You like the haiku??

You like the emu??

Spread some hot emu luv!

thanks, Reb

Time for some reading, some poem gathering, some submitting (got that VA Commisision for the Arts grant deadline coming up), and house cleaning (notice what's last).

Son gone to Ocrakoke with girlfriend and family, daughter moved out (mostly) and me with a new CD from Souvenir's Young America. They played at art 6 last night and were really great- (along with a guy in a tent playing guitar and Erin Tobey).

Cool stuff- I liked it all but particularly SYA- reminiscent of Tortoise with a hint of Calexico (without vocals) - my kind of music.

In the immediate, must get to Ukrops for the Saturday specials! Duke's mayonnaise 2 for $3!!!

I can make tuna salad for DAYS!!!

TOMORROW at art 6- the monthly Bend An Ear reading! 3-5 pm please come!

Body in motion

from the top of the head to the calloused soles of the feet,
the heart pumps blood to all the places it needs to be
in constant movement beneath the skin: sartorius, ilium,
ischium, transverse abdominis, latissimus dorsi, trapezius,
blood like water seeping up only to seek its own level
before a spectacular fall: Niagra, Tagbaladougou, Gocta,
Mutyalamaduvu, Papalaua, Hagoromo-no-taki, names
that tumble off the tongue as spun sugar confections,
slung carelessly down jagged cliffs, over green valleys,
under bridges, water flowing deep to rise, rise,
rise again in unexpected places as springs, springs,
springs that bubble and perk, mystical healing shrines:
Calimanesti, Lourdes, Daius Church, Bethsaida, where
just one toe, one fingertip dipped in the troubled waters
will gain blessed relief from an eternity of pain- but
you must be the first, first, first or be left to crawl back
to your cot and wrap up in sorrow to wait, wait,
wait another year, another holy day, until a stranger says
you can do it if you want to, you can do it on your own,
you can find a healing, it's already within you to take
the gift, float away on a sea of salty tears, buoyant,
expansive as furled sails in tropical harbors, blinding white
against the nacreous panoply of colors: vermillion.
pomegranate, viridian, malachite, gamboge, amaranth,
an impressive array somewhere between red and rose
love stands simple capturing the breath, heart beat, memory
of a fragrant flower: ansinthium, verbena, moonflower, lilac,
gardenia, jasmine, sweet and fragrant as musk, to stand
against the world and its gravitas, one body of many parts,
single-minded, foot to hand to mouth to heart, the beat, beat,
beat pumping blood to all the places it needs to go,
like water rising then falling to seek its own level,
again, again, again, again, again, again.

Here's a petition to sign to Repeal the Virginia Traffic Fees. I got this link from writer Laura Heidy in Alexandria, VA.

This whole mess was quietly put into action by lawyers, for lawyers (see Laura's other posts and links). It's ridiculous. I've heard people say "let the people who break the law pay for the roads" because they know they are safe. I don't speed and I don't drink and drive (hardly drink) but these fees are outrageous and provide far more money to the firms who collect these fees than to the state.

It sure isn't poetry.

I wonder if I'm trying to juggle too much.

I have this blog, my 25 words blog, and now the art 6 blog.

Money needs to be raised to get to New York for AWP- can I hold a personal fund raiser?? I certainly am a non-profit organization!

My house is a mess, I'm trying to submit poetry all over and get a packet ready for the Virginia Commision for the Arts Poetry Fellowship deadline (August 1st). There are only four, as I understand it- the competition will be hot and heavy (and most likely the recipients will be MFA students of graduates who know the panel SINCE IT ISN'T JUDGED BLIND).

Being a fool- I'm applying anyway.

God help the working class poet.

She’s gone- her first night in her own place- her first place, chosen, painted, arranged. I’m awake with feelings I can’t sort out yet. Love, fear, anger, envy- she’s close enough I could be there in ten minutes, close enough I feel her heartbeat as if it was my own. It is my own in so many ways, she’s like my double, only better. But without the fear and self-doubt I carry still. I am so excited for her. So proud.

I can’t remember what is was like. I went from home to college to marriage. I wasn’t on my own until I was twenty-seven. Even then the first year I stayed in the house my ex-husband and I bought. I didn’t have to sign a lease or set up utilities or change the mail. And I had a steady job, I was a teacher. Each move was predictable, like checkers or Monopoly. I can’t remember what it was like, even then. It seems as if someone has always depended on me.

This is new territory. I like it. I’m afraid for us both, I think- but I like it.

Egad! I haven't updated FlashPaperPoetry for this month!

Off to type and post- whoops!

First Friday rolls around again....

cheapest date in town, a chance to see and be seen. Come see me at art 6

My 4th of July poem

The Nature of Curiosity

Some folks will always be trouble-
either they beg it or bring it, back
bent under the weight, they come
bearing wretched curses and injuries,
sport red paper carnations, symbols
of long-forgotten warriors who stood
proud from when war was something.

Besides the dead, there are the quick
to remember, the broken soldiers,
limbs buried far from home, wounded
in some new Pharsalia. A bitter sigh,
the more things change, the more
they change, and we are lost luggage,
owners moved on to new belongings.

How could it not be so? Humanity begets
an eternal struggle, the yin and yang,
good vs evil to celebrate this diversity
balanced over eternity's emptiness
we weep hard, rend our garments,
clutch the absurdity of hope, gallows
humor the thing that gives us gravity.

When a child asks "Why? reply
"because", it keeps the ball in play,
a new generation who'll seek the peace
they cannot own, embracing trouble
as we did, so will our progeny display
themselves, curious to find some truth,
defend some creed and carry on, carry on.

Who will love the bionic woman?

poem removed, accepted for publication

Last night I dreamed I was dancing with Robert Pinsky- and telling him Gerald Stern told me he (Pinsky) was a terrible dancer- Stern told me that, too, earlier in the dream. Go figure.

Maybe I should stop falling asleep with poetry books over my face.

There IS a poem germinating about all this- how could there not be?

Did I tell you how much I am enjoying the book The Fever Almanac by Kristy Bowen??

Some of these poems take little slices out of me, like an eerie biopsy.

Another link to audio files- this is from the regular Sunday readings at Shockoe Espresso-

Jimmy Warner is still adding files, but one of mine is up-

it takes forever to load, then click on the arrow in the upper right hand corner, check the volume if you can't hear anything.

I just love Diane Kirsten Martin-

check out today's Poetry Daily and her site.

I can't find my "Pink Cadillac" poem about my mother's car, but here's another one about her - well, kind of- as a reply to my comment on C. Dale's blog. I wrote this in 1998, when my aunt sent me a picture a trip to San Francisco I never knew my mother had taken.


