Thursday, June 30, 2005

Arabic Poets

I have said for quite a while now that compared to the rest of the online (and offline) poetry community, I'm sadly under read. Someone I've recently become acquainted with runs Other Voices Poetry Project, which deals mainly in non-American poets.

He's introduced me to some wonderful poetry, and my latest addiction is the poetry of Arabic women. It's always so striking and poignant, or at least, in my pathetic experience it is. I just wanted to recommend two of them in particular, for those who may be interested.

Nathalie Handal

Forugh Farrokhzad

The Making of Eve

Didi -- Thanks for the invitation. I've joined.

Here's my entry for "The Making of Eve." -- Lyle Daggett

* * * * *

the making of eve

the first light touches me, is a feather breath
over me, suddenly awake
in the green world.

in the shiver of leaves, the fingertip touch
of dewdrops, the high cry
of a bird lost in mist,

there is no other voice, no word, no speech
like mine, no form long-limbed
and blue with shadow

stepping through the gathering morning.
i am the first, then,
of the many i will be on the earth.

the slip and brown glance of the deer,
the slap of a fish in the clear pool,
the whisper of the snake, cool and sybilline,

pass to me their knowledge of this place
and this time and of times to come.
this is the garden of knowledge,

this is the tree of our making,
where i speak to you and you speak to me
and we know each other.

in the light on the bright hills and bent grass
from the ribs of the earth
i come to the world.

and so i have made myself:
i speak the first word.
come now to life, and hear it.


          1. the making of eve

adam, ex nihilo,
drugged in a tub
ice-filled in a hotel & you,
shadow next to the Gideon’s
using a very small trowel
putting her arms on.
you’ve spent hours
before the mirror/ posing
with your finger pointed,
deciding what belongs;
such intelligent design.

          2. the marking of eve

in the surveillance monitors
they’re searching for large
leaves. six-day sleepless,
exhausted, the cathode ray
tube flickers in your room,
while you're chainsmoking
camels to calm your nerves.
storm out in your bathrobe
to give them bellybuttons &
punctuation marks, a pox
on their mitochondria,
you became I & the silence.

          3. the marketing of eve

morning closes the flaps of your universe & you
tuck it under your arm. there's a curtain of frost
on the windowsill, damn AC kept you up all night,
the one night of rest. struggling to get your universe
& luggage through the hotel door together [shut
before your self can wedge in properly] you descend
the stairwell to your Lincoln & head to the convention
center for the exhibition--your booth next to the other
creators & their solutions for filling the loneliness.

a poet few have read?

hi all - here's a link to my writeup on an amazing, if not underrated poet named jaime jacinto. you can read about him here.

Rae's Day

Go to Rae's blog HEREfor her June 29 post. See a great photo and an announcement of what day it was. No, I won't tell here, but I hope you had a good one, Rae. You and I have been around the same traps for five years now and you've posted on Mipo boards for a looong time. Your poetry still grows and changes. Tis wonderful to watch.

"Famous" Rose

Posted by ro @ 9:17 pm in fame


~ for T.C.

it's hard to be famous
super famous
not as famous
four times
in my 30’s

that sounds so bad
but it's true
i was

into the big waves
what fame did or did not do
to the ones u related to best
who went before u

beautifully colored
meteor showers
crooked and crazed
broken and brave

u know the legend
garbo quit
cold turkey
good bye

we all got to see
their life trajectory
as the world watched
they lived their art

i found it impossible
i lost my balance
paddled to shore

i am now 43

as i was

(i have used the word
four times already)

and know

any religion
without kindness at it’s center
is not one

and know

there is something
very pure inside him
has always been
a yellow

& there is only one code
of honor

a decency
to maintain any perspective

that's famous

copyright c 2005 by Rosie O'Donnell
Posted with permission.
(edited by Lorna Dee Cervantes)

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Snapshot 29 June 02005

I dream of children I have known, women
now; fickle, graceful, demanding. A stranger
consoles me. This house is encased in fog.

It is like a shell, this house. It encloses me
from winter. Summer washes through like
water, waves of scent and passing. Science

tells me my mind is made other than yours.
Set us the same destination and we will arrive
at the same moment, but travel separate roads.

This must be, then, why I travel alone. West
of the divide they forecast showers, morning
and scattered, with evening thunderstorms

and fireworks, from which Sierra, an aging
Great Pyrenees, ran last night and wanders
without collar or tags. The wild dark lilies bow

down of their own heaviness. Aphids attack
the honeysuckle; it will not bloom. Humming-
birds make do with clematis and columbine.

The parakeets chatter and complain. I have
left them to each other for weeks, and now
they greet me, these hands that bring millet

and water, fruit and seed, with a great fluttering
of fear, threat, and refusal. When I withdraw
they stretch out wide their blue and white wings.


Your web site is simply beautiful.

Progress on Eve

Here's the latest on the Ipod Muse.

Didi I need to place an invite

Didi I need to offer an invite for a friend to join Cafe Cafe- where can I mail you the email?
Henry’s Over New York City With John Keats As Paul McCartney

The bacteria in his lungs, laundry, lumber,
the Mohawk construction workers, Wookie, wee,
Fanny had a skirt skated, Scranton,

Albany upstate earthquake motor many Moe.
He could take beauty and roll it, mold it, fold it,
in the pockets of his mind, coalmine, unwind,

she stood by his side today, tomorrow, Tomas,
language lizard volcano memory mention Millions.
John thought words grew out of lyrics, land, Lubbock,

guess he never saw sand, Shropshire, Sammy,
the mirror in his own face, fathom, flying,
foolhardy Chapman marbles garbled,

Empire State Building shaking, parrots, plumber, Paul.
John Keats walks across Abbey Road barefoot, run, ranch,
he’s the only Beatle, footfall, French kiss,

Byron Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft
wearing borrowed skin, shoulders, Siamese boulders,
so this is how that rumor about Paul’s death started, stranded, stumbled.

Lucy Sprog and a Small Adventure with a Frog

I've loaded the pages of the children's book my sister and I have done together onto my blog.
They lost a lot in the translation, but if you click on them to enlarge you can see some of the detail.

an understanding of what an IPOD is capable of

Here is a web site that is putting together some classics for download to IPODs. I will be putting together your poetry instead. Yesterdays download of Jenni's two new poems worked just swell. Now the real work starts.....

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

checking in

thx Didi for inviting me. when you did I was sweltering in St. Louis. now I'm back in beautiful New Mexico & catching up with mail.

because you'll be publishing a movie-centric piece of mine you know of my long affair with the flickers. tonite I watchd the strange film adaptation of Saroyan's "The Time of Your Life." the part I liked best was when James Lydon (best-known for having playd Henry Aldrich)talks to someone he doesn't know on the phone & sets up a date. she turns out to be character actress Renie Riano (who's buried near Percy Helton). that exchange made me think of all the folks trying to hook up online w/o having seen each other.

I guess we're a bit like that too. at least till we start reading each other's work & interacting.


All the eve poems with the exception of the winning poem of the ipod will go up for vote for the IBPC thingy a magigy.

The Dead Birds On My Lap

The birds started to fall on my lap
one by one ---

just like the baby bird
that fell into the mouth of my dog
after the mama threw her baby
off the nest forcing it to fly.

I could not stop the birds
from falling onto my lap.

He does not love me.

It started with the bird that flew
into my window as I sped down
the highway and died in my backseat.

Her neck perfectly twisted
after hitting my chest.

My head bopping to a song
like the dog on the dashboard.

You know those birds --
the ones that lift
your toes off
the ground.

I am sure you have met these birds.
Of course you have.

And if you have not,
I am sorry
For even in death,
It is still better to have loved than….

Did you know that a ton of feathers
weighs the same as a ton of bricks?

for "the making of eve," "Ester See"

i ate the lill pomme and which came but spiders from my throat, each glad and weaving bits of irritance in my mind and stomach as i sat, watching him watching himself as a basketball star, drafted right from high school, his tattoos a traditional rebellion across a thousand frolicking intervals.

i don't usually say these things. as the creatures wracked my digestive tract. [i always say such things, i think: i'm not an evil woman, but i am, oh i am, tall as a star-cloud and rouged with blood]

"to spit is a feminine thing for her"

yes, thank you. yes, i spit so rarely and so daintily, like a calico dismissing an unfit sparrows-wing. to spit a spider web is a very strange thing, to spit spiders, stranger. and i think they gave their brood to me; i cough three a moment still (as far as moments go: breakfast, lunch, and donner, dinner). it is unbelievable, to think there has been no one to believe all this before, to feel the falling to the floor; it is unbelievable to think i am neither fact, nor facsimilie; origins aren't ancestries, i've seen that much on tv.

