Now we need more poems! Go HERE to read the original challenge.
(You'll have to hit 'show original post'. This will start out by showing comments and I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong not to get to the post, per se. Apologies!)
Pris
By the way, President Bush finally relented and accepted International Aid and the outpouring has been enormous! A tiny Arabic country is giving one hundred million dollars!! Read Michael Parker's blog for today, Sept 6, for a detailed list.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
4th and Columbia (Fantasy Challenge)
If I knew I could die today
I would hide behind the catalpa
at 4th and Columbia,
two-forty-three after school
when the high school bandies
scuff pigeon fluff
from hiccuping bricks
in broken snare time.
I'd press my breasts
against the elongated pods
and wait for the music to pass,
for the man tapping sticks
behind the ragtag corps,
a penned eagle rising
from cutoff jean leg,
black Einstein hair
wired under tattered bandana.
The troupe would turn corner,
crisp steps out of time
but this is a small town, man.
They do their best.
I would let them high step
past my cracked stucco house
on 4th and Columbia,
let those belly shirt
flute girls pretend to play,
chubby euphonium boy
trip random air molecules
until Eagle Man stops
shouting big city instruction,
catches my thigh
clad in fishnet hopes
and catalpa sap.
The band would march on, man,
right back to podunk high
while I demonstrate fine
trombone technique
to my music teacher lover,
back against stalking tree,
one hand keeping eagle's beak
from calling our corner.
I would hide behind the catalpa
at 4th and Columbia,
two-forty-three after school
when the high school bandies
scuff pigeon fluff
from hiccuping bricks
in broken snare time.
I'd press my breasts
against the elongated pods
and wait for the music to pass,
for the man tapping sticks
behind the ragtag corps,
a penned eagle rising
from cutoff jean leg,
black Einstein hair
wired under tattered bandana.
The troupe would turn corner,
crisp steps out of time
but this is a small town, man.
They do their best.
I would let them high step
past my cracked stucco house
on 4th and Columbia,
let those belly shirt
flute girls pretend to play,
chubby euphonium boy
trip random air molecules
until Eagle Man stops
shouting big city instruction,
catches my thigh
clad in fishnet hopes
and catalpa sap.
The band would march on, man,
right back to podunk high
while I demonstrate fine
trombone technique
to my music teacher lover,
back against stalking tree,
one hand keeping eagle's beak
from calling our corner.
Inside Out
Today I wore my skin inside-out.
I was big and pink
like an old Communist whose hopes
floated away in kremlins of smoke.
The others weren’t Communists.
They fought each other for crab legs.
Then they sat around the pool
and kicked the trapped sky with their feet.
The heavens rioted between their toes.
In the reluctant light, beer cans
glimmered and shone like broken stars.
Some of the others tried to talk to me.
But I was in Russia a long time ago,
standing at the fence and watching
the others perform the dance
of a late summer’s evening –
splash in the pool, plate of hot-dogs,
lighting of cigarettes, lifting of beers,
the futile kissing the magical
like trees whose tops pucker for the sky,
awaiting the sunset and the beginning
of the goat’s song in the nearby field.
I was big and pink
like an old Communist whose hopes
floated away in kremlins of smoke.
The others weren’t Communists.
They fought each other for crab legs.
Then they sat around the pool
and kicked the trapped sky with their feet.
The heavens rioted between their toes.
In the reluctant light, beer cans
glimmered and shone like broken stars.
Some of the others tried to talk to me.
But I was in Russia a long time ago,
standing at the fence and watching
the others perform the dance
of a late summer’s evening –
splash in the pool, plate of hot-dogs,
lighting of cigarettes, lifting of beers,
the futile kissing the magical
like trees whose tops pucker for the sky,
awaiting the sunset and the beginning
of the goat’s song in the nearby field.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Fantasy Challenge
Henry Inside The Chapel Of Love
I pause between your thighs,
let you direct me,
then all the way to heaven
like the unwrinkled fruit of Dylan Thomas,
the candle lit
lights the way inside the chapel.
The walls are lined with fire,
the steeples of your nipples.
The congregation’s me
praying in the dark
and all my animal desires
are lined up in pairs inside the Ark.
I pause between your thighs,
look into your eyes
to see my own reflection.
But once I leave the chapel of your love
I become just an ordinary man
again.
