Woody Woodpecker Attacking John Lennon
Henry conversed with John Lennon through Mr. Bones,
the conversation taking place
inside of Michael Robartes
because there’s too much danger in a woman’s body.
The Spanish Mr. Bones spoke
reaches to here,
Henry indicated his own chin.
And John could dance and dance
and slide away from view.
His words were toast,
each adjective spinning like a top,
hounding each nail holding up Christ.
Henry surfaced from the bottom of the Red Sea
dressed like Sgt. Pepper.
Oh, my God, he’s black like a rapper
shouted an old white lady
as stones flew up her nightgown, but somehow
Henry’s perfection fended off the woodpeckers of New York.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Proposal
Remember when you asked me
the question-THAT question?
I do.
I was child, disguised as woman,
still gathering gold into red wagons.
By the time I turned back
to answer, you had gone.
Your footsteps sparked
through labrynthed streets,
then faded, traveling
places I could no longer follow
the question-THAT question?
I do.
I was child, disguised as woman,
still gathering gold into red wagons.
By the time I turned back
to answer, you had gone.
Your footsteps sparked
through labrynthed streets,
then faded, traveling
places I could no longer follow
Was I hallucinating?
I could've sworn I saw a post about Katrina here by didi early this morning. I liked the letter/poem. It was effective. I just now came back to comment and it's not here. Did I see it somewhere else??
Pris
Pris
smokescreen
On a dark veranda
across the lawn,
a signal fire has been lit.
Clutched in cupped fingers
it rises and falls, an arcturian star
lighting a path from lips to thigh.
wax and wane
inhale, exhale
I track the torch bearer's
meandering course 'round the patio
by way of the glowing ember.
back and forth
rise, fall
wax, wane
Silently waiting and wondering
behind his penumbral smokescreen--
is this the night
I'll cross the lawn
and cross the line?
Sudden final flare;
a tiny meteor arcs its way to earth
returning veranda to darkness.
The door closes behind him.
A single bead of sweat slides between my breasts;
the fantasy of a nicotine-stained finger in its place.
across the lawn,
a signal fire has been lit.
Clutched in cupped fingers
it rises and falls, an arcturian star
lighting a path from lips to thigh.
wax and wane
inhale, exhale
I track the torch bearer's
meandering course 'round the patio
by way of the glowing ember.
back and forth
rise, fall
wax, wane
Silently waiting and wondering
behind his penumbral smokescreen--
is this the night
I'll cross the lawn
and cross the line?
Sudden final flare;
a tiny meteor arcs its way to earth
returning veranda to darkness.
The door closes behind him.
A single bead of sweat slides between my breasts;
the fantasy of a nicotine-stained finger in its place.
Asian American Poetry - Stefans and MacLeish
Hello all,
I've linked to and commented on Brian Kim Stefans' "The Applicant" as well as Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica" over at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com/. Hope you find the posts interesting!
I've linked to and commented on Brian Kim Stefans' "The Applicant" as well as Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica" over at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com/. Hope you find the posts interesting!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Beginning of Seed: Slideshow with Music
Title: The Beginning of Seeds
(To watch this show, paste the address below into your browser) http://www.photoshow.net/view/kCbVHNHDe
(To watch this show, paste the address below into your browser) http://www.photoshow.net/view/kCbVHNHDe
Dancing with Katrina
is one blog trying to get out information about New Orleans in the wake of the storm.
The streets of New Orleans
are paved with water, the pull
of gulf warmth through the eye
of a windstorm. Buildings crack,
roofs fly. The lucky, ten thousand stranded
on the sidelines of a football field,
in hell.
American Red Cross
The streets of New Orleans
are paved with water, the pull
of gulf warmth through the eye
of a windstorm. Buildings crack,
roofs fly. The lucky, ten thousand stranded
on the sidelines of a football field,
in hell.
American Red Cross
Nowhere
This is the end-point
of your days’ confused wandering,
the period at the close
of life’s frantic sentence.
Here are all those that failed,
waiting for the rest of us
to name the failures
of our own lives and join them.
The final destination, no matter
the brilliant flights of being,
no matter what your will
or your hard-won ticket says.
And when you arrive,
you too will come to the town square
where everyone is gathered, leaning
over the edge of the bottomless canyon
that has sliced open the earth
in the middle of Main Street.
You too will come to stare
into the darkness of this wound,
to try to fathom all
that has been lost
while, behind you, a futile breeze
blows aimlessly through the trees.
of your days’ confused wandering,
the period at the close
of life’s frantic sentence.
Here are all those that failed,
waiting for the rest of us
to name the failures
of our own lives and join them.
The final destination, no matter
the brilliant flights of being,
no matter what your will
or your hard-won ticket says.
And when you arrive,
you too will come to the town square
where everyone is gathered, leaning
over the edge of the bottomless canyon
that has sliced open the earth
in the middle of Main Street.
You too will come to stare
into the darkness of this wound,
to try to fathom all
that has been lost
while, behind you, a futile breeze
blows aimlessly through the trees.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Seeking John Lennon (CTG)
Depicted on Broadway,
conceptualized by Yoko
a quarter century after
Chapman blew him away
as their limo drew up
to the Dakota
that cold December night:
multiple Lennons parade
on stage. Blacks, whites,
and women play Johnny Skiffle
of the Silver Beatles;
audiences lurch
in search of Lennon.
The night he deserted
Yoko for a pack of cigs:
multiple Johns walking
the streets of Manhattan;
a hooker at 8th & 42nd
jiggles her gold lamé ass:
"Wanna date, honey child?"
The Dovedale and Quarry boy
set loose in Gotham and LA,
watching the wheels, riding
the rock and roll serpent:
uppers and downers, LSD, coke,
lifetimes spent in purgatory.
On his birthday, his second
son Sean wailed first
at New York Hospital.
Sean and John, John and Sean,
"Beautiful, beautiful boy."
Ocean child Bermuda, captaining
his own yacht; Liverpool lad,
son of a goneaway seaman,
-- his Mum Julia slammed into
by a car driven
by a drunk off-duty copper;
his Dad ran off to sea --
long before the fame.
Lennon in the fog
of Liverpool and LA:
John in search of self,
drunk and on a bender,
or lost smoking pot
in the Dakota, only
to find himself with
"Starting Over," his big
comeback. . . Click
of the Charter
Arms revolver.
"Mr. Lennon. . .?"
Christopher T. George
conceptualized by Yoko
a quarter century after
Chapman blew him away
as their limo drew up
to the Dakota
that cold December night:
multiple Lennons parade
on stage. Blacks, whites,
and women play Johnny Skiffle
of the Silver Beatles;
audiences lurch
in search of Lennon.
The night he deserted
Yoko for a pack of cigs:
multiple Johns walking
the streets of Manhattan;
a hooker at 8th & 42nd
jiggles her gold lamé ass:
"Wanna date, honey child?"
The Dovedale and Quarry boy
set loose in Gotham and LA,
watching the wheels, riding
the rock and roll serpent:
uppers and downers, LSD, coke,
lifetimes spent in purgatory.
On his birthday, his second
son Sean wailed first
at New York Hospital.
Sean and John, John and Sean,
"Beautiful, beautiful boy."
Ocean child Bermuda, captaining
his own yacht; Liverpool lad,
son of a goneaway seaman,
-- his Mum Julia slammed into
by a car driven
by a drunk off-duty copper;
his Dad ran off to sea --
long before the fame.
Lennon in the fog
of Liverpool and LA:
John in search of self,
drunk and on a bender,
or lost smoking pot
in the Dakota, only
to find himself with
"Starting Over," his big
comeback. . . Click
of the Charter
Arms revolver.
"Mr. Lennon. . .?"
Christopher T. George
Waiting for a Response to a Love Letter
The clock has spun itself dizzy,
no doubt nauseous – in a moment
time will spew from its round face
and ooze out onto the hardwood floors,
gathering in a thick puddle
like so much quicksand
to suck my apartment down
into some nameless void,
swallowing the blue recliner
and the stack of books on the coffee table,
devouring the writing desk,
the office chair and the cup of pencils:
everything that I know, all that I am,
will soon be ground between time's yellowed teeth,
savored for a moment,
and then digested until it is only a fine dust
while, outside, the forgetful world
will continue about its business
of love and hate, dreams and fears,
just as you might do tomorrow –
sitting down to write me back
after a quick, thoughtless snack.
no doubt nauseous – in a moment
time will spew from its round face
and ooze out onto the hardwood floors,
gathering in a thick puddle
like so much quicksand
to suck my apartment down
into some nameless void,
swallowing the blue recliner
and the stack of books on the coffee table,
devouring the writing desk,
the office chair and the cup of pencils:
everything that I know, all that I am,
will soon be ground between time's yellowed teeth,
savored for a moment,
and then digested until it is only a fine dust
while, outside, the forgetful world
will continue about its business
of love and hate, dreams and fears,
just as you might do tomorrow –
sitting down to write me back
after a quick, thoughtless snack.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
IBPC WINNERS ANNOUNCED!
Didi asked me to post these. She doesn't have power back from the storm, yet. Congratulations, Jenni Russell for first place and also the honorable mentions!
Winning Poems for July 2005
Judge David Brinks
* The judge has decided to pick one 1st place winner and three honorable mentions.
First Place:
Jack’s Belly Button
By Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Honorable Mentions::
Linen
By Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
grapefruit
By Lisa Prince
blueline
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
Poems:
Jack’s Belly ButtonBy Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Jack has this belly-button “condition.” A robin-egg blue lint grows
inside it. When I attempt to remove the lint, he becomes aggressive,
recoils defensively. He says the doctor cut his umbilical cord wrong
and there’s a hole inside his belly-button exposing his organs to
the air. He claims the lint is a byproduct of these organs’ secretions.
I never believed him. I always thought he saved the lint for his Mom,
who used it to stuff her hand-made quilts. But tonight as he stood beside
my chair, I looked inside his belly-button and saw a tiny heart beating.