"and as i see is i score! the horny rim i rip from the backboard, creating needless facets of glass! net we eat tonight! net or stagneck! oh, the lady is always in red, she. always blossoming up from the bushoms lately, singing and sahing, 'shhhhhhhhaaaaahhhh--HU!' peekaboo! what a cradle-crazy dance, her falling down, her slips filled with inoculate milk, the wearing of exotic lipsticks. i see her play a reed all year now, like a box fertle, spotted and busy. her body plays the reed so well."

now webs accompany my winding; my loops are lapped with silken fixtures; stars curdle, and we spin milk with our howling. i can go all night...the venom keeps me hot and twisting, the tangles keep me moist and wishing...

could this last? but such a great past, intractable as deserts, barren as unfed ponds! though now (now it is now) i stalk galacial speed with melting speed; i infirm galactic need;

oh heh-millions of sons, i am the kiss that impels your countlessness.

Notes, Read them or not:

1. This poem is based on Eve's Theory of Fertility, which speculates that the sin of Eve was the genetic mutation which allowed humans to sexually reproduce year-long, rather than exclusively during the typically mammalian period of estrus, or heat. This lead to a great boost in the poulation of human beings.

2. "heh" is an Egyptian word for an uncertain number, but probably thousands or millions (certainly a lot). It was used in a request for this amount of deities to hold up Nut, the sky:

"Nut comes down from the heavens at night to be with her husband, which is why we can see the stars. As with Geb, though she was revered throughout Egypt, she was not a distinct individual as the other Gods seemed to be. She was also depicted as a sow, with the stars and planets at her teats. Nut was the daughter of Shu (air) and Tefnut (water), who were the first Deities born from the all-powerful Ra."

3. The word HU: This is all very fascinating to me, as I didn't know about it before I wrote this:

"In the word Huma, hu represents spirit, and the word mah in Arabic means water. In English the word 'human' explains two facts which are characteristic of humanity: Hu means God and man means mind, which word comes from the Sanskrit Mana, mind being the ordinary man. The two words united represent the idea of the God-conscious man; in other words Hu, God, is in all things and beings, but it is man by whom he is known. Human therefore may be said to mean God-conscious, God-realized, or God-man...

...Hayy in Arabic means everlasting, and Hayyat means life, both of which words signify the everlasting nature of God. The word Huwal suggests the idea of omnipresence, and Huvva is the origin of the name of Eve, which is symbolic of manifestation; as Adam is symbolic of life, they are named in Sanskrit Purusha and Prakriti.
Jehovah was originally Yahuva, Ya suggesting the word oh and Hu standing for God, while the A represents manifestation. Hu is the origin of sound, but when the sound first takes shape on the external plane, it becomes A, therefore alif or alpha is considered to be the first expression of Hu, the original word." -

If you have an IPOD please advise

I have uploaded two of Jenni Russell's poems for you to download to your IPOD. You may access from here. If this is a success there will be more downloads to come............

Wrapped in Blue

I am a poet whose mother has died, I think,
as I eat an apple, rose splendour,
watch the clover flowers,
hosting bees and insect parades,

and move downwind from the dogshit;
glossy and shimmering with flies
that were inside on my bench
moments ago.

I roll on my back as sun
bakes my eyelids to deep crimson
and green iridescence.
A framework of fingers
shapes the sky in a flawless
envelope of blue.

I shuck off my jeans and let sun
and wind finger my skin.

This, now,
on the brink of divorce,
a poet attempting a novel,

seems like the fibre filament
trapped beneath my contact lens.

Always there, whether my eyes are open
or shut,
but not enough to steal heaven
from the blue above me.

On George Uba

Hello all,

This is my first post here. Hi everyone, and thanks to Didi for inviting me! I've reviewed a poem by poet George Uba here:

Also, check out poet Bryan Thao Worra's extremely thorough remarks on Barbara's "[ave maria]":

IBPC June 2005 Winning Poems

(please note that this is the announcement for last month's entries, not this month's. We will know about this month's entry sometime in late July)

InterBoard Poetry Community June Winners!
Judge: Aaron Wellborn

First Place:

by Yolanda Calderon-Horn
Writer's Block

Second Place:

Last Minute Chore
by Jim Fowler
The Versifier Online Poetry and Art Forum

Third Place:

Old Silverware on Parade
by John Eivaz
The Versifier Online Poetry and Art Forum

Honorable Mention:

On Finding Trilliums
by Kathy Paupore
Wild Poetry Forum

Winning Poems with Commentary:

by Yolanda Calderon-Horn

He gave me to drink from his dented tin can.
It was surprisingly cool: not bad for tap water.
The living/kitchen area was vastly infertile-
with two lawn chairs posing as rainy-day furniture
and a gooseneck sink next to a circa 50’s icebox.
The place was clean.

One ill fitted window on a wall
faced a faded-yellow sheet that dangled
in place of a bedroom door.
He grabbed a towel, rinsed it;
with his hand quietly on my elbow,
he led me through the managing curtain.
My trembling stopped.

A twin bed, stack of law books and
nightstand huddled in the center of the room.
There was lunch neatly tucked in a napkin on the table
along with the leather box monogrammed T.J.
That's where he kept the old letters.
I dared to ask how he came to save them
when everything else was lost.

I must have appeared as an apparition
that traveled from the past and arrived
in pulled smoke- whose accident outside
the front yard disturbed a valley silence.
He wiped drying blood from my forehead,
asked if I was hungry. Before I answered,
he tore the cheese sandwich in half.



Coincidence is a vital force. It can't be stopped--only marveled at. The marvel of this poem is its willingness to let us inhabit the moment of a coincidence coming together, with all the disorientation, alertness, and wonder of the speaker--and without explaining too much. The careful attention to detail allows actions and images to speak for themselves, and we're left to luxuriate in the unanswered mysteries of the poem. Who is T.J.? What sort of letters are in that box? In the end, the answers are not important. The moment is. --Aaron Welborn


Last Minute Chore - Jim Fowler

We were embarrassed by what
you wanted to do. You made us
promise, strong hands now weak,
wringing the deed out of us.

We drank, laughed self-consciously
that summer afternoon, hot as the red
peppers you considered fertilizing,
in a mad fit of immortality.

Instead, your ashes, sifted fine
to feel, were nervously placed
and stirred in two gallons of paint.
Bone white that matched no chip.

You on the shed. Two coats cover
the tears of our craziness



Elegies ought to be simple. (How many words can ever pay adequate tribute to a life?) Nothing fancy here. But the spartan simplicity of these fourteen lines is only their second-greatest virtue. First and foremost is their humor. As is often the case in life, the ending here comes as a surprise, with one of the funniest lines I've read in a while: "You on the shed." A clever homage to a man of few words, as I imagine the subject of this poem to be. What more needs to be said?--Aaron Welborn


Old Silverware on Parade
by John Eivaz

The wishbone snapped, marginally amended
to two bits in a hand full of snaps, fingers scratch
and bleed to songs of blood
on the winsome organ. Magdalene, please.
Would you like dessert,
perhaps pie, my reclusive waiter queried
in a sudden tone of terror, want of
further words. You know me, my mainstay:
how horrible it is to admit hunger.
The world, yes it's flat
beyond the horizon of the beloved
sunset, grey ends of the
manic skydrop hug a warty moon.
These few last beans trouble me,
call to all I've eaten.
I've lost my appetite now,
could you find it for me please,
crossing against an indeterminate light
in a meringue shroud. Pass on by,
bon appetit. Heartburn and all
that jazz, is the head
free yet?



The relationship most of us have to language--that is, our reliance on it as an everyday tool--can be thrillingly fun to dismantle, up-end, and disturb, in order to show off the more plastic properties of words. All of us are familiar with poems that are more thought than feeling, more concept than image, more platitude than play. Here is one that reads as if it were made by a freed imagination, and for that reason I'm willing to go wherever it takes me.--Aaron Welborn


On Finding Trilliums
by Kathy Paupore

She walks the woods along the road,
the air is cold, rain comes and goes.
There at the base of the pine, a glimpse.

The wait has been short or long, depends
on your perception of time and its demands.
That tease of white could be a scrap

of birch bark, discarded paper, a patch
of snow. Other ephemerals have come
and gone, most too quickly, unless

you watch for their bloom. Maybe these two
were here yesterday, but she walked
this same path, saw no signs. Perhaps the leaves

were close on the ground, tiny buds still green.
Today they must be taller, three leaves
open, white petals curved back to drink rain.



The careful construction of this poem reflects the fineness of the situation it describes: that moment of discovering something so delicate, so ephemeral, and so minute, chances are that no one else will ever know about it. How to hold on to something so fragile? With a poem.

Congrats to all,

Cherilyn Ferroggiaro
Assistant Editor IBPC

Your Black Eye

The second issue of Your Black Eye is now online featuring work by Buck Downs, Noah Eli Gordon, Amy King, K. Silem Mohammed, John Latta, Marcus Slease, and Sheila Murphy, among many others. Please stop by and check it out!

Eve Poems Deadline changed to July 8th

IPOD Recipient announced on July 10th.

Make sure to leave me a link to your poem on the MAKING OF EVE THREAD so that I can find it.

The Other Woman

The Other Woman brushes her
hair 100 times with a hairbrush
shaped like a teardrop.
She knows one day her hair
will turn white, but he likely
won't be there to see it.

Alone and unsung to, the moon
implodes. It splinters the old
oak tree and a displaced
wren beats at her windowsill,
brown eyes begging.

She taps polished nails
along the curve of her phone;
lightning shoots from her fingertips.
The clock quivers twelve chimes
but, still, no car arrives
in the driveway.

She slips from satin to cotton, creams
her face, writes yet another goodbye
note she'll shred before sending. At dawn,
window thrust wide, she sighs,
lets the poor wretched wren rush in.

Monday, June 27, 2005

When does published mean published?

I've had several poems up for consideration for IBPC lately and am confused about the definition of 'published'. As I understand it, poems workshopped on a forum, published in a blog or that appear on a personal website don't meet the official definition of published. Am I right or wrong about this?

where the wolves fuck

first Vukojebinan [one from where the wolves fuck] revenant:
"this is mhah veydeeoh mahsheen
i've been masturbating since the fort knox wored off,
and i hold it in my nose, sniff, my veydeeoh is cleen;
i am returned to this deevice:
i have beecuhm pyuur ainrgee!
oh the enjels of the recthum and the naked of the priests,
the many parts of breakfast and the gadje-killing yeast (???????)"

The Orphean Orphan, snailed to the wood by the po-po, carves this Mosaic into a diddling tree, an old Georgian girl, syas into her heaving chest, "Miss Rhodes," an "Erica lost in the Orthodocks,"

"and my soldiers carried (and carry to today) chrisantanmums and impatiens to them along a whebby zig of vain thornstalks, our cat wriggling at the ivy, the impatiens stood then cold at her handlight, fresh and immortal as the bodies of doves. all of these things, not many, from my love or to a love, from a gibbon-cloud, from her highest pocus, her lewdest locus, oh spot that i tend."

Second Cesium Orhpan:

"the pot that spat soil and shat soiled. quoth arender: the bhoot lillies drip down old liver Livonia, her spread liber springs past the lids lips, the rutting hybrid raises an antler chromium knife and your nude effigy flitters in the wake of his windy jiggle."

Effagrammatic SheTree:

">]=O >[=O [stretches arms]

O=X0=< [holds breath]

LL__I_O O_I__ll [exa-hales while kicking legs]"


"ay widdled me a widow! her waist, her aphids. a whole bunch of fun-mighty chondrities! the list of names glueming Umey, How that mountain got there! Now mountains arise, permit me to kill, her oinkhment on a single pond-lillied finger!"

(a beginning)

Trust (or: Making an Eve) (Making of Eve Challenge)

Trust (or: Making an Eve)

I could tear you open.
Sleep leaves you-—you’ve already left—
flat on your back, belly and neck,
the softest, barest parts

exposed. And you’d never know.
Diving deep—-you dove--to such depths
that like a pearl diver who holds
his breath, you cease

to breathe. I've witnessed
the stillness of your chest. I've counted
each second before you gasped again,
rising—-risen—-to the surface.

I've measured that silence
with my own breath, held. Every night,
a Lazarus stumbles from the tomb—-
fallen--falling over the miracle

of his own soles. I could cut
a slit with my nail, slip a finger
beneath your skin, extract a rib and make a real
woman from that calcium and marrow.

And you’d never know. You’d awaken
in the morning refreshed and go
about the business of living.
You’d never even miss that bone.

My Son's Chants

I'm holding my seven-month old by his hands so that he’s standing and he chants like a shaman using long syllables and song-like intonations that call down energy and power and he makes the sun set and the evening colors in the sky spread across the land and alight on the still snow-capped mountains. They turn pink like the salmon-colored roses blooming in his mother's garden but my mind can’t rest here in this pink land under a darkening violet sunset because the power behind my son’s sudden chants haunt me call up all my thoughts of the day and play them in the front of my mind like a dramatic movie and I think we say yes too easily, sounds absurd to even admit this, but yes, we say yes to anything that gives us meaning, something we can cheer about, anything that gives us the upper-hand the extra paycheck in the bank. The ten o’clock evening news starts and tragedy tops the hour each story after story the anchors sit with these stoic and sad masks reading queue cards about murder, war, missing children, court cases and car accidents but they take them off just in time for commercial breaks and just in time for the sports and the weather and the final "goodnight" segment so that the entire world seems set to right I assume so that not one soul not one state senator retires to bed suffering from heartburn from a pricked conscience while thousands of miles away we continue to say yes to war to murder to death to heartache to fear to abuse to empty promises changing ethics shallow beliefs and time ticks away and it has told us a million times that it can’t bring what has past back to us but we never listen we march into our homes and lock our doors and shut up our windows we pull down our blinds and create makeshift shrines of make believe and I swear as my son chants and sings down my awareness I hear women singing softly as they prepare another body for God.

Hamilton Stone Review, Issue 6, Summer 2005

Featuring fiction by Pat MacEnulty, Ramsey Wilkens, and Masha Zager and poetry by Gene Frumkin, Amy King, Kenneth Pobo, Joseph Somoza, David Hopes, Stephen Vincent, Harriet Zinnes, Bob Marcacci, Kerry O'Keefe, Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino, Frederick Pollack, Eileen Tabios, and David Howard.


Lets All Introduce Ourselves

I will start since I am the one that invited most of you here although David and Birdie also invited a few people I believe. This blog is MiPOEsias official IBPC blog/community. Our community used to be here, but there was a crash earlier this month there and a lot of poems were lost so I decided to follow the trends and move here.

For those of you that do not know me, I am the publisher of MiPOEsias Magazine. I also like to draw portraits. You can see of them here. You may recognize some of my subjects. I am planning on drawing Yoko Ono next or maybe David Lehman. I am not sure. I promised David he'd be next although in the meantime my muse took me here and there. Some of you participated in the Bettie Page challenge recently. We are currently working on this. And because I practice what I preach, you can find some of my poetry here and I will post new poems sometime later here.

Some of you are here because I have known you for a very long time. Some of you are here because I published you. Some of you are here because I visted your blog. But the main reason you are here is because I feel you are all very talented and I like surrounding myself with brilliance, beauty and genius. In other words having all of you around makes me look like if I am really cool instead of what I really am which is pretty dorky.

On a personal note, I am the mother of four children ages 8 to 17. We have three dogs (mutts) and I live in Miami.

Before I forget we are planning a cruise in 2006. I hope you can make it. We are also doing a reading in November. I am building the web page for the reading and will let you know when that is available.

Okay now it is your turn.


Originally uploaded by shinyu32.

How About A Little Poetry With That Gumball?

That’s right, you didn’t misread this. Nor did I.

I stumbled across the Gumball Poetry site seeking information online for July’s blog. These folks hail from Portland, Oregon and describe their eclectic ezine as

...a non-profit literary magazine that publishes the best poetry it can get a hold of. But we publish it differently, into gumball machines (capsules) and onto the Web.


Yet, I was left wondering - why?

Gumball Poetry has distributed gumball machines to various locations in 8 states. For a bit of small change you’ll get something besides gum to chew on.

A beautiful little ezine, Gumball Poetry is a wonderful addition to literary magazines on the web. The Last Expedition, the lost journals of Edward Von Lemkes is an amazing work.

If you live in Olympia Washington and you purchase a capsule in the library of Evergreen State College, you’ll help support the library scholarship program.

Or if you reside near Sandpoint, Idaho and believe in small presses devoted to publishing the work of Northwest writers, you can support Lost Horse Press, a nonprofit independent press committed to publishing poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction titles of high literary merit.

Better yet, be the first to bring Gumball Poetry to your state and support your favorite literary cause.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

bug poem

ironically, it's very long (and has a lotta white space) so i'll just post the link here:



Oh I hope this link works

just wanted to join the celebration of Eve



The energy spent
keeping the day
at the pace of your own waking.

We are alone
like a pair of eyes.
Now there is only others to look at.

They are falling from sidewalks
walked aimlessly.

Looking at your own desire,
you reach the end,
find again your own
soft piece of dreaming.

Pris with a dash of buddhism

(meant as a small gift to Pris).

poems reviewed

hi all, one of my poems has just been reviewed by roger pao here.

bios ~ for mIPOradio

please leave me a blurp of your bio for future use on mIPOradio. I am recording them and it would be useful if you supply the info. Leave me a URL to your blog and or web site. Here is an example of a bio. Please do not leave me more than three short senteneces.

New work published

Two of my poems are up at Cordite for their Editorial Intervention issue.

You know

You can use this blog for news too. I will however delete news threads when I feel they have expired. We would also like to hear about any new work you have had published. Go ahead, tell us all about it.

thank you -


Where did Jack's weekly reviews go?

I enjoyed reading those and do miss them.

Saturday, June 25, 2005


Every Saturday nite from 9 to 10 pm EST.
Click above 4 link.

