memorial for a brilliant woman

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

NAPOMO page over on google +

I'm trying.

Between my connection being cranky tonight my unfamiliarity with the plus,
there will be a delay.

Not a DeMolay (wasn't that like the Mason's for young men, like the rainbow girls was the junior Eastern Star?

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?)

try here: shann's still talking

Thursday, March 21, 2013

poem again, who knew?

Lost Vegas

Mamma has a berth, a slot,
whatever at Bunker’s
memorial midtown.

The webpage says
it’s convenient but
only archives thru 2002.

I was there once
twenty-five years ago,
daddy went with us, now

he’s there, too. I was
so afraid of his power
over me I wasted time

I could’ve spent asking
questions like- when
did you go thru the change?

then I remember in 1965
she had a hysterectomy, together
we watched a brand new soap

on TV, The Days of Our Lives,
all that sand going through
the hourglass, all that sand.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

must be getting geared up for NAPOMO

The Tawdry Affair

I was undone by you
grommets loosed,
gussets stretched,
petticoats tossed

on the chaise lounge
our lone set-piece
draped in drama
where salacious was
too easily replaced

by lugubrious dark,
heavy as a dental drape
to prevent loss of fertility.
your impression, left when
I was undone by you.

a poem for wednesday morning 3am

to be silent

can lead to misunderstandings,
the sky may not have been right
air quality less than desired
humidity off doing its curly work.
in a dark coffee shop somewhere

did you know the actor in the commercial?
I did, but didn’t speak up and now
you’ll never know I was important
before I became a window washer
climbing buildings, squeegee bound.

Why wash glass walls on rainy days?
There are others things we should attend to
one mustn’t be limited by tiny minds,
large panes, pulleys and the inevitability
science brings: what goes up can disappear

I lost two friends today, one to a feral god,
the other to a long line of shot glasses.
One left music, one filled the room with anger,
though both are as lost as keys, gloves.
Next time, speak up- don’t die alone.

Friday, March 01, 2013

I heard it on NPR

Most likely

Though we know little enough about him,
Garrison Keillor said Christopher Marlowe
was most likely gay and an atheist,
yet a brilliant poet and dramatist.

In his lifetime an elite few were educated,
most spiritually curious holy men and oracles
possessed of sufficient cleverness to thrive
within the church or off the gold of betters.

To be a man in Marlowe’s time most likely
involved the perks a penis often brings,
the luxury of having others care for him
certainly far more than he did for himself.

The world turns, humankind begets
a fleshy herd of celebrity provocateurs,
rapaciously sexual, outwardly religious,
inwardly as blank as empty clay jars.

They are not brilliant, nor poets, most likely
their legacy will not survive, built on smoke
and what the mirror reflects. Weak flesh

earns its sad reward, it has no substance.

Even the learned die in bar fights or the plague.
And where is God in Marlowes work? In the dust
of groundlings feet, or the muddy Thames, a whisper
on a darkened stage bidding "Remember me".

The art of hating isn't hard to master...

I read some poems by a well-known poet with who I am personally acquainted.

They are probably well crafted, the kind of poems where the audience goes mmMMMMmmmm and nods after each is read aloud. BUT they are boring as plain oatmeal, poem after poem. I didn't even bother to scroll the page after a few, just read what I could see and clicked "next". I'm astounded at how weak they are- and if I said who it was some of you would revile me (and some would write me off their lists).

I recall getting angry a few years ago when a slam friend got on me for writing white-lady/mayonnaise poems, that I needed to get dirty and talk about it- he was wrong and he was right- (he also hadn't heard but a handful of my poems). I was angry. He had issues so it didn't change my writing much, but I did notice things I tried to do better, like NOT be boring.

But these poems are clearly written in a room with a closed door, Google at the ready to get those wordsobscura next to the ancientwhocareswhere places.

It's the kind of poetry that makes non-poets hate poetry.