They say that Eve is a bank teller
In midtown Manhattan, watching
Soaps in the back room on her lunch hour.
They say that Eve is a bank. Tellers
Withdraw from her vault of Faith whether
Or not the bank is broken and crumbling.
They say that Eve is a bank teller.
She is in midtown Manhattan – watching.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Festival of the Mourning Dead
Dancing unabashed and childish, like
moths entranced by lamppost light,
the ghosts rise up and fall
upon the earth, and talk
of all the friends they left to walk
that earth which they cannot begin to mourn.
moths entranced by lamppost light,
the ghosts rise up and fall
upon the earth, and talk
of all the friends they left to walk
that earth which they cannot begin to mourn.
Listening to Highway 61 Revisited for the first time
There are fragmented
keys at play
when falling in love.
keys at play
when falling in love.
Oncology Inpatient Facility, West Wing
We listened to the silent collapse
Of our ice cubes as we sat in the sun,
And in the heat we lowered our caps.
We listened to the silent collapse
Of the bones and organs in our laps,
And with sad envy we watched the children run.
We listened to the silent collapse
Of our ice cubes in the sun.
Of our ice cubes as we sat in the sun,
And in the heat we lowered our caps.
We listened to the silent collapse
Of the bones and organs in our laps,
And with sad envy we watched the children run.
We listened to the silent collapse
Of our ice cubes in the sun.
Critical Response to Whitney Moore’s “Migraine”
I really did enjoy this poem. What is very characteristic of Whitney’s work, much like Christina Arganda’s, is her great use of images. This is an outlier on Whitney’s usual subject matter (Argentina), but it is quite good in its conveyance of pain and of sight. What is also quite effective in the poem is the frequent appearance of personification of inanimate objects and aspects of the world as seen through the migraine-victim’s perspective. “teasing my pulsating nerves,/ frayed with each watery look” are two lines which really drew me in and kept me reading along with the “swelling of my sanity” – just great strangeness. I would say, however, that towards the end, the imagery and the strangeness seems to overpower some of what Whitney is trying to do with the scene and the character within the poem, but it isn’t by much. I would say that we are being taken too far into the mind and feelings of the character, and I would like to see what the other senses are like in that moment of searing pain.
Critical Response to Celina’s “After-Thought (Ghost Life)”
While the poem is short, pretty amusing, and fairly complete for its brevity, I feel like it has a lot of room for expansion. The idea of being a disembodied spirit missing your armpits (of all things) the most, is particularly fantastic. This sort of idea has been worked with before, but I think that Celina is taking it in a nice direction. The language is both mournful and sarcastic, which I don’t know if I like, even though I laughed at it the first read through. If she were to expand on this, I would like to see more of the little details like the act of trimming pubic hair or burping or the feeling of a rose petal between the fingers. From there, I would suggest going off into the world and describing the little things about the people the ghost once knew, the things that it misses. It would be interesting to also see how the ghost character’s thoughts reflect on its enemies that it had while it was still a living being. What Celina has in her poem, as I see it, is an amazing beginning to a much longer poem that could be both funny and powerful. Cheers to her.
Critical Response to Kelsey Buck’s “Recognition”
Another eerie poem. Much like Xan’s “Rinds in the Loam,” I found myself getting wrapped up in the overall mood of the poem and the great, but strange, images. The real strength of the poem, I feel, is that it has created a world within itself and it is one which I am able to believe in. Lines like “As I emerge from bracken walls” and “Racing between dark silhouettes” are just plain good and create this creepy dream world which draws the reader in and allows the reader to be chased and claimed by the “something sinister.” This all being said, there are a couple of things which I think could really help the poem. The first would be to strike the line “Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go” from the last stanza and move the last line, “My shadow finds me. It claims me”, to the top of the stanza. It maintains the quick resolution of the poem, but it leaves the reader hanging with the image of the “bleak, faintly breathing world.” The other suggestion which I had was to expand on the sinister something which chases down and claims the character in the story. The elaboration does not have to be a big, long thing but it would help to just have a better idea of maybe how the sinister thing moves or how it smells – something to personify it without describing what it looks like (since that seems to be the point). Also, the line “fleeing superfluous freedom” really confused me. I don’t know if it is really important to the poem, but I would probably suggest, again, expanding it if she wants to keep it or cutting it. Overall, however, I really enjoyed it and I would love to see what she does with it later.
Critical Response 2 to Xan Calonne’s “Rinds in the Loam”
I have to say, this poem creeped me out. I can’t quite put my finger on why it did; but it managed to. The formal structure of the poem is pretty solid, and Xan has managed to make the form his own in the course of the poem, so I cannot offer much in the way of critique there. The lines which really stuck out to me were “A party sits and eats in pungent dirt and leaves and grass,/ Now they begin to drink from hollowed rinds found in the loam” and “The old king feels arthritic while he waits for Ragnorak/ His sword hangs at his side useless it is forged from hollow bone.” Both of these lines are just plain eerie to me. The images are strange, but very vivid and easy to put together in the mind. Yet, there are other lines which I do not see working as well. They are essentially the middle two stanzas of the poem separating the lines I have quoted above. Though “a minted mime” and a “blacksmith… at an old-timey faire” are both interesting and what Xan is doing with the rhymes is clever, they do not seem to do as much for the mood of the poem as the others. I would not say to cut them completely, but to perhaps expand on them and investigate the faire that the blacksmith is at and show the other characters at the carnival/faire. I would really like to see what he does with this and I hope that these suggestions bring up some things that get his mind going.
Critical Response To Christina Arganda’s “My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty is her rowr”
I have to applaud Christina, as always, for her use of imagery and metaphor. But in this poem, she is truly showing off her chops in the category of dexterity. The pantoum is a tricky form and it is hard to make images come into their own when being forced to reference previous lines, but Christina has nailed it. My favorite images, “canary diamond silk sheets” and “a hollow cloud withers in her hands and dies”, are both strange but they work within the context of the poem. However, I am forced to say that the title of the poem does not, for me, match up with the overall mood of the poem. The pantoum can quite easily create a mood or a vivid scene, but just one line can make the reader question it.
All of this being said, however, I have to further applaud Christina for her adaptation of the pantoum form into the blank verse form. Though the meter is rough in places, the revised product has the ghost of the pantoum included in the blank verse; technically making it a sort of nonce form which really works for Christina. The only suggestion I can offer for the blank verse version would be to toy with punctuation and possibly break it up into stanzas. While reading it, I was subconsciously adding punctuation (but that may be a problem with the blog, so…). Anyway, both versions were a pleasure to read, but I would just suggest the little tweaks in order to make the poems truly great.
All of this being said, however, I have to further applaud Christina for her adaptation of the pantoum form into the blank verse form. Though the meter is rough in places, the revised product has the ghost of the pantoum included in the blank verse; technically making it a sort of nonce form which really works for Christina. The only suggestion I can offer for the blank verse version would be to toy with punctuation and possibly break it up into stanzas. While reading it, I was subconsciously adding punctuation (but that may be a problem with the blog, so…). Anyway, both versions were a pleasure to read, but I would just suggest the little tweaks in order to make the poems truly great.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Youth-Celina
Saturdays, girls pack in the showers
to scrape the hair from their pussies
amid the steam and evaporate into
the arms of eager boys. Those are
the high times.
Mondays, no mention. Yet:
sex on screen, sex anxiously hidden
in the inner coat pocket
of our language, sex prodded with
fingertip slips over a shoulder or
spine, as we flirt in the day. Sex-crumbs
stack day in and days out in public
lead to nights alone, feverishly
rubbing the day’s pressure away.
to scrape the hair from their pussies
amid the steam and evaporate into
the arms of eager boys. Those are
the high times.
Mondays, no mention. Yet:
sex on screen, sex anxiously hidden
in the inner coat pocket
of our language, sex prodded with
fingertip slips over a shoulder or
spine, as we flirt in the day. Sex-crumbs
stack day in and days out in public
lead to nights alone, feverishly
rubbing the day’s pressure away.
Crossing (Backwards)
As if the bridge’s presence is enough to spark the thought.
Summoning the meek and tired thirsting for an end.
In its usual green, suggesting numbers one can call.
Quietly adorned the entrance with the usual sign.