Memory of a Kiss

Did we squirm together,
          thou and I,
                    amongst these frayed sheets?

As morning heats into locomotion
          traffic, a rising crescendo,
                    penetrates amorphous dreams.

I forget the address now,
          but the bed was soft no doubt,
                    and clean enough.

Only weary from the constant traffic.
          The phrases uttered escape me now,
                    lost amid the clatter of sound
and chatter.

I sigh
and squeeze my ears to recapture
          a line or two
                    of what passed between me and you
in our tender mapping of the night,

but all that I can recollect
          is a soft burr of tongue,
                    hummingbird to honeyspot,
          and the nectar of your mouth.

©Rae Pater

I love your yin yang

I love your yin yang

in Chinese characters
tattoo at the top
of her butt crack

could mean
my other ass
is a Porsche

more likely some
spiritual message
she can't read

because it's backwards in the mirror
because it's written in Mandarin
because it's meant to be read by me –

not me knowing Mandarin
any better than the tattoo guy –
all the not mes admiring, ogling

swath of tender flesh
sure boat to manna
sly monument moment

pretty I say
if I was your age
I'd probably have one

which is nothing less than true
& a little sad – not too sad
when I really think about it

me – I'd go for the yin yang
for a flower on a flexed bicep –
a butterfly lyricizing
stony ankle bone

this girl in pull-me-up pull-me-down clothes
flashes a pearly smile

it means strength
she tells me
as if there was ever any doubt

The Making of Eve (sb)

Horses were involved, no
question. And leopards,

yes. Foxgloves dropped
their blossoms and roses

opened their hearts in blue
air. Geysers pushed up

from stone while Strawberry
Moon rounded, and blushed.

How the dogs bayed. Each
lily curved its creamy petals.

The forest sharpened its teeth
with fire. Oh, the hiss of serpents,

the sad moan of the sea. She
bloomed from the seed of

the planet, a slow and patient
tendril, sapling of her own desire.

She thickens, she toughens.
Her roots hold deep.

googling "the making of eve"

and found this painting by that same title.

Friday, June 24, 2005

The Making of Eve (david)

by Anna Graham

A vehement fig, ok?
A geek tome, VHF-in
Heaven keg-motif--
Fat, meek, given oh,
Nag (evoke them if
He tag five men, ok?)
Gat knee five ohm,
A fee hen, GMT, IV, KO
(EEG met a VHF ikon)
Gamete five honk,
Fake even got him
Taken, gem-hive of
Meat, fen, keg, Oh, IV--
Heavie f gment, ok?

The Making of Eve (jenni)


It was a lovely June morning.
Chaffinches twittered and dew rested heavy
on the buttermilk tulips. The goddesses
of the universe: Kali, Pandora, and Nugua
were gathered under the gazebo
playing spades and eating pork rinds.
Nugua sensed something was wrong
with Pandora, who held onto the queen
when she could’ve passed it twice.
Nugua said, Tell me child, what’s
got your petticoats all ruffled?
Pandora flipped her soft brown ringlets,
(after her promotion to goddess status,
she became quite the diva)
and dug her nails into her pearly skin
until a rainbow of blood collected
under her French manicure.
She broke down crying. The rumors,
she just couldn’t stand them anymore!
All the gossip made her sound irresponsible.
She never opened that stupid jar,
it was that gruffly Epimetheus, whose name
by the way, meant “think later.” Duh.
Why should she be blamed for hunger,
old age, disease, labor, and greed?
Zeus swore they were strawberry preserves!
Kali, who remained silent thru the outburst,
jumped up from her pincushion
salivating and turning red as a radish.
The torque of giants' skulls clanged
and clattered around her throat as a moan
bubbled, gurgled and finally hissed
thru her lips like steam from a volcano.
What did Pandora know about slander?
Kali exploded: Listen to me little princess,
at least you’re not the personification of death
and destruction, accused of dancing
on your husband’s back like a cheap slut
drunk on a tabletop after you’ve slain
a thousand men to save the world! Plus,
you’re not known for carrying a dripping
Giant’s head from one of FOUR arms.
Nugua, the sensible one of the bunch,
waved her dragon tail, silencing Kali.
Tightening her Qing cout robe,
embroidered with a gold sequined phoenix,
she calmly assured that she too
was a victim of chauvinism, and so the story
goes she committed incest with Fuxi,
her own brother, to create the mortal world,
when in fact she’d done it single handedly
with mud and pebbles melted down
into a viscous substance that she slung
across the oceans and mountains.
I feel exploited! wailed Pandora.
I want revenge! screamed Kali.
Nugua fanned herself violently.
The ground rumbled. A black mass
of thunderclouds swallowed the sun.
The dot on Kali’s forehead lightened
to the fawn-color of her eyelids,
creases formed and sunk into a socket,
lashes tickled the bridge of her nose.
The dot opened. An amber eye rolled
around then fixated on a tortoise shell
where a goat was lapping rainwater.


After the invocation of Kali’s third eye,
the goddesses topped off a bottle of bubbly.
Create another woman said the vision,
(it was a dappled crow with three legs),
a woman whose evils will surpass your own.
It’s called blame transmission, an elementary
psychological inverted principal. Freudian,
Jungian, Skinnerian, Lacanian, maybe
even Darwinian. Kali stood. Her garland
of skulls jingled. A wind from the west
whipped her funeral black hair like fringe.
We’ll create a woman! she roared,
fetching the tortoise shell pot.
A woman for that god who resembles
Robert Redford but calls himself the Lord.
She’ll be tame as a toucan, fair like lilac,
we’ll place her in that precious orchard,
nature reserve, or whatever it is of his,
the one where every warbler whistles
and bees never wish they were peas.
Pandora ecstatically joined her. Yes!
She should be submissive! she cried
and dropped a valium into the pot.
Kali collected dandelion puffs, blew seeds
into the pot and wished her to be naïve.
Nugua scooped clay from the earth,
shaped a female figure, summoned
her pet lioness and plucked a whisker.
Nugua pressed it into the figure’s head,
tossed them into the shell and said firmly,
but this woman should also be curious.
The goddesses watched Nugua twist
a sequin off her embroidered dragon robe
and throw it into the pot. Light caught
the sequin and it twinkled. Nugua shrugged,
What good was curiosity without intuition?
She winked at the goddesses. Rain fell
into the shell, mixing the ingredients.


Adam wasn’t hard to trick.
Pandora wore black fishnet stockings,
stilettos, strutted up to him and asked
if he wanted to watch her eat a banana.
While he searched for a banana tree,
Nugua turned herself into a vine,
coiled around his ankle and tripped him.
No one saw the rock. After his rib cracked,
he went unconscious for over an hour.
Kali laid the sleeping woman beside him.
It got awfully sugary for a minute.
Kali’s eyes welled. Pandora sniffled.
Nugua was too practical for such nonsense.
They needed to name the woman
something wholesome Adam would believe.
Rose? Too cliché. Didi? Too sexy.
Bertha? No, that was like so Paleolithic.
Kali looked to the horizon glazed with clouds
like pink cotton candy. Pandora meditated
on pallid stars shone in the ever soft blue.
The sleeping woman stirred, yawned
and muttered, I’m Eve. Who are you?
The goddesses glanced at her quizzically,
then grinned at one another and tittered,
Why we’re your fairy godmothers, dear.

The Poetry of Bei Dao

On June 4th, 1989 protestors calling for democracy were massacred in the streets of Beijing. Poetry and literary freedom were also on trial that day. Bei Dao, author of revolutionary poetry and publisher of the literary journal Jintian [Today] has spent the last 16 years in exile, accused of "helping to incite the student revolt in Tiananmen" (Quote- China Poetry

Excerpts of several poems that were chanted by the students or used in banners follow. They are short powerful statements in and of themselves. If anyone has an online link to the full text of these poems, I'd love to have it.

The Answer

Debasement is the password of cowards,
Nobility is the epitaph of the nobleman . . .
Let me tell you, the world,
I / do / not / believe!
If a thousand challengers lie under your feet,
Count me as the thousand and first challenger.


In a time without heroes

I just wanted to be a human being

. . . I will not kneel on the ground

Allowing the executioners to look tall

The better to obscure the wind of freedom.

(From the Stanford Online Report 12/01/99)

For more information on Bei Dao and the politics of poetry see

From the Founding of Today to Today: A Reminiscence

The Making of Eve (hf)

Not certain this is ready yet—a first draft, but I did want to join the party. Helm.

The Making of Eve


I believe the moon wears earrings and shawl—
this October evening—
departing leaves are cymbals brushed
through another tune—waving note’s
tortured and fractured limbs.

Rain bends black windows into tears
and the drink I’ve stretched
across the table’s slow story
dreams such dreams as one might discover—
littered—Wednesday—at ten o’clock—in a neighbourhood pub.

Time passes—horse drawn milk wagon—milk box
to milk box—each minute named. My hand
moves with the ticking seconds
of Nancy—pale blue dress—hair back—
a mole shaped like loneliness on her neck.