“Hold still!” I told him. The tiny heart flashed and rotated like a police
light. Above it a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs dangled from a lava
lamp. I pressed my eye to Jack’s belly-button and saw a room filled
with confetti, plastic fruit in wooden bowls, dried sea sponges, trip wire,
lobsters with rubber bands wrapped around their pinchers stacking
themselves like plates inside a dishwasher, and at a cluttered desk with
old chewing gum stuck to its side, a gnome swiveled in a leather chair
smacking gum, blowing it, and popping huge robin-egg blue bubbles.
LinenBy Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
Woody interior rotting
Eases the removal of flaxen fiber.
This retting the aroma of a rat’s death behind the cupboard.
Women beating the ornery fannies of flax stalks.
Each child to far corners, wood versus fiber,
Further separation, no harmony in the roughing.
How fine are you?
Stay with your own kind.
Parallel hackles, rough goes first
Ladies last, age before beauty
They are easy when wet.
An orgy of women required
To keep this weaver weaving.
Spin, dress with sticky ooze.
Thicken, strengthen before the toxin.
Bleach now, sun in days gone by.
Virgin white before more pummeling
To close every hole.
Across the pond she longs for sun.
The castle madam prefers sun in Stirling.
In capris, craves crisp clean air.
In pedal pushers, ponders purity.
Shops for vests with lungs,
Trousers with bronchi
Fears Chlorox
And its suffocating ways.
A startling oxymoron
Her poisoned pants
Once pummeled and putrid
To her like women’s lips
On her cycling, climbing calves.
grapefruitBy Lisa Prince
Blueline
I have a little serrated spoon
hidden away in my utensil drawer
you have to pick a ripe one
I remember in high school
home economics classes
where they taught us to press
our thumbs into the ends
of fruit to test for ripeness
every boy I’ve dated
has wanted to squeeze my breasts
sometimes when I shower
I touch them myself
trying to understand
their globular form
for breakfast
mine would be nice
you cut them in half
with a serrated knife - not
the kind with a straight edge
so that you don’t bruise
them - ironically biting leaves marks
there was a boy who
so taken aback the morning after
when he saw the marks he’d left
he couldn’t believe they’d come
from his mouth
I wanted to ask for more
sometimes I’ll have
both halves of the grapefruit
even though home economics
would say half per person
neatly cut along each segment
so that each piece comes
out by itself
my mother had a mamogram
when she was fifty five
they found a lump the size
of a grape - there’s a fruit
I don’t like even if radiation
and raisin are very alike
she only has one breast now
I see her touching herself
sometimes when she thinks
that she’s alone or when
she passes the hall mirror
with only one breast she walks
lopsided - my brother gave her
an orange for her birthday
for the other side, he said
so I eat both halves
with that small serrated spoon
maybe I’ll buy one
for my mother
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
So as the honey maker stops
atop the bloom
for just a moment
milking each drop of prism color
into the nectar she will brew,
so do we all alight
for a sweet span
between clouds
to create
what honey we can
hanging onto
our fuzzy lives
in hopes of feeding those
that come after us -
the buzzing
generations.
We are such
devoted
fleeting thieves
in search of one more
petaled jewel
to carry home
sun light gems -
we adorn crowns
with flower candy
for the mothers
dancing home again
humming between blooms.
Congratulations to all our winners!
IBPC
~~~~~~
Winning Poems for July 2005
Judge David Brinks
* The judge has decided to pick one 1st place winner and three honorable mentions.
First Place:
Jack’s Belly Button
By Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Honorable Mentions::
Linen
By Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
grapefruit
By Lisa Prince
blueline
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
Poems:
Jack’s Belly ButtonBy Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Jack has this belly-button “condition.” A robin-egg blue lint grows
inside it. When I attempt to remove the lint, he becomes aggressive,
recoils defensively. He says the doctor cut his umbilical cord wrong
and there’s a hole inside his belly-button exposing his organs to
the air. He claims the lint is a byproduct of these organs’ secretions.
I never believed him. I always thought he saved the lint for his Mom,
who used it to stuff her hand-made quilts. But tonight as he stood beside
my chair, I looked inside his belly-button and saw a tiny heart beating.
“Hold still!” I told him. The tiny heart flashed and rotated like a police
light. Above it a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs dangled from a lava
lamp. I pressed my eye to Jack’s belly-button and saw a room filled
with confetti, plastic fruit in wooden bowls, dried sea sponges, trip wire,
lobsters with rubber bands wrapped around their pinchers stacking
themselves like plates inside a dishwasher, and at a cluttered desk with
old chewing gum stuck to its side, a gnome swiveled in a leather chair
smacking gum, blowing it, and popping huge robin-egg blue bubbles.
LinenBy Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
Woody interior rotting
Eases the removal of flaxen fiber.
This retting the aroma of a rat’s death behind the cupboard.
Women beating the ornery fannies of flax stalks.
Each child to far corners, wood versus fiber,
Further separation, no harmony in the roughing.
How fine are you?
Stay with your own kind.
Parallel hackles, rough goes first
Ladies last, age before beauty
They are easy when wet.
An orgy of women required
To keep this weaver weaving.
Spin, dress with sticky ooze.
Thicken, strengthen before the toxin.
Bleach now, sun in days gone by.
Virgin white before more pummeling
To close every hole.
Across the pond she longs for sun.
The castle madam prefers sun in Stirling.
In capris, craves crisp clean air.
In pedal pushers, ponders purity.
Shops for vests with lungs,
Trousers with bronchi
Fears Chlorox
And its suffocating ways.
A startling oxymoron
Her poisoned pants
Once pummeled and putrid
To her like women’s lips
On her cycling, climbing calves.
grapefruitBy Lisa Prince
Blueline
I have a little serrated spoon
hidden away in my utensil drawer
you have to pick a ripe one
I remember in high school
home economics classes
where they taught us to press
our thumbs into the ends
of fruit to test for ripeness
every boy I’ve dated
has wanted to squeeze my breasts
sometimes when I shower
I touch them myself
trying to understand
their globular form
for breakfast
mine would be nice
you cut them in half
with a serrated knife - not
the kind with a straight edge
so that you don’t bruise
them - ironically biting leaves marks
there was a boy who
so taken aback the morning after
when he saw the marks he’d left
he couldn’t believe they’d come
from his mouth
I wanted to ask for more
sometimes I’ll have
both halves of the grapefruit
even though home economics
would say half per person
neatly cut along each segment
so that each piece comes
out by itself
my mother had a mamogram
when she was fifty five
they found a lump the size
of a grape - there’s a fruit
I don’t like even if radiation
and raisin are very alike
she only has one breast now
I see her touching herself
sometimes when she thinks
that she’s alone or when
she passes the hall mirror
with only one breast she walks
lopsided - my brother gave her
an orange for her birthday
for the other side, he said
so I eat both halves
with that small serrated spoon
maybe I’ll buy one
for my mother
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
So as the honey maker stops
atop the bloom
for just a moment
milking each drop of prism color
into the nectar she will brew,
so do we all alight
for a sweet span
between clouds
to create
what honey we can
hanging onto
our fuzzy lives
in hopes of feeding those
that come after us -
the buzzing
generations.
We are such
devoted
fleeting thieves
in search of one more
petaled jewel
to carry home
sun light gems -
we adorn crowns
with flower candy
for the mothers
dancing home again
humming between blooms.
Congratulations to all our winners!
IBPC
~~~~~~
Saturday, August 27, 2005
"Towards M's Beginning of the Alpha bet"
**$** (for M)
After
borrowing cash,
divorced, exquisitely, from
gardens,
helmets, insular
jests, knave love,
M
notices one
pair: quark-like, relaxed,
sexual
to undying
vigor — willfully "X"
yet
zany again.
Baffled, cashless, determined
entirely
for giving
heart in June —
knowing
love, M
notices open poppies,
quintillion
rivers sunning
towards undivided vessels,
waterbound
(xeric youth!)
zeroes after boredom.
Crashed.
Diametrics evidently
forgotten, grieved, horded.
I
just know
love, M notes:
open
paragraphs questioning,
reasoning, satiating, transforming
u:
vowels wide-open,
x-like, yawning — zapped.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abecedarian Hay(na)ku Experiment:
"Towards A: New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"B Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"C-ing Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet to D"
"Towards E's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards An Effin' New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards, G, A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards H's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards the Alpha bet's New Beginning of I"
"Towards J's New Beginning of the Alpha bet Towards D"
"O', 'K Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards L: A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets) & at Didi Menéndez' group blog, Café Café. (*Peace to Katrina. Hoping for rest & news. Tony Thomas? Heck to all hurricanes!)
After
borrowing cash,
divorced, exquisitely, from
gardens,
helmets, insular
jests, knave love,
M
notices one
pair: quark-like, relaxed,
sexual
to undying
vigor — willfully "X"
yet
zany again.
Baffled, cashless, determined
entirely
for giving
heart in June —
knowing
love, M
notices open poppies,
quintillion
rivers sunning
towards undivided vessels,
waterbound
(xeric youth!)
zeroes after boredom.
Crashed.
Diametrics evidently
forgotten, grieved, horded.
I
just know
love, M notes:
open
paragraphs questioning,
reasoning, satiating, transforming
u:
vowels wide-open,
x-like, yawning — zapped.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abecedarian Hay(na)ku Experiment:
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets) & at Didi Menéndez' group blog, Café Café. (*Peace to Katrina. Hoping for rest & news. Tony Thomas? Heck to all hurricanes!)
Poetic Acceptance
Didi...
I realize that this may be an odd place to do this, so forgive me in advance. If this comes across as spam, don't hesitate to delete it.
I've recently launched a new support site for bereaved parents, and would like to get the word out about it.
If you, or anyone you know is dealing with the loss of a child, or has in the past, please pass along this link.
Poetic Acceptance - for grieving parents
I realize that this may be an odd place to do this, so forgive me in advance. If this comes across as spam, don't hesitate to delete it.
I've recently launched a new support site for bereaved parents, and would like to get the word out about it.
If you, or anyone you know is dealing with the loss of a child, or has in the past, please pass along this link.