They erect a boastful bridge for functionality.
Summoning the meek and tired thirsting for an end.
In its usual green, suggesting numbers one can call.
Quietly adorned the entrance with the usual sign.
They erect a boastful bridge for functionality.
Healing-Celina
Your love is that of iodine
A curing clarity
That works its way between my bones
And nestles subtly.
A curing clarity
That works its way between my bones
And nestles subtly.
Us-Celina
His sadness collects in solitude,
A silent hurricane over
A chunk of the sea
None had crossed but winds.
Mine, a desperate claw and grate
At open-chested earth.
Plopped on sit-and-squeak spring beds
With a couple loose words and
The death of a day,
We exchange miseries
Like rain sprawling toward
The earth, then climbing
Hazily back upward. Yet:
There is no nature here.
A silent hurricane over
A chunk of the sea
None had crossed but winds.
Mine, a desperate claw and grate
At open-chested earth.
Plopped on sit-and-squeak spring beds
With a couple loose words and
The death of a day,
We exchange miseries
Like rain sprawling toward
The earth, then climbing
Hazily back upward. Yet:
There is no nature here.
Urbanite-Celina
Toys in shadows, piercing eyes emerging
Through the narrow veins of city, we
Have always lived like this. The city is
Our concrete amazon to prowl unseen
in tangled chaos; nighttime mothers us
as we are children of the underworld.
The foreigners step quick, look past me while
I watch them hard. I watch them shamelessly
With nothing else to be but raw like dogs
That weave within our pack, but even dogs
Can understand their worth. She held me dirty,
Wired and eased me to my peak and fell with me
Beyond this world. She fed me mangoes bare
And coke from bottle bottoms, bagel crusts
And lugged my weight through subway stairwells, sought
A bed in wrapper-softened dumpster trunks.
Like pirates, conquering brick and grainy ships
Like castles from my infant dreams, my eyes
Are neither open nor do they resist
I sensed my vision tilted when she said—
Is that not how we are to them?—the rest,
The foreign city dwellers tramp our streets
But I just need to smell the putrid air
And know they’re leaving soon. I suck in all
The city sits in, splendor, terror, truth,
Until I’m bursting with my home’s torment
And blow the dandelions scattering hands.
Through the narrow veins of city, we
Have always lived like this. The city is
Our concrete amazon to prowl unseen
in tangled chaos; nighttime mothers us
as we are children of the underworld.
The foreigners step quick, look past me while
I watch them hard. I watch them shamelessly
With nothing else to be but raw like dogs
That weave within our pack, but even dogs
Can understand their worth. She held me dirty,
Wired and eased me to my peak and fell with me
Beyond this world. She fed me mangoes bare
And coke from bottle bottoms, bagel crusts
And lugged my weight through subway stairwells, sought
A bed in wrapper-softened dumpster trunks.
Like pirates, conquering brick and grainy ships
Like castles from my infant dreams, my eyes
Are neither open nor do they resist
I sensed my vision tilted when she said—
Is that not how we are to them?—the rest,
The foreign city dwellers tramp our streets
But I just need to smell the putrid air
And know they’re leaving soon. I suck in all
The city sits in, splendor, terror, truth,
Until I’m bursting with my home’s torment
And blow the dandelions scattering hands.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Bedford, New York
The tears are pouring like rain,
the milk has been poured.
"Don't get wet," she said.
"Poor little thing, he'll get sick."
Drying off wet my wet hair,
the porridge waits.
Ideas poor out my mind,
causing sickness;again, "poor thing."
Why do i hear this voice?
Relaxing as he words seep through my pores.
Taken back from it all,
The rain still pours from my eyes.
Time has passed and I only sit.
Porridge is cold now.
"Clear your plate dear,"
"Annie i'll pour it in the sink."
Monday, May 11, 2009
Checklist for Advanced Poetry Writing
Checklist for Advanced Poetry Writing
□ One page critical response 1
□ One page critical response 2
□ One page critical response 3
□ One page critical response 4
□ One page critical response 5
□ One page critical response 6
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Nickole Brown/Brendan Constantine
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Michael Czyzniejewski/Lawrence Coates
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Aaron Belz
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Jeffrey McDaniel/Willis Barnstone
□ Pick and Choose reading response 1
□ Pick and Choose reading response 2
□ Pick and Choose reading response 3
□ Ghazal
□ Quatrain
□ Pantoum
□ Blank Verse
□ Haiku or Senryu
□ Blank Verse II
□ Ballad
□ Tetrameter
□ Sonnet
□ Tercet Poem with Spoonerism
□ Lune
□ Villanelle, Rondeau, or Triolet
□ Free Verse Poem!
□ English Forms
Other extra credit (write in):_____________________________________
□ One page critical response 1
□ One page critical response 2
□ One page critical response 3
□ One page critical response 4
□ One page critical response 5
□ One page critical response 6
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Nickole Brown/Brendan Constantine
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Michael Czyzniejewski/Lawrence Coates
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Aaron Belz
□ Visiting Writers Response extra credit: Jeffrey McDaniel/Willis Barnstone
□ Pick and Choose reading response 1
□ Pick and Choose reading response 2
□ Pick and Choose reading response 3
□ Ghazal
□ Quatrain
□ Pantoum
□ Blank Verse
□ Haiku or Senryu
□ Blank Verse II
□ Ballad
□ Tetrameter
□ Sonnet
□ Tercet Poem with Spoonerism
□ Lune
□ Villanelle, Rondeau, or Triolet
□ Free Verse Poem!
□ English Forms
Other extra credit (write in):_____________________________________
Thursday, April 30, 2009
‘Facebook Philosophy’ [response to Aaron Belz]
Every couple of months or so
a person that you do not remember
or connect to on any facet
of your present life
contacts you and talks to you and pretends
they know you or perhaps
they really do, yes, its more likely
that they do, but so much of your life
has disappeared behind a haze of
kush nights and tequila sunrises, that t
here is no hope of ever recovering who
they are or where they fit.
What parts of you are fading
with these many unknown adds?
Every couple of months or so
a person that you do not remember
or connect to on any facet
of your present life
contacts you and talks to you and pretends
they know you or perhaps
they really do, yes, its more likely
that they do, but so much of your life
has disappeared behind a haze of
kush nights and tequila sunrises, that t
here is no hope of ever recovering who
they are or where they fit.
What parts of you are fading
with these many unknown adds?
My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty is her rowr
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets.
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean.
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin.
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath.
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes.
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets.
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean.
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin.
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath.
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes.
My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty
is her rowring raging empty light smiles
Aqua derision and deference melt
In her wide eyes, she is framed by canary
wet diamond silk streaks and sheets of sorrow
hollow clouds wither in her trembling hands
and die, all is hidden by Maybell masks
She is framed by canary diamond silk
Streaks and sheets, he chips away the last shreds
Of innocence of eighteen years and tears
the tenderness he seems to give is really
only a curse, as he chips away the last
shreds of innocence of eighteen teared years
she turns to face the darkness and declare
battle deep within, the time has come to
run away from eighteen years of sin
she turns to face the darkness and declare
battle deep within,the past no longer
matters as she must cut a whole new path
the time has come to run away from eighteen
years of sin, to embrace the truth of now
soon the word will know her wrath, the past no
longer matters as she must cut a whole
new path. A hollow cloud withers in her
trembling hands and dies, Aqua skies melt
derision and deference in her eyes.
is her rowring raging empty light smiles
Aqua derision and deference melt
In her wide eyes, she is framed by canary
wet diamond silk streaks and sheets of sorrow
hollow clouds wither in her trembling hands
and die, all is hidden by Maybell masks
She is framed by canary diamond silk
Streaks and sheets, he chips away the last shreds
Of innocence of eighteen years and tears
the tenderness he seems to give is really
only a curse, as he chips away the last
shreds of innocence of eighteen teared years
she turns to face the darkness and declare
battle deep within, the time has come to
run away from eighteen years of sin
she turns to face the darkness and declare
battle deep within,the past no longer
matters as she must cut a whole new path
the time has come to run away from eighteen
years of sin, to embrace the truth of now
soon the word will know her wrath, the past no
longer matters as she must cut a whole
new path. A hollow cloud withers in her
trembling hands and dies, Aqua skies melt
derision and deference in her eyes.
Samsara on a Silver Chain
the path she walks runs blood red rain soul deep
pouring hot copper taste over the smooth
pale black marble stones of such young blind lust
barefoot she treads into oblivion
and pants shallow wet breath and empty sighs
he licks away the crimson streaks of high
and levels the shadowed laced eyes of the
devil on hers
a stone swells desert dry in her gentle
white splotched throat and a shiver runs down on
spider tracks and imagined dreams of love
the breathless heat and garnet panting are
suddenly overwhelming, undertaking
as the world spins black in her empty eyes
and the light drains from the air all around
to puddle ashen rain and hollow stains
on dirty tile
the path she walks runs blood red rain soul deep
pouring hot copper taste over the smooth
pale black marble stones of such young blind lust
barefoot she treads into oblivion
and pants shallow wet breath and empty sighs
he licks away the crimson streaks of high
and levels the shadowed laced eyes of the
devil on hers
a stone swells desert dry in her gentle
white splotched throat and a shiver runs down on
spider tracks and imagined dreams of love
the breathless heat and garnet panting are
suddenly overwhelming, undertaking
as the world spins black in her empty eyes
and the light drains from the air all around
to puddle ashen rain and hollow stains
on dirty tile
On what our dad calls being “a girl in comfortable shoes”
[another response to Sister]
I am the bastard child of the second wave
And the hidden heart of the third,
I wish you would be too.
I stopped wearing bras when I realized
I couldn’t find an A without padding
I don’t have that problem anymore
On my first ever date we watched a movie
And I insisted on paying for the ice cream
I was the girl with all the boy friends
But never a boyfriend
Since then there have been six
But only one or two have mattered
Sorry
[another response to Sister]
I am the bastard child of the second wave
And the hidden heart of the third,
I wish you would be too.
I stopped wearing bras when I realized
I couldn’t find an A without padding
I don’t have that problem anymore
On my first ever date we watched a movie
And I insisted on paying for the ice cream
I was the girl with all the boy friends
But never a boyfriend
Since then there have been six
But only one or two have mattered
Sorry
D.anica M.arie T.ayae [another response to Sister]
i’ll confess this to only you,
i have known her,
close your eyes to see the truth…
slender winter white nails rake romance against
cool coffee cream skin that flushes with the pulsing of the light
the world spins in checkers as questions
flush down the drain to nothing in her mind
white hot desires dance along the dark satin of subconscious
her body opens and sensual wet lotus flower leaves are
all there is, as tiny feet drip silk and fuck forever
panting gently on the floor with rainbow polished toes
everything is as beautiful as you care to dream it,
awake now or never
follow the shadows and carry all the colors of this moment with you
as you run into reality down the path of dancing dreams
into the merigold shack imagination world that is your soul
Our humanity is held in the sins we commit
And our divinity in those we choose not to
i’ll confess this to only you,
i have known her,
close your eyes to see the truth…
slender winter white nails rake romance against
cool coffee cream skin that flushes with the pulsing of the light
the world spins in checkers as questions
flush down the drain to nothing in her mind
white hot desires dance along the dark satin of subconscious
her body opens and sensual wet lotus flower leaves are
all there is, as tiny feet drip silk and fuck forever
panting gently on the floor with rainbow polished toes
everything is as beautiful as you care to dream it,
awake now or never
follow the shadows and carry all the colors of this moment with you
as you run into reality down the path of dancing dreams
into the merigold shack imagination world that is your soul
Our humanity is held in the sins we commit
And our divinity in those we choose not to
Kiss the mug and smile like you mean it
If I could tell you all the shadow secrets that I am
I promise, you still would never know.
BBQ Buddha drinks and
Never placid, candy splintered shattered soul.
Last year I spent my whole spring break
Never less than eyelash deep in snow.
There are seven serpents that make the color of my eyes
They cry but will never again see the light.
Petal wet and trembling flesh
Bare breath in red that never reaches truth.
I have seven self given injuries all the blood has gone,
Battle scar piercing I can never live without.
For the truth is, I am the end of star light
A neverland dream delusion Donut dancer.
If I could tell you all the shadow secrets that I am
I promise, you still would never know.
BBQ Buddha drinks and
Never placid, candy splintered shattered soul.
Last year I spent my whole spring break
Never less than eyelash deep in snow.
There are seven serpents that make the color of my eyes
They cry but will never again see the light.
Petal wet and trembling flesh
Bare breath in red that never reaches truth.
I have seven self given injuries all the blood has gone,
Battle scar piercing I can never live without.
For the truth is, I am the end of star light
A neverland dream delusion Donut dancer.
Missouri Love Song
chase the shadows sinking
beyond the bend in back
her pale fishnet linking
is madness on the track
of purple morning love
that he expresses with
old rubbers and a shove
no not the pretty myth
she dreamed of as a child
pink and yellow bruises
the wrong passion run wild
this is what she chooses
nows the time e to run away
but he says ‘I love you Karra May’
chase the shadows sinking
beyond the bend in back
her pale fishnet linking
is madness on the track
of purple morning love
that he expresses with
old rubbers and a shove
no not the pretty myth
she dreamed of as a child
pink and yellow bruises
the wrong passion run wild
this is what she chooses
nows the time e to run away
but he says ‘I love you Karra May’
Pick and Choose Response #1: Jeffery McDaniel Endarkenment
A play off McDaniel’s “Heavy Breather Zoo” (10):
Hippie Zoo
Whatever happened to the hippie?
capitalist consumerism- Orange County, yuppy greed,
apathy, glass fences, substance control laws-
has rendered her free spirit obsolete. Who
will listen to her cause now? She is the floppy disk
of rebels. She tried leading a protest march
through Whittier College campus,
but only four people joined in,
which was a damn near heart breaking blow.
Should we go to Venice Beach or Berkley-
gather up the last few still out there, smoking
joints and painting banners in the wild,
before they go extinct, place them
in a special zoo, in eco-friendly cage systems, complete
with 2nd or 3rd hand furnishings- glass pipes, rally
signs, hemp blankets, Doors records and music
from “Hair,”- to recreate what their used to?
Perhaps a plaque that reads: Here
sits the hippie. She used to carry signs down
Pennsylvania Avenue and though flip-flops at
corrupt politicians and “The Man.”She lived for that
first rush of the crowd, the ground shaking cheer
that gave Nixon and congress headaches and her chills.
A play off McDaniel’s “Heavy Breather Zoo” (10):
Hippie Zoo
Whatever happened to the hippie?
capitalist consumerism- Orange County, yuppy greed,
apathy, glass fences, substance control laws-
has rendered her free spirit obsolete. Who
will listen to her cause now? She is the floppy disk
of rebels. She tried leading a protest march
through Whittier College campus,
but only four people joined in,
which was a damn near heart breaking blow.
Should we go to Venice Beach or Berkley-
gather up the last few still out there, smoking
joints and painting banners in the wild,
before they go extinct, place them
in a special zoo, in eco-friendly cage systems, complete
with 2nd or 3rd hand furnishings- glass pipes, rally
signs, hemp blankets, Doors records and music
from “Hair,”- to recreate what their used to?
Perhaps a plaque that reads: Here
sits the hippie. She used to carry signs down
Pennsylvania Avenue and though flip-flops at
corrupt politicians and “The Man.”She lived for that
first rush of the crowd, the ground shaking cheer
that gave Nixon and congress headaches and her chills.
I. I don’t know why [response to Sister]
“Your people are really dark blue”
I don’t know why I lied and said this to you.
When you were only three,
An eight year old me
convinced you, you were an alien baby
that had been left on earth by its real family
and my mother had found you
in a porta-potty and kept you
since you were two
years old.
Your real family was on
Neptune of course never caring you were gone,
It was very funny till you
Cried, and our mother sighed
And I got grounded.
I guess I was just bored.
“Your people are really dark blue”
I don’t know why I lied and said this to you.
When you were only three,
An eight year old me
convinced you, you were an alien baby
that had been left on earth by its real family
and my mother had found you
in a porta-potty and kept you
since you were two
years old.
Your real family was on
Neptune of course never caring you were gone,
It was very funny till you
Cried, and our mother sighed
And I got grounded.
I guess I was just bored.
Somewhere-Celina
This is my response to the Pick and Choose book "Endarkenment" by Jeffrey McDaniel, who I find to be an incredible poet. This style stood out from the rest of the poems in the book, as the lines were very short and there wasn't much fantastic description. However, it was still an extremely powerful poem. My poetry tends to be jam-packed with adjectives with long descriptive lines that ease into my point, so for this exercise I attempted to emulate the concise power that came across in "Guidebook to Nowhere." It was difficult for me to write a poem in plain-speak without many descriptors but I learned the power of more direct, simple language and I really enjoyed the outcome.
Guidebook to Nowhere
by Jeffrey McDaniel
I wear a patch
over my right eye.
Not because
it’s damaged.
I’m saving the eye
for a rainy day,
saving it from
all this crap.
One day I’ll
go to the desert,
and I’ll switch
the patch to my
left eye. And
I’ll only look
at cacti, and
butterflies, and
jackrabbits, but
never in the mirror
and never at
the sky, and like
this I’ll train
myself to see
the difference
between what’s real
and manmade.
Somewhere
I wore a patch
over my right eye
to waste the left
and seal the truth
for one of those
tongue-dead days
when no more
can be said
of this world.
I went to the desert
to be in the company
of still, living things
still living the way
I thought things
should. What I found
with my right eye
was blindness
just the same.
Guidebook to Nowhere
by Jeffrey McDaniel
I wear a patch
over my right eye.
Not because
it’s damaged.
I’m saving the eye
for a rainy day,
saving it from
all this crap.
One day I’ll
go to the desert,
and I’ll switch
the patch to my
left eye. And
I’ll only look
at cacti, and
butterflies, and
jackrabbits, but
never in the mirror
and never at
the sky, and like
this I’ll train
myself to see
the difference
between what’s real
and manmade.
Somewhere
I wore a patch
over my right eye
to waste the left
and seal the truth
for one of those
tongue-dead days
when no more
can be said
of this world.
I went to the desert
to be in the company
of still, living things
still living the way
I thought things
should. What I found
with my right eye
was blindness
just the same.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sea Dance-Celina
Sea Dance
The sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
A sympathetic cloak of ocean grew
They sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
Our toes were kin in spilling painter’s brew
The more the canvas spoke the more we sunk
The sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
The sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
A sympathetic cloak of ocean grew
They sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
Our toes were kin in spilling painter’s brew
The more the canvas spoke the more we sunk
The sky’s a salmon slice that seeps to blue
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
Currently Titleless-Celina
The sky's a salmon slice that seeps to blue
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
Our toes were kin in spilling painter's brew
And we are artists laughing bare-foot-drunk
Our toes were kin in spilling painter's brew
Green Goddess
I feel nothing,
Numbness.
Taking over my body.
Oxy flowing through my blood,
Touch is absent
A non-existent memory.
Comfort from the rain,
Acid raindrops
Hit my pale face;
You run for cover.
I face the rain,
Melting my skin away.
The blood runs down my nose,
I hint a metal taste and
Cough a white cloud of chemicals,
A wasted breath.
The black ash
Collects on hands,
Beneath the foil.
A picture of me,
One year ago,
I look good.
Picture now,
Shoe next to face,
Profile picture,
Any angle captures the destruction.
Dark circles,
Targets for my depression.
People stare and wonder.
I know the answer,
They probably can guess.
Never will I be the same,
Scared for time,
from time,
Forever.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Hit
I take a hit and hold it in
and reminisce on times we had.
Smoke and smoke I'm high again,
I take a hit and hold it in.
Inhale exhale, my high begins.
Give me love don't make me sad.
I take a hit and hold it in,
and reminisce on times we had.
and reminisce on times we had.
Smoke and smoke I'm high again,
I take a hit and hold it in.
Inhale exhale, my high begins.
Give me love don't make me sad.
I take a hit and hold it in,
and reminisce on times we had.
Comrades
My comrades think I've sold them out
to enemies we cannot see without
submitting to the laws and rules abound.
They think I do not hear them plotting,
dreaming of just ow to dispatch me: "Cling
to the walls of night, be silent with the wire.
He might suspect already, so
we must be quick about it." Tonight I blow
the candle out, I hope not for the last,
I have regret that we will not
see the sun rise in the east again
upon the river that does not bend.
to enemies we cannot see without
submitting to the laws and rules abound.
They think I do not hear them plotting,
dreaming of just ow to dispatch me: "Cling
to the walls of night, be silent with the wire.
He might suspect already, so
we must be quick about it." Tonight I blow
the candle out, I hope not for the last,
I have regret that we will not
see the sun rise in the east again
upon the river that does not bend.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Her Favorite Scrambled Eggs with Tomato and Feta Cheese
Why do I care, you
don't like it?
Breakfast is the worst.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Son of A Preacher-Man
The stars above do not absolve him, can't
pardon the life he's led up to this point.
He's wandered through without a sign or lamp
in hopes that some day He just might anoint
one of his awkward, stumbling flock with strength
to pass His great and troubled test. With will
used up and faith in question, "Go the length,"
down boomed a voice,"to Egypt. Spread goodwill
among your fellow man and be redeemed."
Alone and frightened sat our hero, dark
and shocking revelations shook the eaves
within his mind. His path beset, his bark,
a husk of hollow human form, decides
to not embark, but knows the judgment that betides.
pardon the life he's led up to this point.
He's wandered through without a sign or lamp
in hopes that some day He just might anoint
one of his awkward, stumbling flock with strength
to pass His great and troubled test. With will
used up and faith in question, "Go the length,"
down boomed a voice,"to Egypt. Spread goodwill
among your fellow man and be redeemed."
Alone and frightened sat our hero, dark
and shocking revelations shook the eaves
within his mind. His path beset, his bark,
a husk of hollow human form, decides
to not embark, but knows the judgment that betides.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Jazz (in the Upper West Side)
Back bent and begging spirit of
The ivory-classic band of teeth
His mouth spits grunts like cries of love
Urging his hands to spray the keys
The audience is jaw-stuck struck
On Cecil Taylor’s furious mist
Leftright leftright, a surgeon’s muck:
His fingers and their insides twist
Applause brakes eagerly, palms pressed
A plea to be patched up again
The savage tones disquiet, infest
As musical might makes mice of men
The walls produce a stern “ahem”
And try to find balance again
The ivory-classic band of teeth
His mouth spits grunts like cries of love
Urging his hands to spray the keys
The audience is jaw-stuck struck
On Cecil Taylor’s furious mist
Leftright leftright, a surgeon’s muck:
His fingers and their insides twist
Applause brakes eagerly, palms pressed
A plea to be patched up again
The savage tones disquiet, infest
As musical might makes mice of men
The walls produce a stern “ahem”
And try to find balance again
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
You Got a Hold on Me
The trees of green are all I see and hit.
So dark the smoke has made the room I sit
In circle with my love and long time friend
oh Spence your hair was crazy even then.
When lit you laugh and I drift in as well
So strong I feel the presence of your smell.
No fight she gives, a slut to those who roll,
Ignite with flame the greeness in the bowl.
She looks at me and gives a chipped tooth smile,
I sit and contemplate our love a while.
A sparkle off the imperfection shines,
to catch by glimpse and hold it fast in mind.
So when I hear your name a loud I smile,
your loves my first and has been for awhile.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
sonnet
She nuzzled into my bare chest upset
That I could do nothing but stand and watch.
She knew me to be strong, which I regret
For I could not feel guilt, not by a notch.
This made me weak within her judging eyes
And I could not hide from the focused glow.
Why try? She could always see through my guise-
In which I once found vast comfort, then slow,
Sudden pain seared, hatred forging through.
I longed to push her hugging arms from me
But I abstained, my stand for her held true.
I then knew from her I would not be free.
To flee the only one who understands what I am
Is what I want, to be nothing but a sham.
That I could do nothing but stand and watch.
She knew me to be strong, which I regret
For I could not feel guilt, not by a notch.
This made me weak within her judging eyes
And I could not hide from the focused glow.
Why try? She could always see through my guise-
In which I once found vast comfort, then slow,
Sudden pain seared, hatred forging through.
I longed to push her hugging arms from me
But I abstained, my stand for her held true.
I then knew from her I would not be free.
To flee the only one who understands what I am
Is what I want, to be nothing but a sham.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Adolescent Siren Song
If Britney Spears lays one more track
I think I’ll have a heart attack.
If she goes out and shaves her head
the men will flee her silky bed.
She may not have been innocent
but at sixteen seemed heaven sent
She wiggled thrusted; soft core porn,
in that infamous uniform.
Oh how we see the mighty fall
she’d filled the Royal Albert Hall
her work with Disney just a waste
with Miley Cyrus she’s replaced.
If you’re one of her die-hard fans
then just ignore this silly pan,
forgive me in my little joke
at least she wasn’t caught with coke. . .
I think I’ll have a heart attack.
If she goes out and shaves her head
the men will flee her silky bed.
She may not have been innocent
but at sixteen seemed heaven sent
She wiggled thrusted; soft core porn,
in that infamous uniform.
Oh how we see the mighty fall
she’d filled the Royal Albert Hall
her work with Disney just a waste
with Miley Cyrus she’s replaced.
If you’re one of her die-hard fans
then just ignore this silly pan,
forgive me in my little joke
at least she wasn’t caught with coke. . .
You’re long and thin and golden through,
And bend as breeze may push you so.
A collage of stalks upright they stand,
The sun reflects a calming glow.
Your tips and tops will flower up,
So small they bloom form tips of wires.
An ocean of cattails waving high,
The water looked like a million fires.
You’re insignificant alone,
But with abundance and your flower.
Ground into stone until powder,
Your form becomes a different flour.
You’re helpful in the kitchen now,
To make a loaf, add water, make dough.
Till golden brown on cusp of bread
You’ll bake until I tell you so.
Why we broke you down one sunny day,
Will lie in mind for years to come.
Had we not and left you alone,
You’d drown me in your plain boredom.
You’re more then fires upon the tails,
Of cats running through your rolling hills.
How gold and bold you sold your self,
to be taken away to mills.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sunny
Black on white and ink in skin
To burst upon the elbow.
Your face exists in photographs,
Your name upon my elbow.
Skittles and oreos, now on the floor
Brown stain still sits in rug.
You never yelled or raised your voice,
I threw up, I got a hug?
You’re not gone, you’re not dead,
But time is running out.
I want to stop your aging years,
“Don’t die,” I want to shout.
The sting, the numbness, I endured,
To make you permanent.
A hundred dollars is much to little,
For what the ink really meant.
Mom and Dad, did not approve,
Your brother especially.
They felt I left them off my frame,
The heart is where they’ll be.
To touch and burn the human flesh,
Is a sacrifice to me.
To show my respect and dying love,
So that you will see.
You’ve shaped and guided my short life,
From birth to this very day.
Murphy died I didn’t know,
How she use to play.
Don’t change, don’t stop, I miss you babe,
Your love I want to take.
If you let up, or ever stop;
The ink is a mistake.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Brennan, The Zamboni Driver
She smiled and pulled the trigger back,
a slam of sound did ring.
"Look what you've made me go and do.
Now take back your god damned ring."
Two bodies lay in the room with him
and hour before he rose
with cold hands that dripped with mistress blood
and stained sheets around his toes.
no sirens came to comfort him,
no lights or suits of blue.
He wished to God that there was time
to make this scene untrue.
He picked the magnum .45
up from the grisly floor.
He put it into his mouth and then
he shuddered to his core.
He had not resolve to join them both, but
his scarred face shows his regret;
His still pink wounds and patch of flesh
will not let him forget.
With ruined, shambled life and cast,
he left town without a word
and now he rides the great Zamboni,
but of this I'm sure you've heard.
He came to this town in hopes that he
could live without explaining
just what had brought him to live among us
or tell of all his failings.
Now watch yourself, don't let him know
of all the things I've told.
It's quite a shame what's happened to him
in his life so bleak and bold.
a slam of sound did ring.
"Look what you've made me go and do.
Now take back your god damned ring."
Two bodies lay in the room with him
and hour before he rose
with cold hands that dripped with mistress blood
and stained sheets around his toes.
no sirens came to comfort him,
no lights or suits of blue.
He wished to God that there was time
to make this scene untrue.
He picked the magnum .45
up from the grisly floor.
He put it into his mouth and then
he shuddered to his core.
He had not resolve to join them both, but
his scarred face shows his regret;
His still pink wounds and patch of flesh
will not let him forget.
With ruined, shambled life and cast,
he left town without a word
and now he rides the great Zamboni,
but of this I'm sure you've heard.
He came to this town in hopes that he
could live without explaining
just what had brought him to live among us
or tell of all his failings.
Now watch yourself, don't let him know
of all the things I've told.
It's quite a shame what's happened to him
in his life so bleak and bold.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Critical Response #2-Christina
Christina Ledesma
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response #2
March 5, 2009
Critical Response to Salta by Whitney Moore
I enjoyed the pantoum “Salta” by Whitney Moore. The images throughout her poem helped paint a picture of a beautiful landscape in Argentina. Personally, I have never been to Argentina but after reading “Salta” I was able to visualize the images in her poem through her descriptive writing. The language in her poem is very beautiful, some of the lines that stood out to me were “Green-dusted, meandering hills / Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns” and “Fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile”. The poem was written in pantoum style which helps gives it a nice rhythm. Each stanza is packed with great images so the repetition in the poem gives the reader a new visual by rearranging the lines in each stanza. I think Whitney did a good job picking and choosing the order of lines in her poem. The poem flows together beautifully and each stanza has a good transition into the next stanza. However, I do think Whitney’s poem could be better if she only focused on the strongest lines in her poem. I think if she eliminated the weakest lines and just used the strongest lines she would have a more effective poem. The poem would be stronger all around and it would help create a better visual for her reader.
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response #2
March 5, 2009
Critical Response to Salta by Whitney Moore
I enjoyed the pantoum “Salta” by Whitney Moore. The images throughout her poem helped paint a picture of a beautiful landscape in Argentina. Personally, I have never been to Argentina but after reading “Salta” I was able to visualize the images in her poem through her descriptive writing. The language in her poem is very beautiful, some of the lines that stood out to me were “Green-dusted, meandering hills / Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns” and “Fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile”. The poem was written in pantoum style which helps gives it a nice rhythm. Each stanza is packed with great images so the repetition in the poem gives the reader a new visual by rearranging the lines in each stanza. I think Whitney did a good job picking and choosing the order of lines in her poem. The poem flows together beautifully and each stanza has a good transition into the next stanza. However, I do think Whitney’s poem could be better if she only focused on the strongest lines in her poem. I think if she eliminated the weakest lines and just used the strongest lines she would have a more effective poem. The poem would be stronger all around and it would help create a better visual for her reader.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Mere Anarchy is Loosed Upon the World
The falcon never heard his call,
it never wanted to.
It danced and it turned and it laughed
as man below withdrew.
One man in the pouring rain stood.
The falconer fell quiet,
as if struck on the hand by God.
The bird winged to a riot.
In the sky in their aeries high
the falcons spun and twirled.
At the highest point in their dance
they forgot man and his world.
But man made a point to show himself
when joy began to peak.
The avian armada flew
And left behind the weak.
Now scores of the sickest and sad
falcons are slaves once more.
Their brethren left them all behind,
they cried and looked for doors.
The falcon never heard his call,
It never had a chance.
It howled and it screeched and it shook
as man below advanced.
Of the free birds that kept their wings
if any still felt bold,
they would not show it in their eyes
with brothers in the cold.
All the free peoples of the earth--
the birds and beasts and bugs--
have lost their place, their space erased
by portly pink-fleshed thugs.
it never wanted to.
It danced and it turned and it laughed
as man below withdrew.
One man in the pouring rain stood.
The falconer fell quiet,
as if struck on the hand by God.
The bird winged to a riot.
In the sky in their aeries high
the falcons spun and twirled.
At the highest point in their dance
they forgot man and his world.
But man made a point to show himself
when joy began to peak.
The avian armada flew
And left behind the weak.
Now scores of the sickest and sad
falcons are slaves once more.
Their brethren left them all behind,
they cried and looked for doors.
The falcon never heard his call,
It never had a chance.
It howled and it screeched and it shook
as man below advanced.
Of the free birds that kept their wings
if any still felt bold,
they would not show it in their eyes
with brothers in the cold.
All the free peoples of the earth--
the birds and beasts and bugs--
have lost their place, their space erased
by portly pink-fleshed thugs.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Valentine’s day to do list:
Number 1: Embody, recreate and reminisce on any love moment together.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
Letter
Dear Tony,
I read your book, Sad Jazz: Sonnets. After reading this, I found that this book is my favorite collection of contemporary poetry. I appreciated that is was a conceptual book rather than the ordinary book of poetry where the poems don’t necessarily relate to each other, although their may be a theme. The few sessions I sat down to read the book came with great ease as the poems flowed from one to the next, giving me an image of who the protagonist and the antagonist (I guess I use these terms because I sympathize with the protagonist) are. No poem seemed out of place or thrown in carelessly. It was obviously well-thought out structurally,with the way in which is was divided into sections. And on a side not, I initially became interested in this book of poems because of the cover; it reminds me of a Matisse artwork.
Specific emotions were re-invented through the book, here are a few: Love, fear, self-esteem (or the lack of it), anger, rage, sadness, yearning, sexual, lust, impassion. I could almost feel all the intense emotions myself while I read the concentrated imagery and tonal rhythms from this book of poems. For example in Spider Women, you write …”and she goes down and can’t boot up, just lies/ in bed in her pajamas, staring up / at cobwebs in the corner, and can’t stop / her brain from spinning, spinning, spinning like / a spider given acid, a mad web.” I can see this image exactly as it is described, however, this is not just an image, this is an image through the eyes of someone who loves the person going through this deep depression/insanity. That, simply, makes the heart swell.
A few other poems that really jumped out at me, where I had to read it a few more times, and even out loud were: Insect Wings, Zombies, Things in the Mirror (The section, “Things in the Mirror” seemed to be my favorite), Screw The Beatles, Bad Drivers, The Ghost Limb, Barbeque, Heart Sushi (this title is my favorite!), Nathan Tells him (What Nathan says reminds me something my mom would tell me). I can honestly say, and this is a big deal for me because I can be very critical, I had no qualms with Sad Jazz: Sonnets. It was heart wrenching, hilarious, thoughtful, and built from experience.
Thank you for sharing!
Dorothy Tunnell
I read your book, Sad Jazz: Sonnets. After reading this, I found that this book is my favorite collection of contemporary poetry. I appreciated that is was a conceptual book rather than the ordinary book of poetry where the poems don’t necessarily relate to each other, although their may be a theme. The few sessions I sat down to read the book came with great ease as the poems flowed from one to the next, giving me an image of who the protagonist and the antagonist (I guess I use these terms because I sympathize with the protagonist) are. No poem seemed out of place or thrown in carelessly. It was obviously well-thought out structurally,with the way in which is was divided into sections. And on a side not, I initially became interested in this book of poems because of the cover; it reminds me of a Matisse artwork.
Specific emotions were re-invented through the book, here are a few: Love, fear, self-esteem (or the lack of it), anger, rage, sadness, yearning, sexual, lust, impassion. I could almost feel all the intense emotions myself while I read the concentrated imagery and tonal rhythms from this book of poems. For example in Spider Women, you write …”and she goes down and can’t boot up, just lies/ in bed in her pajamas, staring up / at cobwebs in the corner, and can’t stop / her brain from spinning, spinning, spinning like / a spider given acid, a mad web.” I can see this image exactly as it is described, however, this is not just an image, this is an image through the eyes of someone who loves the person going through this deep depression/insanity. That, simply, makes the heart swell.
A few other poems that really jumped out at me, where I had to read it a few more times, and even out loud were: Insect Wings, Zombies, Things in the Mirror (The section, “Things in the Mirror” seemed to be my favorite), Screw The Beatles, Bad Drivers, The Ghost Limb, Barbeque, Heart Sushi (this title is my favorite!), Nathan Tells him (What Nathan says reminds me something my mom would tell me). I can honestly say, and this is a big deal for me because I can be very critical, I had no qualms with Sad Jazz: Sonnets. It was heart wrenching, hilarious, thoughtful, and built from experience.
Thank you for sharing!
Dorothy Tunnell
Her Wild Demure
She clings to bold voice slips,
Unfolding like oragami
Of crisp and bare sheets, vul-
nerable listeners stormy.
Unfolding like oragami
Of crisp and bare sheets, vul-
nerable listeners stormy.
A Bus in Madurai
Dented metal, chipped paint,
Overflowing people
Crowd in
inflation.
Bodies of life and chrome tip and dip
forty five degrees
towards the stacking, forgotten
shops and shop keepers
slows and goes
off and off
on and on
always.
Overflowing people
Crowd in
inflation.
Bodies of life and chrome tip and dip
forty five degrees
towards the stacking, forgotten
shops and shop keepers
slows and goes
off and off
on and on
always.
Happy Beggers
Children go to homes
for a tumbler full of rice
on Navaratiri
Navaritiri - is a festival in autumn that lasts nine nights. It literally means "nine nights." It celebrates multiple goddess': Durga, Sarasvuti, Lakshmi. Puja (prayer ritual) is done every morning when the sun rises where the goddess' names are repeated 100 times.
for a tumbler full of rice
on Navaratiri
Navaritiri - is a festival in autumn that lasts nine nights. It literally means "nine nights." It celebrates multiple goddess': Durga, Sarasvuti, Lakshmi. Puja (prayer ritual) is done every morning when the sun rises where the goddess' names are repeated 100 times.
And So He Fell to Earth and This is What He Saw - Dorothy Tunnell
He jumped from the sky, upon the earth's
demise he stole an orange to suck the
peels of whole life unearthing sickening.
He's pleased finding green monsters that cling,
unmeshing between rocky and dirty meadows.
But lost to upright bodies meandering
in distant oblivious minds. He fears
For their mistaken luminosity.
demise he stole an orange to suck the
peels of whole life unearthing sickening.
He's pleased finding green monsters that cling,
unmeshing between rocky and dirty meadows.
But lost to upright bodies meandering
in distant oblivious minds. He fears
For their mistaken luminosity.
Modified Pantoum
Amma and Appa
Every day she wakes when the moon
Falls into the slit of rising sensations.
The bell rings in the puja room for Vishnu
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
She wears an unstarched, purple cotton sari
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And begins her daily “works” in the kitchen
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Her sweet gestures swim into an unbearable aroma
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And every day, he picks crimson hibiscus and offers them to the gods
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Every day she wakes when the moon
Falls into the slit of rising sensations.
The bell rings in the puja room for Vishnu
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
She wears an unstarched, purple cotton sari
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And begins her daily “works” in the kitchen
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Her sweet gestures swim into an unbearable aroma
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And every day, he picks crimson hibiscus and offers them to the gods
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
They Drank the Midnight Oil
He stopped just short of total commitment.
She stunk like wine and Marlboros and love.
They drank the midnight oil; it burnt their guts.
Bent on a sweet if foolish plot, to live
as animals. She felt down; beat by youth.
He often heard how old he looked and felt.
Running with Gazelle, breaking free from age,
They bounded over mossy rocks and time.
He became fast and young at once. She felt
her hair fade quick. She felt too tired to run
or leap. A stag began to run and leap
in the wallpaper plastering her mind.
He took no notice, flying fast by her;
His feet were hooves; they trimmed the grass he flew
over. Her feet were mossy boulders; stuck
In time or realizations, coldly watching
his flight from age which plagued his life before;
an afterthought, now burnt her thoroughly.
She aged without a sound, fell quiet like
a tree. Her roots became a shriveled cage.
He bounded like a river, cutting rocks
and beating time. A life refreshed with youth
She stunk like wine and Marlboros and love.
They drank the midnight oil; it burnt their guts.
Bent on a sweet if foolish plot, to live
as animals. She felt down; beat by youth.
He often heard how old he looked and felt.
Running with Gazelle, breaking free from age,
They bounded over mossy rocks and time.
He became fast and young at once. She felt
her hair fade quick. She felt too tired to run
or leap. A stag began to run and leap
in the wallpaper plastering her mind.
He took no notice, flying fast by her;
His feet were hooves; they trimmed the grass he flew
over. Her feet were mossy boulders; stuck
In time or realizations, coldly watching
his flight from age which plagued his life before;
an afterthought, now burnt her thoroughly.
She aged without a sound, fell quiet like
a tree. Her roots became a shriveled cage.
He bounded like a river, cutting rocks
and beating time. A life refreshed with youth
San Francisco
Blanketed in a still grey fog,
rolling hills of ghosts,
Wrap around orange towers,
the great Golden Gate.
Rolling hills of ghosts,
Pass through our bodies.
The great Golden Gate,
Steals tourists' attention.
Pass through our bodies,
Never ending fog also,
Steals tourists attention,
coldness creeping on.
Never ending fog,
Let up your wrath.
Coldness creeping on,
The lights come out now.
Let up your wrath,
lay your blanket low.
The light come out now,
Building tops poke the sky.
Lay your blanket low,
So clouds may rest on water.
Building tops poker the sky,
Nighttime remedies.
Sweetheart
I pull my knees in close to my body
Remembering how you once use to feel.
Smell of vanilla coke, burning my nose,
You were here last night I want to believe.
The white sheets pulled tightly around the bed.
A piece of your hair lies on the corner,
Obsessed, gently I put it to my lips,
I suck it till I taste your spearmint smile.
Then the familiar feel, of a cold glass
Bottle, washing you down into the past.
You always pinched my ass before we ate
Breakfast down stairs with toast and black coffee.
I take my coffee like my women, straight!
You loved that joke your nose would crinkle up,
That one time OJ came running out too.
Falling on the floor, kitty licked it up.
Tiger Lilly, grey fur all so shaggy,
Your freckles danced and blurred across your face.
My hands longing to love your waist again,
Or feel your sweetened Splenda coated tongue.
I suck on sugar packets to remember,
The days we spent sun bathing in the front
Yard, naked, the neighbors left us alone.
Those scandalous summer Sundays, no God.
A piece of your hair tastes a great story,
I'll forget by the end of the night.
The List
His walls were lined with gifts from patients that
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.
I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.
I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Roots
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
The youth in her eyes fell low and sunk into her skull
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Same olive smooth skin
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Same olive smooth skin
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
She tightly wrapped her wings around my youth
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
The youth in her eyes fell low and sunk into her skull
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Same olive smooth skin
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Same olive smooth skin
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
She tightly wrapped her wings around my youth
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Nightmare
Black silk sheets lay over my memory
Diamond dust sprinkled over my young dreams
Loose vivid images hidden as a fable
Evil seeps through the cracks of my wooden floors
A cold presence stretches hair on my skin
A glowing light sketches a male figure
His molded musk climbs into my nostrils
Vile from my core peels the paint off the walls
I lie there chained to my white pillow
Sinking deeper into my sailing dream
Diamond dust sprinkled over my young dreams
Loose vivid images hidden as a fable
Evil seeps through the cracks of my wooden floors
A cold presence stretches hair on my skin
A glowing light sketches a male figure
His molded musk climbs into my nostrils
Vile from my core peels the paint off the walls
I lie there chained to my white pillow
Sinking deeper into my sailing dream
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
CLASS RENGA!
Class renga! Dorothy has posted the haiku below to start us off, and then each class member must add one stanza to the poem. Look at T&W Handbook (159), but remember I want you to count your syllables: 5/7/5 for the haiku, and 7/7 syllables for the linking poem. Remember to alternate 3-line poems with 2-line poems. This is a collaborative exercise, so try to get into the mood of it. If it’s a funny poem, be funny; if it’s serious, be serious.
Each student should copy the whole poem into his or her comment and then add his or her own stanza, so that the whole poem keeps growing.
family of five
saddle the motored horse ass
towards destiny
Each student should copy the whole poem into his or her comment and then add his or her own stanza, so that the whole poem keeps growing.
family of five
saddle the motored horse ass
towards destiny
The Golem and the Blacksmith
A blacksmith banged on wood chips at a rock forge.
As he tempered hardened oak like steel
the bellows blew. Hot wood was dancing red
in his coal black eyes beneath knotted brows.
From deep in flame a shape began to show.
The blacksmith drew a Golem from the forge.
He told the creature “live!” And gave it breath.
The Golem started stirring; slow at first.
Its eyes then cracked and creaked and oak lids split.
The blacksmith laughed at what he’d made appear,
“Golem,” he said “you’ll jump if I shout jump.”
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared.
Not one to stand for wooden eyes or minds,
the blacksmith set the Golem fast to work.
He sought for answer’s veiled from mortal men;
as Faustus had from Mephistopheles.
The blacksmith marveled over what he knew,
His wisdom like an oak it grew and grew.
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared
He knew the Smith and watched his hubris grow.
As he tempered hardened oak like steel
the bellows blew. Hot wood was dancing red
in his coal black eyes beneath knotted brows.
From deep in flame a shape began to show.
The blacksmith drew a Golem from the forge.
He told the creature “live!” And gave it breath.
The Golem started stirring; slow at first.
Its eyes then cracked and creaked and oak lids split.
The blacksmith laughed at what he’d made appear,
“Golem,” he said “you’ll jump if I shout jump.”
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared.
Not one to stand for wooden eyes or minds,
the blacksmith set the Golem fast to work.
He sought for answer’s veiled from mortal men;
as Faustus had from Mephistopheles.
The blacksmith marveled over what he knew,
His wisdom like an oak it grew and grew.
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared
He knew the Smith and watched his hubris grow.
Critical Response to "Come One Come All" by Alex-Celina
Alex, this is a very beautiful and intriguing poem. The language gives it the jumbled feel of a circus, yet meanwhile there’s a darkness looming over it. Very beautiful. As for some more technical things, the line “The men and women of the show did so much else than perform feats and tricks” could be worked on a little bit. It seems as though the line is more for moving along the story, than for lyrical aesthetics, however, it should contain both because I noticed it seeing as it is a major turning point in the poem. I realize this is hard considering the meter, but if you wanted to keep it a simple line, make the idea of revealing something about the performers even more simple and blunt, creating a haunting effect. I do however like the “feats and tricks”; I suggest you keep that in there.
I like how you take a subject so magical and fantastic and hit it with splashes of reality like the line “they would play the songs of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah” and “Hidden from paying eyes, the people under the grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.” You play with an interesting idea by describing such a mystical place and bringing concrete and almost humorous light to the scene. The end lines “and whisper tunes in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds of mandolins and banjos under the deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight” are magical and haunting, tying in all the different tones of the poem.
I like how you take a subject so magical and fantastic and hit it with splashes of reality like the line “they would play the songs of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah” and “Hidden from paying eyes, the people under the grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.” You play with an interesting idea by describing such a mystical place and bringing concrete and almost humorous light to the scene. The end lines “and whisper tunes in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds of mandolins and banjos under the deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight” are magical and haunting, tying in all the different tones of the poem.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Come One, Come All
The Circus; such a dirty phrase that does
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
After-Thought (Ghost Life)
I’ve decided it’s my armpits
I miss most.
Or maybe that left ankle
that clicked incessantly.
The best of me
is toast.
I miss most.
Or maybe that left ankle
that clicked incessantly.
The best of me
is toast.
Fried Plaintains-Celina
She knew that love had found her, shivering scared,
because clandestinely it seized her veins.
Like prodded clams, her heart’s brute clench holds tight.
Their sacred shields only held for so long,
Then gradually their case sighed broad and calm
Accepting bitter-sweet and watery fill.
She’s saturated with the stuff of jewels
Opened her waxy hill and trench of palm
To universe and particle alike.
Driven and fierce, her pearl sought out his ear.
The night he peeled and chopped and scattered bits
Popping and bubbly grease held his response;
From cast-iron, fried plantains were cooled and smiling.
They filled her nostrils with sweet-steam offerings
Presented like a delicate newborn.
because clandestinely it seized her veins.
Like prodded clams, her heart’s brute clench holds tight.
Their sacred shields only held for so long,
Then gradually their case sighed broad and calm
Accepting bitter-sweet and watery fill.
She’s saturated with the stuff of jewels
Opened her waxy hill and trench of palm
To universe and particle alike.
Driven and fierce, her pearl sought out his ear.
The night he peeled and chopped and scattered bits
Popping and bubbly grease held his response;
From cast-iron, fried plantains were cooled and smiling.
They filled her nostrils with sweet-steam offerings
Presented like a delicate newborn.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Blank Verse
Recognition
As I emerge from bracken walls
My long shadow is comforting
It warms the pale, damp, dying light.
A dark piece leads me down the path,
Tempting me to follow slowly.
Eventually it hides behind,
Racing between dark silhouettes,
Fleeing from the open abyss-
Fleeing superfluous freedom.
I pull my thin coat round my self,
Covering my ashen shoulders.
Something sinister closing in...
Moving effortlessly towards...
Following too quickly behind,
Biting, clamoring at my heels,
It has found me and it wants me.
In the open with no control,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go
In this bleak, faintly breathing world,
My shadow finds me. It claims me.
As I emerge from bracken walls
My long shadow is comforting
It warms the pale, damp, dying light.
A dark piece leads me down the path,
Tempting me to follow slowly.
Eventually it hides behind,
Racing between dark silhouettes,
Fleeing from the open abyss-
Fleeing superfluous freedom.
I pull my thin coat round my self,
Covering my ashen shoulders.
Something sinister closing in...
Moving effortlessly towards...
Following too quickly behind,
Biting, clamoring at my heels,
It has found me and it wants me.
In the open with no control,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go
In this bleak, faintly breathing world,
My shadow finds me. It claims me.
Pantoum
She stalks and prowls deep
In the heart of the forest
A vile, seducing power
Leaking out her golden bulbs
In the heart of the forest
She treads lightly, her evil
Leaking out her golden bulbs
Calling our attention
She treads lightly, her evil-
Nothing but gorgeous nature
Calling our attention,
And she's licking her lips in response
Nothing but gorgeous nature
In the throbbing heart of the forest
And she's licking her lips in response
A vile, seducing power
In the heart of the forest
A vile, seducing power
Leaking out her golden bulbs
In the heart of the forest
She treads lightly, her evil
Leaking out her golden bulbs
Calling our attention
She treads lightly, her evil-
Nothing but gorgeous nature
Calling our attention,
And she's licking her lips in response
Nothing but gorgeous nature
In the throbbing heart of the forest
And she's licking her lips in response
A vile, seducing power
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Critical Response #1
Christina Ledesma
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response
February 19, 2009
Critical Response to Casualties by Alex Johnson
I really enjoyed the poem “Casualties” by Alex Johnson; he had great descriptive images throughout his poem. My favorite lines are the first two lines “A perfect ripple of flesh in the night that shakes off insecurity / Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.” These two lines paint a vision of two lovers together in the night. His word choice is very sensual and in the second line I can vision the characteristics of a woman. I think Alex did a good job following the structure of a Ghazal poem. He repeats the word perfect in the first line of every stanza and also includes his name in the last line of the poem. Some of the lines I think Alex should work on would be line 6, 8, and 10. I think he could describe these lines in a better way where his reader can actually visualize what he is trying to say. I also think he should choose another verb to describe the “immaculate coat” in stanza three. Overall, I think Alex’s poem is very sensual and sexual and appeals to his reader through his descriptive language. I also like how he plays with word “victimitude” in the last stanza, which is not a word but becomes a word in his poem. Like many other poets Alex is creating a word that compliments his poem and appeals to his reader.
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response
February 19, 2009
Critical Response to Casualties by Alex Johnson
I really enjoyed the poem “Casualties” by Alex Johnson; he had great descriptive images throughout his poem. My favorite lines are the first two lines “A perfect ripple of flesh in the night that shakes off insecurity / Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.” These two lines paint a vision of two lovers together in the night. His word choice is very sensual and in the second line I can vision the characteristics of a woman. I think Alex did a good job following the structure of a Ghazal poem. He repeats the word perfect in the first line of every stanza and also includes his name in the last line of the poem. Some of the lines I think Alex should work on would be line 6, 8, and 10. I think he could describe these lines in a better way where his reader can actually visualize what he is trying to say. I also think he should choose another verb to describe the “immaculate coat” in stanza three. Overall, I think Alex’s poem is very sensual and sexual and appeals to his reader through his descriptive language. I also like how he plays with word “victimitude” in the last stanza, which is not a word but becomes a word in his poem. Like many other poets Alex is creating a word that compliments his poem and appeals to his reader.
Ned Ludd-Celina
“Enough!” Ludd’s act organically
stewed engineers in shame.
Humanity mechanically
gasped with the stocking frame.
stewed engineers in shame.
Humanity mechanically
gasped with the stocking frame.
Amnesiac Phrenology
Kinetic energy and molten sensations,
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull –
Its boiling rock is diverging and converging and
Black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull
Send aftershocks that shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes.
The black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics
As pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts.
Aftershocks shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes,
Creating ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent while
Pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts
And rememberances of old scents and honeyed colors.
Ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent
Surround rigid pools of dewed memory
And rememberances of old scents, of old honeyed colors
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes.
Rigid pools of dewed memory –
Of laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes –
Bubble and evaporate, soon becoming soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
Heavy with laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Clouds darken and release memory on the surface;
It evaporates on contact and returns to the sky, soon
The whole skull will be covered in soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
The clouds darken and release memory on the surface,
Where boiling rock is converging and diverging.
Soon the whole skull will be covered in cumulonimbus reminiscence
Maintained by kinetic energy and molten sensations.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull –
Its boiling rock is diverging and converging and
Black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull
Send aftershocks that shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes.
The black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics
As pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts.
Aftershocks shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes,
Creating ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent while
Pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts
And rememberances of old scents and honeyed colors.
Ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent
Surround rigid pools of dewed memory
And rememberances of old scents, of old honeyed colors
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes.
Rigid pools of dewed memory –
Of laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes –
Bubble and evaporate, soon becoming soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
Heavy with laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Clouds darken and release memory on the surface;
It evaporates on contact and returns to the sky, soon
The whole skull will be covered in soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
The clouds darken and release memory on the surface,
Where boiling rock is converging and diverging.
Soon the whole skull will be covered in cumulonimbus reminiscence
Maintained by kinetic energy and molten sensations.
Sour Grapes
Rimbaud, a country child not fit
for vineyards, rolling hills.
But city life bore no fruit and
destroyed his strength of will.
News-Celina
They danced and shot off fireworks
Feasted in their homes
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
Feasted in their homes
Led away, wrists bound by wires
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
Led away, wrists bound by wires
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
A boy who had a lovely smile
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
Millions of trees harvested
A boy who had a lovely smile
Large manufacturers rely on them
Millions of trees harvested
The two countries are still interwined
Large manufacturers rely on them
Bridge a chasm in perception
The two countries are still interwined
Your fingers curl over just where they should
Bridge a chasm in perception
The billions of dollars that will flow
Your fingers curl over just where they should
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
The billions of dollars that will flow
They danced and shot off fireworks
Feasted in their homes
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
Feasted in their homes
Led away, wrists bound by wires
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
Led away, wrists bound by wires
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
A boy who had a lovely smile
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
Millions of trees harvested
A boy who had a lovely smile
Large manufacturers rely on them
Millions of trees harvested
The two countries are still interwined
Large manufacturers rely on them
Bridge a chasm in perception
The two countries are still interwined
Your fingers curl over just where they should
Bridge a chasm in perception
The billions of dollars that will flow
Your fingers curl over just where they should
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
The billions of dollars that will flow
They danced and shot off fireworks
Where I'm Writing From; For Raymond Carver
These days your name is a
phrase that tears on my ears,
and writing is like catching my foot on a nail
or stepping in broken glass someone left behind.
A phrase that tears on my ears, that
echoes, pierces the fabric of memory,
like stepping in broken glass that someone left behind;
it reminds me of objections left unvoiced.
Pierce the fabric of memory and
scream yourself to sleep without sound, without echoes.
Spring reminds me of objections left unvoiced;
of reluctant copulations and uncomfortable sweat.
Scream yourself to sleep without sound
while frontier battles rage in your breast.
Remembering the reluctant copulations and uncomfortable sweat,
my tongue trembles on the seal of the envelope I don’t know that I’ll send.
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