I imagine god as an empty glass—waiting—expectant.
In his chair, he creates stories, pushes them towards the maturity of history.


The city materializes in waves—traffic’s surf washed
against rush hour’s dark oil flowing down
sidewalks—leaking from ill-lit stores—
and the machinery of day brands notes on doors—tenor sax
from throats that have forgotten all names.

I have a name—for slow streetlights—
for those blinking eyes passing on prim escalators—
for words between in hallways—for the sounds doors learn
late at night when creaking conversations fade
and the moon hums a tune from history.

I have a name—for streets and wind—I have
a name for rain and trees—I have a name for alleys
and doors which are closed against—for the language of doors
between and for the punctuation of locks,
the metaphors keys become in evening’s tattered sunlight.

I believe in god the trinity, not god the solitary, not god
walking with me through a café, not god sitting with me, drinking coffee.


To speak with you is to place chalk crayons in our hands—
to guide each other’s hands across the sidewalk and to watch
the sketches come into being. We name those snapshots
with poetry—sonnets for sadness—limericks for laughter—
and for love, rhyme separated by distance—yet alike.

To name a morning is to give it sunshine and coffee—
the reflection of your hair in the window—
and recite the story of the peach rose—how our hands
cupped and drank its colour from the air—
to name a morning is to devour it.

The monotheism of love is gray wind’s breath in locks—
petals falling from scree clouds—windows looking into fog.
Look for love in the eyes of a child scaling a harsh
driveway on her tricycle—playing hopscotch over ants—
reaching with her heart into tentative time.

The god of novels and haiku—the god of history is a jealous god.
Yet one stone placed upon another is creation.


Winter kneels on city’s chest—hunter—hunter—killing hope—
and cars gingerly negotiate the rising snow’s tide.
This morning I gathered the paper from the porch—
the roses are under drifts. We drank our coffee—read the news—
and in the kitchen’s silence we locked away our views.

The roadside pines dance to December tunes—slow dances—
cold dances of the number one. I’ll be home soon—
open the door to a dark room where our shoes have mated
through today and stale stories reside. I’ll be home soon—
prepare dinner—wait for you.

I wonder who could so long endure pulling the sun down
into horizon—so long endure in endings were there not a promise
of beginnings to follow—I wonder. As each minute passes
I place it on top of the one before—the phone doesn’t ring.
I will name this an epic in honour of you.

The god of triads is a story-teller—the god of triads is the god of choices—
the god of triads sits in the neighbourhood pub making dust into dust.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

new template

I had to switch templates because the other one was acting funny. I put your name or initials next to the title. Please post new eve poems with your name in (). Please check on your formatting. Sorry but the blog was looking funny as if someone has had too much to drink in the party. I am the designated driver.

The Making of Eve (RC)

God almighty wearing whitie tighties
dashed into Ribs & More
and said, “Self, that’s a good idea!”

so back he went to his lab
and started making Eve,
the breasts gave him a lot of trouble,

the vagina, that was the pits,
so many decisions, inner and outer lips,
at first he opted for inner lips only

but that didn’t seem right,
he stuck his finger in there to double check,
no, no, better go with outer lips, too,

he put his mind to them,
yes, yes, that’s much better.
Next, he went to work on the clitoris,

connecting all its nerve endings
to all the right places in the brain
(well, maybe he missed a few)

and Eve ran around naked and free
before the invention of panties and bras,
before the invention of the forbidden fruit.

The Making Of Eve (PRIS)

Spewed out of God's Sixth Day WIDE
open post utero mouth, these zygotes,
twin embryos, now grown, one buried
inside the other, tumblefall into Eden.

History's first birth defect.

That story about the rib?
History's first cover-up.

Nixon, listen up.
God's buds did it, too!

No woman to ride side saddle
for long, Eve sharpens overgrown
nails, aliens her way free
through Adam's wimpy chest.
She flirts with the serpent,
finishes off the apple and tosses
Adam the worm and the core.

Original sin. What fun, she trills.

With a shake of her fuck-me frizzled
hair and one hand lifting an,
as yet uncarressed breast, she takes up
with a horny caveman. Their two dozen
mix-breeded children scope uncountable
later debates about Origins,
birth control, and the true
author of the Kama Sutra.

The Making of Eve (Chuck)

The Making of Eve

Apollo killed his Icarus,
Luna left her admirers sad,
Isis drove Egyptians mad,
Poseidon too wet to inspire us –

Jahweh! Only great bearded Jahweh!
Strict Father of retribution
imagined the unlikely if not impossible:

The divine surgeon operated
(although Adam was not covered),
extracted a heart-protecting rib,
created procreation and the right to choose
without preliminary laparoscopy,
laser, a host of medical students observing.

Wine we drank in celebration, huzzah!
and song, a chorus of angelic interns!
Eve! the most remarkable invention,
more exquisite than the mouse,
yet unpatentable.

Indeed, without her, snake would be unknown!
Without Eve, the apple would be a poor ungrafted thing
and Adam, a doltish peasant, a gatherer
of artichokes and not a hint of butter.
Eve is the proof that Jahweh was the best!
The one! The only! The Chief of Operations!

The Making Of Eve (Rae)

began from a line drawn
with a charcoal bone
sown in a bed of earth.
                                 Mother of thorns
                                that form the crown
                                 worn by the Prince.

Rib corset laced with serpents
hair fragrant with the feathers
of fallen        sons,

                                 the waterless canopy envies
                                 the Nile that flows from behind her iris
to nurse sweet rivers of grass
(green as the core
bearing the seeds).             She blooms
beneath the hand of her creator like breath of the sea
soothed between cliffs of sandy thigh, fluid with birth.
A silk flutter, gull's wings,
skim the arch between heaven
and the heave and settle of land.

Her hands flow with snakewinds of veins
strong enough to pluck an apple from a tree,
two flesh arms
in divine proportion        to a mother's breast
in which is sown the seeds
for the downfall of paradise.

©Rae Pater

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Genesis (The making of Eve)

First there was the sound
of scraping in the eves,
the attic workshop awash
in clay, the hand, the mouth,
beauty an obsession.

Rent like a full figured doll
formed from the eye of beauty
when beauty was unknown,
an idea, thought blind.

The birth came suddenly
a naked lay in the grass
of time, fluid. Relativity knew
this, a moveable distance.
De Milo knew too, she walked on water
called his name, named his desire.

Once the word left her lips it spun
like gold, the needle pricked and she was doomed
to wander in the company of snakes and men.

Genesis-Bound (The Making of Eve)

Rules! They that made the rules
and will not let me be Me!

They wrapped me with this foul-mouthed
snake and a stinking pomme d'aire!

I was created for more! Let me flex
my muscles, break out of this picture

frame, this Eden that's not, cess pit
of God and Man's desires, creative end-

zone! These guys with their cul-de-sacs
and their bald-spot way of thinking.

I'm zoned out in this jive place
constructed not by me but by these two

buds who sit around drink beer and talk
about their Worldplans as if I'm not here.

Well, dream away, guys! This Eve's no Jeeves,
no Aunt Jemima! Step and fetch it yourselves.

Don't crucify me on your tree of expectations,
this Eve's taking her leave. Sayonara, pardners.

Christopher T. George

the making of Eve (AnnMarie)

Bear-basalt, dure boweled, cored into and ground
      to no avail; earth nailed
down as if some unhalf-lifed, louring, plannish-pig triumphed.
      Fricts. Defies not with mollities.
Thus question, thus quickling uptest,
      wheresoever surface
topographies, drear steppe veneers, landscrapes,
      testitry and flaunt.
Plains openly appetent, rivers with dry bed taunt, all
      dream for want of something more. Sea,
vedic, pre-presumptative, underscores, transmogrifies
      its vast vellum underbelly to ripple.
Little then from hard has come. Small calls.
      Her voice, wet in cresseted asking,
brings forth rise, shore - banks, turns, forks, side issues,
      deciduous decideings.
These how needy, how so ripely imploring, how so raw;
      ready this world to be logicked
away, steadied by hand, by law. Yet the east blore bluffits
      up a passage. Scores.
Lichens, mosses, grasses, ferns, incompossible in strict
      land terms, turn flora, crawl
sunwards, spawn tree. Ah that you should be asking me
      for the stark making of her!
She smells apple before she senses tongue. She knows
      neither rib nor caul.
Brille blink slink, no noetic cetacean death preferable
      to menses; unmarried she
engages. Thinks, bites, falls to defensive argumentation.
      Time presses a momentary
vulnerary inculcation: hips joined, eyes sindicated, legs
      four. Severed, they run
for cover. Worse, much worse, your lush alibi is
      flawed, forever formulaic and blood brailles
                                                                           each brother.

Sequined Glove (CTG)

Through the California legal system
rigamarole of metal detectors,
the aging man-child passes.
Pale makeup today,
a blank look, mutated surgically.

Ooh, baby, baby
Where did our love go?