Poetic Acceptance - for grieving parents
Friday, August 26, 2005
Exciting news from Combo Books !!!!
This just in from Michael Magee at Combo Books:
Hi everyone,
It is my distinct pleasure to announce the publication of
the latest Combo Book,
ALSO WITH MY THROAT I SHALL SWALLOW TEN
THOUSAND SWORDS: ARAKI YASUSADA'S LETTERS
IN ENGLISH.
Written under the pseudonym (or hypernym) Tosa
Motokiyu, edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez,
beautifully and painstakingly designed by Christian
Palino and Prototype Syndicate, perfectbound with a
gorgeous cover involving UV spot-lamination and other
things I don't understand, you must get your hands on
this book!
It will be available momentarily from Small Press
Distribution http://www.spdbooks.org but you can also
order it (and put significantly more dough in the Combo
Books coffers!) by sending cash or check to:
Combo Books
c/o Michael Magee
7 Old West Wrentham Rd.
Cumberland, RI 02864
The price of the book is 12 dollars.
Here are some examples of advance praise for the
book and/or the Yasusada project generally:
"(The Yasusada Author) has done a brilliant job in
inventing a world at once ritualized and yet startlingly
modern, timeless yet documentary, archaized yet au
courant -- a poetic world that satisfies out hunger for the
authentic, even though that autentic world is a perfect
simulacrum...Like Pound's Homage to Sextus
Propertius, the Yasusada notebooks force us to go
back to the 'originals' so as to see what they really were
and how they have been transformed."
--Marjorie Perloff
"These pidgin English fantasies of poetic mastery are
awful and incredible. Like Frank O'Hara's 'poem in
blackface' they give us pause by giving delight. The
delight, dear reader, is a ruse.It's the pause that
constitutes their gift."
--Ben Friedlander
"Here in America, where even our best experimental
writers seem to be constructing gigantic monuments to
their own talents and are eager to lie beside
Wordsworth in some canonical garden, (the Yasusada)
project, whatever it ultimately is or ends up having
been, strikes me as either the most moving, unsettling
and important thing going on right now, or as the most
egregious and dangerous self-delusion in American
letters."
--Tony Tost
"Joyce and Stein gave us an idea of how the ego talked,
Mallarme and Proust the superego. Now, for the first
time in our era, an unearthing of Araki Yasusada's
shattering letters and sublime
poem-fragments...shows us how ego and superego
would talk to each other, if only they spoke the same
language."
--David Rosenberg
Hi everyone,
It is my distinct pleasure to announce the publication of
the latest Combo Book,
ALSO WITH MY THROAT I SHALL SWALLOW TEN
THOUSAND SWORDS: ARAKI YASUSADA'S LETTERS
IN ENGLISH.
Written under the pseudonym (or hypernym) Tosa
Motokiyu, edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez,
beautifully and painstakingly designed by Christian
Palino and Prototype Syndicate, perfectbound with a
gorgeous cover involving UV spot-lamination and other
things I don't understand, you must get your hands on
this book!
It will be available momentarily from Small Press
Distribution http://www.spdbooks.org but you can also
order it (and put significantly more dough in the Combo
Books coffers!) by sending cash or check to:
Combo Books
c/o Michael Magee
7 Old West Wrentham Rd.
Cumberland, RI 02864
The price of the book is 12 dollars.
Here are some examples of advance praise for the
book and/or the Yasusada project generally:
"(The Yasusada Author) has done a brilliant job in
inventing a world at once ritualized and yet startlingly
modern, timeless yet documentary, archaized yet au
courant -- a poetic world that satisfies out hunger for the
authentic, even though that autentic world is a perfect
simulacrum...Like Pound's Homage to Sextus
Propertius, the Yasusada notebooks force us to go
back to the 'originals' so as to see what they really were
and how they have been transformed."
--Marjorie Perloff
"These pidgin English fantasies of poetic mastery are
awful and incredible. Like Frank O'Hara's 'poem in
blackface' they give us pause by giving delight. The
delight, dear reader, is a ruse.It's the pause that
constitutes their gift."
--Ben Friedlander
"Here in America, where even our best experimental
writers seem to be constructing gigantic monuments to
their own talents and are eager to lie beside
Wordsworth in some canonical garden, (the Yasusada)
project, whatever it ultimately is or ends up having
been, strikes me as either the most moving, unsettling
and important thing going on right now, or as the most
egregious and dangerous self-delusion in American
letters."
--Tony Tost
"Joyce and Stein gave us an idea of how the ego talked,
Mallarme and Proust the superego. Now, for the first
time in our era, an unearthing of Araki Yasusada's
shattering letters and sublime
poem-fragments...shows us how ego and superego
would talk to each other, if only they spoke the same
language."
--David Rosenberg
South Florida cafecafe members, check in re Hurricane Katrina?
I'm in the greater West Palm Beach. We have power and no damage to speak of in our immediate area, though many have lost power in Palm Beach County and it's still raining in gusts off and on. South of us had it worse and Miami and all of Dade County seem hardest hit. We lost cable, so can't get the weather channel to check for more details. I've not heard back from an email I sent Didi early this morning, though.
News about Katrina in the online Palm Beach Post. Check for the series of photos. Only the first ones were during/after the storm. Most photos are before.
Pris
News about Katrina in the online Palm Beach Post. Check for the series of photos. Only the first ones were during/after the storm. Most photos are before.
Pris
The Pact
Each Spring, when the leaves first attempt
to squirm their way through stiff stubborn
branches, the lost girls float high beneath
the ice of Lake Okawalla.
Their eyes track the skaters--
those pirouetting birdlike figures
in thick woolen mufflers, the daring
ones skirting the thinning spots that gleam
like opals throughout the warming lake.
Rabbits and deer shy from lake's rim.
They've seen the gray, unblinking eyes, heard
the moans in the night, listened to stories
of suicide pacts, stockpiled pills, told and retold.
They lift their heads instead, watch the stars
and moon shiver-dance across the dark sky
until a dawn sleet crowns thorns onto the trees,
and tears finally melt rivulets into the crackling ice.
Pris Campbell
Inspired by a reading of the book,
The Lake of Dead Languages, by
Carol Goodman.
to squirm their way through stiff stubborn
branches, the lost girls float high beneath
the ice of Lake Okawalla.
Their eyes track the skaters--
those pirouetting birdlike figures
in thick woolen mufflers, the daring
ones skirting the thinning spots that gleam
like opals throughout the warming lake.
Rabbits and deer shy from lake's rim.
They've seen the gray, unblinking eyes, heard
the moans in the night, listened to stories
of suicide pacts, stockpiled pills, told and retold.
They lift their heads instead, watch the stars
and moon shiver-dance across the dark sky
until a dawn sleet crowns thorns onto the trees,
and tears finally melt rivulets into the crackling ice.
Pris Campbell
Inspired by a reading of the book,
The Lake of Dead Languages, by
Carol Goodman.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
LEBENSBORN
Whom were you born to replace?
Masterfully engineered,
pale pigmentation of
sky and sun and snow--
your bloody ingress foretelling
the smokey exodus of a dark-eyed gypsy.
Motherland legacy,
shrouded by a dermal cloak
of gray earthly remains.
ashes, ashes,
we all fall down
Masterfully engineered,
pale pigmentation of
sky and sun and snow--
your bloody ingress foretelling
the smokey exodus of a dark-eyed gypsy.
Motherland legacy,
shrouded by a dermal cloak
of gray earthly remains.
ashes, ashes,
we all fall down
senter
front
shoulder arch
more aptly termed what human deeds
could not, forgot her and as unfathomable
as this in order to break the breath-lock necessitated
the concept of absolute freedom which was not to lose its connectedness but to rediscover by sink by down law by dowse divinity means this unself-enclosedness was calling to one another and in every place its calling and in every place for
shoulder arch
more aptly termed what human deeds
could not, forgot her and as unfathomable
as this in order to break the breath-lock necessitated
the concept of absolute freedom which was not to lose its connectedness but to rediscover by sink by down law by dowse divinity means this unself-enclosedness was calling to one another and in every place its calling and in every place for
want
of the female proper and also of the supra-individuality
breaker; a hypostasis absensed as different
as there were possible proto-images –
these taken to the
heart
synergism locked cabinet
the understanding of the heart providence
that which became sophianized not difficult unless
postulated and as thus a stupidity thwarted by elevating
the tear’s superiority above that of brave directions. Expressly thus. Liberated
away from a “minus”.
Autonomous. A transcensus.
Fishes and birds and a fifth day allowed for.
A simple doctrinal mechanistic sufficiently unshakeable.
The language of temporal being as prae-motio. Felt downfalling,
an ankle foundating but besides this another which hunkered,
the single root, a crumbgrab point as fusion would weakly
only that could be expressed fathered almost on
tides which backswept
dreams
and a red cord
blossoming to ribbon
and a tie person penetrating
as progenitor as homoousianism
a dwelter swardly and haar-ish sweltering
condensed a seemly
attempt
bit
but the prime mover,
a feeble verbal attempt
this if mentioned before
then mentioned again. A
still small scream backthroated
in a fuckgarb tremulous rainbowish
more scant wholesomeless prismish
and pushed would if wanted iron but faced
the fact of salt first and preferred no such as a non
moved thing this wood this fermed this appalling leading us
beyond tendons immobility a dreadful hush whence all unfurled
as only anything belonging to temporality could. Could write it and therefore deserved not to capture it but lost it
time it in relation to a thing becoming
and without the help of grace
a decompositioning
condemned
the slight
twitch
inconsistent
the morning but
equally was evening
rejection in a vein a dull
crud got
the taste
mouth mouthed
was satisfied
was finished
providence sweat was
was palms
was persons
inspirated rubbed
the inesparable one against
the other a humanity passing
between the could not look looks
and palpated in their own manner
understood must
stood
I Should Have Called Her Madam
When the passing woman
bent to whisper in my
ear I knew she was important
and felt the honor of her
breath on my cheek.
The container of everyday
doesn't hold such messages well.
