Poetry Magazine, Ric Masten, Spring 2007

Poetry Magazine

Ric Masten

USA

Poet / Artist Ric Masten was born in Carmel, California, in 1929. In his youth he studied art in Paris, France. Became an oil painter and has had many exhibitions in the United States. He then became a songwriter / folksinger. In the 70s & 80s he got interested in poetry and toured extensively over the last thirty five years, reading his "Speaking Poetry" in hundreds of colleges and universities in North America, Canada, and England He was
named Carmel’s “Poet Laureate” in 2003, and CSUMB honored him as the 2005 “Distinguished Fellow in the Arts.” On May 19th 2007, Cal State University at Monterey Bay is bestowing upon Masten an Honorary Doctoral Degree of Letters. He is a well-known conference theme speaker. In 2005, he addressed the National Conference of Prostate Cancer in Washington DC. He lives with his poet-woodcarver wife Billie Barbara in the Big Sur mountains of California. He has nineteen books to his credit.
http://www.ric-masten.net/WordsOneliners.html

A Sleeper

to be a poet reading
is chancy work at best
tough enough to face rejection
but worse
far worse — this

you fell asleep
even as I read you closed your eyes
and dropped
your head upon your chest
and to this day
I marvel that you kept your seat
nodding east
and west

and although I find it sad
I guess it's only human
that looking back upon a sea
of open faces
I can best recall the one that slept
and wonder
were you overtired
or simply bored
with all that I expressed

only now writing this
years later
have I thought to ask about the dream
you might have had that day
and all
I may have missed

The Deaf

imagine a woodsman
swinging an axe in the distance
the tree speaking out of sync
then nothing
except what is left in your eye
chips still fly but your ears
dumb fleshy things
hang from your head
useless handles frozen stiff

the world around you
fills with dead air
the quiet thickens
till the atmosphere is packed solid
surrounding you like clear wax
and every one there
rides in a limousine
stars of the silent screen
seen through shatterproof glass
the faces glide past
lips moving like goldfish

the trumpet has lost its voice
the sea shell — mute as a dish

my god in a place like this
what do you do with a word
like inconceivable?

spell it she said
hands moving behind the question
in a kind of semaphore
and you talk to fast

later that evening
the poems fell from my mouth
little naked birds crying for life
and who would have known
they were there
had she not taken them into her care
holding them up
till they could fly on their own

and back where this began
the tree came crashing down
and the sound
was the sound
of the deaf applauding

“Poor Devil!”

in my early twenties
I went along with Dylan Thomas
boasting that I wanted to go out
not gently but raging
shaking my fist
staring death down

however this daring statement
was somewhat revised
when in my forties I realized
that death does the staring
I do the down

so I began hoping
it would happen to me
like it happened to the sentry
in all those
John Wayne Fort Apache movies
found dead in the morning
face down — an arrow in the back
"Poor devil."
the Sergeant always said
"Never knew what hit him."

at the time I liked that...
the end taking me
completely by surprise
the bravado left in the hands
of a hard drinking Welshman
still wet behind the ears

older and wiser now
over seventy
and with a terminal disease
the only thing right about
what the Sergeant said
was the “Poor devil” part

“Poor devil”
never used an opening
to tell loved ones he loved them
never seized the opportunity
to give praise for the sun rise
or drink in a sunset
moment after moment
passing him by
while he marched through his life
staring straight ahead
believing in tomorrow
“Poor devil!”

how much fuller
richer and pleasing life becomes
when you are lucky enough
to see the arrow coming

Big Sur Country

it is called Big Sur Country where I live
and many men of letters have passed through
none have denied its beauty
but few have felt at home here
old Henry Miller — city born
burned his bald head brown
trying to catch the color of the sun
at Partington
like Icarus he failed and in the end retired
to a cement maze south of here
more at home in an elevator
than at those dizzy heights

and Jack Kerouac
hitched his way along this granite coast
with no real sense of belonging
crawling here like an ant he found the place
a graveyard
the off shore rocks
tombstones in a ghostly surf
on the road running like a child in the dark
hearing things in the bushes
he hurried north
to hide in the mulch pits of Marin County

and Richard Brautigan has come and gone
and others drawn to and driven off
by the size and silence of this place

but Jeffers knew
that soaring old predator — sharp eyed
he knew
if we could speed time up — fast enough
we would see that the mountains are dancing
and with us

Master of Ceremonies

I refuse to believe in personal free choice
It feels like I have it
but when I back away from something I’ve chosen
it always turns out that the choice I made
was based upon something I didn’t choose

I arrived predetermined
gifts and talents, DNA, IQ, disposition,
all of which begat the artist
that begat the actor/playwright
that begat the troubadour
that begat the poet
that begat the minister
adding up to the master of ceremonies
I am now

I ask myself how lucky can you be?
able to make a good livelihood
by assisting in the creation
of unforgettable moments
for audience and congregation
but most of all
for the couples I have danced with
on the beaches and rocky promontories
that grace the Big Sur coast
Ethan & Kathryn
“I now pronounce you husband and wife”
and by so saying help shape the future

for someone who doesn’t believe
that my choices are free
I rejoice in the life that has chosen me

http://www.ric-masten.net/WordsOneliners.html