A fan releases a white dove
for each acquittal, others throw
confetti, the verdict
a marriage contract
between star and fans--

I'll reach out my hand to you,
I'll have faith in all you do,
just call my name and I'll be there.

his Boy's Own private theme park
with Zipper ride, and rollercoaster
open all night long
where the seventh of nine
children slept with other children.

Let me fill your heart with joy and laughter.
Togetherness, that's all I'm after.

Twenty years ago--
the red leather jacket
with all the zippers, black-face boy
singing "Beat It"
reinventing the Sharks and Jets
for a new generation.

The kids flocked
to Waxie Maxie's
to plunk down their bucks.

Music made him free--

The memory of jack-up
trousers and white socks
and crotches grabbed.

Ooh, baby, baby
Where did our love go?
Ooh, don't you want me
Don't you want me no more
Ooh, baby--

The cable news guys have packed up
their video equipment and gone home,
leaves blow in front of the gates.

Waving slowly from the belltower
the armband, the sequined glove.

Christopher T. George

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

The Making Of Eve


In celebration of our new café’ café’ blog, our cruise in 2006, our reading this November and our new IPOD radio show, we are celebrating by doing what we do best and that is write poetry. Bring me a poem. Title it “The Making of Eve”, follow the link, come back and leave me the poem on this thread so I can keep track of it. Please do not offer me leftovers. Please write something new. Please do not give your poem to someone else while the celebration is taking place. After the party, you can do with it whatever you like. You may also place it separately on the blog so that you may receive comments. Put a link on your blog back to this blog if you like. It does not matter since this is our own private party. The writer who writes the poem that I like best will receive a gift. The gift is an IPOD. The deadline is July 8TH, 2005. I would like for you to record your poem if possible. Send me the file if you do not use audioblog and I will upload it. If you are the writer who receives the gift and do not reside in the United States or Canada or have an APO address, I will offer you a gift certificate from in the amount of $200.00 so that you can order your own IPOD. If you are in the USof A, Canada or have an APO and wrote the poem I liked best then I will mail you the IPOD directly from This is not a contest. This is not a challenge. This is a celebration. Lets have a party.


        Loud Poem: Firmament

Blue, a luminous cloud. Sun
of incandescent red, reticulated, faint,
pretending amnesia.

That angels swim channels
of darkness between buoys: elliptical,
ancillary; orbit's solitude.
Astrographer, no dreamer exhumed
black chart's vacuum retrograde.

Awareness: an invention.
Things appear saturate — authentic,
moon-infused, annual. Belief, two-thirds
and up of student understanding.
Game summarily surface, indisputably

white, found nascent, impracticable.
Whose perverse, man-encompassed leaning
soul-supposes us? We demonstrate
dreaming: sweet, sweet, annihilation.

Based on Man Ray's 1924 painting "Lautgedicht"
(from an exercise posted by Frances Leviston)

I thought I'd share with you Helm's Volant

Monday, June 20, 2005

I am White

I am White

I am sent to Dr. Kim, the dermatologist, to check out various moles, warts and old-man flaps and I agree because one night last month I woke in a bed of blood,
not explained by a kick in the kidneys or a MacBethian wound; this was quite a mystery.

Dr. Kim examined me from scraggly hair on the top down to corn on big toe, scraped something from shoulder and packaged it for the forensic lab and grated something from the top, requested by Denise the barber (she was afraid she’d clip it right off).

And then Dr. Kim counseled me as follows:

First, the bleeding, most likely a hematoma,
harmless but messy. Don’t worry about it.

Second, she’ll let me know
what the lab says about the samples.

Third, she says I’m pretty fair and should wear something on my bald head.
I said, I’m not fair, I’m swarthy. She said, no, you’re fair, you have blue eyes.
She said, Look, I’m dark, I’m an Asian, you’re light. See? I am in shock.
I forget, sometimes, that I am white. Rather, because I am of the age before Jews
were considered white, I do not think of myself as white. But cancer doesn’t lie
and the lab says, Squamous, you damned fool, you are white! Wear a damned hat!

new challenge coming soon

in celebration of a birthday....

only cafe' cafe' members will be invited to the party.....

since every celebration needs a gift, I am giving someone from cafe' cafe an ipod.......

shhhhhhh....don't tell is our secret......

e-mail me if you want to join our celebration....

didimenendez at hotmail dot com

the three poems I am sending to IBPC

The Girl God Cheats On, Volant and Spokane.....

The Heat

The heat has hit. My head is cracking under stress
last week’s strenuous work : meetings for marks
next year’s meandering steps, two sleepless nights _
my friend is sick,
my mother is sick, my father is sick_

and again we wander beyond daily notes
the thermometer of an average lifespan is right there
80 : old; 90 : what an age; 100 : almost impossible,
and then?

listen, I am weak, these are my people
every evening in bed my eyes cry –
the conscious is kept unconscious ///sleep sleepy mind///
I know it is out of compassion that I do not have to know
but I see the slope dizzily fixing down the vertigo
is intolerable _ I finally dive into the water blue as the
bottom of the swimming pool


the creaking of the key of the neighbor
when justice strikes she will be hanged
her guts/eyes/brain/arms/fingers beaked
by ravens – in circles it goes

the light of hate is piercing – the one of love
muddled obscure oblique impossible to distinguish
worries in waves submerge me in any attempt
of seeing through – blindly I gulp down water
there is no air in this liquid mass when the heat hits.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

The Impulse Visit

I turn trickster because the past is still here,
your forgetting you've forgotten responsible
for a way of un writing history until
the sickly epiphany draws a joyful no colour
all through the invisible in the lost visible.

As trickster I ask makeshift questions
that are their own answers & so
offer no relief from the inconvenience
of that inconvenient seeing
the worn rail against.

God was Here said the red red robin
to the black black crow -
God was here & graffitti is holy.

I stand in holey boots
on the river's edge
skipping the perfect stones you sent me
so sure someone else should be throwing them.

& the sound of nothing less startling
than the song




from our own
jill chan . . .

beautiful post

A beautiful farewell to an uncle. found the link to this blog over at Emily's.


I’m beginning to like
looking at night stars.
Find a dry spot outside,
fill the dark with innocent gazing.

There’s no time to wish.
I am thinking beyond wishes.

Light has no answer
beyond its brightness,
beauty to remember.

I want to claim
the brightest star.

I am weak.
My eyes are the mirrors
no one stops in front of.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

How Larry Got His Job

How Larry Got His Job

The national union was an old AFL fiefdom. The real action had been in the CIO, but Green had appointed one of his boys to head up the operation in Akron and, for years,
the union operated in a typically AFL way: lots of autonomy for the locals, so some were great and some were pathetic, a posh retreat for staff in Canada, and a president who didn’t do much but left everybody alone.

On the national staff was Dr. P, the research director, Austrian with a JD which meant his Dr. was bullshit, nevertheless Dr P had a constituency – locals that trusted him, appreciated his help in negotiations, etc. Larry worked for Dr. P.

The membership had been worried about health – understandable in a union of chemical workers. But, the old national leadership was slow in responding. How to put something in place that would not be a potential political problem? So Larry was a godsend. He was a rep from Connecticut with a college degree in horticulture. He had a political base, came out of a Cyanamid local and he could be brought on to meet the members’ worries. He was put into Dr. P’s office. Then Walter was elected.

Walter, up from the ranks of the TVA white collar crowd, a hero to the black locals in the South for not being an asshole, the kind of guy who wouldn’t take an officer’s commission in the war because he thought it would be better to be a sergeant in an egalitarian post WWII world – Walter challenged the president and won. Forty-six years old, bright, a labor-lawyer wife who was even brighter, somebody who Reuther had his eyes on. So he beat the old guard.

The inevitable fight between Walter and Dr. P happened. The details are not important. What’s important is that no president could have a staffer undermine his political position. So: after finding a nice spot on the AFL-CIO education staff for him, Dr. P was kicked upstairs and out of the union; and Larry was made Research Director. That Larry was an idiot was not a problem. Walter was going to put his people – young people – in place. The political base was covered – after all, Larry had been a buddy of Dr. P. That’s where we came in. We would do the work.

Friday, June 17, 2005


Ever to know is silence, the mockingbirds sing
early darkness until their wish is realized.
The branches know no bounds, and genuflect.

Sap is their silence, nothing exists which doesn’t
obstruct the sun, except for the sun. Here it comes.
Mockingbird shadows trace the street’s contours.

Mockingbird song traces my ears. The traffic
begins, and each light is a wishing well.
Ever to wait is listening, hear yourself think.

I’m listening to something, don’t know what yet
is raising in me the hope of what’s-to-come,
a hope which furthers nothing. Which speaks truly

too quiet for me to hear. Before work I heard it,
as the traffic idled and the sun blinded those
of us lined up due east, heads tilted each

in our stillness to a light in morning prayer.

For Andy

In the dream
fish fly like chips of wood to the axe,
bark dark warnings on the edge of tidal pools.
Maine looms a granite sculpture,
seated with scarred evergreens, watercolors
in a tin box dashed against the imagination.
Spit upon, immersed in seawater
passion crashes against the immovable,
the ultimate end.

the clean-up

and then a fleckless folding wingsof
something more akin to unuvulated
grace firmaments inculcated waytéd
laceless licklustreful disemplaced em-
braces striated by road by parture by

damp prepossessing. It was thus but
shrags sourded: sycamore progeniture
has tried its progeny, ground ugly, wasted
shifting ash-leafed maple sative in this teasing
town. The blank that. Flocculent Southdowns littering

distract; hillside as just …, relationship
ass mistraction so sibilants weapon
yesterday’s ambient true course
fallen each runs on each curse
both sheep brained, infacund

both treatise as if heaven
slovens. How (without
remiss) to save - from
henceforth make
mere muck


Thursday, June 16, 2005

Enjoying the poems

I just want to say that I am really enjoying reading all these wonderful poems! Stunning work, really.


Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Please vote for one of these for June's IBPC

I will send the three poems with the most votes to the IBPC on June 20th. Only community members vote will count. To find out what this is all about stop by the IBPC web site. Please refrain from posting new poems for a few days so the thread does not fall off the page. Thank you.

by Michael Hoerman

Nellie In the Dark
by Laurel Snyder

by Helm Filipowitsch

the art of removal
by barbra nightingale

Droplet Micrologies
by annmarie eldon

Chairman Mao's Mistress
by Ginger Bush

The Girl God Cheats On
by Dierdre Dore

The Girl God Cheats On

(for Katy)

Isinglass in combat       boots
all the lies your mama taught you rolled into one
I would fly but Henny stole my helium
last night - the Barricade - 47th - fuck

Henny I stride so past when your high-
assed senorita catches her stilettos
in a sewer grate & hisses Huy! Wait for me! Jesus!
through the gap       in her teeth

I am the gap             Nobody
waits for me     I am the flip side

blue Blue arm etched to rock: call it night or soul
or baby     call it lock-down by the clank
& this is really it – the clank of a man-hole cover

I am cat-silver Once I took a picture of a man
his face besmirched in lipstick kisses
from his lovely drag queen weeping

at his side            He gave me
the finger            then farted

I am the April ice of the East River
melting into the rumble of the Atlantic
You ever met a shade of grey you didn’t like?

I am white graffiti on a dirty white wall
Mock orange, fat chance, a nice Jewish girl
off leash I am the echo of matte black
in the titty bar where the      crack

splits          under your feet
I am the dream in the pavement
I live surrounded by the sound of the sky

breaking     I am the suicide note you found
in a fortune cookie the oath you left in the dryer
of a coin-op Laundromat I am the girl
God cheats on who        the hell are you?
Considering Voice Blogs

Should parts of me exist beyond immediate reach,
as though, walking down a particular road
under peculiar sunset, I can’t dial in to where I am,
rather wait. It will all make sense and be recorded
in a small room fourteen floors above the pools of tonight,
muttering sixty-seven eyeless words, while slowly
drinking tea.

And it will live forever in frozen electrons—dragonfly
captured in sap after thunderstorm over Lake Warren—
these words which become one descriptive—fading flowers
stale with their experience, their interpretation of flower,
their conversation with the air—even they will create
the imagination of dead moments—even they will travel time..

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Memorial Day

The sky drops
sun then rain then sun--
it's temperamental.

We stand holding clipped roses,
keeping green thoughts,
sharing memories and retelling
experiences we had with you
with such a reverence
each story might break
if we were not just so

We say the sun is shining because
our soul needs the warmth --
a reassurance all is well.
We say the sky cries because
we are crying.

We use newly purchased tools
a sturdy brush, dusting cloths,
dust the cobwebs from the grooves
already formed in your name,
in each of your dates.

We each volunteer,
take a turn scrubbing the cement,
brushing into the grass
what came loose.

We admire how new it looks.

Placing roses under your name
we pause, take in everything,
look at the whole of it and
honor the living name.

We back away slowly then turn, still
taking in the pieces of you and of us,
not wanting to forget things.

"Isn't it well kept and green?" I say
and for a brief moment it seems alright
we are leaving you here.

Between the Lions Poetry Grant

(hope it's okay to post this here)

Announcing the first annual Between the Lions Poetry Grant.

This competition is open to single mom poets with two or more children under the age of 13. It carries a cash award of $500 (hopefully to go up in years to come) and one week of childcare AND maid service in your home, provided your home is within a 3-4 hour flight from Washington, D.C. or Philadelphia, because I can't take flights much longer than that and I, Emily Lloyd, will be providing the childcare. I was a children's library assistant for 7 years, continue to volunteer with children, and Mary Poppins was one of my childhood idols. Your kids are safe with me, as long as they don't expect gourmet meals. Your dirty laundry, and dishes, and undersides of couches, are also safe with me.

Send 10 poems and a paragraph of introduction (anything from your goals to why you are applying to the names and ages of your kids and whether they have any special needs--whatever you see fit) to by August 1, 2005.

This grant is named after Between the Lions, a fabulous children's show on PBS set in a library, which I recommend to childless adults (like myself) as well as children and parents. I mean, check it out, they have a segment called "Gawain's Word" sung to the tune of "Wayne's World."

Thanks. Please remember to be 3-4 hours from DC or Philly (by plane). And I'm not a foundation, just a gal, so this isn't a declare-it-in-your-taxes award.

(I am posting this to WOM-PO, feel free to fwd to eligible friends).


wherein the arcane connection between LKD and Basho is revealed.

Future mIPOradio shows


Birdie and I as you know (or may not know) are working on an ipod radio show for MiPOesias Magazine. One of the future shows will revolve around this blog. I believe I mentioned that in the past. Please start participating by sharing your work and comments with us. Birdie and I will be holding auditions. If you have the ability to record yourself at home, please send me your files so we can start editing. You may e-mail me at didimenendez at hotmail dot com. I will only accept poems that have been shared with the other readers in the blog. That is our one guideline regarding material. The other guideline is here.

The Fine Print: We will not guarantee that if you send us work that it will be broadcast. Participation in this blog is not an automatic acceptance for a future show. However, it sure will help cuz if you are not participating then how can you be part of it?


Monday, June 13, 2005

why Buddha would dig net poetry

(and also why Laurel Snyder is kewl)

A good flash review blog. . .

(click on the title to go there) . . .
BUT. . . he doesn't like Treeza !

Calling all half-Jews (for lack of a better term)


Seeking brilliant prose about (or relating to) the subject of "growing up half-Jewish". We are looking for poets, fiction-writers, and creative essayists who-- raised in an interfaith-family-- have a story to tell. Our writers represent a huge breadth of diverse experiences, from observant Jews to atheists to Buddhists, united by their experience of growing up HALF...


HALF/LIFE: growing up Jew-ISH
Editor, Laurel Snyder
Soft Skull Press
Spring, 2006

Length is unimportant, and all styles are welcome, but we are only accepting writing of the highest quality!!!

Deadline is July 15 for initial queries.
Please query to
Include a brief bio, a pitch, and writing sample

update on poems being considered for IBPC June

Please check this list and if your poem is being considered, please make sure I have:

1) Your correct copyright name
2) The poem is not being considered by an editor for publication
3) The poem has not been published previously.

If your poem is on this list, please advise me if your poem is not available before June 15th. I will not be a happy camper if I find out later that I was not advised and I put the poems to the group for voting.

So please speak up.

Voting will take place on the 15th of this month and will be open till the 20th. I will open up a new link for the voting.

Thank you,
Rain Falls on Starved Yard

While I slept, rain. Now a weak sky is soiled sheet
and the strings which are today, this afternoon lie
listless and I imagine myself on a cliff overlooking sea.
Sails perform a jig along asphalt waves, disappear.

Life is a mendicant’s collection of events and our lips,
which mark the hours with description, are a monastery
of igneous words. See landscape rise, assume shape,
flow away, see man cling to his life rafts—see history.

I’m washing dishes, scraping away breakfast, lunch,
returning plates to cupboard, forks and spoons to drawer.
How many times can we sell stale events as virgins
in the marketplace? The water is grey with morning.

The rain returns, falls on back deck. In the flowerbed,
giggling plants are drunk, wind is violin, time impossible.

Chairman Mao's Mistress

She thought at first it was Bell's palsy
as they lay together on the nettle grass,
shared the pipe. He'd spread a quilt of fine animal skins
beneath her, his trophy specimens. It was only when the bells rang
she realized they were still beneath her, still alive.

The strawman in the forest liked to hear the cries.
She liked to do it in the open, with the whole world watching.
The voyeurs gathered around the edge of the wood
as she struggled for their attention, one slim leg
cast open to asymmetrical abandon.

