhere during this time I gave up playing music. If I'd played flute or piano I might have continued, but playing bass in those days was a dangerous undertaking. Wellington isn't known as windy Wellington for nothing, & there weren't many yank-tanks around, & none owned by anyone I knew. The taxis were still relatively small, English-made but not English taxicabs. Most of them I couldn't fit my bass into. I had to carry it, my shoulder fitting into its waist, whenever I had to play anywhere. Ultimately the visions of me getting caught in an uplift & blown down a hillside or off the bridge between home & the university became too much.

What saved me from becoming a pallid poet in the English tradition was Don Allen's 1960 anthology The New American Poetry which probably made it to N.Z. the year after its publication. I found in it poets whom I felt at home with, who wrote in a similar manner to how I had done when I first started writing, whose influences I didn't mind. Who I quite shamelessly stole from. Gary Snyder's 'Riprap' — "Lay down these words / Before your mind like rocks;" MY's 'The Quarrel' — "Put down those words / rocks picked hastily from the beach of mind." Charles Olson's 'The Lordly & Isolate Satyrs' — MY's 'Oriental Bay' — "The motorcyclists of Cocteau / were Death's / angels." Frank O’Hara's 'In Memory of my Feelings' — "My quietness has a man in it;" MY's 'The Tigers' — "Within the tiger / reels a turmoil of desires." Poems to Denise Levertov, to LeRoi Jones. They went through my blender, came out sometimes smooth, sometimes chunky. But within a couple of years I was writing as myself, still referring to those who'd influenced me but from a different stand- & viewpoint. Openly acknowledging my influences is something I have always done. From 'Mirror/Images:' "There is / an A-Z of those whose images I have pursued / perused & used."

& it all started with 'Lizard.' It makes use of stereotypes but I knew no better then. It has the last vestiges of my belief in Christianity although I think that had gone out the window a year or so before, but not that long ago to make me hesitate to use facets of it. 'Lizard' is, in all senses, a pure poem. Colloquial, uninhibited by influences, its form shaped by the poem rather than the reverse. Because I always lumped my earliest poems in a basket labeled "crap, not to be opened" it took me forty years & the prompting of others to recognise it for what it was, a poem that still works, & something to be proud of.

"When one is seventeen, one isn't serious" wrote Rimbaud. But he was fifteen when he wrote those words, & I think he probably changed his mind in those intervening couple of years.

6/29/2004

Plate Tectonics Versus Gamma Ray Bursters

An old man remembers what he has been
yet the details are unimportant. Then
the outline disappears, and the meaning.

Good, I can die or go to work, be wise
or a jerk. Rich or poor, the wind and rain
wear us away and it’s o.k.

Ask what matters, that
question. Feeling the seasons, wearing a hat,
loving your woman, a good shit.

Children born. Two cells meet, multiply,
spiral into fetus. The mother is amazed:
an intelligence apart from herself.

The violent rainstorm kept me awake
although the lightning was still far away.
I lay in my bed and listened naked.




Cosmo's Moon

The only problem with "Moonstruck"
is Cosmo's moon could never be so large in winter,
stand for luck.

Mid-winter sledding brought joy
snow, speed, although the kids were beautiful
none were boys.

Walking the boundaries, and the old field
boundaries. Aged maples, barbed wire
past the cambium.

Northern hardwood all the way, except
less than an acre scotch pine plantation
and a few primeval spruce.

Pendant spruce cones in tree tops
colonizing the old field too. Conifers
a primitive civilization.

Lyonia has red, scaleless buds.
Shrub or small tree, maximum height 12 feet.
It's a heath, Ericaceae.

Small, white, bell-like flowers become
seamed capsules, similar to but smaller than
laurel, Kalmia.

The buds had me thinking red chokeberry,
Rosaceae, but of course the fruit
was completely wrong for a rose.

A timber stand improvement now
in the scotch pine would encourage tall
even straight trees, a cathedral.

The maples on the upper rocky slopes
where the skidders couldn't or wouldn't go
are impressive as eagles', hawks' nests.

Mid-summer, Spiraea, field of pink flowers
fully encircled by mountain ranges.
Bees working them.

Nancy, the broker, coming at five.
These 160 acres, a dream, are unnecessary.
Offer 500 dollars per acre.

Not an investment, a sanctuary.
Backed against the Taconic ridge,
real moon rising.




What Have I Seen?

1

Sunrise, late winter
skunk smell
turkey flock
playful otter, too.

The white heron
a great blue,
white phase,
in the abandoned beaver pond.

Purple clematis
its long-awned achenes
in globose heads
spidery, fiery, extravagant fruit!

To identify or classify
birds by
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.

And so
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.

2

What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.

Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,

consequential. We classify
and specify.
The commonplace and everyday
is sanctified.

What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoon, kids come back from school.

Evening, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.

3

Pray to Allah
and maybe he will spare you
when he sets the world
on fire.

Where or with whom
will I be on that day?
And how many people and adventures
will I find in the wind storm and rubble?

I may live, but will it matter
whether or not I help anyone else to live?
This is no Last Judgement.
Those who have learned or who still know how to live

will survive.
Nobody will go to hell, they will just die.
There is no limbo either.
Anyone who didn't find a way to be immortal is just dead.

So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
and alcoholics
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?

4

The doctor's conscious, organized,
naive attempt to do good,
his legacy, versus the randomness
of the road and the war zone.

There his legacy is his rectitude and natural
rough compassion for the damaged people
he encounters. The difference
between planning a legacy
       
as if you knew enough to control events
and letting the legacy arise
from events themselves, controlling,
insofar as you are able, only

your own actions and reactions.
The doctor's leadership role such as it was
grew out of not his material possessions
like the car

but his mission, his personal quest
to find the young doctors he had naively trained
and sent into the war zone
where all died.

5

July-a cold city
not as great or as gritty
as I thought, summer theater left
the shoe shine bereft of customers

eyes cold as a bureaucrat's
except for our soles
and their leather. Sweat-soaked
girls, the beautiful ones left town.

Emotionless as a bus.
Sparrows, no chickadees.
All that's important happens indoors.
Exercise to philosophies.

You get what you see.
The panhandlers ask
just once, won't risk
friendship, justice.

No sale today
in the finite city
where, for the shoe shine,
pedestrians are infinite, times two shoes.

6

Faith = wait + trust.
But don't anticipate.
Popper prohibits prediction.
Niebuhr expects destruction.

I believe in God
doesn't mean there's a sketch
of a man in my head. It must mean
all will be well in the end.

Satisfied with snow
or summer. And now
with dying old or younger.
Gold or paper clips. Gulps or sips.

In the final resting place
in the city of the dead
are there all night card games
and sometimes open swims?

Each inch, square, or cube of Earth
brim with grasses and sedges, dragonflies and spiders,
      sparrows and eagles.
The tiger lily and the water lily and the lily of the valley,
      the calla lily.
When a girl on a bicycle smiles, that is a smile.

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.

I CAN NEVER LOSE YOU

Age never mattered when it came to our love
or what treasures we had stored up in our hearts
Only your heart would understand my whispers
The storm in you rages when we are alone
And there is no doubt of the feelings that I have for you.. so special
In my life, I have suffered losses; people and things I loved
I lived through each one, although it was hard at times
Moments ago I lost myself to you and am lost in you now
But to ever lose you would put me over the edge.
I can't even think of it....




IF ONLY FOR NOW

Walk with me if only for now
Wherever life takes us is home
These moments are precious
and life could end without  notice
Dreams can come true or die
I have always been with your through time
I was the shadow that waited from afar
Did you not notice me on a sunny day or
hear my whisper in your ear through a warm breeze?
You could not see me in the past, but I am your future
Only the time we have been given is guaranteed
I will walk with you until we get to that fork in the road
Whether in reality or dreams... either way you'll be mine.




YOUR SWEETEST DREAM

I pretend to not see you look my way
I sigh because the love you have for me is so deep.
You take my breath away when you come towards me
My love for you only grows and I can't imagine myself
ever being without you...
Always take me with you

I long for you to always drown my life with your love
There is nothing you can give me that is worth more than that
I never fear what is in our future, whether joy or sorrow.
As long as we do it together is all that matters to me...
Never leave

And I pray you will always love me as your Sweetest Dream...
Hold me closer





THE REALIZATION OF LOVE

You might not be looking for it, and at times you even try to run from it.
But sometimes it just happens.
You look at each other, you smile, and you just know ... 
When love happens, you can't stop it.
Suddenly, life feels a lot brighter and happier. 
You become aware of his smile when he looks at the little things about you. 
And those little things become the poetry in his heart that he had been missing. Those little things also taught him how to love.




ON EVERY PAGE

On every page of our life together
I will sign my name
because your heart belongs to me,
just as with every memory we share
You appear in every poem I write,
and in every angelic song that I have sweetly whispered in your ear
True, is every love story we've lived
My smile is intentional
for you are mine
Every heartbeat keeps in time with the music of our rhythmic nights  
You are my Everywhere and my Always.


Bio:

Kristy Ann Raines is an American poet and author born in Oakland California, USA. Kristy has five books which will soon be published. One anthology with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, will launch sometime in October 2023 called, “I Cross my Heart from East to West.” She has also written two fantasy books entitled, “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and The Lion”, a collection of poems in English,” Walking Without You”, a collection in French, “Little Rose Poetry”, and one in Arabic called,  “Jasmine and Roses", to be released in the future.  Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.

Why Am I Sad?

Does that mean I’m lucky? If so,
Then why I don’t remember the dust on my joy?
Has my confidence disappeared with the cigarette ashes?

People age by love poems and happy-ending stories. 
Meanwhile, I age by the number of lonesome years.
My brother tried & failed to teach me how to stop crying. 

The very first moment I turned 18 eighteen years old, 
My grandpa came into my dream and said 
“ I’m no longer in trouble to express my mental illness.”

Thirty-four years and yet I shamefully liquoring up and smoke.
Colourless wounds, foggy nightmares and rusty sorrows in me.
Why am I sad? When everything is great but not remarkable.

Soul & Hope

I am riding in the subway again.
Breathless & sweaty melancholy visage,
as if autumn wear my soul & hope.
Her springy perfume permeate in me.

She whispers to the blooms flowers
while I am in sorrow to her dead roses.
I ask her to touch me gently, to kiss me softly.
Will she recall my heart how to bury the past?

I am wild with love, with a lifetime desire.
I am not an widow chair waiting for her dead soilder.
Stand side by side, I need to dream & not fall apart.
 Hand in hand, I’m thirsty to explore you in darkness.