new cafe' cafe'

The new location for cafe' cafe is here.

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2224667413

Thank you,
Didi Menendez

On the beach at Midnight

Breath out.
All that was Diego is breathed out,
as if he were beheaded
and his blood was spilled on
the universe and merged with its flow.
I enter the horizon nameless
like an eagle released to the sky.

Breath in.
Over the skyline, stars
propel towards him and
enter his mouth in cascades of
white liquid fire.
He inhales me back, joined
with the sound of god’s whisper.

DQ 12/15/06

pocket of loose change
after release from darkness
a child sees glitter

Words to You

No words can gain
back that moment just
before I spoke dumbly
hurting you. Things
bearing hard on you—

And me, suddenly
completely useless in
ability, can not turn
the back walking away
back to me.

Lorna Dee's New Viet Nam War Poem - Audio/ Odeo/ Podcast

... despite the flu, and between the sniffles and the coughs -- I think Sylvia Plath was the first to discover how fever feeds the Muse, but I don't recommend it. See if this works; you may need to crank up the volume. You can also podcast it if you have iTunes, just do a search under my name until the link appears. Stay well. Here's the poem:


powered by ODEO

What George Harrison Saw
When He First Got To Heaven

I met John wandering around in heaven,
all the dead children in the decaying halls
made him sad and angry, the barbed wire fences

seemed to stretch forever
like that Microsoft background on your desktop.
Cows were guarding the fences,

cows with rifles in tall towers.
John had been looking for the warden
since day one,

but the warden wouldn’t see him.
John wrote protest songs,
they took away his guitar,

John wrote protest songs,
they took away his piano.
I met John wandering around in heaven.

Caution: I'm not a real poet I just pretend
to be one on the Internets!

symptom as a silence

there were two events to mark inertia's end the first a spiraldic spit bead ungluing itself from a spider-leg's-breadth chest hair although what the moisture was doing there or how it came to be no one cared to question the second a holy replication of this the first and this the second which no one commented upon because the bead grew from pearl to circle-like and dropped we knew not where

and there were other observances that went, well not with the history but with the slowed slough of skin by teeth more used to ripping meat it was the eating of it she longed to do and pursed her cheeks to stop saliva from drooling out out of her her mouth and looking like an old person old and were young in our grabbing of each other and the gasps filled up the otherwise silence he the

crawling seeps went everywhere there were no stalwart strengths to share, only ineptitudes at this point their fingerprints left whorls upon stains so the stains were by then dried they had been lax in their cleaning and we were there when they were reminded rules and each dust a rule and each speck and each careening into the microbe heart of it all

lush pansies and red satin and rooshed fancies no words for above all a daring above that a canopy of sorts above that the hope of bleeding until empty this would become part of their history the shared part but of that later and only later would dare think it seepage too the order for this something so unmechanical it raised hope to otherness

and was not discussed as the first two were the almost absence sentimentality shorted to a dull pull the throb the glassy drop as sweat would if effortful as if after all a carnivorous desire more to sink the teeth the chalkiness into more bruise to get at true the soft lightness of flesh more to screw need into to

steer by stairs as all goodness goes up as if prayers so nails bartered their seconds away and then that first thin thin warning of it at the sides of the mouth all a belonging some a throated gesture some a barely half-disguised swallow one step backwards then the hungry float a pit for a stomach

as if sepsid caved the deep ganglia the deep the craving part sensuous part animal fled from sense to mystery to fetid to mere human choice where no maker rules where all dared unholy replication no one cared how over soon how this will be (gesso-flat) over

soon barely breathe and sick and I must stop the whole room from spinning hold a small corner of it tack the ceiling down tie the corners by ribbon-shreds tally how many too numerous to strand make some tiny plithy ropes from this sallow the cheek once flare now so hollow lamina filaments to conduct the whisper-spirits

hush he will say rest now so the ruached arch tendencies are laid gentle as dying gentle as folding stars displaying far reached membrances lady-lace strokes to calm the beating throbbing all nothing left and then there was a finality as if the parting had to be a bog-fevered why or

or why or how it came to be we knew not in our grabbing of the lesser time so the stains remained an absence of sentimentality so sunken the cheeks could not glean of it sunken and hollow as only dying can to bruise to mitigate the repetition by tied corners to settle the world sweated beaded mouthed not nor dared to question

but easy easy

Seychelles

With the lisp of water over sand
her voice awakens the sleeper
to a gull-blue day.

Gold and kohl lines the creases
around her eyes and her toes
carry the russet dust
of Africa's trails.

Her fingers linger
over shallow hollows
of inner elbow,

her voice makes patterns
in the mind of the sleeper
like waves upon sand,

today's paper awaits.

And the winner is

Everyone that posted a poem below this thread in the Aubade challenge. Email me your address. These were beautiful and I think I enjoyed reading these the most of any challenge I have ever done.

Goodnight.
Didi

Request

Please don't use this blog anymore to announce your contests, new publications, etc. It is really become annoying to read the poems. Use one of the other places I have invited you to join instead. I will aslo avoid placing news here. Okay I WILL stop placing news here -- and I will delete all other news.


Didi

Aubade for Laurel and Ascending

Ascending

Fragile wrists jeweled by stars
thin arms raised above the wind
hold the horned owl wings.
Both free and soothing gray,
like a drybrushed autumn
in a Helga painting.

Dance now. Dance while your
bones are hollow, dance and let

the red leaves scatter with your swirls.
And you, Ascending, show her
the face to become print
in the loose flap of a book.

Dawn. It rises like a mountain
and the star dance must end.
Desdend. Its slope is
treacherous and cold like
a poem not written, like a
book thrown in the river.

Give your anger to the sun.
It stole the gentle voice who
told how pigeons congregate
under ripples of the sea.
The voice that showed you
a small mirror in the shape of a book.

Today is the deadline for the Aubade challenge

I mean it. I am announcing a winner before I go to bed tonight.

In other news, I am looking for a PJ. Stop by here for further information.

Didi

Aubade for Pris & Baylus

Baylus turns and says
look! Sky is separating
from land, you can see
the line of the mountains.

Pris says, have some tea,
have a cookie, comfort
Teddy. That line is still
hazy and dim, don't go.

Baylus drinks the air.
Baylus rocks a bear.
Baylus pulls his boy-
sword, and vows

to stay the grownups.
Pris makes a nest
of blankets, pillows
and plush elephants.

Baylus says, it's time
now, it's time for you
to fly. I fade now. I
fade.

IOWA

IOWA
muse aubade for mine – this was

when you laughed – hysterically
that night – it was the perfect place

to end – the muse of mine
you were – where I am left

now – I must piss which
escapes my mind – since

worn – walkways
line one – milk box

from the next – heavy route
towards becoming – believably

barely believable – even polished
to bare – minimums

under articles – your loin
cloth – barely covers

your covering – warm
hands – warming still

your golden disc – really flares up
iowa's highest tide – your expectant

voice – tears
as it turns – everything

purple – even blue
was purple – it was really

weird – every minute
of our eighty hour day – a finch

on a branch – being subjective
in two minutes – of heaven

instead – what sucked
is history – your song

on the subject – blew minds
while nailing men down – just keep on nailing

all those nails – then go chew
your own nails – down

in the corner – to the quick
history you have – looking only

on numbers – caring less how
long lived – longing living

is what is – never enough
assurances – but consider

this right now – may be
you – given your goodbye

but first – let me nurse
your overstressed – hermaphroditic bud

blooming in late summer – the caw calls
for a fall fast – they built a subway

exactly where – our tent was
last minute – in Iowa

I had assumed – it was dawn
several times – it became obvious

it was dusk – time to push
hard manly – "ya well bite me"

before a feminized – "ya your insensitive
prick...hmpfff" – crosses arms

legs lips shift – slightest evidence
forming – a long line

of circles – in unison
repeating some – from former selves

before the crust of earth – became some
dime store dinner ware – your blood spills

at the slightest twitch – of one follicle
your pupils flutter – even without light

much less gravity – in the front seat
could you please – be more

interesting – you ask
regarding – other points

of interest – which was but fortune
sweet lass...hmm – how touching

you wearing – on your bare skin
these patterns – even imperfection

can yield – fortunes
upon fortunes – of agelessness

your laugh – a river of gold
however early – it was

~lds06

Aubade, tal vez

Con gracias a la musa de Didi --


será rojo

rojo el alba
rojo lo que cante la mañana
roja la isla rojo el día
que llegamos a la orilla poblada
de todos los vivientes y insurgentes
rojas las flores del mundo nuevo
rojas las hojas del libro que ya te di
rojas las palabras que ahora me hablas
roja la ezperanza de nuestros niños
aquí nos toca el viento de las colinas azules
el crepuscular ardiente de las rosas estrelladas
roja la calle rojo el polvo
por donde venimos llevando en el aire
limpio y duro las banderas de color de la mañana
rojo el limón y rojo el arroz
rojo el trabajo de mano rojo el descanso de corazón
roja la madre caminando en el río
rojo el padre sentado junto a la cuna
la clarinada del gallo bufón
la serenata plateada del ruiseñor soñador
el heraldo que grita a los amantes que se despierten
roja la isla roja la ciudad
de salir y volver de nos encontramos
y nos conoceremos
rojo el este el este de todos nuestros albas
rojo que te queremos rojo