Picture of Mama on the Cable Car

Caught in a real smile, she was sure
she'd never see San Francisco
and there she was: tweed jacket,
hair done, ever-present red nails,
climbing off a cable car.

It took her fifty-three years,
everything up till then a gamble,
never winning very much, bearable
losses, a kind of streak that wasn't

If she'd been an insider, known
there wasn't much game left,
would she have gone back home to Vegas?

Cell by cell by cell, she was dying even then
in increments, but this isn't about that.

It's about snap-shot shoe-drop seconds
when what you always wanted to happen,
happens- right then and is so apparent,
so evident, the camera, for once
full of film, charged up and at hand
takes a picture, takes a REAL picture,
the kind of photograph strangers pick up
to examine because they want,
not knowing why, they want to hold it.

Moments that are too much of themselves,
we let them pass by, our imagination flustered,
like art we can't conceive buried in stone blocks.
Single-minded, we are half-blind,
when other possibilities smack us in the face,
we recoil in shock, then cower in the familiar.

You can't plan for this, no "shoulds" or "ifs",
choices come and go so fast
it’s almost out of our hands, almost.

When you smiled today at lunch,
I thought of Mama, knowing
the memory was worth a picture.
My camera was there in my bag
charged up and full of film.
I didn’t get it out, too afraid
of what it might see.

hey! Vocabulary is important to me, dude!

Seriously

It may not be my job to educate the wicked world, but when I'm writing a poem I will look all over until I find what I think is PRECISELY the word that's needed. If you don't know the meaning- GOOGLE is your friend or One Look or an actual paper dictionary.

Sure, I use too much slang and too many current culture references, but I also use rare words, Latin phrases, perplexing descriptions where I twist the definition into something else.

It's my job.

Part of the commencement address by Dana Gioia. chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, talking about how artists no longer have a dialog with the people.

"This mutual estrangement has had enormous cultural, social, and political consequences. America needs its artists and intellectuals, and they need to reestablish their rightful place in the general culture. If we could reopen the conversation between our best minds and the broader public, the results would not only transform society but also artistic and intellectual life."

Read the rest HERE- I hope you'll be glad you did.

thanks, Jilly at poetry hut

To Lie in Wait

poem removed, accepted for publication

Hell's bells! I just did one of those tests and i came out as Barbara Stanwyck- all grit (93%) and no class (0%) no class at all.

I guess I'm not really surprised- why do I bother anyway??

What's that wonderful Woody Allen film with Tracey Ullman and they buy all that tacky furniture and try to take 'class' lessons?

I'd like to believe I'm a little better than that.

Come to Comedy Sportz tonight!!

10:00 pm I-Prov An all musical musical improv show with yours truly at the keyboard!!

$10- c'mon down!

You must read THIS

particularly if you read THIS

poetry doesn't suck- well, it can, I suppose- but it can also be what's needed right then, right now.

A lot's going on in Richmond this week- get over to FlashPaperPoetry and check it out!

There's Cafe Gutenburg, the Haiku Death match at SlamRichmond and UR prof Brian Henry reading at Chop Suey's Von Gribley reading series.

And I won a prize!!

The Sopranos ending was fine with me, the way they did it kinda sucked- I thought the cable had gone out and then- credits with no music? What's with that? The music has always been such a great part (and the stupid Journey song during the last scene DOES NOT COUNT- that was lame).

John From Cincinnati was sooooo boring, I went back to watching the Tony Awards, which were slick and fabulous as usual.

Food Addiction

it’s not just a doughnut
it’s a fucking doughnut
even if you spell it donut
if you leave it sitting there
to go stale I’ll have to eat it
because it becomes a rescue
band of brothers kind of mission
boxed into the habitual.

first a bite, then the rest
then dabbing the sugar up
with wet fingers, followed
by the kitchen scan for
something else sweet,
the border breached,
power off
and I’m lost again

back to induction atkins
I go
looking for love
in all the wrong pastries

12:39 Wednesday, June 6. 2007

No significant thing moves through the air
though babies are born on Bremo Road,
a hand shake changes worlds in Dover, Mass,
a soldier from Iowa closes his eyes forever,
a husband betrays his wife at Burger King.

These are tiny filaments, loose hairs, sand
specks for the universe to take in, context
lost in the stars, where a heartbeat is too small
to matter, it may yet be the most important
result of random probabilities we can know.

A woman almost falls down a flight of stairs.
a scientist refines a process for growing cells,
a murderer stops to have another cup of coffee,
a homeless family walks into a church for help,
chaos sighs, rearranges itself again and again.

I can't seem to be able to give away one ticket to Big Head Todd and the Monsters for Thursday night Groovin in the Garden series- if you're in the Richmond area and want to go, I have one ticket- gates open 5:30.

Poetry is out of my head right now, or maybe everything else is intruding too much.

Friday night is the first show of the IProv music at Comedy Sportz with yours truly at the keyboard!!! Call 266-9377 for reservations for the 10:00pm show. Please come and clap for me (and the gang!).

Hey! A total update over at FlashPaperPoetry!

Check it out!

I know, I know-

tonight is First Friday in Richmond and oh-my the hoopla!

Art 6 will be hopping with the High School Juried Invitational-

Tomorrow, I'll be reading in Williamsburg at the Norge Library for the last Saturday reading of the year!! C'mon down.

Drowned, hanged, or beaten with a stone

Men let wars take blame, send sons to die,
women are more apt to do the job themselves,
at once, no reconsideration, use what's there:
a tub, some ties and belts, a nearby rock.

Little thought wasted choosing implements,
opportunity presents, conjoined with hopeless
horror, fear of what might come: Who knows
what coincidental voices make the final call?

I gave you life a mother says I own you
another states I can take you out I've said
myself to a stubborn face, my daughter's
soft fists ready in defiance of my words.

It must take more than a toddler's No!
to stop breath, to hold down, to beat;
more than hardship, bills to pay, a man
gone bad, gone, nothing left for her.

What some women do when they give up
a life they can't endure or bear to save,
there is no reaching out, no simple cure,
children die everyday while Rachel weeps.

Lakeside on Memorial Day

Show, show, show, the recyclable trash:
piled up pizza boxes, Miller Lite 12 packs.
This is where Avon comes via UPS *ding-dong*
brings whodo parts, motorcycle shit, eBay deals.

Scruffy, skanky men drink beer, smoke, work on cars
wearing wife-beater strappy shirts because they do,
their fat women coming back from Walmart sales
squeezed into sherbert colored polyester shorts.

This is a neighborhood in flux, proud mullets worn
with gangsta baggy pants, wigger sons with babies
on their hips, daughters decked out like hookers,
bright blondes with the blackest boys, or lesbians.

The Mexicans play guitar and soccer, rent plain houses,
silent mustached men who watch and smile, we don’t
smile back, they won’t stay long, can’t speak English,
drive trucks and vans with company logos and ladders.

Old Mrs. Emmet left when they moved in, her people
here since streets were laid down, a gray-haired widow
who waitressed all her life, raised six kids, all gone,
wary and scared of brown skin, she was a republican.

Sold her house to a businessman who quickly rented it
to a bald deputy sheriff and his family, they moved in
yesterday, hung a flag this morning, one son gone to Iraq,
Working in the yard in early heat, a radio plays gospel tunes.

Just over the city line, our county schools are a little better,
the cops tougher, gas and groceries cheaper, but not by much,
everyday seems to bring bad news, a new lottery opportunity,
the chance to make it big, stave off the fear of dying here.

We’re all afraid, even the Libertarian's in faded Volvo’s,
tucked into long-term starter homes, buying in Costco bulk
next to jobless neighbors with empty cupboards, the smell
of barbecue wafts in, we can’t afford to run the air just yet.

Wish I had a river (from joni mitchell)

I used to slip out of a chair like a cat,
smooth, legs already in motion, take in
the whole wide world in a turn, mine,
everything in sight, if I wanted it.

Wish I had a river, clear from here
to somewhere I think I was once,
laying in sweet grass, a granite pillow
beat down by time in the warm sun..

This day is blue-skied and soft, summer
standing up to a last pass of spring,
lingering too long in the bed, daffodils
need cutting back, for next year's yellow.

I thought you would be enough, even if
you don't see how I wish I had a river,
flowing from far off so I could let you
fall over my body like a waterfall.

here is a podcast of some readings last sunday-

I had to turn it way up... let me know if you can get it.

Listen

It took me about 30 seconds to load....

my freewill astrology for this week- I love this!

I wish I could get a newly discovered species of beetle or an underground lake of ice on Mars named after you. I wish I could buy you a temple in Bali, and arrange for you to have your fortune told by the blind prophetess of Rio de Janeiro. And I wish I could dress you in 200-year-old velvet robes and silk scarves once worn by Turkish royalty. You richly deserve honors and blessings like these, Capricorn. It's that time in your astrological cycle when life is supposed to overflow with rewards for the good work you've been doing for a long time. I urge you to be vividly confident that you do indeed deserve these rewards, and radiate that faith in all directions.

My daughter got her driver's license today- she's 19, her peers have had theirs for years, but her father is ummmmmmmm- a cheapskate- and didn't want to have her insured. Too late now, we did it and it's done. Hah!

She's very proud, just drove herself to a staff meeting for her job in the city's summer parks and recreation dept. She'll be doing costumes, like last year but for more money.

woo-hoo! Poetry on the sopranos!!!

Slouching towards Bethlehem
W.B Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

brief commercial-

This will be my 5th year attending the West Virginia Writers' Workshop at West Virginia University in Morgantown. The head of the Creative Writing Department (James Harms) is one of the nicest, coolest people in the world (and a damn good poet, too). He surrounds himself with a smart, talented faculty who genuinely care about the workshop participants.

It's not very expensive (as these things go) and the special guests this summer include Steve Almond, Nick Carbo, Maribeth Fischer, Laura Kasischke, and Aleda Shirley. (regular faculty working include Mark Brazaitis, Jim Harms, John Hoppenthaler, and Sara Pritchard.)

I don't know whether it's full yet, but if you want a fine experience you'll benefit from- look it up and clear your calendar (it's Thursday through Sunday so you don't have to take a whole weeks vacation).

End of commercial message-
(except- if you're near Richmond, VA or driving through, I sure could use a ride)

Where are my poems???

In my head, still, I suppose- the rest in revision.

I'm trying to get my little chapbook ready by friday to take to the Poetry Festival in Williamsburg- maybe sell a few, pay for my hotel room and food.

But my printer is being cranky, reluctant to give me clean copies, and I need a cover. There was a great photo Simmons Buntin did but I don't remember where to find it- not to mention I want to save it for something else.

And of course, I have to work. Bleagh.

more poems, less work.

My reading series on May Sunday afternoons are going nicely- we had around 25 people last Sunday for Patsy Anne Bickerstaff, Timothy Ball and Montana Sullivan, and a little by myself- plus Jimmy Warner and Corey Roberts at the end.

Not a bad turnout for beautiful weather and Mother's Day in Richmond.

Next Sunday is the last one! Here

Three more days left until I'm back home from the mountains of Virginia at the Episcopal retreat called Shrinemont- it's a beautiful place and every year they make it better! It's on the site of an early 20th century hot springs where the wealthy from the DC area went to tale the waters- fell into disrepair and was bought and redone as a conference center. I've been going since the mid-seventies

The time with the congregation I work for was wonderful, though we didn't do enough music ( I did get a chance to do some arrangements for my choir and play through some new stuff). I also worked on my National Poetry Month poems, so s new chapbook is coming soon.

It drizzled a cold rain all day Saturday so some of us went to a new little winery (they're popping up all over the state). Decent, but not great- strongest in light whites, unfortunately I'm mostly a red drinker.

Parse that sentence, grammar police!

All the poetry month poems are gone, alas- in revision as it happens, for a new chapbook that will be available at the gallery and readings-

I hate removing them but it seems prudent, there are places who won't take a poem if it has appeared "anywhere in any form" on the internet.

So, for the twenty or so people who visit here a day (I dropped my counter but that's what it was averaging) sorry- come back next year for a new set!

I just got shivers writing that- the prospect of doing it again is CRAZY! But I will have forgotten by then.

Thanks for reading.

Happy May Day!

and oh please, do check this out if you've never seen it before

THIS is funny as hell.

well, maybe not so much...

Went to hear Gerald Stern read last night- he is just great!

Made remember why I love poetry, though he's not one of those I pick up and read often, jusy sometimes.

Good crowd, too, but I have the feeling it was a grade-upper for most, if not all of the students there. A lot of his references went waaaaay over their heads.

Poem coming

Kurt Vonnegut has left us here without him.

Long live Kilgore Trout!

"There's only one rule that I know of, babies- God damn it, you've got to be kind!
from God Bless You, Mrs. Rosewater.

I am so sad.

Every Sunday in May, art 6 Gallery will host "Bend Your Ear" from 4-6 pm. Four feature writers will read from their original work in conjunction with the Paul DiPasquale exhibit of Ears (currently in DC)



I will be announcing the slate of readers soon.

Okay- I'm officially ready for National Poetry Month-

My web page is updated, and I'm ready to write a poem every day for the month.
Here's my official home: http://groups.google.com/group/2006NaPoMopoems

I tried to change it to 2007 but apparently I can't-

Go forth and do it!