But even here a few words evoked
images of lasting names,
things not fading, bolstered
by innocence.
We are like snowmen she said.
Life melts while we strategize
about 20, 30 years. We are smart
but can't imagine courtesies
persisting in the rocks of the stars
you include.
Then they ushered her away.
bent to whisper in my
ear I knew she was important
and felt the honor of her
breath on my cheek.
The container of everyday
doesn't hold such messages well.
But even here a few words evoked
images of lasting names,
things not fading, bolstered
by innocence.
We are like snowmen she said.
Life melts while we strategize
about 20, 30 years. We are smart
but can't imagine courtesies
persisting in the rocks of the stars
you include.
Then they ushered her away.
A traffic circle outside Paris
Bethesda then, the girl who knows Pi to forty places falls asleep, and as she does she fingers the gold flake, the gold key, and when she wakes up everyone loves her. It is 4 AM in Paris. Local time. The news from the world comes in however... creosote, lipo, whatever it is that they are advertising between songs. Someone gets surgery but they don't say where. She should visit her aunt in Spain? Love a bullfighter? She gets it all down in her notepad somehow. Until the drama is alreadybreaking up, already fading, there's la Tour Eiffel, les Champs-Elysées, Notre-Dame, le Louvre... Oh it feels like coming home, the trains run so late. | And from there the entire face swells, and the split between her left incision and the right is a little sore; her gums start to bleed. She takes the pill they gave her for this. If she was ever in a dark room... If she was ever getting there by a dark man... Oh, that's what she forgot to say... the local story like an audition... No he doesn't light up like a lamppost... No he doesn't have five seconds... moving too far behind her the limbs for real now... No he doesn't disappear when she closes her teeth. She forgets the language of heaven but she remembers the algebra. The whole body turns in on itself, turns, and especially the eyes. |
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
nine dulcets for A prime
1/ wavy lines of ivy, or are such inlets just projections?
2/ the more this fever saturates, the less we flow together.
3/ green as in new blades continued soft as overbrush one ran one's hands through . . .
4/ removal one becomes accustomed to recalling as petite . . .
5/ attunement to the real thing where fresh birds unwrinkle new light
6/ use of the word 'egregious' as if saying so would function as an ointment.
7/ 'thus' is smooth or nearly smooth enough.
8/ per usual, it's merely morning, as if practiced in place.
9/ moderato fields shrill questions that precede a change in season.
2/ the more this fever saturates, the less we flow together.
3/ green as in new blades continued soft as overbrush one ran one's hands through . . .
4/ removal one becomes accustomed to recalling as petite . . .
5/ attunement to the real thing where fresh birds unwrinkle new light
6/ use of the word 'egregious' as if saying so would function as an ointment.
7/ 'thus' is smooth or nearly smooth enough.
8/ per usual, it's merely morning, as if practiced in place.
9/ moderato fields shrill questions that precede a change in season.
"Towards J's New Beginning of the Alpha bet Towards D" (hay(na)ku experiment)
**... (for J)
Accidently
bold, chivalrously
dutiful, exquisitely fragile,
gracefully
hollowed, intuitive
J knows love.
Mutually
numbed, opportunists
parallelled quite resplendently,
sexually
transcendent, unusually
virile — winsome, xxx!
Yet,
Zeus - Ammon.
Between challenges, D
engages,
flirts, greatly
humanes J, knowing
love
mines night's
ore: photons, quartzite
(radio
signals transmitting
undivided vigor, wit,
xxx!)
Yet, zest
accumulates, burrows, caves.
D
ellaborates, figures,
gifts — hoping J
knows
love, mainly
numb, perishes. Quits.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Towards A: New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"B Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"C-ing Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet to D"
"Towards E's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards An Effin' New Beginning of the Alpha bet" (hay(na)ku experiment)
"Towards, G, A New Beginning of the Alpha bet" (abecedarian hay(na)ku)
"Towards H's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards the Alpha bet's New Beginning of I"
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets)
Accidently
bold, chivalrously
dutiful, exquisitely fragile,
gracefully
hollowed, intuitive
J knows love.
Mutually
numbed, opportunists
parallelled quite resplendently,
sexually
transcendent, unusually
virile — winsome, xxx!
Yet,
Zeus - Ammon.
Between challenges, D
engages,
flirts, greatly
humanes J, knowing
love
mines night's
ore: photons, quartzite
(radio
signals transmitting
undivided vigor, wit,
xxx!)
Yet, zest
accumulates, burrows, caves.
D
ellaborates, figures,
gifts — hoping J
knows
love, mainly
numb, perishes. Quits.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets)
A Spam Stopgap Technique I just found for Comments
Click on the title to go to today's post on my blog, now implemented. This works for users of blogger.com and the administrator has to do it, ie didi for cafecafe(if spammers start appearing, of course), but each of you can do it for your own blogs. My spam in comments had started increasing daily. I would appreciate it if a couple of you could try commenting on my post there to see if you can read the letters and get a comment through okay.
Thanks
Pris
Thanks
Pris
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
"Towards the Alpha bet's New Beginning of I" (abecedarian hay(na)ku) (revised 8/24)
&&&&& (for I)
Anything
believable challenges,
drives. Everything fallable
gains,
heightens. I
just know love
manuevers
nothing, otherwise
proposes, quarrels,, resurrects.
Surely —
tarpits, underwire,
virtuous widows, Xs,
young
zephyrs, adolescents,
bored child-driven enterprises,
future-seers,
gimme heterosexuals.
I just know
lovers
make noise
openly, proving quiescent
reservoirs,
sensual taverns
underneath vast waterfalls.
X-ray,
yes, zealously,
any bay's cavern,
dividing
entire frozen
glaciers. Halving. I
just
know living
mainly nightens. Over
paradise,
questions rise
sinuously, testily, unsure.
Valuable
wasting, x-acto
yapping, zippering autumn
both
closed, dumbed,
elegant. For giving
home.
I just
know love means
news,
orals, plurals,
quinces, ravishing silhouettes
to
underscore virtually
whimsical xerox youth —
Zanzibar!
Anything believable,
challenging everything, fallable,
gainfully
heightened: I
just know love.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Towards A: New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"B Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"C-ing Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet to D"
"Towards E's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards An Effin' New Beginning of the Alpha bet" (hay(na)ku experiment)
"Towards, G, A New Beginning of the Alpha bet" (hay(na)ku experiment)
"Towards H's New Beginning of the Alpha bet" (hay(na)ku experiment)
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets)
Anything
believable challenges,
drives. Everything fallable
gains,
heightens. I
just know love
manuevers
nothing, otherwise
proposes, quarrels,, resurrects.
Surely —
tarpits, underwire,
virtuous widows, Xs,
young
zephyrs, adolescents,
bored child-driven enterprises,
future-seers,
gimme heterosexuals.
I just know
lovers
make noise
openly, proving quiescent
reservoirs,
sensual taverns
underneath vast waterfalls.
X-ray,
yes, zealously,
any bay's cavern,
dividing
entire frozen
glaciers. Halving. I
just
know living
mainly nightens. Over
paradise,
questions rise
sinuously, testily, unsure.
Valuable
wasting, x-acto
yapping, zippering autumn
both
closed, dumbed,
elegant. For giving
home.
I just
know love means
news,
orals, plurals,
quinces, ravishing silhouettes
to
underscore virtually
whimsical xerox youth —
Zanzibar!
Anything believable,
challenging everything, fallable,
gainfully
heightened: I
just know love.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets)
Over There
First bird breaks soundwaves
knit in ones and zeros
that race against the light
transmission of your reply.
knit in ones and zeros
that race against the light
transmission of your reply.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Landscape of a Poem
The first sentence comes from nowhere:
a flock of birds appearing on the horizon.
Then, with the next sentence, details
are added - tall pine trees, a small pond, daylight.
Of course, the second stanza introduces
something new, perhaps a man walking
by the pond, complex syntax working to brush in
his walking stick, his green hunter’s cap.
By the third stanza, controversy
juts out like a steep hill in the foreground,
compounded then by regret and desire
which blossom like wildflowers upon it.
And by the fourth stanza, we realize
that we feel somehow lost. We wonder
where this is all going, until we find
that the hunter too wears a puzzled look.
Then, in stanza five, it becomes clear to us
that the hunter himself has lost his way,
that he is contemplating his journey
and asking himself about the conclusion
of his trek if he were to cross the steep hill
and leave his place by the pond
where he is resting, perplexed by the images
of the world around him painted on the water’s canvas.
But the conclusion doesn’t come until after
the seventh stanza, in which we notice the unity
of the entire landscape reflected in the water
and see also the birds which came from nowhere --
the birds which are fluttering through
a piece of sky trapped in the water, a piece of sky
that signifies the whole moment’s evanescence
with its rolling clouds, white as a blank page.
a flock of birds appearing on the horizon.
Then, with the next sentence, details
are added - tall pine trees, a small pond, daylight.
Of course, the second stanza introduces
something new, perhaps a man walking
by the pond, complex syntax working to brush in
his walking stick, his green hunter’s cap.
By the third stanza, controversy
juts out like a steep hill in the foreground,
compounded then by regret and desire
which blossom like wildflowers upon it.
And by the fourth stanza, we realize
that we feel somehow lost. We wonder
where this is all going, until we find
that the hunter too wears a puzzled look.
Then, in stanza five, it becomes clear to us
that the hunter himself has lost his way,
that he is contemplating his journey
and asking himself about the conclusion
of his trek if he were to cross the steep hill
and leave his place by the pond
where he is resting, perplexed by the images
of the world around him painted on the water’s canvas.
But the conclusion doesn’t come until after
the seventh stanza, in which we notice the unity
of the entire landscape reflected in the water
and see also the birds which came from nowhere --
the birds which are fluttering through
a piece of sky trapped in the water, a piece of sky
that signifies the whole moment’s evanescence
with its rolling clouds, white as a blank page.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Short
Her happiness
was formed of small matters,
a hand held out to those in need,
a hug to a friend, a poem
written to grieve.
was formed of small matters,
a hand held out to those in need,
a hug to a friend, a poem
written to grieve.
lots
this is my lot
we each have our own lot
a lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s field
a lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s hand
a lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a key
a key to a room
a skeleton key
we each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my room
is a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’t
some rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fields
with broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soil
the wife of lot
looked back & now
seasons all our
solitary suppers
we each have our own lot
a lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s field
a lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s hand
a lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a key
a key to a room
a skeleton key
we each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my room
is a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’t
some rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fields
with broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soil
the wife of lot
looked back & now
seasons all our
solitary suppers
Asian American Poetry - Reddy and the Hitler Question
Hello, I've been posting and commenting on Srikanth Reddy's "Burial Practice," as well as the Hitler Question, over at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com/. Hope you find the posts interesting.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Nuff
I stand
in the shower of the sun
wet rivers
overflow
and I stand
on tiptoes
in clear water
with muddy tributaries.
in the shower of the sun
wet rivers
overflow
and I stand
on tiptoes
in clear water
with muddy tributaries.
ANDRES MONTOYA POETRY PRIZE: the 2nd EDITION
ANDRES MONTOYA POETRY PRIZE: the 2nd EDITION
DEADLINE: January 6, 2006
FINAL JUDGE: Valerie Martínez
BOOK PUBLICATION: University of Notre Dame Press
CASH AWARD: $1000
NO ENTRANCE FEE
Visit the website for more information:
http://www.nd.edu/~latino/poetry_prize/index.htm
DEADLINE: January 6, 2006
FINAL JUDGE: Valerie Martínez
BOOK PUBLICATION: University of Notre Dame Press
CASH AWARD: $1000
NO ENTRANCE FEE
Visit the website for more information:
http://www.nd.edu/~latino/poetry_prize/index.htm
Re the old El Culo de Bettie poems
I just heard in this morning's email that my 'El Culo de Bettie' poem and one other will be published in Dufus. That's the online version of Lummox, both edited by Raindog. I subscribe to Lummox, which is an interesting journal...more prose than poetry. Anyway, since that poem was inspired here, I just wanted to pass it on.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Brush Stroke
(written in response to the challenge Erin references in her post below)
Brush Stroke
Flushed from the bush like a finch by the cat,
the grasshopper jumps into the grass sprung loose
from the fuchsia--that disgusting shade of pink--
azalea in full bloom, the chartreuse insect is chased
down by the black and white three-legged cat that looks
remarkably like he just stepped out of Japanese print,
his back painted with meaningful strokes of ink; one
artful pounce and the neon green snack is gulped down.
Brush Stroke
Flushed from the bush like a finch by the cat,
the grasshopper jumps into the grass sprung loose
from the fuchsia--that disgusting shade of pink--
azalea in full bloom, the chartreuse insect is chased
down by the black and white three-legged cat that looks
remarkably like he just stepped out of Japanese print,
his back painted with meaningful strokes of ink; one
artful pounce and the neon green snack is gulped down.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Color Scheme of Things
Color Scheme of Things
before and after
The twenty-four inch casket, precarious,
promised to topple into the unnatural hole;
empty platitudes fell like rain.
I never knew pink and indigo clashed
until I saw rosebuds and purple storm clouds
gathered, solemn, over your vault
or the color of dead blood, settled
under the skin of your ears.
Written for an online workshop
Snapshot 17 August 02005
I am waiting for the sky
to fall. I am waiting
to be wrapped in its blue
cloak. I wait for this pain
in my shoulders to grow
into wings. I wait for
the one who can lift me
without effort. I wait for
the people in this book
to step out and fold me
in. I am waiting for winter,
for this dream to open
into spring. I am waiting
to wake up.
I sit in this room with
the other petitioners,
with the flat wood tables,
with the magazines
and their glossy pages.
I am waiting for my name
to be called. I am waiting
to be told what to do. I am
rising to my feet. If you call
my name, shall I follow you?
These altered windows
shed the sun like water.
There is nothing out there,
on the other side.
to fall. I am waiting
to be wrapped in its blue
cloak. I wait for this pain
in my shoulders to grow
into wings. I wait for
the one who can lift me
without effort. I wait for
the people in this book
to step out and fold me
in. I am waiting for winter,
for this dream to open
into spring. I am waiting
to wake up.
I sit in this room with
the other petitioners,
with the flat wood tables,
with the magazines
and their glossy pages.
I am waiting for my name
to be called. I am waiting
to be told what to do. I am
rising to my feet. If you call
my name, shall I follow you?
These altered windows
shed the sun like water.
There is nothing out there,
on the other side.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Depression
Sometimes, like a snake, it will slither
in through my field of perception
while I’m listening to an old song
and coil its heavy body around my heart.
Other times, like a hook through a fish’s eye,
it will jerk me out of a peaceful moment
watching the wind in the sun-splashed grass,
and haul me on a line into a hopeless boat.
Of course there are days it doesn’t come,
days it remains forgotten, unopened,
like a dusty bottle of wine in the cellar.
But eventually it always returns: in a question
or in an inevitable answer, in the picture
of a lost lover or in the smell of honeysuckle,
in the eyes of an injured dog that appears
outside my door, the kind I have to learn to live with.
in through my field of perception
while I’m listening to an old song
and coil its heavy body around my heart.
Other times, like a hook through a fish’s eye,
it will jerk me out of a peaceful moment
watching the wind in the sun-splashed grass,
and haul me on a line into a hopeless boat.
Of course there are days it doesn’t come,
days it remains forgotten, unopened,
like a dusty bottle of wine in the cellar.
But eventually it always returns: in a question
or in an inevitable answer, in the picture
of a lost lover or in the smell of honeysuckle,
in the eyes of an injured dog that appears
outside my door, the kind I have to learn to live with.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Confessions of a Hungry Whore
“Every man I’ve ever known
was having a relationship
with himself.
One time I did an experiment:
I tied one bloke's wrists with
one of my best stockings
but still he bled.
Another I beat
around the bush
but that was his own
face he was sitting on.
I would try and find
a way in up
front
which was hard
as all roads
led back to
romance.
So I developed the practice
of devouring them
as we fucked.
That way it meant
I could start
at one end
and still
enjoy them
for breakfast.
Good timing I discovered,
like good grooming,
was essential.
If I delayed past a
certain point there
was no satisfaction
to be had.
If I went too soon
I’d bite off the hand
that fed me.
Sheer ecstasy
was to be achieved
by imagining them already dead
- on arrival,
(after all, you don’t want
unnecessary blood
on your bed).
No, when
all is said
and done
you gotta
face life
head on.
Mind you,
the problem
remains:
you can’t look
them in the eye
and eat them at
the same time.
Men eh!
Who’d have ‘em
when they can have themselves instead.”
was having a relationship
with himself.
One time I did an experiment:
I tied one bloke's wrists with
one of my best stockings
but still he bled.
Another I beat
around the bush
but that was his own
face he was sitting on.
I would try and find
a way in up
front
which was hard
as all roads
led back to
romance.
So I developed the practice
of devouring them
as we fucked.
That way it meant
I could start
at one end
and still
enjoy them
for breakfast.
Good timing I discovered,
like good grooming,
was essential.
If I delayed past a
certain point there
was no satisfaction
to be had.
If I went too soon
I’d bite off the hand
that fed me.
Sheer ecstasy
was to be achieved
by imagining them already dead
- on arrival,
(after all, you don’t want
unnecessary blood
on your bed).
No, when
all is said
and done
you gotta
face life
head on.
Mind you,
the problem
remains:
you can’t look
them in the eye
and eat them at
the same time.
Men eh!
Who’d have ‘em
when they can have themselves instead.”
God's Messenger
It's that sort of day--the kind when birds
fly straight for the sun, when mice run
in circles till their tails twist into knots,
and squirrels argue endlessly atop telephone poles.
The mercury explodes in Sam Sander's garage
when the temperature roars over 120 degrees
and Mable Jenkins breaks her big toe-
her pot of cold cucumber soup wriggling
and protesting withdrawal from her fridge
till it slips loose from arthritic hands.
It's a day when frustrated lovers lie separate,
panting on sweat-drenched sheets, and long-married
couples grump about old fissures and decide they should
have married their childhood sweethearts, after all.
On such a day, a day ripe for miracles, a day
prime for Gary Cooper to ride in on the twelve o'clock
special, a vagabond appears,tells anybody
who'll listen about dire deeds forgiven
and roads paved in gold, roads leading
anywhere and everywhere but here.
fly straight for the sun, when mice run
in circles till their tails twist into knots,
and squirrels argue endlessly atop telephone poles.
The mercury explodes in Sam Sander's garage
when the temperature roars over 120 degrees
and Mable Jenkins breaks her big toe-
her pot of cold cucumber soup wriggling
and protesting withdrawal from her fridge
till it slips loose from arthritic hands.
It's a day when frustrated lovers lie separate,
panting on sweat-drenched sheets, and long-married
couples grump about old fissures and decide they should
have married their childhood sweethearts, after all.
On such a day, a day ripe for miracles, a day
prime for Gary Cooper to ride in on the twelve o'clock
special, a vagabond appears,tells anybody
who'll listen about dire deeds forgiven
and roads paved in gold, roads leading
anywhere and everywhere but here.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Untitled (second in the series)
Sorrow is a bucket in the sky
designed to pour tears
that land on my face
slice my cheekbones
water Kaylee’s grave.
This is not a walk in a meadow,
a stroll in the park to remember.
It is a knife, a scream rendered
that pierces a bloody tear, removal.
Fuck detachment, grief laid out clean
no blood, embalmed distance.
designed to pour tears
that land on my face
slice my cheekbones
water Kaylee’s grave.
This is not a walk in a meadow,
a stroll in the park to remember.
It is a knife, a scream rendered
that pierces a bloody tear, removal.
Fuck detachment, grief laid out clean
no blood, embalmed distance.
Self Portraits
Does anybody care to join the conversation about self portraits onMy Blog?
