Cralan Kelder - night falls and is slow to get up

A Woodburners We Recommend Publication 2005 series

Tall Tales

At dawn those dogs, cats, and husbands who
have been locked out are welcomed in. They are
given seats by the fire, asked to tell stories to
women who have not slept, but tossed and turned
in warm beds.
“Tell us once more,” the women beg,
“how it will end.”
The storytellers tell them: “That strange things
have been known to happen,” and come up with
examples.
Later, they soften, and tell them things like this:
“The sun is in my eyes, ~ if I say this about you,
it means something else entirely.”

Looking Out

from elevation
valley and mist

today’s world is a secret,
it’s been raining
and there
are no words left.

City

all buildings
a pile of stories
lit up from inside

a city block is lights from above
from below it’s a shouting match

Subtle Art

My neighbor is trying to seduce me.
We met once,
in the elevator.
He can see in to my window
and I can see in to his.
We can see each others’
girlfriends.
At night he opens the curtains
and plays a saxophone.
I turn out the lights and
pull up a chair.
He’s learning how to play.
Perhaps that’s why
this all works so well.

the sun comes out bringing everyone else with it

It was cool man, i slept in an abandoned car
first we want warmth,
once warm
we want happiness,
whatever happened to just being warm?

The Common Finch

One way of looking
is to listen.

Finches, look at finches,
heartening dabs of cranberry
which the dictionary calls “any small
seed-eating passerine bird of the family
Fringillidae”.

Finches are a reminder
of things fierce and delicate,
small creatures that congregate on the thinly strung
wires which connect
our buildings,
and sing to each other.

Small creatures that sing to each other.

Bait

“you can sleep here, if you like,”

that was months ago, and my heart
still hasn’t left
I drive by there
sometimes,
in the middle of the night,
roll down the window,
“here pussy pussy pussy,”
thinking maybe it will come back to me
appear at her window
come bounding across the lawn
leap in to my cavernous chest

Summer Goings

By the time you read this,
summer will probably be back,
blue & without end

but who needs endless days

open the window to sound
a telephone rings
no one answers

6

window six parts,
six parts lavender,
wind blows through them all

today a slight breeze seems to irk the rich heat of the sun

Call From Tokyo

attic room
lying on a small bed
in southern Holland
end of “summer”
it’s August, and she said
“no deal this year”
as far as I can tell.

All “summer”
clouds rolling in
like free samples of a new drink.

window open
listen to rain.
pretend we’re camping.

girl calls on telephone.

somebody in Tokyo loves me.
I love somebody in Tokyo.

maybe that’s the whole poem.

she’s leaving Tokyo soon
in an hour or two,
but I’ll still love her.

somewhere in between
the sun became the moon
and darkness held our lives for a while

I gave a dollar to a man on the street because he had the
weathered remains of a bandage caked on the back of his
head. He was shooing away an animal which i could not
see, although it may have been a pigeon. Upon receipt of
the dollar, he stood up, dusted his pants off, and gave
what was presumably his best line and a smile, his smile
the better of the two. He said: “Hey man, if you’ve seen
any...uh..blue..blue - headed..Amazons” whereupon
he faltered then regained his animation and laughed,
nodding, as if to say “send ‘em my way”. He was not
altogether without charm.

Wandered Off

but don’t worry
I’m just over the verge,
by the garden taking everything in.

The doe ankle deep in frog pond,
new corn shoots in the furrowed loam,
miniature bunches of grapes,
peaches coming along - old tree propped
up with wooden beams.

Small snake sunning itself by tomato plants,
and the Studebaker three generations since
parked in the grass.

Cralan Kelder has made his home in various locations - Africa,
USA, parts Europe, including the Netherlands where he is today.
The author of a book of poems Lemon Red (Coracle 2005)
he shares his hand as one of the editors of the journal
Versal (www.wordsinhere.com)

WOODBURNERS WE RECOMMEND PUBLICATION SERIES 2005

Now available ~

Cralan Kelder. night falls and is slow to get up. Longhouse, 2005. First edition. Fold out accordion booklet. New. Limited edition. $10 (+ $2 s/h)

As an act of goodwill and for poetry - Longhouse is sending out each month complete publications - online - of one poet (or more) we have published in booklet, broadside or postcard form for everyone to share. It's a way of giving back to many of you who have sent to us poems, letters, purchases and the same goodwill over the years. The series will fly in under the banner of our Woodburners We Recommend. It should also be felt as a certain warmth in memory to all our close and dear poetry comrades passed along - each one becoming more of a loss. Each monthly booklet will also be available for purchase from Longhouse. Issued in a very limited keepsake edition of 50 copies. Starting in 2006 we will begin to reissue and present past issues from Longhouse of select poets. For those readers that travel back as far as 1972 when Longhouse began, you know poetry was released like bandits by the day, by the week, by the month, and always free. We have never taken on grants and meant poetry to be seen & heard & on poetry terms. From 2005, into the Infinite, and within the universal cyber cosmos, we would like to share multiple poets with you....and only ask that you share them further.

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Tall Tales At dawn those dogs, cats, and husbands who have been locked out are welcomed in. They are given seats by the fire, asked to tell stories to women who have not slept, but tossed and turned in warm beds. “Tell us once more,” the women beg, “how it will end.” The storytellers tell them: “That strange things have been known to happen,” and come up with examples. Later, they soften, and tell them things like this: “The sun is in my eyes, ~ if I say this about you, it means something else entirely.”
	Looking Out from elevation valley and mist today’s world is a secret, it’s been raining and there are no words left.
City all buildings a pile of stories lit up from inside a city block is lights from above from below it’s a shouting match
	Subtle Art My neighbor is trying to seduce me. We met once, in the elevator. He can see in to my window and I can see in to his. We can see each others’ girlfriends. At night he opens the curtains and plays a saxophone. I turn out the lights and pull up a chair. He’s learning how to play. Perhaps that’s why this all works so well.
the sun comes out bringing everyone else with it
	It was cool man, i slept in an abandoned car first we want warmth, once warm we want happiness, whatever happened to just being warm?
The Common Finch One way of looking is to listen. Finches, look at finches, heartening dabs of cranberry which the dictionary calls “any small seed-eating passerine bird of the family Fringillidae”. Finches are a reminder of things fierce and delicate, small creatures that congregate on the thinly strung wires which connect our buildings, and sing to each other. Small creatures that sing to each other.
	Bait “you can sleep here, if you like,” that was months ago, and my heart still hasn’t left I drive by there sometimes, in the middle of the night, roll down the window, “here pussy pussy pussy,” thinking maybe it will come back to me appear at her window come bounding across the lawn leap in to my cavernous chest
Summer Goings By the time you read this, summer will probably be back, blue & without end but who needs endless days open the window to sound a telephone rings no one answers
6 window six parts, six parts lavender, wind blows through them all
	today a slight breeze seems to irk the rich heat of the sun
Call From Tokyo attic room lying on a small bed in southern Holland end of “summer” it’s August, and she said “no deal this year” as far as I can tell. All “summer” clouds rolling in like free samples of a new drink. window open listen to rain. pretend we’re camping. girl calls on telephone. somebody in Tokyo loves me. I love somebody in Tokyo. maybe that’s the whole poem. she’s leaving Tokyo soon in an hour or two, but I’ll still love her.
	somewhere in between the sun became the moon and darkness held our lives for a while
I gave a dollar to a man on the street because he had the weathered remains of a bandage caked on the back of his head. He was shooing away an animal which i could not see, although it may have been a pigeon. Upon receipt of the dollar, he stood up, dusted his pants off, and gave what was presumably his best line and a smile, his smile the better of the two. He said: “Hey man, if you’ve seen any...uh..blue..blue - headed..Amazons” whereupon he faltered then regained his animation and laughed, nodding, as if to say “send ‘em my way”. He was not altogether without charm.
	Wandered Off but don’t worry I’m just over the verge, by the garden taking everything in. The doe ankle deep in frog pond, new corn shoots in the furrowed loam, miniature bunches of grapes, peaches coming along - old tree propped up with wooden beams. Small snake sunning itself by tomato plants, and the Studebaker three generations since parked in the grass.