So I look up and I haven't posted anything in ages- I will say I am really enjoying the copy of Floating City by Anne Pierson Wiese I got in the mail.

National Poetry Month will be here on Sunday! I intend to make another year (my 5th) of writing a poem-a-day and dragging others in with me. It's a good discipline and I've gotten some wonderful poems out of the experience (also some terrible ones, but hey!)

I know there are those who pooh-pooh the whole thing and that's their decision. I happen to like any month when I can talk about poetry and have something that sounds official to back me up. Yeah, I know- I talk poetry all the time, but now people have to pretend to pay better attention.

More soon!

Get ready!

Check THIS out

and for teachers check THIS and THIS, too

and for bloggers

for a poem-a-day from publishers- try

The Responsibility of Myth

Imagine how difficult it would be to sleep
in a bright room, sit naked on a splintered bench,
find pleasure on a metal table. Extend your arms,
touch the smooth surface beneath, stretch
until your shoulders ache, your fingers tingle
with effort. Focus on the desire in your gut,
the urgency for release, to pee, to shit,
to fall to your knees in shame, reconciled.

Deeds done have consequences, should,
a dare made when more self-possessed,
when anything seemed possible, nothing
to lose, the weight of the universe lifts,
Atlas, free at last, holds only an empty promise.

The heavens are telling, if the world could
hear, see the intricate ablutions the body bears.
If there is to be eternal quiet, let it begin
with an exhale, mean and now, in the rattling bones
when belief is rendered bare, stilled.

The Ball Blue Book of Home Preserving

It was her other bible, dog-eared and falling apart,
tucked in the back cupboard all winter, eager
for first fruits, beans, tomatoes, and cucumbers-
things that had to be put by in a jar.

The ritual was precise, timing life or death, hunger or plenty,
a false step meant a wasted day, the book stayed open
on the sideboard as a quick reference, close to the wall clock.

Every other space covered with produce, water boiling on the stove,
Mamaw would roll her stockings down and can
into the cool of the night, TV on for "Guiding Light"
later "Arthur Godfrey" or "The Hit Parade."

My job was to stand on a stool and wash jars and lids,
inspecting each rim carefully for chips and spots, sweat
dripping into my eyes, I could have a bottled coke
as long I kept working, paid attention.

She’d tell stories about how she met Papaw
(at a camp meeting in Tyler, Texas) when she wore
a crisp white shirt (high-necked and starched to high heaven)
and a long blue and white striped heavy skirt she’d made,
transporting her with his beautiful Irish tenor,
and if her friend, Ima Clem hadn’t near fainted
from the heat and been taken to a nearby house,
she might’ve never met him and I wouldn’t be here at all.

She used to say things like that-
how my very existence depended on a sequence of events
that seemed magical, almost random: a butterfly In Waco
flying left instead of right, an open window where a panther
climbed in one night when my Momma was a tiny baby,
and Papaw was off working in Houston, how she stood
over the crib and locked eyes with the big cat for an eternity,
then collapsed to the floor and wept when it left.

That beast would’ve taken Joyce
if I hadn’t been right with God
and we wouldn’t have you then, would we?

But where would I be? Would I be at all?
I wondered, fearful of God’s serendipity,
sure she wouldn’t answer, I pondered
these questions in my heart, like Mary.

As I grew older, I’d help less often, besides,
she’d started freezing more by then- plastic bags
standing up in wax-coated boxes had little personality,
even with the boiling water blanch we didn’t talk as much,
I must’ve been a mystery to her, awkward and moody.

I have a Ball Blue Book, ordered fresh off the internet,
but I’ve never used it, why bother? It’s too hard to can alone,
my daughter would roll her eyes, microwave a Lean Cuisine,
never caring where my mother met my dad (in an elevator)
when she winked at the guy behind him (who didn’t notice)
and my dad followed her to her office and asked her out
charming her with his thick auburn hair, his jokes,
they feel in love so fast their world changed in a blink,
assuring my existence, and later my daughter’s,
though that story will never be preserved
in a summer kitchen to be taken out later and shared again.

cripes- I know, long time, no post.

It'll have to be tomorrow, daughter has a report to do (on my fracking computer)

I am so behind.

but my bad cholesterol is down 30%.. yeah.. for real.

if you read no other book this year, read:

Real Sofistikashun
Essays on Poetry and Craft
By Tony Hoagland

In these taut, illuminating essays, Tony Hoagland explores matters of poetic craft—metaphor, tone, rhetorical and compositional strategies—in a buoyant conversational style less that of the scholar than of the serious enthusiast and practitioner.

Graywolf Press

You can order it from Graywolf, or of you're local (Virginia) please order it from a local independent bookstore such as : The Fountain Bookstore, Book People, Carytown Books (4021 MacArthur Ave Richmond, VA 23227 (804) 261-7710, or whatever your favorite might be.

If we don't support the locals, they won't be there when we need them.

If you attend no other event this month, please go to:

Shann Palmer's One-Woman Show "Expedient Exaggeration"
art 6 Gallery, 6 East Broad St. Richmond, VA 23219
8:00 pm $5.00, cash bar and free eats (light snacks)

I'm busy working on my show for February 23rd- Expedient Exaggeration

soooo much to do!

but here's a little love thang from Poetry Hut

I have love poems for sale at the gallery (art 6)

yeah- here's one:

Tribute

The momentum of impulse
made common by nature’s design
explodes when she says
a kiss is just a kiss and he replies,
Let us be lovers, we’ll marry
our fortunes together
impetus sets lover’s loose to embrace
promises made before they can be
inculcated; mindless as the everyday
housewife daring to dream,
dancing with broom and swifter, alone.

At the precipice of reason, they bide
together holding each other in the dark,
eyes squeezed shut against temptation,
days tumbling by in the business of living,
work devouring passion, replacing heat,
their thermostat set at comfortable.

In the end, love wins, a kind of love born
from foolishness blossomed into custom.
Who else would want this old man, this
fragile woman? No one remembers
who they once were, how they finished
each others sentences, laughed at nothing,
made love in sunlight dazzled by beauty.

This is a HOOT-

chinese rejection

getting ready for First Friday (Feb 2) and my one-woman show (Feb 23)

art 6

You know what I bought today??

RED shiny shoes, little faux loafers from Steve Madden (thank you DSW for having good prices and sending me a $5 birthday certificate)

in The Melic review

(I Wanted To) dance on your grave

wearing red shiny shoes
spit on your headstone
hair unbound
Great God Almighty
free at your last breath
the letters I never sent
calls I almost made
presents I nearly purchased
lost their gilt-edged sharpness
when you died on Good Friday
2000 miles away I had finished
tenebrae and crucifixion
three hours in a trance
hands shaking on the keyboard
Saturday night vigil
yet to Sunday services
one after the other
alleluias unsung for forty days
and more than forty years
peeling like bells from my tongue
but not for Christ, not for you
too busy to remember
(I wanted to)dance on your grave
but they burned you to ashes
stacked your box with the others
father upon father
no stones, no graves
no dancing daughters

Virginia poet makes the paper!