But those goddamn bells... She wished they'd quit ringing.
"Do unto unto others"

The monks in the temples hid their heads in shame.
Before the palsy claimed him it would take away
his ability to speak,
to even cry.


sara seeks out
a friend filled with cancer,
pockets pills whenever
june is sleeping.
she gulps down three, back
at her place, then binds
her legs tight 'round a stranger.

she dances on the stars
each night, makes bargains
with her demons.
the demons tell her she's
all right; keep pumping pills,
you're bound for heaven's glory

now sarah says she's finally
clean, gone twelve steps, picked
up her chips, found jesus, but
uses people in place of
drugs, still sleeps with any man
who asks her.

her hands, as cold as old
hoar frost, betray her, heart
gone hard as Barb'ra Allen's.

When Small

You're sleeping
next to me

closing your fists
like a baby

the night

as silence deepens
like a howl of the eye

yourself seriously
apply surfeit of

critique to forethought
thereby quenching

from each
equation the unknown

stalk habit systems
until litany

as if
to franchise obsession

never enough random
trackdown of

as pure
subjectivity gone wrong

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Please read this if you are considering submitting to MiPOesias


The acre of sky offset by pruned branches, apple
thickets, full fig asylum and the curve of common
sense earth make up his backyard.

In this he sees a garden, a partner, old
like the boxwoods, cup and saucer moons
laced with the aside of seasons. He turns
the soil of reason, tends the hourglass,
praises a hidden sun.

Rain in gasps drench cotton into skin like passion,
a driving wetness. Baptismal of leaf to breeze,
this thirst is drawn through pores
while brown eyes shelter an entreaty.
I have seen the Batman
a movie review of the new Batman movie in sloppy verse

No nightmarish memories
of Bat-Nipples
and the Bat-Credit Card.
No visions
of overreacting villans.

We meet billionaire
playboy Bruce Wayne
in - why not?
a Tibetan prison.

He meets a man named Ducard
who offers to turn him
into the ultimate bad-ass.
Of course he accepts.
Who wouldn't?

I lost the plot
here, when Bruce's
hair covered one eye,
uncovered my lust.
God, he's hot.

Bruce heads
back to his hometown.
Gotham City,
no longer the creepy berg
of the Burton movies
or the homoerotic neon wonderland
of the Schumacher catastrophes.

It's a city where people
might actually live and work
and starve and suffer.

With one exception,
everything in this flick
is top-notch.

(from the filmmakers
to the actors
to the collaborating
composers Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard)
is at the top of their game.

The one weak link
is Katie Holmes.

It's not like she's phoning
it in like Natalie Portman
in the Star Wars movies.
But she's miscast.

Holmes lacks
the edginess
that an assistant DA
of the criminal-infested
Gotham City would have.
I blame Scientology.

Her role is minor
and it doesn't detract
from a fantastic movie.

You don't have
to be a comic fan.

You don't have
to be a Batman fan.

You don't even have
to like superhero movies.

Anyone who likes movies
will appreciate this one
as a fine example
of good storytelling and filmmaking.

Two snaps in Z-formation.

The Last Time

The last time I saw Yosef
we were by the tracks
when I was shoved inside
a compartment
with bayonets.

The swords ripped
part of my sweater
and my shoulder bled.

I did not make it to
camp for I suffocated
crushed between human flesh.

The last time I saw Horatio
we were standing by
the shores of a rocky beach.

I recall the sounds of hooves
coming to announce that
he must depart for the enemy
was getting closer.

The Queen’s fleet
was aligned against
the horizon.

With his new quills
and paper in hand
I had just given him
the night before--
the last night we made love
the mosquito net hushed our sounds.

He promised to return
as hooves splashed
against the shore.
It started to rain.

His ship disappeared
against a thundering sky
or perhaps it was the
sound of cannons
I heard.

Saturday, June 11, 2005


"She is, yes, a little of a moth to the flame, but who is not? When Millay said 'I burn my candle at both ends,' not everybody laughs."

Sappho's 9th Life - Sojourn With The Ferryman

Sappho's 9th Life – Sojourn With The Ferryman


As river, Ferryman, you do what you're told –
you hold to the health of salt smell,
etch the moving paths wider,
topple wave over wave
under strong wind's flying touch.

Why, then, do you refuse
the songs I've modeled on you,
as if the silted verses, crashing refrains
tough with voices spent years ago by now
have had the wrong thing in mind all along?

These were ringing clues I could
find for you, not give you – you with your
gushing spine contained in a ragged shirt
risen in an arc. Then you down on all fours
sniggering in your boat's wizened bow.


On the shore today, many potential
passengers. No one trusts or quite believes
a ferryman's promise, save under duress.
The river that you are toys with them, wheedles.
The trick is to make them believe this is only another trip –

certainly not the last. Why o why
won't you sing? Ill or well intentioned,
music on a journey works wonders.
& yes – who could have foretold
I'd end up getting lost among the ones
believing, lightheaded,
in a costly other side?

poetics quote of the day

"It's just, y'know, like a whole lotta nothing but it's some good nothing." -- Missy Elliot. (from BET special, "Access Granted, on cable, 6/11/05).


Sweet Mary Brown Eyes

Mary bought herself new running shoes
Mary bought herself three new DVDs
Mary bought Smirnoff orange flavored vodka
Mary drank two glasses with crushed ice while she watched the first DVD
Mary put her new running shoes on
Mary put Crosby Stills Nash And Young Best Hits on her Sony
Mary listens to Judy Blue Eyes
Mary does not understand the Spanish at the end of the song
Mary was born in Cuba
Mary knows how to speak Spanish
Mary does not shove her language to degree earned non speakers
Mary knows that sometimes they totally fuck up the language
Mary lets them
Mary does not understand Crosby’s guajiro
Mary says hey it is like what Silliman was trying to say about Coolidge
Mary says ala Bandstand, its got a good beat and I can dance to it, I’ll give Coolidge a 7.5 Dick
Mary prefers to dance to Bukowski
Mary runs harder when the do do do do do do do do at the end goes full swing
Mary runs underneath a mango tree and starts to run backwards so she can see how well hung the tree is
Mary could jump and dunk for a mango
Mary turns around and keeps running
Mary is not addicted to alcohol
Mary has been addicted to the internet for 10 years
Mary wants to reach out and touch him as if he were a mango
Mary rewinds Judy Blue Eyes
Mary listens to it’s getting to the point, I am sorry, Sometimes it hurts so badly
Mary must cry out loud
Mary is lonely
Mary keeps listening, don’t let the past remind us of what we are not now
Mary keeps running

For Prissy

(the italics mean I took from the lyrics of the song Judy Blue Eyes by Crosby Still Nash and Young's lyric)

Let me know

If you like having the three most recent post up at a time or if you wish to have more than three -- if so how many?

The Skeleton Rises

The Skeleton Rises

On the nightstand, the water glass sweats.
She’d take a sip, but the ice has already melted.
The fan shakes and shakes its head; she’s sick
to death of the vacillating, the constant negative,
the trickle. In a room exposed to the east,
she lays on a bed stripped of sheets and tries not to think
of bones, yet the skeleton rises, shows its white self, pressing
from the inside outward against the skin—is it possible
that her skin’s really that thin?--she can’t help
but stare at her knuckles as she tries to read a poem by Emily.
She tries not to breathe, less a conscious holding of breath
than a forgetting of the lungs’ mechanics. She tries not to think
of her body, this strange machine beyond her control,
this engine that runs and runs despite the obvious absence
of soul. It is the fan, not a fly that buzzes. She can’t bear
the heat despite having bared every inch of pale
skin; a rivulet crawls down the back of her neck
like a spider. She shakes her left leg to wake the comatose
extremity, but the foot refuses to be roused; the sole dreams
of walking away. Again, it is not a fly that buzzes.
Surely she is dead and this is hell. Light peers through the shade,
lasers its way through the mote-filled dark and lands
on her wrist where the skin is so thin it’s translucent
and veins squirm like worms barely contained just below
the surface. Even with this eastern exposure, she’s never
seen one of these sun rises. The summer stretches out
like a yawn that won’t shut its mouth, longer
than any unrequited longing she’s ever felt.
She doesn’t flinch when the fly alights on her screen.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Eulogy to the Dead

Coyly tucked beneath a virginal
sheet--electroshock therapy on wheels.
Comes right to you.
Pizza delivery techno in
the mental death ward.

Other candles zapped, one by one,
it's my go round at the party.

Forgotten memories smother the room,
then burst through a shuttered window.
A woman kneels to the walkway weeping;
she sees an ashen man on a graveyard bed,
leftover pills, stardust, around him,
that note bequeathing me
his Marilyn books still curled
in the crotch of his battered Royal.

Work Issue

I am putting together a special supplement to Niederngasse on work, working, working life, etc. So I would appreciate receiving contributions (poems) and ideas from you all. I am hoping that we can have it out in September -- so if "work" is a theme you've explored, please send it my way!



Can we make the blog so it displays less stuff on page 1? There is so much stuff on it that it takes forever to load. How do you make it so more stuff is not on page one but rather in the "archives"?