Henry Inside The Chapel Of Love
para d. secretamente
I pause between your thighs,
let you direct me,
then all the way to heaven
like the unwrinkled fruit of Dylan Thomas,
the candle lit
lights the way inside the chapel.
The walls are lined with fire,
the steeples of your nipples.
The congregation’s me
praying in the dark
and all my animal desires
are lined up in pairs inside the Ark.
I pause between your thighs,
look into your eyes
to see my own reflection.
But once I leave the chapel of your love
I become just an ordinary man
again.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Henry’s Elegy For The Death Of The Blues
The winds are howling
and the rain is flying horizontal,
the lights go out
but I think we have survived.
Next day water is flooding
the neighborhood up to the rooftops.
We make it to the attic,
my son kicks as hard as he can
until he breaks through
and we climb onto the roof
though he has trouble dragging
my large sixty year-old body through the hole.
We’re wet, no drinking water, no food,
with just the clothes on our backs.
We see the helicopters flying overhead
but after two days nobody helps us.
We grab an empty canoe that’s floating by.
We hear from others
that we should head for the Superdome.
No food, no water there either.
Finally my heart gives out.
My son wraps me up in white trash bags
and I can’t see anymore
When The Saints Come Marching In.
The winds are howling
and the rain is flying horizontal,
the lights go out
but I think we have survived.
Next day water is flooding
the neighborhood up to the rooftops.
We make it to the attic,
my son kicks as hard as he can
until he breaks through
and we climb onto the roof
though he has trouble dragging
my large sixty year-old body through the hole.
We’re wet, no drinking water, no food,
with just the clothes on our backs.
We see the helicopters flying overhead
but after two days nobody helps us.
We grab an empty canoe that’s floating by.
We hear from others
that we should head for the Superdome.
No food, no water there either.
Finally my heart gives out.
My son wraps me up in white trash bags
and I can’t see anymore
When The Saints Come Marching In.
Goat's Song
Just behind my eyeballs
there is this enormous cave
and everything I’ve ever seen
is gathered together inside it.
One time I went down
into the cave to see what I could,
and there was this goat
playing Mozart on a flaming piano.
My mother stood nearby,
tapping her foot to the rhythm
and adjusting the bird’s nest
that she wore on top of her head.
The birds were singing off key.
The cave was dark except for the light
given off by the flaming piano.
The entrances had been covered.
Soon I realized I was trapped,
and I began to look for my father
who, though gone for years,
I thought might know another way out.
When I found him, deep in the cave,
he was nailed to this big cross.
I pleaded with him, Save me! Save me!
but he just looked down at me coolly and said
You should hear that goat sing.
there is this enormous cave
and everything I’ve ever seen
is gathered together inside it.
One time I went down
into the cave to see what I could,
and there was this goat
playing Mozart on a flaming piano.
My mother stood nearby,
tapping her foot to the rhythm
and adjusting the bird’s nest
that she wore on top of her head.
The birds were singing off key.
The cave was dark except for the light
given off by the flaming piano.
The entrances had been covered.
Soon I realized I was trapped,
and I began to look for my father
who, though gone for years,
I thought might know another way out.
When I found him, deep in the cave,
he was nailed to this big cross.
I pleaded with him, Save me! Save me!
but he just looked down at me coolly and said
You should hear that goat sing.
Fantasy Challenge Offering
The Center Within
To find the center within,
that doesn’t shift or fade with the seasons
that isn’t swayed by the moon or night.
that doesn’t shift or fade with the seasons
that isn’t swayed by the moon or night.
To find that center,
that can’t be lost in despair
or forgotten in anger
or overlooked in joy.
that can’t be lost in despair
or forgotten in anger
or overlooked in joy.
To find that center,
and to live through it, consciously
fully aware of the touch of the earth
the response of living things
the gift of friends
the miracle of love.
and to live through it, consciously
fully aware of the touch of the earth
the response of living things
the gift of friends
the miracle of love.
Out of the Lower 9th: a Dedication
This prose is dedicated to those who have lost their lives in the floods in New Orleans. I chose a stream of consciousness style of prose with minimal punctuation to give the sense of fluidity to it, like a flood, like a river. I have no official title for it, though I posted it on my website using the title of the location where the events of the prose occured-- in the Lower 9th Ward, Orleans Parish, New Orleans. For this post, I'll title it "Out of the Lower 9th."
Mama I'm not scared no more hear my breath listen it is calm like a hot summer Sunday afternoon in the shade is quiet Mama I'm not scared no more of storms or deep water I can't see the bottom of cause it would always hide the gators and the water snakes looked like ripples or sticks upon the back of the lake Mama I don't want you crying no more don't want you wasting your breath calling my name over these dark waters I've learned to swim learned to see underwater you would be so proud of your baby I swam across Reynes street crossed over Forstall and Lizardi and caught a current south along Caffin street I imagined myself a great White Ibsis with their white and black-tipped wings even the angels envy stretched wide right after they've jumped into the air to hang there as if the sky and the wind have hooks and strings then I thought I might be Jesus Christ swimming off his cross arms stretched so wide he wanted to take in the whole world with all his love and save everybody but not me because I feel salvation swimming here like Jesus would swim I swam by our churches and our schools and our stores and I've heard the choirs of frogs croaking to our dark streets and silent houses singing sad hallelujahs to our people who are waiting and talking to God as they wait like you told me to talk to God tell God we've come a long way from the hard days but our days they're still hard and I reckon God didn't always hear me talkin cause the days they never got any easier Mama I am not your baby no more I've felt so much fear I'm not afraid no more seen so much dying my eyes don't blink no more Mama I've heard the cries of mamas and their babies and lost children they follow me on the flood and echo in the flood but I don't cry that I'm lost don't cry because I'm not with you because you will see Mama every hour every day my soul is feeling longer than the street longer than the day and growing longer through the New Orleans night one day soon I'll pass the bayou where the yellow-crowned heron nests and see the red-shouldered hawk master the sky and hear the haunting song of the great horned owl serenade our favorite stars one day Mama I'll make my way past all the moss-covered cypress trees whose branches try to hold me back and I will be so big then you will find me Mama you will see me one day I'll be longer than the Mississippi greater than the Pontchartrain one day I'll be the sea.
Mama I'm not scared no more hear my breath listen it is calm like a hot summer Sunday afternoon in the shade is quiet Mama I'm not scared no more of storms or deep water I can't see the bottom of cause it would always hide the gators and the water snakes looked like ripples or sticks upon the back of the lake Mama I don't want you crying no more don't want you wasting your breath calling my name over these dark waters I've learned to swim learned to see underwater you would be so proud of your baby I swam across Reynes street crossed over Forstall and Lizardi and caught a current south along Caffin street I imagined myself a great White Ibsis with their white and black-tipped wings even the angels envy stretched wide right after they've jumped into the air to hang there as if the sky and the wind have hooks and strings then I thought I might be Jesus Christ swimming off his cross arms stretched so wide he wanted to take in the whole world with all his love and save everybody but not me because I feel salvation swimming here like Jesus would swim I swam by our churches and our schools and our stores and I've heard the choirs of frogs croaking to our dark streets and silent houses singing sad hallelujahs to our people who are waiting and talking to God as they wait like you told me to talk to God tell God we've come a long way from the hard days but our days they're still hard and I reckon God didn't always hear me talkin cause the days they never got any easier Mama I am not your baby no more I've felt so much fear I'm not afraid no more seen so much dying my eyes don't blink no more Mama I've heard the cries of mamas and their babies and lost children they follow me on the flood and echo in the flood but I don't cry that I'm lost don't cry because I'm not with you because you will see Mama every hour every day my soul is feeling longer than the street longer than the day and growing longer through the New Orleans night one day soon I'll pass the bayou where the yellow-crowned heron nests and see the red-shouldered hawk master the sky and hear the haunting song of the great horned owl serenade our favorite stars one day Mama I'll make my way past all the moss-covered cypress trees whose branches try to hold me back and I will be so big then you will find me Mama you will see me one day I'll be longer than the Mississippi greater than the Pontchartrain one day I'll be the sea.
Fantasy Poem
Suspension
A whisper against sand
is only time shared between
strangers, the sky witness to
a slow swell, the pattern of your
hands on skin, drawn breath.
Heat rises, we have always known
this. Stars milk the sky and I see it in your eyes,
closed; it escapes from your open mouth.
The boil of the sea keeps cadence, your
ocean a blind leap, ascent into depth.
There are places to go at times like these,
when the present blends into memory
and desire is a silent companion. He flips
the index cards and I choose my poison.
No, you say.
Attend.
A whisper against sand
is only time shared between
strangers, the sky witness to
a slow swell, the pattern of your
hands on skin, drawn breath.
Heat rises, we have always known
this. Stars milk the sky and I see it in your eyes,
closed; it escapes from your open mouth.
The boil of the sea keeps cadence, your
ocean a blind leap, ascent into depth.
There are places to go at times like these,
when the present blends into memory
and desire is a silent companion. He flips
the index cards and I choose my poison.
No, you say.
Attend.
Fantasy Challenge poem
(I'm writing one since the proceeds are going to charity and to kick things off)
Your smile slices my breastbone open
and I bleed pink wantwords across
the restaurant, watch while confused
men and women pick missed you, kiss me,
touch me from clean dresses and jackets.
Your hair is graying.
I'm twenty pounds heavier.
You ask if my husband is good to me.
I inquire if your children turned out smart.
You lay your hand on mine and our feet
dance to that room, the room where we
wanted to be from the start of this night,
the room with the blue shiny spread and Degas
prints on the walls, the room where
we urgently throw our clothes over a white
fuzzy chair and discover that our bodies
haven't forgotten the old rhythm between us.
In this night when the stars sink
close to the ground and the clouds
step aside for the wild, rising moon,
I'm twenty again. You're twenty five.
Dylan and Baez sing live on the radio and
we pledge love forevermore.
Later, zipping your trousers, the marks
of my lips on your face, your body, you say,
We'll do this again.
At that moment, that one nano-grain in the
sands of our time, I see in your eyes that
we won't meet again and know, too, it's fine.
You hand me the rose you pilfered
from our table upon leaving, pull on your jacket,
bend for one last lingering kiss.
A thorn from the rose pricks my finger,
draws blood as the door closes softly behind you.
Your smile slices my breastbone open
and I bleed pink wantwords across
the restaurant, watch while confused
men and women pick missed you, kiss me,
touch me from clean dresses and jackets.
Your hair is graying.
I'm twenty pounds heavier.
You ask if my husband is good to me.
I inquire if your children turned out smart.
You lay your hand on mine and our feet
dance to that room, the room where we
wanted to be from the start of this night,
the room with the blue shiny spread and Degas
prints on the walls, the room where
we urgently throw our clothes over a white
fuzzy chair and discover that our bodies
haven't forgotten the old rhythm between us.
In this night when the stars sink
close to the ground and the clouds
step aside for the wild, rising moon,
I'm twenty again. You're twenty five.
Dylan and Baez sing live on the radio and
we pledge love forevermore.
Later, zipping your trousers, the marks
of my lips on your face, your body, you say,
We'll do this again.
At that moment, that one nano-grain in the
sands of our time, I see in your eyes that
we won't meet again and know, too, it's fine.
You hand me the rose you pilfered
from our table upon leaving, pull on your jacket,
bend for one last lingering kiss.
A thorn from the rose pricks my finger,
draws blood as the door closes softly behind you.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
special weekend edition of miPOradio
This is a special Labor Day Weekend edition of miPOradio featuring poetry by Charles Bukowski (The Soldier, His Wife and The Bum), Charles Bernstein (Bricklayer's Arms), David Trinidad (Wedding Night), Diego Quiros (Earthly Garden) and Linh Dinh (The Most Beautiful Word).
Music by Syd (Back Home), Peter Adams (The Disappeared), The Shins (New Slang) and Tantra (Tees).
Links:
MiPo's cafe' cafe'
Diego Quiros
Charles Bernstiein
Birdie Jaworski
Brought to you by:
MiPOesias Magazine
Music by Syd (Back Home), Peter Adams (The Disappeared), The Shins (New Slang) and Tantra (Tees).
Links:
MiPo's cafe' cafe'
Diego Quiros
Charles Bernstiein
Birdie Jaworski
Brought to you by:
MiPOesias Magazine
Friday, September 02, 2005
Katrina Aftermath/ Free housing and relocation links
There are thousands upon thousands of the displaced and homeless and incredible offers of help pouring in, but the word is simply not getting out to those in desperate need.
Craig's list offers free housing and relocation support for those who have lost homes in the storm. There is a need for someone to compile a national database for this kind of information; and a way found to connect those in need with those who want to help.
Please take every opportunity to pass this information along.
Craig's list offers free housing and relocation support for those who have lost homes in the storm. There is a need for someone to compile a national database for this kind of information; and a way found to connect those in need with those who want to help.
Please take every opportunity to pass this information along.
Digerati -- call for submissions
I still need more poets for my digerati anthology, which will feature ten poems by twenty poets who publish in print and online, workshop online, and/or maintain a blog. I have a special need for more women (I have currently accepted 8 poets, 2 of which are women).
Please send 15 poems, SASE, acknowledgements (for any previously published poems, and bio to:
Digerati
c/o three candles press
PO Box 1817
Burnsville MN 55337
Please send 15 poems, SASE, acknowledgements (for any previously published poems, and bio to:
Digerati
c/o three candles press
PO Box 1817
Burnsville MN 55337
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Open letter from Louisiana poet laureate
Found this in E. Ethelbert Miller's blog, a beautiful and moving short written piece on life and finding a way back in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina, by Louisiana poet laureate Brenda Marie Osbey, here. This is a link to the main page, scroll down a little, her piece (beginning "Dear Ethelbert" and then "To Whom It May Concern") is in the posts for today Sept. 1st.
Please also see the "FANTASY CHALLENGE" post below here in Cafe Cafe today Sept. 1st, about a poem contest with prize money going as a donation to the Red Cross for hurricane disaster relief.
Please also see the "FANTASY CHALLENGE" post below here in Cafe Cafe today Sept. 1st, about a poem contest with prize money going as a donation to the Red Cross for hurricane disaster relief.
FANTASY CHALLENGE!!
Pick a person you've fantasized about being with. Write a poem (any style or length) about spending an evening with that person. The poem can be chaste. It can be weird. It can be raunchy. It can be downright lacivious.
First place poet will have two hundred and twenty five dollars donated to the Red Cross in his/her name by Didi , Pris, Michael Parker, Chucklev and James Fowler. The number is rising, folks!!
Second Place poet will have fifty dollars donated by Jenni and Jack
Third Place poet will have fifty dollars donated by Birdie
Runner-up will have fifty dollars donated by Keros
All additional donations that come in will be added to the First Place amount.
Put FANTASY CHALLENGE in the header of your post. Deadline September 15.
First place poet will have two hundred and twenty five dollars donated to the Red Cross in his/her name by Didi , Pris, Michael Parker, Chucklev and James Fowler. The number is rising, folks!!
Second Place poet will have fifty dollars donated by Jenni and Jack
Third Place poet will have fifty dollars donated by Birdie
Runner-up will have fifty dollars donated by Keros
All additional donations that come in will be added to the First Place amount.
Put FANTASY CHALLENGE in the header of your post. Deadline September 15.
Disaster and Missing Persons Link for Katrina
Clicking on the title will take you to my blog. Read today's entry to get links for how to help and how to find friends or relatives in the area hit by Katrina.
Pris
Pris
Dore - I think I goofed up your name again
Is it I before E or E before I?
Let me know so we can fix it.
Let me know so we can fix it.
New miPOradio Show!
We have a new show!
Click here:
http://miporadio.libsyn.com/
Rock On with mIPOradio! What does the rock band Queen and the world of poetry have in common? You might be surprised...
Regular mIPOradio Contributer:
Jack McGeehin
Special Guests:
Daniel Nester
E. Ethelbert Miller
Jasper Bernes
Plus three poets from the Cafe Cafe poetry community:
Dierdre Dore
Bill Allegrezza
Ann Marie Eldon
music credits:
Queen and David Bowie - Pressure
Tom Jones - What's New Pussycat
Diana Krall - Wonderful
Renee Olstead - Someone to Watch Over Me
Chris Botti - Forgiven
Queen - We Will Rock You
Producer: Didi Menendez
DJ/Director: Birdie Jaworski
mIPOradio.... where poetry tunes in!
Click here:
http://miporadio.libsyn.com/
Rock On with mIPOradio! What does the rock band Queen and the world of poetry have in common? You might be surprised...
Regular mIPOradio Contributer:
Jack McGeehin
Special Guests:
Daniel Nester
E. Ethelbert Miller
Jasper Bernes
Plus three poets from the Cafe Cafe poetry community:
Dierdre Dore
Bill Allegrezza
Ann Marie Eldon
music credits:
Queen and David Bowie - Pressure
Tom Jones - What's New Pussycat
Diana Krall - Wonderful
Renee Olstead - Someone to Watch Over Me
Chris Botti - Forgiven
Queen - We Will Rock You
Producer: Didi Menendez
DJ/Director: Birdie Jaworski
mIPOradio.... where poetry tunes in!
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