If you haven;t heard about the guide to the Poet Laureate CD- go here

Carolyn Foronda

It's still here!!!

You Can't Spit

over at SpokenWar

cool beans, as Jim Gove used to say

"Obviously you have mistaken me for a much taller woman"

• Wed 6-8 Carytown Sit-Down at Carytown Books, now convieniently located in the Bellevue are on MacArthur St (no park, no cake, no rain) Bring work to share or come to listen and discuss.

• Thursday 6-9 Art After Hours at the Virginia Museum - poet Susan Settlymyre Williams 6:30 & 7:00 tickets required ($10 at the door or get the series through Feb 22)

Come on out!!

Expedient exaggerations

birthday poem 2007

Ila Faye really did have seven husbands,
all her own, or maybe it was six or five.
Two of them in the hospital at once,
names always the same, so it must be
true. I was never a really cheerleader-
only consistently louder than everybody
except when I bombed scales on the tuba
for the seventh graders, I don’t know
if any of them signed up for band
unless they thought- I can do better,
while I whispered to the floor (me, too)
shamed in front of the cute new director.

Why I let a certain kind of person (man)
intimidate me remains a roadblock
to this day. Charlie’s influence drives
every relationship right off the berm
stalled mid-sentence, lost in the stars.
Some daddies need to be stood up to.
I still build walls when things change,
grateful for the few who skitter over,
wait for me to calm down, quit fretting,
get past myself. That’s my mantra,
or should be, instead of "Sher-ring"
the one picked "especially for me."

It figures that age brings contentment,
some relaxation, a certainty of what works,
what won’t, in the face of sagging skin,
bad vision, lousy memory and more,
as the weight of futility becomes beacon,
the unbearable chances for wonderful
catch the last train (for the coast).
I rock on, wedded to dated metaphors
sure it’s been going downhill a long time
before I looked around to find opportunity
came and went while I was drifting
and not even dawn can bring it all back.

It's official!

"Expedient Exaggeration"

Shann Palmer's One-woman Show # 2
More mostly true tales, poetry, and musical interludes

Friday, February 23rd 8pm, free

art6 Gallery

6 East Broad

Richmond, Virginia

Happy New Year to you all!!!!!

I promise to get back to this, first thing tomorrow (whenever I get up, that is! I have to be at the bar at art 6 gallery tonight for the big do- Rattlemouth, the band, dancing and all that, their new CD release party, and a memorial for the Harvey family- murdered last year on New Year's day by a couple of crackheads)

For all of you, friends and drop-bys-

May the new year bring you peace, enough of what you need, enough to share, and all the blessings of this life!

Lock your doors, hug your children and tell the people you need to how much you love them- we never know what tomorrow brings!

shann

The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel - 2nd Floor Contributors

Coming in 2007 (February?) from No Tell Books

Eric Abbott * Deborah Ager * Malaika King Albrecht * William Allegrezza * Molly Arden * Cynthia Arrieu-King * Robyn Art * Sandra Beasley * Aaron Belz * Erin M. Bertram * Mary Biddinger * Ana Bozicevic-Bowling * Timothy Bradford * Joseph Bradshaw * Jason Bredle * Jenny Browne * Jenna Cardinale * Bruce Covey * Phil Crippen * Susan Denning * Michelle Detorie * Laurel K. Dodge * Mark DuCharme * Peg Duthie * kari edwards * AnnMarie Eldon * Jill Alexander Essbaum * Julie R. Enszer * Noah Falck * Michael Farrell * Katie Fesuk * Adam Fieled * Alice Fogel * Elisa Gabbert * Eric Gelsinger * Scott Glassman * David B. Goldstein * Dean Gorman * Anne Gorrick * Lea Graham * Kate Greenstreet * Piotr Gwiazda * Shafer Hall * Josh Hanson * Nathan Hoks * Donald Illich * Salwa C. Jabado * Charles Jensen * Jim Kober * Ron Klassnik * Jennifer L. Knox * Dorothee Lang * Sueyeun Juliette Lee * David Lehman * Reb Livingston * Rebecca Loudon * Justin Marks * Clay Matthews * Kristi Maxwell * Gary L. McDowell * Erika Meitner * Didi Menendez * Michael Meyerhofer * Steve Mueske * Gina Myers * Cheryl Pallant * Shann Palmer * Alison Pelegrin * Simon Perchik * Derek Pollard * Andrea Potos * Cati Porter * Laurie Price * Jessy Randall * Kim Roberts * Anthony Robinson * Carly Sachs * John Sakkis * Allyson Salazar * Christine Scanlon * Margot Schilpp * Morgan Lucas Schuldt * Patty Seyburn * Peter Jay Shippy * Evie Shockley * Alex Smith * Hugh Steinberg * Nicole Steinberg * Alison Stine * Mathias Svalina * Erik Sweet * Eileen R. Tabios * Bronwen Tate * Molly Tenenbaum * Chris Tonelli * Letitia Trent * Jen Tynes * Michael Quattrone * Ashley VanDoorn * Fritz Ward * J. Marcus Weekley * Betsy Wheeler * Theodore Worozbyt * Kim Young

It;s been awhile.

I've been distracted- work, family, all that. The son graduated from college- English and Philosophy- on Saturday. Both kids are in exams right now (yes, he graduated before exams were done)

I have been getting Mary Engelbreit goodies off of eBAy. And crossstitch patterns.

been working, spending money- the usual.

No poetry right now- give me a few days.

I have to work at it- I'm planning a One-Woman Show at art6 Gallery for February 23rd.

Y'all come!

Busy, busy, getting winning list out to "Show Us Your Mask" folks !

Tomorrow is First friday artwalk here in Richmond, masks and mask poems will be on display for the month of december.

I've been making snack bags for us to sell on Saturday dusing the Holiday Parade- it passes right by the gallery, so we're going to be there with hot cider and snack bags-

must sleep!

I am too tired to think-

though I was reading between breaks at the rehearsals "Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest: Poems"
by B. H. Fairchild.

It's exquisite, as was his first book.

Highly recommended.

Writing off the cuff-

I am so busy my eyes hurt, but it's only temporary. After next Friday, my life smoothes out again (at least as much as it ever does).

Playing piano at the high school really slams my hands, then I go off to clean houses, drive the kids, go to what poetry events I can manage, then come home and fall into bed.

I got the Adventures of Brisco County Jr DVD (it's my Christmas present- we don't worry about 'under the tree' much, I mean what if I died on Christmas Eve and never got to watch it?) Anyway- I've slept through about half of the 24 episodes- I love what I've seen, I'm a HUGE Bruce Campbell fan-

and Sunday I'm going to Charlottesville to see Christine Lavin, one of my favorite folkies. My friend Dave sent me a tape years ago with a wonderful song called "The Kind of Love You'll Never Recover From" that just kills me everytime I hear it-

so, poetry, man- is it still out there. God, I hope so.

Not much point in holding this one back- the November 2006 issue of POETRY says so-

The 2007 Carole Weinstein $10,000 prize for a poet in Central Virginia goes to

BRIAN HENRY

who edits Verse
who teaches at University of Richmond
who is a James River Writer festival participant
who has four books (poems here,and here, and here for more links.

I have four poems over at Wicked Alice

The whole issue is jampacked with great poetry, check it out!

I've been very busy and a little down- hence the missing days.

It's getting better.

Show Us Your Mask! Poetry Contest-

1. Submit up to three poems for $5.00 (checks payable to Shann Palmer)
2. Subject: must be about or concerning masks. (those we wear or share- what we conceal) 44 line limit, please (per poem)
3. Author retains copyright, winners may be included in a booklet, reading, and gallery display.
4. Entries must be postmarked between October 27 and November 27.
5. First Prize- $50.00, other prizes will be determined by the number of entries and will include art donated by gallery members.

Mail entries to:

art 6 Gallery/Shann Palmer
Show us your Mask!
6 East Broad Street .
Richmond, VA 23219

Contest sponsored by the Poetry Society of Virginia and art6.Questions? Contact shannpalmer@hotmail.com or visit http://groups.msn.com/FlashPaperPoetry online

For gallery information go to: http://www.art6.org /

Forgetting

Birthdays become annual objects of ridicule
eventually, snapshots of what is hardly recalled.

Photos of a childhood, crazy hair-dos,
vacations, ex-spouses; fashion bungles,
breakdowns, sad unfinished stories,
sappy smiles, harmless goofs that make us
laugh till we choke on the sentimentality-
a humanness only devout misanthropes spurn.

Distracted by the cinematic calendar pages
flipping in my face, I missed yours, didn’t I?

Un-lilylike, to count and spin each day,
worry threads into a tapestry
for which there is no pattern visible
to the naked eye, I become jaundiced and forlorn.

My last birthday was yesterday,
and the day before and the day before that.

Yours was this day, was that day,
and will be until one of us is gone,
run out of pages, numbers, candles,
in the great cleft of memory, passed by.

for DA and AW (oct 24 and 25th)

not such a bad list.....

Emery’s short list for becoming a published poet includes:
1. Read poetry. Lots of it. He makes the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that there should be a law requiring poets to read 80 books of poetry for every one that they submit.

2. Be involved in the world of poetry - in coffee houses, book shops, open reading venues, on the internet. The more involved you are in that world, the more connections you’ll have within it. As a side note, you’ll also hear an awful lot of poetry - both excellent and horrible. It will affect you as a writer. It’ can’t not.

3. Concentrate time on building a ‘pedigree’ for your work - i.e., getting your poems published in magazines and on literary web sites.

4. Write reviews of other people’s poetry. He says, “Engaging with other work and actively revieing it is a great way to build your own experience of poetry… A side effect of such endeavors is that the poetry you believe matters will eventually be given air space.”

The chapter is even more worth reading for the practical ending to the chapter, Fifty dos and don’ts for submitting poetry. A couple of samples from the list:

5. # Make yourself a player. A mover and shaker. If you are out there participating in literature, publishers will notice you.

10. Find out the name of the person you are submitting to. Find out what they like. Find out where they live. Follow them to work. Alright, just kidding, but find out their name.

21. Beware of sending poems which contain wild metaphor, clever descriptions of everyday phenomena, and make novel use of dialect and idioms, all ending with a stunning epiphany. It’s a tired old template now. Descriptive writing can be very dull.

46. Don’t include your photograph – especially the moody one with the Fedora.

glommed from here

I have a lamp from my mother’s house

The house that is no longer hers, nor mine,
the trailer, the apartment, the hospice bed.

Teresa sent a box of photos with the lamp.
Stern, hard people who look a lot like me,
sharp nosed, straight spined, stand frozen,
the way perseverance stands, unblinking.

We spoke the morning my mother died, vanity
says she knew who I was, but she didn’t.

I barely knew her. It had been fifteen years
of short phone calls and occasional envelopes
containing daddy’s doctor’s statements, his spells,
heart attacks, scraped across the page
in her perfect penmanship, "This is all your fault!"

It wasn’t, I never thought it had been, not then,
not now. I keep all these things to remind me
to be kind, to be careful, to pay attention.

Last Valentine’s Day my sister sent a card.
It was expensive, embossed, heavy.
Inside the gold envelope she included
my parent’s death certificates, not copies.

The card read: “Love, Teresa, Mike, Sean,
and Jess. I thought you should have these.”

Apples fall, even if no one is there to hear.

I know, I was going to post on the James River Writers Festival and the visit by the Poetry Bus- I will, I will-

in the meantime:

The National Book Foundation announced the finalists today for the 2006 National Book Awards.

The poetry nominees are:

* Louise Gluck, Averno. (wow- Italy and myths, there's a couple of untouched subjects. Sure, she's acraftsmann, but this is navel gazing at best, scholarly at worst. She and Hix are in a dead heat IMO- DEAD heat.)

* H.L. Hix, Chromatic. (it took so e searching to find this- these poems are better than any of the rest IMO- this guy can have the prize)

* Ben Lerner, Angle of Yaw (whatever- last year every poet choked on their own vomit, but nobody noticed- the nonsensical, mannered prose poem is way overdone)

* Nathaniel Mackey, Splay Anthem (yoohoo- I'm black and like jazz did you catch the cool words?- the only frayed ribbon he fails to grab is something about New Orleans, but I guess the book was pre-Katrina)

* James McMichael, Capacity (sweet jesus, can I possibly read this entire poem without drowning in it- and not in a good way??? Omigod, this is tedium personified)

I've linked to some net poetry by some of these people and other than Gluck (semi-yawn), I think these poets are just writing weird for the sake of weird (see note on Hix). I mean, who do they write this crap for?? Their peers?? Which I guess are academy oafs who don't want to be accessible or understood.

Check it out for yourself-

It makes me want to cry. Seriously- why do I bother when THIS STUFF is what's uplifted? (It's okay, no one reads my blog anyway)

James River Writers Festival

go next year!

I will post more, with links to great books found there, and the gossipy-chitchat heard at the after party, the one with valet parking and lots of very tall people- I saw a lotta crotch tonight, enough to make Mel Brooks turn ideas inside-out.

and white people- serious white people.

and shrimp and grits.

Lunch poems in the previous post-

for more choices click HERE

and if that doesn't work, google this-
owner:ucberkeley lunch poems

Lunch Poems - Mary Ruefle

Mary Ruefle extends the territory of literature into realms that only poetry can reach, never losing touch with her amazing sense of humor. Her seven books of poetry include her recent Among the Musk Ox People. She lives in Massachusetts and is making her first trip to California in 20 years. [events] [artshumanities] [lunchpoems]

It's really difficuly sometimes to get the word out- but the good news is,

THE POETRY BUS IS COMING TO RICHMOND!!!! Thursday October 5th

What's the poetry bus?? Find out here!

I hope we can rally the local poets to support this event. Check out FlashPaperPoetry Day-by Day for more events in Central Virginia.

Support your Local Poets!!

Epigram as title

Beauty hates ideas.
-Jean Cocteau

when you say you walk though
the shadowed valley of death
I say all valleys are in shadow
twice a day, all sunsets fade, die
when the time comes, not before

or sense, uncommon denominator,
those without it don't seem to know,
those with weep under it's weight, still,
the sun moves, follow it with your eyes,
anyone who says otherwise is full of shit.

I received notification of winning the "Gulf Coast Ethnic and Heritage Jazz Festival" contest out of Mobile, Alabama today!

It's not well known, I suppose, but the $100 check they enclosed is fabulous!

Since I plan on submitting it elsewhere I'm not putting it on the webpage, but if you want to request a copy I'll send it to you.

AND ...if you love music and a free CD and a magazine- GO NOW and buy the Music Issue of the Oxford American. I have all but issue # 1 and you will enjoy the 2006 copy. David Wojahn has a delightful piece on Townes Van Zandt, and Floyd Skloot wrote about Eartha Kitt.

Can't beat that- 'cept for my big check!

(don't forget to visit my other current publications on the web: Terrain.org and The Hiss Quarterly.

Hראש השנה

Happy Rosh Hashanah!!

It's a wonderful cool night here in Central Virginia, though it seems as if the rest of the world is falling apart.

Pork- the defining issue

Senator George Allen (don't waste your vote) on his Jewish heritage-

Speaking with The Richmond Times-Dispatch, Allen said the disclosure is "just an interesting nuance to my background." He added, "I still had a ham sandwich for lunch. And my mother made great pork chops."

This man should never get near the oval office. His 'white-good-old-boy' sensibilities, are reprehensible.

It's my poem translated into art by John Walters- it's the big dark one with the small woman in red and black- I can't seem to upload the file-

Here IT is-

September 18, 2006

We've been working on the house. A new storm door, rotten wood removed and replaced, more bags of crap and clothes to the Goodwill. I am dry of poems, dry of ideas, too tired to sit and write right now.

The week coming up looks better, but the hubby is on afternoon shift which means he goes to work at noon and gets home at 8:30 pm.

And all week- poetry stuff and other

Mon- SlamRichmond Too begins tonight at Comedy Improv- 7pm
Tues- Open Mike at Barnes & Noble Libbie Place 7:30
Wed- Poetic Principles at the Virginia Museum 6pm
Thursday- meeting
Friday- 4th Friday at Artspace

I need to get some bags of poems made up for that- I could probably sell a few-

and submit, submit, and submit again.

sigh-

The new issue of Terrain.org is up!

It's one of my favorite webzines (since 1998) and you can find two poems that belong to me (both prizewinners in state contests)

Moirae and Sabino Canyon, Arizona

check out the rest of the zine, too!

Tears for the Crocodile Hunter

Too soon, too soon, the loons cry
on TV, too young to be undone
by all he loved and knew, it’s true
he took chances, embedded as he was.
In truth, a fatal wound from friendly fire
is always what a soldier least expects.

Poetry Thursday (rewritten into Friday)

No Small Bills, no change

She comes in on a weak front like an afterthought,
as the last white wedding dress drizzles of snow
disappear before they're seen, pretty in a so-so way.

Arms full of junk food at the WaWa checkout,
she scans an Enquirer cover, checks for cousins,
brothers, all the while guzzling a grape Nehi.

Her watch stopped at 2:06 three months ago.
now afternoons last all day, well into the night
she weeps because she can't remember why.

He said "Plastic". No one carries paper money,
you can get all you need for a promise, ask God,
he's the king of hope for the disembodied.

If you look carefully you'll see the scars
from where her sixth fingers were removed,
that is, if you count the thumb as a finger.

She had to take piano lessons and roll quarters
for years, just to fit in to rest of the world.
No one wants to take change from a retard,

or hold hands, though her brain is fine,
better than, as she swipes the smooth card
wearing a secret smile, no visible flaws.

More good news!!!

four accepted at Wicked Alice for the 5th anniversary fall issue! I had a poem in the first issue (reprinted in the print anthology) and 2 more in 2003-

I like to space them out...

Ernesto is apparently going to pass right over Richmond, right in the middle of the First Friday artwalk. Guess we'll see if they cancel it or not- Richmond is a completely inland city and we have been nailed by Isabel (17 days without power here) and Gaston (roads washed out just under a mile from my house, the interstate flooded!)

I'm not sure what to make of all this weather thing-

wow! a week in blog time is an eternity!

News- FlashPaperPoetry is updated and there is a new Day by Day poetry page where events are in order by date- details available by link- (still undergoing changes)

If you're local and Ernesto doesn't drown us in Richmond- Please come to First Friday- there will be some great music and performances at art6 Gallery and all over- 6-10pm. Most notable there is my poem expressed in art by John Walters!

Also special music all night- 6-8:30 classical, 8:30 on by a new group! (poems and music!)

I'll be adding links all day- yes, sorcha!

And BTW- my poem "At the Museum, Molly" has been accepted for inclusion in the Bedside Guide to the NoTell Motel- second floor" coming out in 2007- YEAH!!!!!

AND on September 1st (First Friday opening) a wonderful interpretation of my poem "Daddy said I was a Firesign" will be exhibited at art6!!! The artist is John Walters (co-owner of Comedy Improv Theatre) and it is WONDERFUL!!! Please come by and see it (or BUY it $200- I'm sure I undervalued it). It is really a great piece if art!

******************************************************************************

Well- here we go- the first day of the rest of my life-

Dropped the daughter off for her first class at the community college this morning (she's taking general courses there this semester- 1) About 30% of the cost of four-year college courses, 2) Guaranteed admission to Virginia Commonwealth University- though we still have to get into the theater/costume design program by December 1st- and full transfer credit if she makes above 3.0 or above)

I dropped her off because there is not near enough parking for all the students. No off street because it's on a major road and Richmond has the worst public transportation you can imagine.

Now if I can just get the son off the couch- VCU starts Thursday but we still have no word on his financial aid (loan). If it doesn't come through he may have to take only one class or stay out completely until next semester.

Guess we'll see about that.

So I've done 2 laundry loads and washed dishes- maybe I'll even get a chance to write a little today!!!

From CE Chaffin's blog

In this enterprise some things occurred to me that may prove helpful to others in the editing process. Here goes:

1) Always suspect the ending. You may have to strike one or more lines. Watch out for dilution, for over-explication.

2) Suspect the first stanza. Often the first stanza is like starter fluid; it’s only there to get the car started, it’s not really part of the car.

3) Transitions from the first to second and from the penultimate to the ultimate stanzas are frequently muddled. Make sure the substance is clear.

4) The title can almost always be improved. Taking a phrase from the emotional climax of the poem is reliable and works well. To make the title a comment on the poem is also good. To make the poem dependent on the title for its full meaning is very good if you sin neither in obviousness or obscurity.

5) Unless you have a very good editor, time is your most valuable ally. Give a bad poem five months in the drawer and when you take it out again you’ll most likely put it out of its misery. With truly inspired poems it’s tempting to go off trying to get the perfect draft the first night, but that way lies madness and robs a poem of its juice, which is hard to recoup. Remember: with each revision you lose a little more juice. Beware an over-reified poem; it is the mark of too many revisions. Such a poem reads unnaturally, perhaps even stilted; it has been sucked dry. (This made me think of Auden for some reason.) ;-)

Someone came to my page by searching "Love Poetry about missing Your girlfriend in Jail"

mmm-okay

I'm riding deadlines here- be backsoon.....

POETRY THURSDAY


Last Supper

Half a dozen words left,
dinner plate, mug,
fork and spoon.

Napkin, tip.

Sooner than expected.
Done.


I'm going to be updating links tonight and tomorrow- if you want in, let me know...

Submit Harlequin, said the Ticktock man!

and I have been submitting, having been most recently rejected by The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and Barrelhouse. Many, many more pending...

Aim high, aim low, I've been advised to do both by respectable people.

Right now, I'd rather have a job than a few poems in high places (no word on that so I'm assuming no)


revising poems, writing a short story

Now this is fun...



Try it yourself-

thanks, C. Dale.

poetry thursday

At the Grocery Store

A chunky little woman in a floral shift danced her cart my way,
admonishing in a clear voice you never can win when I noticed
Cole Porter spilling all over aisle six from tinny speakers embedded
in the acoustic ceiling, unlikely candy for the regulars: shuffling
old men, young mothers in jelly colored tank tops talking intently
to cell phones while perching sticky babies on their boney hips.

The music was ambient corner clutter to them, occupied with coupons,
canned ravioli, fiber content, and pizza rolls. I tried so not to give in
then I lost myself in the bridge, buying croissants, gourmet cheeses-
whirling in elegance and hat box memories I learned from old movies.

By the time the Beguine began, I was heart-clutched in tune with stars
and tropical splendor, singing alone, not sure it wasn’t all in my head.

Check it out!!

My poem "Dreaming Freddie Mercury" is up over at the new issue of The Hiss Quarterly.

I like the set-up!

I'm back- I'm tired- It's hot!

I have a job interview for a gallery administrator position at 5:00- it will be about 101 at that time.

I'm very, very glad I have an air-conditioned car.

crossed-fingers on the job- I really want it AND I need it

more content later.

Poetry Thursday

since my ride is running late (see message below) I'm posting this ol' thang- about sex. There may be a later (better) version, but this is what I found first- It was published in the Melic Review

Sex with Martha Stewart

is white paint on hospital walls,
sterile, silent, no distinction
between corners or ceilings depth,
indeterminate distance, all’s well
in the openness of a waiting room.

First kiss perfunctory, patient.
Lip-to-lip, eyes open, strange
arms in proper places-
cotillion and Arthur Murray
taught us this: observe the form.

Draw back, unbutton her crisp shirt,
slip linen skirt slowly to the floor, reveal
white lace lingerie, soft, sensible,
she stands before you, shoes and silk.
You want her now, like this, quiet,

waiting for direction, lilac-scented.
Place your hand over her heart, feel
her skin warm to your touch, lead her
to your room, if you ask, she will
undress you, slowly: instruct her.

Go by the book, one she didn’t write,
lay her on the bed with shoes still on,
disarm her, sit across the room,
naked, not speaking, not responding,
observe her face and gestures.

She will do what you wish, you have
aroused her by inattention, misdirection.
She is not virginal, nor are you,
there may be things she can teach you.

Above all, do not remove her shoes.

The dashboard will be closed until July 29th, unless I score a friend with a laptop at the West Virginia Writer's Workshop in Morgantown- I have been assigned David Wojahn as a workshop leader- he's a faculty member at Virginia Commonwealth University here in Richmond, ain't that a hoot!

Maybe after this when he sees me at readings, he won't have that vague I-think-I-know-you-but-I'm-not-sure look.

Apologies, sir, if you read this and I have mistaken your expression.

It's always fun-

I just cashed in all the change in the house, I barely have enough cash to go-

but I'm going- (the best part is my family is here at home!!!!!!!)

Poetry Thursday

Alba Hosea, reformed

she has been raised to fear God
and does, until it no longer matters

when the world takes her in as she is
she folds up her heart, hngs it on a string

around her neck with other miracles:
sand dollars, a vial of Jordan River water

she sleeps with prophets and soldiers
taming nausea with ginger root

helping others to rise up from bondage
but not convinced of her own need.

strung out sometimes, she is made
of thin wire, slipping down drainpipes,

rabbit holes, on banana peels to learn
everybody struggles with false gods

but only the real ones win at the last
and croquet is hardly ever involved.

To poets who say I'm not part of the revolution:

Don't talk to me about change

I'm not in a good place right now
and this is not a good time for you
to hand me a platter of metaphors,
tropes, and poetic anarchy, not that
anytime to come will prove better.

You see, I'm like the ten year old
bed wetter who can't get it right
on any kind of consistent basis,
all he can tell is one morning
he's dry, the next he wakes wet.

I like the sequence of five lines,
four verses or more, occasionally
a pick-up couplet at the end
mocking a sonnet, creating out
of a din something orderly.

My words are perfidy and pomp, not
revolution in shaky compromise,
To get this far, I once carved a road
you can't see because it's common
now, everybody goes that way.

I was a child, then I held the hand
of a child. Reach out, it's your turn.

Acceptance from The Hiss Quarterly for Dreaming Freddie Mercury. It's the 'Sanity is a One Trick Pony' issue due out August 1 or thereabouts. