Pete's Poetry

Peter Liptak with coffee and laptop in Swakopmund, Namibia 2009
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Coffee and a Laptop: What other superpowers do you need?

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poetic Inspiration, Caffeinated Contemplations

Peter Liptak with coffee and laptop in Swakopmund, Namibia 2009

On Beginnings

Eleventh grade exposed me to an altogether different breed of educator; a man named Jon Rondesvedt, who bursting with enthusiasm for history, philosophy and the classics, issued us a challenge: turn in a typical paper or compose a poem. A daring dyslexic, I accepted…He beamed at my first foray, while his endless wonderawakened in me thatinescapable enthusiasm for the written word, thatlove of travel,and thatpassion forteaching.

Wanderlust came early in my imaginings, but a singular poem by Langston Hughes stirred my spirit to action. It was Dream Variation and much as Hughes had done in 1923, I struck out that summer, discovered languages and unexpected inspiration in unfamiliar cultures and odd little towns of Europe, found work in Freiberg, made my way to Matala…and found words in the languid stretch of sand, the leap from caved cliffs and that single demitasse of fine, unfiltered Greek coffee that was my respite each day. Since then, poetry has been my urge and my ache, my aspiration, my identity.

On Exile and Experience

Having earned my street cred in university as a preschool teacher, waiter, massage therapist, dishwasher & dance instructor, I determined that teaching was my ticket to the world, finished a TEFL certificate and moved abroad. 20 years as an expat has taught me much about language and about life.I found in Seoul a source of inspiration, linguistic and otherwise, and completed an MA in Korean Studies, exploringitshistory and poetry, while acting, teaching, copywriting and publishing through Exile Press.

As a traveler, I bring a catalog of stories to share; as a translator and sometime linguist, an outsiders understanding of the beauty and complexities of the English language;as a teacher, understanding of the classroom dynamic and an ability to inspire students;and as a publisher and constant creator, some real-world experience in the business of books. It is my hope that theseexperiences willallow me to contribute to the program and to my peers. Returningfrom self-imposed exile for a new journey of discovery-to poetry, to home, I’m excited by the prospect of penningnew projects.

On Poetry

Is poetry in the mind or in the heart? A journey of verse should take us somewhere unknown and yet somehow familiar, on a walk through the dark heart of words to the edge of truth, to the verge of vexation then back again, toa place newfound and fresh. Subscribingto the idea that,as Thoreau put it, “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live,” I went out and experience the world. Now, combining thoseexperiences and a willingness totear down and rebuild my composition skills, makes this the time to begin. 

Though my workis largely lyrical, as an essentially self-taught poet, I tend to ramble and overreach inalliteration. I hopeto simplify and to uncover truths that will resonatewith readers from more experienced poets and fresh-minded peers,and to strengthen my narrative sense. 

Eager to immerse myself in a community of like-minded creators, I hope to help foster more interaction between writers, designers and even animators, by interweaving poetry with art and multimedia to reach those who otherwise might shrink away from the idea of poems on a page. Bringing poetry to the masses is something that I believe is far more achievable than most reckon.

Feel free to contact me to collaborate peter@exilepress()com

...To find her gone
Blank like the memory
Of my fiction

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Cupid's Discovery

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, A little Burst o Truth

I love a child
A newborn smile
A great cry
From a firm slap
To the supple bottom
Of my quiet words

Her cheeks dimple
But smirking chastity
Chases the dream away

I scribble over and over
White on white
As she disappears behind
A liquid corner
I spill around
To find her gone
Blank like the memory
Of my fiction

Yet smiling, dancing
Ink-wise
Flowing
To return amid airs
To attend
To await poison
To take cursive
Arrows of passion

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Untitled

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

Oh the stars
how could i forget the stars
the spectacle of the Greek night
the great chasm of black
that connects to
the lingering blue of the Mediterranean
the mountains are camouflaged tan
to hide beneath the crickets
and the lizards
and the silent trees
as the specters slip
from caves deep in darkened tan

The black night is invaded
only by the moon's piercing glow
but Orion protects my sleep
and Cassiopeia fills my night
with dreams of heroes
after the Seven sisters
have sung me into a deep
dreamy sleep

Colored ink drawing of the Minoan ruins at Knossos, red columns and swirling locusts
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Knossos

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

Can you hear the locusts
all around?
They surround the palace
and siege the Minoan ruins with sound.
Everywhere an arid tan.
Windless
the dust settles on the green umbrella
of the trees dotting the intermittent hillsides
Then…
the wind bellows
tormenting the dry and delicate dust,
unsettled as if by the spirits of glorious armies…
Mycenae’s conquering troops.
A miniature tempest bursts from the palace stones
to settle again – but never settle like the spirits
and the chirping locusts all around.

your soul’s refraction
of seamless
satisfaction

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I know

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

how
to locate
your soul’s refraction
of seamless
satisfaction

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Last Breath of Night

Posted by Peter Liptak in Death and Chocolate, Poems

Morning let me die with you
for your breath is more promising
than death
I have seen the last breath
of night by morning light
and sucked life from it

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Webbed

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

Spinning
Eight legs
Smiling she waits
Silently
As I dance
I tremble with love
And twist about
She spins
Encircling me
With her power
I am lost

The Gift of Flight

Posted by Peter Liptak in Death and Chocolate

Up lifting down…
air currents race
as they chase each other
in the dusk chill.

Up lifting down…
frigid waters await
as Carmina Burana
occupies ears.

Up lifting down…
A spinning mind
desperate for decisions
rushing in wind.

Up lifting down…
the gift of flight
is short lived
and falls fleeting.

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desire

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

I daydream oft of redemptive blood
splayed about
the room
about me
and my twisted
heart eases.
I imagine my fall
into the path
of the sped
subway yet stay
my footing
lest my desire
should unbalance
my will.

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The Last Chance

Posted by Peter Liptak in Death and Chocolate

When my demons come for me
I won't go with them willfully.

When my demons come for me
They chase my shade eternally
to holler and bellow
"Submit and follow."

When my demons find my shadow
all weak, my gut hollow
they plant their ugly seed
'till I kneel and plead.

When my demons call for me,
they steal away my pride,
they tease, prod, chide,
'till someday I'll subside.

When my demons last came to me,
I sat to share and soft sip of life
while they contrived to sap my destiny
yet I once more chose pain and strife.

When my demons shy away,
I worry that they've gone astray
in fear that they've abandoned me…
They've become my friends you see.

When my demons next come for me.
I'll go with them quietly.
My soul is tired. I'll rest awhile,
and leave with a tractile smile.

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Moondance

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

My little moon
Dance
Moon bright
Pure night
Snow quiet
Deep
Miles of air
Frozen
To frame this night

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Roar

Posted by Peter Liptak in Death and Chocolate

Do-what the music dictates
Do-what… Do-what
Sift through the arming light
Never left to linger
In stillness scattered
With moments grasping
Gasping at open echoes
Gates of passion gaping
In sound seething in
A ranchious rush
Of movement mounting
To madness

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But what happens when a baby dies...
is that capitalized?

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When we die... do we fly?

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

Should DEATH be capitalized
when its publicized
in the pages of the obituary...
or to the contrary?

Should we eat our words in respect
or be direct
in our contempt for the bastard
or just get plastered?

When heroes great meet their end
does he bend
to send his prey in capitols large
on the barge
to journey's end - the great beyond
or duties abscond?

When we die... do we fly
an empty sky
does our soul take off in a flutter
or melt - like butter?

When I reach that distant fate
whether great
with my soul from aching wounds slowly ripped
or soft and swift
as the aged man whose sleep draws a last breath...
DEATH should be – d e a t h
like the last echo from a great call returning
or quiet coals burning.

But what happens when a baby dies...
is that capitalized?

Study of a Woman

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate

On the devilish nature of women: Seduction is an old man's realization of the true nature of what women call femininity. The true extent of which men wise in years and experience beyond all others will never fathom. The powers of femininity are derived from many sources: first the feline grace of easy movement and sleek lines carefully curved; then the sharp lined curiosity of pouty perfection; not to forget the lasciviousness of lavish lips; and finally the eternal tease of the trembling tail.

onthedevilishnatureofwomenseductionisanoldmansrealizationofthetruenatureofwhatwomencallfemininitythetrueextentofwhichmenwiseinyearsandexperiencebeyondallotherswillneverfathomthepowersoffemininityarederivedfrommanysourcesfirstthefelinegraceofeasymovementandsleeklinescarefullycurvedthenthesharplinedcuriosityofpoutyperfectionnottoforgettheluciviousnessoflavishlipsandfinallytheeternalteaseofthetremblingtail

onthed evi lishna tureo fwo mense ductioni sanol dmansr e aliza tio noft hetru enatu reofw hatw omenc allfe mininit ythet rueex tento fwhic hme nwis einye arsan dexperi enc ebeyondal loth erswi llne verfat homth epow ersoffe mininit yarederi vedfro mman ysourc esfir stthefel inegrac eofeas ymov ementands leeklin escaref ullycur vedth enthesh arplin edcuri osityo fpoutyp erfecti onnott oforge tthelac iviousn essofla vishli psandfin al lytheet ernalte aseofthet remblingta il.

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No Sadness Cafe

Posted by Peter Liptak in Death and Chocolate

Colored line drawing of espresso cups with curling steam and shared travel dreams I love espresso,
So sweet and so strong.
My eyebrows dance
As I sip soft blackness,
My mouth, once long, enlivens
With swift speech setting
A sun dried arch of life,
Spitting out pop culture,
Movie quotes of youth.
When I drink espresso
I cannot contain myself.
I speak to strangers
Of adventures
And far away places.
I tell them my dreams
And they join me. . .
To share sweet dreams
and sip espresso.

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Valediction

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

is it so easy to leave love
to rush off without a word
to run away spurred by anger
for what occurred

is it not absurd
to let go of
something so sought after
as affection

to leave me lost
my eyes glossed over
exhausted from lack of rest
once blessed with affection
enchantment and emotion
the delight of devotion
of passion and piety
discarded for anxiety

rejection~
i protest!
without even a call…
was it love at all

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Moments

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poetic Inspiration, Letters

Remember that battered piano room at the Student Union at ASU. The notes always a welcome lesson to the tune of the day. The moments seemed to linger like in no other place, in a darkened comfort from the desert sun they hung - musky in the air. Full and soft. Only a bit like the fine arts building just to the west - as dusk slowly descended, and that one student full of passion and sorrow practiced playing his heart’s jazz in a sax of sound echoing from the acoustics of the jutting sharp-edged building that seemed to emerge in response to such unknown systems of hidden machinery timed to rise in response, instant and invisible, just to hit that note’s point of perfection. I remember something of loneliness, some lingering bittersweet flavor – but the tender loveliness and passionate anguish of those moments magnificence will resonate forever in my memory.

plaza

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Sleepy Pete

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poetic Inspiration

Just found this and have no idea where it goes from there... so add if you will to the madness. Where will you take it? Post your thoughts below and add as you like - lets keep it going

picture of Peter Liptak napping Getting some much needed laziness in

.Sleepy Pete

A tale of intrepid beginnings, a nap and a flowery bloom of sorts. A story that left little Pete a changed snoozer and plenty awake for the flight of fancy soon to come.

One day, not so long ago but in a place, well not really a place (as our friends here were in transit – that means going from one place to another… and maybe even another after that), but anyway, somewhere not here but there and going somewhere not there but somewhere completely outside the neighborhood of our knowledge. Well, that day had begun without a night, or at least a night’s rest – for no one can stop the night, and so had taken our hero (that’s Pete) to the very edge of sleep, but not crossed over it’s welcome threshold into sweet silence and blissful slumber. This Pete, passing beyond tired, trudged out on an expedition, an epic journey, a trip, plain and simple…

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Yosu

Posted by Peter Liptak in The East

What dwell amid the rows of cement collars,
astride the mounted hills stepped with sustaining grass
and winding from the Seoul of late descent
came by morning of early trained mass?
Then met by Ahn the mentor and more, the idiot
when drovely driven to yellow the monkey’s crevass
did tremble to the sea by road and harried trail
and plunge into the tunnel’s deep hues of rumbling rail?
There is much to sea in a day’s busy tale.