D, since you do both portraits of others and, I believe, at least one of yourself, would love to see you comment if it interests you.
Others, too.
Pris
D, since you do both portraits of others and, I believe, at least one of yourself, would love to see you comment if it interests you.
Others, too.
Pris
Virginia In A Box goes to
Sheila Murphy and although R. Cardenas did not enter this poem in the challenge, I feel this piece really is about Virginia so I am giving him the box too.
E-mail me your addresses please.
Didi
E-mail me your addresses please.
Didi
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Kin
Revised
Hush fell, albeit
eyes danced, glints
of curiosity, liquid
as mercury, as she
shuffled with a dignified
glide into our presence.
Half-a-century has passed
shaving thin my memory,
still I nearly choke
on my startled breath
as she leans, touches,
straightens, proclaims
the single flow
of our blood. Her blue
eyes, circled with time,
meet my brown eyes,
expanded by the mystery
of our kinship.
Henry’s Unfortunate Elegy For A Lost Girl
I lie here, buried in this rubbish,
soiled newspapers from the month of June,
black banana peels, maggots, tin cans,
the boy raped me, hurt me, strangled me,
and raped me again after I was dead.
I still can not believe it.
I see the pain on my mother’s face,
I see the anger, the love I took for granted.
Yet, somehow, it does not matter to me.
There is no pain now, no time,
occasionally a flick of light
strikes me as odd,
but, otherwise, my death is my life.
I lie here, buried here, while the living
walk on glass just above me,
and this may well surprise you,
but, I am so afraid the glass will break
and you will find me!
I lie here, buried in this rubbish,
soiled newspapers from the month of June,
black banana peels, maggots, tin cans,
the boy raped me, hurt me, strangled me,
and raped me again after I was dead.
I still can not believe it.
I see the pain on my mother’s face,
I see the anger, the love I took for granted.
Yet, somehow, it does not matter to me.
There is no pain now, no time,
occasionally a flick of light
strikes me as odd,
but, otherwise, my death is my life.
I lie here, buried here, while the living
walk on glass just above me,
and this may well surprise you,
but, I am so afraid the glass will break
and you will find me!
Orpheus B.C.
Transformation… That’s what it is.
Ecstatic melody that tears me open
again and again.
Those atoning chords
strumming from your lyre
that fill the vacant space in chest
which mystics try to cram with prayers,
and make men seek the age-old path
to love god and love love and love sky,
and swirl like shadows torn apart from
bodies when they jump around the fire,
and make trees fill with sweeter fruit,
upon the strumming of your lyre.
I heard you died, torn apart
by Dionysus vineyard women
and that your limbs were drowned
in water, like the origins of sin,
and that you walked the underworld,
and that you walked the clouds
as a regular son of a sun god
and that Columbus went to heaven
by the atoning grace of your chords.
…But I see you here now,
sweet voice and lyre filling mystic spaces
as they have for eons,
making chests swell with love for god
and love for love and love for sky,
consecrating men by voice and song…
And I find it hard to believe
they had you, they heard you,
and let you come back.
Ecstatic melody that tears me open
again and again.
Those atoning chords
strumming from your lyre
that fill the vacant space in chest
which mystics try to cram with prayers,
and make men seek the age-old path
to love god and love love and love sky,
and swirl like shadows torn apart from
bodies when they jump around the fire,
and make trees fill with sweeter fruit,
upon the strumming of your lyre.
I heard you died, torn apart
by Dionysus vineyard women
and that your limbs were drowned
in water, like the origins of sin,
and that you walked the underworld,
and that you walked the clouds
as a regular son of a sun god
and that Columbus went to heaven
by the atoning grace of your chords.
…But I see you here now,
sweet voice and lyre filling mystic spaces
as they have for eons,
making chests swell with love for god
and love for love and love for sky,
consecrating men by voice and song…
And I find it hard to believe
they had you, they heard you,
and let you come back.
Asian American Poetry - Zulfikar Ghose
Hey all, I've just completed a three post commentary on a Zulfikar Ghose essay on nationality, identity, and poetry at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com. It's more interesting than the way I've framed it folks, but then again, what do I know? Anyhow, stop by and check it out, if you'd like.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Kalyee
we lost today
yesterday but
we didn't know.
sorrow came, and comes
relentless; there are
no words to describe
the soul in anguish
or grief beyond repair.
yesterday but
we didn't know.
sorrow came, and comes
relentless; there are
no words to describe
the soul in anguish
or grief beyond repair.
Bamboo and Oak
It was meant one day as his coffin,
this box of hewn oak, sanded and oiled
til it gleamed like the moon sailing high
off a black satin ocean.
He liked to plan ahead--
liked the feel of wood, smooth as a woman's
body would feel under his someday,
he once told me.
An odd one, this brother of mine,
his room jammed with time lines and lists
neatly writ on yellow lined paper:
marry at age 22
baby at age 24
house at age 26
company president by age 35
He never did come back from Vietman.
A POW, one witness said.
His time lines drifted by, mark
by mark, till, one day
I inherited the box.
Now, nights when I sense ghosts stalk my room,
I open the lid, climb in,
press cool wood against sweaty back,
imagine him, lying the same, under green,
skin taut across bone, skeletal,
scratching 'death' on his bamboo timeline.
this box of hewn oak, sanded and oiled
til it gleamed like the moon sailing high
off a black satin ocean.
He liked to plan ahead--
liked the feel of wood, smooth as a woman's
body would feel under his someday,
he once told me.
An odd one, this brother of mine,
his room jammed with time lines and lists
neatly writ on yellow lined paper:
marry at age 22
baby at age 24
house at age 26
company president by age 35
He never did come back from Vietman.
A POW, one witness said.
His time lines drifted by, mark
by mark, till, one day
I inherited the box.
Now, nights when I sense ghosts stalk my room,
I open the lid, climb in,
press cool wood against sweaty back,
imagine him, lying the same, under green,
skin taut across bone, skeletal,
scratching 'death' on his bamboo timeline.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Who We Might Have Been
“We all prefer comfort to joy.” - Flannery O’Connor
Sitting beside the tub tonight,
a light steam fogging the bathroom mirror,
I thought of who we might have been -
those ghosts of ourselves that never
plunged forth from the womb of our routine.
I saw us together beneath your porch-light,
watching umbrellas fill the streets with black --
dark flowers blossoming on the concrete --
and with fingers fearlessly interlocked,
we felt again the thrill of our first date.
But still we sat silently looking out
across the vendors and the crowd’s blurred face
until we caught a glimpse of our daughter.
Then, before we could reach her and embrace,
I slipped down into the lukewarm water.
Sitting beside the tub tonight,
a light steam fogging the bathroom mirror,
I thought of who we might have been -
those ghosts of ourselves that never
plunged forth from the womb of our routine.
I saw us together beneath your porch-light,
watching umbrellas fill the streets with black --
dark flowers blossoming on the concrete --
and with fingers fearlessly interlocked,
we felt again the thrill of our first date.
But still we sat silently looking out
across the vendors and the crowd’s blurred face
until we caught a glimpse of our daughter.
Then, before we could reach her and embrace,
I slipped down into the lukewarm water.
No Longer
Moonflowers unfurl fullness
and pale faces as I lay my cheek
where once your name was spoken.
The earth has swallowed your stone
till I can no longer read it -
there are only memories and dew.
No hummingbirds trumpet petaled praises
no honeybees drink - they have flown,
with wings too fast to be seen.
Poetry
Last Lectures
Last Lectures
The American death toll mounts,
CNN does not bother with Iraqis lost,
Not on any side, no side at all, just
Walking on a street, buying groceries.
It’s hard to maintain the level of outrage
Warranted, this unending tale
Of imperialism gone amok, money
And power no longer sufficient to explain
Schoolboys with firepower killing and
Killing. The world is sick of this and,
If it is not, I am. Columbine. Kabul.
The simple things to do, I do. I sign
The petitions, send small amounts to
A dozen groups, I would write to my
Congressman but that’s a joke, not only
Because he already agrees, but because
Taking such politics seriously cannot
Be serious. Democracy is thin as chicken
Soup: a good nonfat diet, cannot support life.
Besides, I need not go abroad to search
For imperialism. The richest society, super-
Power, cannot afford pensions, medical care,
Bridges in good repair, roads without holes,
Schools worth shit, street cleaning, public toilets –
The rich hide behind fences, the poor calm
Themselves with cheap white bread, grow large
And diabetic. No need to travel to find
Jails filled to bursting and the prison business
Booming. Crap movies. Crap food. Crap jobs.
The not so simple things to do: I say, let’s
Figure them out together. You in the front row.
I’m too old to lead this discussion. You, it’s
On you now. No more whining, no more bullshit.
I’ll help, but you have to lead the way.
The American death toll mounts,
CNN does not bother with Iraqis lost,
Not on any side, no side at all, just
Walking on a street, buying groceries.
It’s hard to maintain the level of outrage
Warranted, this unending tale
Of imperialism gone amok, money
And power no longer sufficient to explain
Schoolboys with firepower killing and
Killing. The world is sick of this and,
If it is not, I am. Columbine. Kabul.
The simple things to do, I do. I sign
The petitions, send small amounts to
A dozen groups, I would write to my
Congressman but that’s a joke, not only
Because he already agrees, but because
Taking such politics seriously cannot
Be serious. Democracy is thin as chicken
Soup: a good nonfat diet, cannot support life.
Besides, I need not go abroad to search
For imperialism. The richest society, super-
Power, cannot afford pensions, medical care,
Bridges in good repair, roads without holes,
Schools worth shit, street cleaning, public toilets –
The rich hide behind fences, the poor calm
Themselves with cheap white bread, grow large
And diabetic. No need to travel to find
Jails filled to bursting and the prison business
Booming. Crap movies. Crap food. Crap jobs.
The not so simple things to do: I say, let’s
Figure them out together. You in the front row.
I’m too old to lead this discussion. You, it’s
On you now. No more whining, no more bullshit.
I’ll help, but you have to lead the way.
That Old Gang of Mine
The aging hippie couple
at the end of my block
stack sofa, chairs, bookcases
and one table on their lawn;
set a bonfire. Their way
of making a statement
about ownership, they claim,
when the cops rush up.
They grow weed among their
flowering bottlebrush shrubs,
carry brownies packed with
their wares to the sad old lady
across the street.
She dances until midnight
in a red beaded dress, skirt swirling-
a redbird in flight. The neighborhood
dogs howl under her windowsill,
her four-legged choir of fresh lovers.
The other ones lie six feet under
in long ago graves, for now, forgotten.
at the end of my block
stack sofa, chairs, bookcases
and one table on their lawn;
set a bonfire. Their way
of making a statement
about ownership, they claim,
when the cops rush up.
They grow weed among their
flowering bottlebrush shrubs,
carry brownies packed with
their wares to the sad old lady
across the street.
She dances until midnight
in a red beaded dress, skirt swirling-
a redbird in flight. The neighborhood
dogs howl under her windowsill,
her four-legged choir of fresh lovers.
The other ones lie six feet under
in long ago graves, for now, forgotten.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
the red sledge hammer
so much depends on
a red sledge hammer
lying in the hard glass light
of high noon
at the edge of
the new bank site
on top of the stack of
white concrete blocks.
* * * *
(Previously published in The Subversive Agent, a print magazine that published briefly in the 1990's, edited by Paul Jentz. The magazine was originally founded by Thomas McGrath.)
Note: The above poem was originally written with uneven margins on both sides -- I write most of my poems that way -- not flush left as it shows above. I haven't figured out how to do uneven margins on both sides in HTML, which is one of the reasons I haven't posted many of my poems online.
I've gone ahead and posted this one because I surely don't want to "boycott" the blog because of a technical limitation. And I'll certainly post more poems in the future. (When I wrote the "Making of Eve" poem that I posted here earlier this summer, I intentionally used flush left margins, so I wouldn't have to deal with the HTML problem. But usually I find flush left margins too limiting, for poems.)
I'm not any kind of expert with HTML. If anyone knows a (more or less) uncomplicated way to do uneven both-side margins with HTML, feel free to let me know. Thanks!
a red sledge hammer
lying in the hard glass light
of high noon
at the edge of
the new bank site
on top of the stack of
white concrete blocks.
* * * *
(Previously published in The Subversive Agent, a print magazine that published briefly in the 1990's, edited by Paul Jentz. The magazine was originally founded by Thomas McGrath.)
Note: The above poem was originally written with uneven margins on both sides -- I write most of my poems that way -- not flush left as it shows above. I haven't figured out how to do uneven margins on both sides in HTML, which is one of the reasons I haven't posted many of my poems online.
I've gone ahead and posted this one because I surely don't want to "boycott" the blog because of a technical limitation. And I'll certainly post more poems in the future. (When I wrote the "Making of Eve" poem that I posted here earlier this summer, I intentionally used flush left margins, so I wouldn't have to deal with the HTML problem. But usually I find flush left margins too limiting, for poems.)
I'm not any kind of expert with HTML. If anyone knows a (more or less) uncomplicated way to do uneven both-side margins with HTML, feel free to let me know. Thanks!
Gardeners and Poets
We gather in a Greenwich Village community garden,
beside the public apple tree and the private pear,
to recite our poems for friends and gardeners.
Elders wander in and sit to listen for a while
then drift off like swallowtails to the honey-scented
buddleia. A woman in a straw sunhat harvests
plump tomatoes in a canvas shoulder bag. Magenta
hibiscus lolls by the gold of black-eyed susans; roses
blush pink as our poet-comedian coaxes laughs
about spam to shrink his mortgage, grow his johnson;
curious couples peer through green chainlink;
as August evening breezes blow, pigeons convene
on a roof, and a male jitterbugs for bored females.
The rain holds off; words trail into applause.
We poets retreat to a pub for Guinness and gin.
On the table, someone put a pink rose, a green apple.
Christopher T. George
This was a reading of poets who frequent Gazebo and Able Muse. Some photographs and other comments on the reading can be found by hitting the link through the title.
beside the public apple tree and the private pear,
to recite our poems for friends and gardeners.
Elders wander in and sit to listen for a while
then drift off like swallowtails to the honey-scented
buddleia. A woman in a straw sunhat harvests
plump tomatoes in a canvas shoulder bag. Magenta
hibiscus lolls by the gold of black-eyed susans; roses
blush pink as our poet-comedian coaxes laughs
about spam to shrink his mortgage, grow his johnson;
curious couples peer through green chainlink;
as August evening breezes blow, pigeons convene
on a roof, and a male jitterbugs for bored females.
The rain holds off; words trail into applause.
We poets retreat to a pub for Guinness and gin.
On the table, someone put a pink rose, a green apple.
Christopher T. George
This was a reading of poets who frequent Gazebo and Able Muse. Some photographs and other comments on the reading can be found by hitting the link through the title.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Walking to the Cineplex
On these city streets you can't hear
the sidewalks echo the clickity-clack
of our anxious feet. They're submerged
drowning in the noise of passing cars,
prattling pedestrians, the sounds of them
walking, strutting, shuffling–-the rub of
cloth against cloth.
The windows of each establishment
capture us like carnival mirrors--
See my mushroom head! Look!
A tire hangs about your chin.
I could drive into that grin on the road
you paved with hearty giggles.
The multi-plex greets us with neon "Hellos"
we flock to like summer bugs, mesmerized.
Yet, from the twinkle in your eyes I sense
we finally discovered Oz.
the sidewalks echo the clickity-clack
of our anxious feet. They're submerged
drowning in the noise of passing cars,
prattling pedestrians, the sounds of them
walking, strutting, shuffling–-the rub of
cloth against cloth.
The windows of each establishment
capture us like carnival mirrors--
See my mushroom head! Look!
A tire hangs about your chin.
I could drive into that grin on the road
you paved with hearty giggles.
The multi-plex greets us with neon "Hellos"
we flock to like summer bugs, mesmerized.
Yet, from the twinkle in your eyes I sense
we finally discovered Oz.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Looking for Eurydice
I lost Eurydice in the darkness.
Darkness. Thick, vast and null
as my view of god,
as what fills her absence,
as indigo gel made from China ink.
I saw her face for a thunderclap.
She vanished into the void
an instant after I looked back,
her eyes breaking the black
as she gazed towards me.
Darkness is the shade
of secrets I will never tell.
Darkness in my mouth
hides the coin on my tongue.
Darkness in each chambered nautilus
within me, those quiet spaces
where I honor the dead
calling out their names.
Eurydice
Eurydice
Eurydice.
Darkness. Thick, vast and null
as my view of god,
as what fills her absence,
as indigo gel made from China ink.
I saw her face for a thunderclap.
She vanished into the void
an instant after I looked back,
her eyes breaking the black
as she gazed towards me.
Darkness is the shade
of secrets I will never tell.
Darkness in my mouth
hides the coin on my tongue.
Darkness in each chambered nautilus
within me, those quiet spaces
where I honor the dead
calling out their names.
Eurydice
Eurydice
Eurydice.
slap gap sonnet
blads, calorificacient, this how alone
makes suffer, pricks to camorated
a selection of eye rod/cone
swoops: the blood singulars, twofed
lip mini-smacks also along smooth
finger traps where concave cusps must
fatten ‘n then blather up a soothe
anti-sear scotoma larch lust
no no these’ll not peg down
that’s left to the yew its roots
suturing undeads lest homegrown
resurrected luke warm half truths
wane. Hold. Hearts(') rent woodwould calcify
wrought raw broodings but ought ally
makes suffer, pricks to camorated
a selection of eye rod/cone
swoops: the blood singulars, twofed
lip mini-smacks also along smooth
finger traps where concave cusps must
fatten ‘n then blather up a soothe
anti-sear scotoma larch lust
no no these’ll not peg down
that’s left to the yew its roots
suturing undeads lest homegrown
resurrected luke warm half truths
wane. Hold. Hearts(') rent wood
wrought raw broodings but ought ally
The Wait
(slight edit)
When Tom finally meets Meg
in the Empire State building,
I think of when you said,
we're magic, babe.
While Billy Bob spoons
ice cream to Hallie's mouth,
our old churn comes
to mind, used now
as a playground for spiders.
Movies always reel you back to me,
piece by piece.
You are the squeak in the leaf
I roll between my fingers each Spring,
the halo of light lingering when
I switch off my lamp, come midnight.
You are the sweat in my gown
and the silence between raindrops
on that beach where you stripped
off my suit and once took me, hard.
Any day now, you will surely
knock at my door and,
kissing my cupped hand,
say, she didn't matter, love;
she never mattered at all.
original
When Tom Hanks finds Meg Ryan
in the Empire State building,
I remember when you said,
we make our own magic, babe.
When Billy Bob Thornton feeds
ice cream to Hallie Berrie,
I think of our old churn
in the cellar, used now
as a playground for spiders.
The movies reel you back to me,
piece by piece. One day,
you will follow, I tell myself.
You are the squeak in the leaf
I roll between my fingers each Spring,
the halo of light lingering when
I switch off my lamp, come midnight.
You are the sweat in my gown
and the silence between raindrops
on that beach where you stripped
off my suit and once took me, hard.
One day you will surely
knock at my door and,
kissing my cupped hand,
tell me, she didn't matter.
She never mattered at all.
Pris Campbell
(c)2005
When Tom finally meets Meg
in the Empire State building,
I think of when you said,
we're magic, babe.
While Billy Bob spoons
ice cream to Hallie's mouth,
our old churn comes
to mind, used now
as a playground for spiders.
Movies always reel you back to me,
piece by piece.
You are the squeak in the leaf
I roll between my fingers each Spring,
the halo of light lingering when
I switch off my lamp, come midnight.
You are the sweat in my gown
and the silence between raindrops
on that beach where you stripped
off my suit and once took me, hard.
Any day now, you will surely
knock at my door and,
kissing my cupped hand,
say, she didn't matter, love;
she never mattered at all.
original
When Tom Hanks finds Meg Ryan
in the Empire State building,
I remember when you said,
we make our own magic, babe.
When Billy Bob Thornton feeds
ice cream to Hallie Berrie,
I think of our old churn
in the cellar, used now
as a playground for spiders.
The movies reel you back to me,
piece by piece. One day,
you will follow, I tell myself.
You are the squeak in the leaf
I roll between my fingers each Spring,
the halo of light lingering when
I switch off my lamp, come midnight.
You are the sweat in my gown
and the silence between raindrops
on that beach where you stripped
off my suit and once took me, hard.
One day you will surely
knock at my door and,
kissing my cupped hand,
tell me, she didn't matter.
She never mattered at all.
Pris Campbell
(c)2005
The View From the Cheap Seats
So much for orgasm
akin to dying
so much pumping
that long, member
puke whirrled peas,
man
try to grow.
In the corner
the wine ferments
while the boxer
in his briefs
takes member in hand
sits in the cheap seats
plays with words. In the shower
ideals spew into submission.
World peace can be found
in a slit in the cotton.
Chew on reguritated
muck. Spray,
then die again.
Prick, to attention.
Use words like
this, then
cover them in slime.
Right on
hip, hip, hup, hup
and hooray.
akin to dying
so much pumping
that long, member
puke whirrled peas,
man
try to grow.
In the corner
the wine ferments
while the boxer
in his briefs
takes member in hand
sits in the cheap seats
plays with words. In the shower
ideals spew into submission.
World peace can be found
in a slit in the cotton.
Chew on reguritated
muck. Spray,
then die again.
Prick, to attention.
Use words like
this, then
cover them in slime.
Right on
hip, hip, hup, hup
and hooray.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Campaign
It was a war
A dirty dirty war
founded on lies
whispers of what wasn’t
sold wholesale as what is.
A dirty dirty war
founded on lies
whispers of what wasn’t
sold wholesale as what is.
Get Ready!
Get Ready for the next mIOPradio!
New promo posted at the mIPOradio podcast site.
Listen and guess which three poets speak on the promo!
You never know who... and what... you'll hear!
Twelve Views
1. Sing the singular white blade of petals still approaching sky.
2. Is this threshold of approach close to a scorch point?
3. Innocence as pass-through to friendly fire.
4. Mistakes are thought to yield the fodder for cropped art.
5. This hemisphere folds irises into their depths.
6. Given the merchantry one foists on nature; where does sky begin to fit?
7. Loam likely to fortify now generates few minerals.
8. Recently soothing land becomes unwatched.
9. Specific granules tip the shadows into darkness.
10. Inherent range of motion flexes stillness in the eye.
11. "Yes" remains one syllable.
12. Art / icu / late, embedded sun amounts to several imagined leas.
2. Is this threshold of approach close to a scorch point?
3. Innocence as pass-through to friendly fire.
4. Mistakes are thought to yield the fodder for cropped art.
5. This hemisphere folds irises into their depths.
6. Given the merchantry one foists on nature; where does sky begin to fit?
7. Loam likely to fortify now generates few minerals.
8. Recently soothing land becomes unwatched.
9. Specific granules tip the shadows into darkness.
10. Inherent range of motion flexes stillness in the eye.
11. "Yes" remains one syllable.
12. Art / icu / late, embedded sun amounts to several imagined leas.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Antiquities- revision
Be still
listen for the sigh
like breeze rousing dawn
too soon after you held my head
drunk with passion in your dream,
my hair spilling into your hands
like electricity filling the line
between our worlds.
Then go softly into the steel gray rain
of days spent waiting,
hollow aching drift of time muddled,
set against raging seas of emotion,
ebb and flow.
listen for the sigh
like breeze rousing dawn
too soon after you held my head
drunk with passion in your dream,
my hair spilling into your hands
like electricity filling the line
between our worlds.
Then go softly into the steel gray rain
of days spent waiting,
hollow aching drift of time muddled,
set against raging seas of emotion,
ebb and flow.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Nick Carbo's "HER AHS AND OHS"
Hey All,
I've just posted and commented on Nick Carbo's "HER AHS AND OHS" over on my blog: http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com. Hope you enjoy!
I've just posted and commented on Nick Carbo's "HER AHS AND OHS" over on my blog: http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com. Hope you enjoy!
Elegy
Your absence is a black sun,
a blazing void we circle
in love’s hopeless orbit.
Today I felt your nearness
when I could say nothing
in the long moment of pause
that swelled out from the phone
as my mother, your ex-wife,
spoke about suicide -
a long moment of pause
that swelled out like the bubbles
which once filled the bathtub
when I was your favorite child
and you would lift me, shivering,
from the water and wrap around
me a towel to keep me safe
and warm in the bathroom air
suddenly so cold.
a blazing void we circle
in love’s hopeless orbit.
Today I felt your nearness
when I could say nothing
in the long moment of pause
that swelled out from the phone
as my mother, your ex-wife,
spoke about suicide -
a long moment of pause
that swelled out like the bubbles
which once filled the bathtub
when I was your favorite child
and you would lift me, shivering,
from the water and wrap around
me a towel to keep me safe
and warm in the bathroom air
suddenly so cold.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Korean Adoptee Returns to Seoul
How can I tell you that my wife and I slept
behind three temples and some vendors flapping
the Korea Times at the flies on the durian
that in this racing city, the sleek Lexus races
down fast lanes, past by skyrise malls
and sidewalk food stalls while the old men
call it a day and do not notice me at all,
a Korean adoptee smelling Seoul
for the first time in the thirty years?
The first night back, I dream about birth
rights and death dates, birthdates and love
lost somewhere over the Pacific.
The first night back, I dream in that hotel room
behind the temples about a birth scenario.
I dream about the woman whose body bore me,
right here in this city thirty years ago, where
that same vendor flapped the newspaper
at the flies on the durian, eighteen years after
the Korean War when Russians took the north
Americans took the south, below the thin line
that served as the new border. Maybe
she was thirty and I took too much from her
busy life and she could not imagine death
so she left me on the steps of a church.
Maybe she was sixteen, and
I was heavy on her heart and on her back
so heavy that in her dreams, I could sink
quietly, in a lake.
Have I mentioned this to you?
Have I mentioned how downtown Seoul
collides with the horizon, how I could smell
pieces of Fresno even here at the barbecued squid
vendor’s five foot business, how close Pyongyang
feels when I am in Fresno among the blossoms,
the cement, and the hopeful ones like me and you,
counting on tomorrow being good?
Have I mentioned how Seoul is a city
in which I have loved and been loved, left and been
left, a city in which I found green plants raging
out of the earth, trees reaching toward the sun
with such vertical precision you’d think God,
yes, God had been involved in the planting?
I should mention how the sun tries to blaze there
like the sun tries to blaze here, how the son
finally rests having been home and smelled the city
and its possessions: the garlic fields, the rice fields,
and the woman’s hands mixing
the kimchi into the egg
How his heartbeat sounds as if it is saying life
life life life deep like the water
that connects these two cities
and the light breeze that blows in between.
behind three temples and some vendors flapping
the Korea Times at the flies on the durian
that in this racing city, the sleek Lexus races
down fast lanes, past by skyrise malls
and sidewalk food stalls while the old men
call it a day and do not notice me at all,
a Korean adoptee smelling Seoul
for the first time in the thirty years?
The first night back, I dream about birth
rights and death dates, birthdates and love
lost somewhere over the Pacific.
The first night back, I dream in that hotel room
behind the temples about a birth scenario.
I dream about the woman whose body bore me,
right here in this city thirty years ago, where
that same vendor flapped the newspaper
at the flies on the durian, eighteen years after
the Korean War when Russians took the north
Americans took the south, below the thin line
that served as the new border. Maybe
she was thirty and I took too much from her
busy life and she could not imagine death
so she left me on the steps of a church.
Maybe she was sixteen, and
I was heavy on her heart and on her back
so heavy that in her dreams, I could sink
quietly, in a lake.
Have I mentioned this to you?
Have I mentioned how downtown Seoul
collides with the horizon, how I could smell
pieces of Fresno even here at the barbecued squid
vendor’s five foot business, how close Pyongyang
feels when I am in Fresno among the blossoms,
the cement, and the hopeful ones like me and you,
counting on tomorrow being good?
Have I mentioned how Seoul is a city
in which I have loved and been loved, left and been
left, a city in which I found green plants raging
out of the earth, trees reaching toward the sun
with such vertical precision you’d think God,
yes, God had been involved in the planting?
I should mention how the sun tries to blaze there
like the sun tries to blaze here, how the son
finally rests having been home and smelled the city
and its possessions: the garlic fields, the rice fields,
and the woman’s hands mixing
the kimchi into the egg
How his heartbeat sounds as if it is saying life
life life life deep like the water
that connects these two cities
and the light breeze that blows in between.
cafe' cafe' community
These three cafe' cafe' participants will be in our next mIPOradio show. We will be featuring cafe cafe readers in each show regardless of theme. It is our way of saying thank you and to remind you just how wonderful you all are.
Bill Allegrezza
Dierdre Dore
AnnMarie Eldon
Please continue supporting each other by leaving comments and posting your poems and please remember to send me any audio you have or point me to where you have it on your blog. My e-mail is chinavieja at gmail dot com. If you have any friends you would like to invite, please let me know.
Thank you -
Didi and Birdie
Bill Allegrezza
Dierdre Dore
AnnMarie Eldon
Please continue supporting each other by leaving comments and posting your poems and please remember to send me any audio you have or point me to where you have it on your blog. My e-mail is chinavieja at gmail dot com. If you have any friends you would like to invite, please let me know.
Thank you -
Didi and Birdie
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
night river love poem
i want to hold you
mid-stream with the
current pushing downriver
and the banks
becoming a distant
dream of safety
to be enveloped
in the darkness
with no guiding light
lost struggling
coping searching
as ages pass
time collapses
two bodies pushing against
each other in that space
where the struggle is to be
one and two in the flow
without drowning.
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