TANGERINE SYMPHONY

Monday shuffled the rain’s pages, soggy and spent.

Tuesday threw a lifeline to resurrect dreaming.

After this many days of torrential rain and thunderstorm—

the sun’s image fits in a miniature dollhouse’s tiny white frame.

The velvet masquerade would still occur on Saturday; everyone wearing purple.

I sent away for the starter happiness kit, but my credit card was declined because my brain loses its mooring.

You should dead-bolt your front door—the circus is in town.

I apologize that the long-winded letter I sent burst into flames that I meant to be goldfish-orange lilies—

and also, that my “I’m sorry” email infected your hard drive.

Shit happens, but no one was supposed to bleed on shrill speed.

If it were all a mobïus strip—

people like you couldn’t jump off at craggy cliffs with lost seabirds.

What did I take you for on our high-speed chase in summer with all the windows down?

I could do all our math during any unforeseeable traffic delays while rubbernecking.

I assure you I’m qualified to decorate doubt;

that disillusionment hinges with the clock—

spiritual fatigue when one can‘t find more pills.

Love can’t heal everything—but you won’t see that in your social feed.  

Soldiers lie down to drink desert stars because the poison is way too close.

Not everything can be reassembled with industrial glue.

When you make a mistake, fold it in like a watercolor painting—

just don’t chisel the sculpture down to alabaster dust.

There’s a number to call for that, a hotline for a metaphysical fix.

Later, you can return your beliefs C.O.D.

I’ve grown new enchantment from seed.

If/when, pretend—that what we’re waiting for might be worth the gauze bandages.

What do you expect for a dollar?

The paper is soft like a thin cloth, harboring lilacs.

I lost the lines you were waiting for; spent that money on champagne.

It’s the rain’s fault—its breath on the sunflowers

causing the most-pronounced blurriness—

the fog swallowing airplanes.

The snake in the garage eats its own tail in private when no one is home.

If we buy the pontoon boat, we’ll be pleasure-laden—

now that you’re reading this—

now that your focus is realigned with hummingbirds.

Frenetically, their thin wings pump in overdrive to keep emerald bellies afloat.

Somewhere a family mourns their lost vacation by the sea,

the barnacled mussel shells their youngest gathers when the tide leaves for sleep.

Without his compact leather briefcase, a man in a stolen country paces a faded, Persian rug.

Someone in a lost city shrugs that none of this matters.

There’s no grand gesture to end any of it.

Now what?

I wasn’t privy to the memo.

I’m preoccupied, growing new hands to conduct a symphony of tangerine.

There is nothing I know inside.

This entry was posted in General. Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to TANGERINE SYMPHONY

  1. Peter says:

    Yes. It is a tremendous privilege to see this poetry, live. So yes. If this were physical, it would be a great formula, for example…
    ___________________
    Let us assume that there is a relationship between the Higgs scale, the proton scale and the electron scale and that this relationship is given by
    MH1  mp 
    m =Sm pe
    Where
    M H 1 = Higgs boson mass mp = proton rest mass
    me = electron rest mass S = scale factor
    Equation (1) means that the ratio between the Higgs mass to the proton mass is proportional to the ratio between the proton mass to the electron mass. Now, let us postulate that the scale factor is 10 times the electromagnetic coupling constant α. Thus the equation for the Higgs mass is
    MH1 = 10α  p 
     m2 
     me  
    or
    (2)
    (3)
    1
    (1)
    MH1 =
    10α m2 p
    me

    Where
    α = fine structure constant or electromagnetic coupling constant.
    S = 10α = scale factor
    The value calculated with this numeric formula is
    MH1 = 224.1154854× 10−27 Kg MH1 =125.8905957GeV/c2

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Thank you for reading “Tangerine Symphony” and all my new poetry, and for commenting/interacting–much appreciated.

      Thank you also for the quantum physics analogy–what an amazing comment!

      You sent me to Wikipedia, which was a great read. Higg’s field connected to the open field of the poem. Excerpt from Wikipedia:

      Higgs field
      The Standard Model includes a field of the kind needed to “break” electroweak symmetry and give particles their correct mass. This field, called the “Higgs Field”, exists throughout space, and it breaks some symmetry laws of the electroweak interaction, triggering the Higgs mechanism. It therefore causes the W and Z gauge bosons of the weak force to be massive at all temperatures below an extreme high value.[e] When the weak force bosons acquire mass, this affects the distance they can freely travel, which becomes very small, also matching experimental findings.[f] Furthermore, it was later realised that the same field would also explain, in a different way, why other fundamental constituents of matter (including electrons and quarks) have mass.