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THE GATES OF GREECE RECALLED

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poetry Explained, The Greek Sun

The series of poems entitled AT THE GATES OF GREECE:

All were written in 1991 as I ventured from Athens to the volcanic sands of Santorini and ended my journey with a month sleeping on a beach on the South side of Crete in a little hippy town of Matala.

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Glory

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

Oh veiled visage of my dreams
think not so of serious things.
Shade thine eyes not thy heart,
lest my love should soon depart.

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Sight Unseen

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

I danced a ballet in Matala
as I watched the mountains grow.
Waves crashed upon the rocks
in rhythm of wind power
and I dove their heights
to recount my sins.
The sun fell fast in a silent song
of red and tan
followed only by blue.
There I went to dance
and color renew.

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Atlantis Revisited

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

The black sands of Perissa
spoke today
as my feet slowly sank
in the sand,
each receding wave
sliding back under the next.
A rainbow of black appears
through the laughing blue Aegean surf
and erases the footprints
to where I stand
as it erased ten thousand
before.

There are colors here. . .
dusty, olive green trees
line the beach
and speckle the tan mountainsides
that rim Thira,
that ancient volcano.
The houses - white and blue trimmed
form a negative
of the vast blue sky
touched with a soft brush of billowing white
and the big blue
speckled and fanned with crests of white foam.

But the blood red of Homers sky
and the rainbow black sand--
black like death--
shook, with clenched fists,
this antique world,
buried the prosperous Minoans
and created the myth
of Atlantis.

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Matala by Night

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

On Crete, the day
belonged to the sun.
I walked with sandaled Minoans
on the rocky strand by morning,
climbed the craggy peaks
to dive from Matala's cliffs in the noon's fiery light,
and swam the big blue waters
with the midday sun's brilliance warming the depths of my muscles.
Apollo's sun shone and filled my eyes with the Greek ideals,
and even dusk's red haze fluttered
in the pages of my drowsy book
carried on a breath of museful wind.

But the night
belonged to Anna,
the one the muses had kissed
but I could not.
The speckled sky and the envious moon
were lost from my affected eyes
for she outshone them all.
More desirable was she
than Eden’s apple
or Paris' Helen.
Anna's face had not launched a thousand ships,
but brought mine to harbor
in Matala by night.

Anna's Response

I
fly

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King of Kings

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Greek Sun

Here are the rocks
that jut from the ocean
in the second movement
of King of Kings

The first movement-
the ocean
for surely its power
came first

In the recapitulation
came man
that first Minoan
whose feet gripped the sand
in the sliding surf
when the song burst through him:

"And He shall reign for ever
and ever"

Epitaph epiphany

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poetic Inspiration

What inspired this poem was twofold: a wander through the woods near Killarney Lake where I discovered the gravestone referenced in the poem and the untimely death of a dear friend.

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Epitaph of a Wayfarer Poet

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, The Irish Rain

There remains an antique land of polished green dreams beneath a mist,
thick and clean, where great blue flutes in waves of wind sweep a waltz of Irish rain across a rocky plain, to plunder dreams in greens:

It seems-
There came a lull from seven days of Irish rain
and though my boots still wet from journey’s gain,
this antique land yet plundered my dreams and on and on
I rambled down and round to where few had gone.
Around the quiet depths, a lake in mid July,
there did I meet a sight that drew me nigh
to it: a stone whose granite face quietly crept
from shadowed greens, then wan and white it wept.

I touched the worn words as I read their soft depths:
“He has out soared the shadow of all our night.”
I stood by its naked face as the shadows stretched out
to embrace the swift setting sun and I sat in the slim light
while the past wept in silent remembrance and forever etched doubt
upon my mind. Left only were the character and coldness of his fate
And in white stone the date: 1888.
The darkened waters spread out and the shadows crept all around.
The shadows crept all around crowned in sound.