Pear & Apple Juice (a poem in 5 parts)
revised again
                               In memory of my mother, 1922 -2016

Part 1

Pressed or squeezed, as if an orange please, the juice flows, 
down my leg exposed, a harmony of three voices, & so, I embrace 
the Spirit of the Orange, a discussion, (a waste), of long stemmed 
roses, as the goodness gracious levels all playing fields & courts.
In court, of course, the monarch rings the belle, she sings, 
she sells, a beginning of a fine romance, a casting askance 
of doubts or indecision, the look of cosmic regard, 
hard on the toes, the heels and the world's religion,
Ballet slippers & clothes, the image of our Syracuse alma 
mater, dear nurturing mother, a hug and an embrace, the haste, 
not too late?   I'd hate to miss her presence, as perhaps 
we might not matter, cosmically.  Sorry, just being franc.
And from the juice comes the golden angels, or or-anges, 
the satisfaction of the wasteland, a race against time.

Part 2

As if the butts of cigarette disgust & discussed the idea 
of stopping in the woods one snowy night...  A fight, we see, 
beginning to be, a gathering of fog & dust of particulate fuming.
A memory.  The asking price, the lice & the police.  A poultice,
a deity, a sylvan Sylvia moment, the best of the least attractive 
side, a photograph composed, by design, a leaving of the tree, 
the breaking of an egg, a hard-boiled possibility.
Pared pears & apple peelings, the kind of thing we normally don't 
consider more often, a meadow, a pillow, the head, the tail, a song, 
a wail, a cry, a good cry, a beautiful thing, a whale, the Spring, 2017.
The air of the off-wing; offering, a sign of the sin, to begin again
without the training wheels on, a gong, the long reorganized, 
as the crust of the pie examines the rust on the truck, springs,
shocks, & must, a bustle of bouquets of evil droppings off a cliff.

Part 3

Paired bottles of goodness.  The approximation of distant love,
the best of the juice is going, going, long for a language 
that can heal the cuts, (the brush) strokes, the heart attacks...
Mother gone away, to a better place, (so we know, heal us,
So we say), a gotta get away, to a place we don't recognize...
The lost & found, is bound to describe the place better than I,
a design of... of, devilish proportions, an ocean, an abyss.
We wish we could be there with you!  For you, with you!  Ma & sis.
And I insist.  The offerings of a nation push & shove relations into 
complications of deity & Time, Kronos, watching mine, we believe 
in the processes of Love, a dove feeding on a ground, sound, solid, proud...
And the chaw piles up in the spittoon, the hour, our day, the noon,
as if the procedures of poultice recovery was known as soon 
as we felt the removal of the bulbous growth on my returning back.

Part 4

For the united, for the pier, for the united peers
of America,  the COPs, Boston's Copps Hill, the slope
& the skill, the will to succeed, a peal of bells,
appeals, the justice of hell, the emerging nations...
Underneath the grave decorum of four thousand years,
appears the unsettled loneliness of a trust, a rust, the bust,
Hagar, the new reality, a night, the fight, an individuality,
a prospect of newfound emotions & pretty love. 
Gai as long as the day.  Everyday gai, as Cyndi Lauper
might say, sin & sing away, a bay of the ocean, settled suns,
"girls just wanna have fun," the jelly bean counter-top treat.
A scoop of Jelly Belly beans, a gai bay & a harbor. Babies 
& hugs & kisses, the draft horses drawn & located, a space 
at the bar elated, with elevated hopes & glorious lines.

Part 5

Gone.  Going, going, going, gone.  
The cast-away & the long way out,
the cast about, without a doubt,
a nomination by our President.
As the memories of yesterday come to the fore-
front of our conscience & imagination,
a cloud of indecision might form,
precision in deciding what is said, thus normal.
But no matter the sighs,
a protection of the heart is wise,
the left over passage denied
& the gotta find a means to get high!
And with a whiff of perfume or a musk, 
the husky woman is -- without question -- a must.

Roller-Coaster Ascension
(A poem in three parts)

Part 1

A roll, a bulkie roll, the ascent slow & unnatural,
the speed, (don't you agree), is quicker than before,
as the prospective promised was a steady ascension
the position of the car or the step of the train
makes the motion of the lotion seem okay.
I say, the jolt of the track & rail, is comparable
to a runaway train...  A benign, a benign, a benign
beginning to the day at the park, before dark,
a once again, the search of the pen, the anima,
the animals, suggest: stay away.  We think it is okay,
so we follow the ascent to the top of the way,
to get a good look of the fall from grace,
a staring into the abyss...  God help us Aunt Philly!
The horse track parade never looked like this!

Part 2
the fall,
Whatever made me think
                    This is innocent...  
                          Feeling the air 
A popular past 
                                   Coughing up a lung!
Part 3

And then it is over the top,
                   & around 
                                                 & around 
The bend,
when we come 
              Back down 
We will send 
                    Best wishes
           (Come again?)
We will be affectionate 
                                    with our kisses,
                                                 Come again...


Charles Baudelaire & the Issues of Slavery





This August the 31st, will have been one hundred fifty (150) years since Charles Baudelaire passed away, the issues of slavery that permeated his poetry are part of our past heritage of Liberty and Freedom.  His poems are the volumes of Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of evil) and Petits poèmes en prose (Little Poems in prose).  An analysis of his work, including the poem “Un cheval de race,” (“A Thoroughbred Horse”) is in need of articulation and written speech.  Together his work in the French inspires my bilingual mind to believe he was a bilingual poet to the end.  “Un cheval de race” is as good a starting point as any other. 


The main character of “Un cheval de race” is an anonymous woman we call elle (she).  “Elle est bien laide,” translates as she is quite ugly.  In Franglais, it is “elle est bein’ led,” or she is being led, like a horse or a slave.  “It” could be ugly instead of her, “it” being slavery, (la servitude is feminine in French) as a possibility, buried deep beneath the prose.  Together, it is ugly, and she is being led, these two thoughts are a poetic couplet, they form a duo or duet of musical language.  Les Fleurs du mal also provide a French–English understanding of the modern master’s thinking and his genius.


The children of slavery are the issues of slavery, as Les Fleurs du mal suggests that the flowers of evil become in translation the flowers of rape. Rape can be a flower, Brassica napus, a yellow bloom of oil-seed plant used to make today’s canola oil (CANada Oil Less Acidic).  The process of translation is never very easy.  When translating a poet with a bilingual capacity, the possibilities expand when understanding the sounds of the poem.  “Le Cygne” can become “The Sin” and Emily Dickinson is not very far away.  She dwelt in possibility, a fair prospect for all involved or concerned.


The possibility of Baudelaire writing an abolitionist tract is exciting to the modern reader.  The Flowers of evil are suggestive of something wrong in the poet’s world.  With a bilingual mind, he combines the kept work into one whole world, a “little c” catholic mind and a support for an international perspective. 


“Un cheval de race” and the title Les Fleurs du mal, both suggest an awareness of chattel slavery in America during the nineteenth century.  America was too large to ignore.  The issue that spawned a war required a modern poet to be attentive.  The needs of all concerned were the focus of the poet’s attention.  Acknowledging the ugly while being honest and true, is the difficulty of the modern (and post-modern) poet or writer.  The writings of Baudelaire still stir the passions of the heart.  Baudelaire struggled with the mind of bipolar mania, but he had the gentle heart of a poet, the heart & soul of a hero, & a fearless & faithful heart of a golden grrrrl.


Connecting the French poet to events and actions of civil war in America requires an open mind, an international mind, a bilingual and modern mind.  Baudelaire possessed this.  His Teen Spirit guides us today.  







Allen Hagar is a retired architectural draftsperson, he pursuits poetry as a career change and has translated many of Baudelaire’s poems.  He resides in Massachusetts and was born in the City of Waltham.  He operates a website at 


Africa in Review (Aka. Africa in the Rear-view Mirror)
A break in the boat, a haul of the keel.
The toss of the coat, a gentleman he is not.
A loss of manners taught,
the times of too long ago,
The apprehension of the lost,
a lasting kiss of denial,
A river of affirmation,
the language of a mild walking mile.
As the heat of the jungle greets
the end of the sand, a grand, a hand,
the leader of the band,
machetes in hand, a genocide,
a land, the musty musket fire,
a blaze of magic wands,
the holding of the tongs,
a search for buried diamonds & gold.
Glistening and the glittering, the application 
of balm, a bridal train, a yellow rain, 
the "civilized" and the calm comb.
Honeydew for the few who absently
admire, a man and a gun, the son
of the One, the righteous & the two.
The rooster is also here,
I fear for its survival,
a break in the woods,
as the deer steps forward quietly.
BP, batting practice, Texas tea,
the enemy of our sleep 
as we canter to the new African steppe.

We practice what we keep,
a morrow of too much becoming 
a forward gesture, a gift of grace,
the walking of the pace,
a Thoroughbred Egyptian lass.
The past of today, the loss of the corn,
a layering ringing the field of crops benign,
the passage of time, a being latter day,
a distance that seems fine, A-Okay.
Recompense & the river flows backwards,
an earthquake, it has come to arrive
at the prospectus of the Love.
African horses, a call for the wilderness,
a dress, a watercress cresting the gunnels,
as the "cargo" goes over with the equine,
a lateral toss, the prime numbness,
the best we can do, the test of the tissue,
a paper, a tool, the wages of the signs.

A procedure, a research, the manor-born,
the risk of being boring, the price of being torn,
a lack of new images, the preparation 
of the Tory, an unaligned perspective,
A head of the weather, the skull and the scull,
the shift in the field, feeling a bit alone?
Let's see now...  Is this more real?
A done deal.  The sins of the fathers,
a bunker hill mindset, a bunker set mind.
By design?  You bet!  Hills of Boston 
& Charlestown.  The king will be upset!
We knew, yes we knew, us, yes, we knew 
as we knelt, a belted trouser waist, the case
on a figurative pace, a waste of motion,
keyed to the racetrack of doggies and carriages.
The apartment or the flat, a scat, the cats
& the mice and the rats...!  A manic attack,
the procedure, as bipolar hypomania
& a scattering of pencil pointed whacks! 

We knew.  We always knew. Some put in words
& images.  Bilingual or not, the reality was bought
by bishops & congregation in evidence,
as the day will come along, a language of a tongue,
the long day coming sooner than yesterday.
Everyone be "gai",  a gotta get away,
& the need to be understood by the band.

A good dog buries, okay?
We Knew; je dis; je sais.
A good dog buries, okay?
We Knew; je dis; je sais.
Fried chicken for breakfast
BBQ chicken for lunch
Roasted chicken for supper and
Country fried "dirty" chicken a whole bunch.
Oui nous, I say, I know
Oui nous, I day glow, slowly.
I search the waters for a language
I search the sea to see,
I apply my research to knowledge
Of you and me...  I am so glad.
The beauty of the air
A fairness is understood,
The truth of the air
He would, he would... right?
Oui nous, I say, I know
Oui nous, I day glow, slowly.
Slack action,
Vulnerable by design,
A sign of the times,
As tender she may have been.
Slack action 
Hagar on the line,
A minute, a second, the relaxed fit,
As the back is covered by warranty.
Oui nous, I say, I know, okay?
Oui nous, by day, tomorrow?  Today, today!

This poem is fully warranted,
If at any time this poem should fail to perform
as suggested, just send it back and we will 
pen another one to take its place on your shelves.


Dear John Coltrane 9.5

Sheets of Sound music, wails,
hail, greetings & embraces,
a sound of clothesline chords,
whales watery Underground,
A floral wreath, the whole story, 
fields of yellow, blossoms & Peace.
Music of whales, tipping scales,
Justice & Liberty a Victory Train.
A coal train souvenir, as we tip
our hand, gesture thanksgiving;
as if it was " A Love Supreme",
& brush stroke genius, as a tonic,
Dear John, we be long, we belong, 
I've gotta find a new language


Whale Tales (Twelve Lines for a Little Girl)

Yellow Seas            
                    Yellow whales

         Sign of a sin
         Whale size

Colors begin
                     A sound track

The sea agrees
                         A bier stands


Whale Tales (Twelve Lines for a Little Girl)

Yellow Seas            
                 Yellow whales
                 Sign of a sin
                  Whale size

Colors begin

                 A sound track

The sea agrees
                 A bier stands

The Whales & the Sea 2.1

A tale, a Johnny coal train of reeds and of wails,
John Coltrane, a tenor saxophone and those whales,

From the highlands of Scotland, the Isle of Man,
an English fisherman and the coal mines of Wales,

Of the day's beginning, till plainsong at twilight,
the whaler's dream of the harpoon dies with the whales,

As miners are not minors, the coal-cart was full, 
a diamond hull of a man, a fan, men of Wales

Harmonious be me, Sargasso yellow Seas
and the whale songs of doubting Middle Passage wails.






Allyn Hagar

Poetry, Music & Translations