Isle of Jura Writer Retreat program

The writer will receive:

* A bursary of £3000, plus return travel costs from the USA to the Isle of Jura [in bonnie Scotland! -- Ivy]
* Accommodation in the Isle of Jura distillery lodge for the month of August 2007
* The option to bring family/partner (N.B. travel costs will only be covered for the writer)
* A hire car

Scottish Book Trust will also seek to negotiate the writer's agreement to:

* Produce one short story (or other piece of creative work) inspired by the retreat to be broadcast by BBC Radio 4 in May 2008 (subject to acceptance of work by BBC) and reproduced in a publication and/or online and/or via a podcast
* Acknowledge the Isle of Jura retreat and bursary in next published book/work
* Participate (potentially with other authors who carry out retreats) in an Isle of Jura event at Edinburgh International Book Festival in August 2007 (subject to EIBF agreement, all costs to the writer will be covered)
* Participate in a Tartan Week literary programme in New York (April 2007/April 2008, all costs to the writer will be covered)
* Collaborate with artist/printmaker from Glasgow Print Studios to make limited edition print inspired by the Isle of Jura


Criteria
Applications are open to writers of poetry and fiction resident in or from the USA, whose work has been published in English in both the USA and the UK.

Deadline: 2 February 2007.

Good luck!

forest hill aubade

seems any old abattoir foghorn makes you scurry your
shadow aping some testing rodent the plastic coffee-
cup & the platonic engagement you seek just myth
all convenient thoroughfares will disappear or whisper
hints of gasoline you know you can’t escape i like to
grow hard of a workday & worry the caress of mosquitos
away with my own hand a simple command to the dog
this says living like no other minor-farce courting
publication courting your teasing closetoyouness
it smells of ruin sometimes & if you're saying that
to hurt me i like it seriously & do it again
slaughter the animals we flambé with jazz
all the while thinking of our terms of engagement
everyone leaves emotional shit hanging over doors
& little alleys you clomp down them a mess of heat
it’s the flipside of love descending in a way i
always paint in those inconsequential puzzles
but then people etch out money too so for now
just show me what later sounds like in the nude

sphinx

eyes lost traipsing over her revolving skin
a pane of glass a slice of mirror hunger
in psychophysical pastels funneling slow spiral
a sweat hearted flow following she field
a train of thought rolling small of back
navel a monocle done gone more clearly see
that elsewhere is everything else but us
welcome to here we are under the influence
of stars drill bits burrowed through
to the soul pinned down arm thermometers
too much red bursting velvety so good
so fine sweetly and this is mystery region flat
on back body above going going down going gone

Verde Fue (for Diego's Muse)

Verde Fue


Verde fue la manana
Verde fue la isla cuando te fuistes
Verde fue la esperanza de tus padres
Verde fueron los olivos enredados
Que te esperanon en espana
Un nino solo sin patria
Verde fue la inocencia
Verde fue cuando te encontrastes
Verde fue cuando te desenredaste
Verde fue el arte
entre dedos verdes y aceitoso
y por primera vez vistes el verde
que te accompanara siempre.

Aubade December Poetry Challenge

Aubade
(for Finch’s disappeared muse)

Before the real light of day,
the snow’s fluorescence, illuminated
by the moon’s blade, the sharpest,
thinnest crescent, awakens and fools
me into believing you have left
already. The sheets are chilly, the bed,
empty; you are always leaving.
Standing in the window’s frame—
call me woman in pane, call me mourning—
I can see the craters your soles
will make, that your soul made,
where you will punch through the crust,
leaving a trail, a path of hollows
for me to follow through the cold,
the whiteness. But when I reawake in the real
light of day, the snow has melted,
and your prints that resembled a deer’s path,
or a coyote’s are erased. You are always
calling to me like the owl that knows
my name, the owl that questions the sky
and the trees, the owl that can’t tolerate
the night’s silence. You call me winter
morning; you call me thaw. I’d call you
everything; I’d call you leaving.
But you’ve never had a name,
so when you leave, I have no way
to beseech you to stay, to call you back;
I have no way to say goodbye.