      Unlike all other known fields such as the electromagnetic field, the Higgs field is a scalar field, and has a non-zero average value in vacuum.

      I studied theoretical quantum physics and the applications to poetry at CUNY, Graduate Center. I own a large hardcover dictionary of theoretical physics and mathematics.

      Wishing you all that is good,
      Krysia

  2. Peter says:

    Impeccable judgment of
    Verse, stanza.

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Thank you so much I’ve been writing in this style/form since April 2020 National Poetry Month. Prior to that I was writing prose poems with longer stanzas.

      I wake with lines falling from my mouth. then I cull and extend the lines. It’s heaven.

  3. Peter says:

    It is the easiest thing in the world to undervalue a poem; to read it, and to move on
    as if we’ve ‘finished’ it. Even when we reread it, or put it away and read it again later, we do
    not meditate with the poet for quite a while more; during an occasional moment of insight
    or epiphany, at best. Otherwise, this would assume that we can think more quickly than the
    poet, for one—as the poet must produce the poem from an unfathomable depth and with
    the greatest of insight and labor, in the first place—and that we possess the foresight to
    deconstruct the poet’s own thought and ability in the process, when, in fact, we are only
    thinking our own thoughts, largely in spite of the text.
    Is it the poem that we love, the poet, or our own sense of well being, voyeuristically
    engaged with random ideas? The text is much more than the words, lines, and verses. The
    poem is a gift, a surprise, which is why we love the encounter. It is as if it is for us, so we
    habitually try to take its possession. That is where we fall far short in being its worthy
    recipients.
    I realize that the only good response to first approaching a new poem is to thank the
    poet and no more than that.
    So, thanks.

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Your comment is a gift to me. I took a screenshot on my phone to save it.

      You get it. You get my poetry. You get me. I think you’re brilliant, btw, and I hope you have more books in the works to publish: philosophy, creative nonfiction, fiction, etc.

      I hope that your corner of the universe is treating you and your loved ones kindly. Ride your bike somewhere beautiful for me. Write about the sky, wind if there is anything, where you are in your thoughts.

      Thank you again,
      Krysia

  4. Peter says:

    Thankfully, my “corner” has become a “radius” (from infinitesimal calculus and deliberate ingenuity), and I’ve begun to write anew. Thank you. I’ll send you my ‘Sequel,’ when complete. Please, poem again?

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      I’m happy about your “radius” and love “from infinitesimal calculus and deliberate ingenuity.” It’s excellent that the literary muse(s) are gracing you. I’m looking forward to your sequel.

      I’ll post a new poem soon, “D I R G E (a ballet for 7 dancers).” I started it a couple of weeks ago but need to finish typing my lines of poetry that flow most mornings, adding/filling in, moving lines around, editing, etc. to finish the composition.

      I’ve been in lupus brain fog (cognitive impairment) hell since mid-June. It will clear up if I can rest physically, which is difficult this time of year with yard work and gardening here and at my mother’s. A teenager in the neighborhood took care of some hedge trimming today. Writing takes so much longer and so much more mental energy and focus, unfortunately. An immunosuppressant I take weekly kind of knocks me out, too, but I’m complaining/venting, which I don’t like to do. I had some work-related emails that sucked up time and mental energy last week. Poetry saves me, so yes, I will ideally, finish the new poem tomorrow. Thank you for being a faithful reader. Your comments cheer me on.

  5. Peter says:

    Say hi to mom! Plus, how could you ever compose a better poem 💥 than this, anyhow? You need solitude, like Diogenes, Plato, Blake, or St. Thomas. Thank you for thinking well. We need that right now.

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Will do regarding Mom; she’s 86 now and going strong, thankfully. Thank you for the comment. I’ve written a ton by hand but need to type on my laptop—the lines I choose and add to and edit for the new poem. My cognitive energy I’m using sparingly and haven’t been with my laptop enough. Sorry it took so long to reply. Remembered the password for my website on my phone, surprisingly!

      Have you checked out the diaphanous micro e-issues via my other website: diaphanouspress.com? Not sure if you know about it or not?

      You are the Philosophy King. Rule brilliantly. The world needs it desperately, especially this country!

  6. Peter says:

    If only Jesus might publish something better, I might get one more logically congruent stuff, like the principles, you know, the IDEAS, or the Parmenidean Monad of Spinoza, right? God bless King Menos of Knosos!

  7. Peter says:

    Ps: I apologize. I may have posted prematurely. Tangerine Symphony just May be the greatest poem to date. Wow.

Leave a Reply to Krysia Jopek Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *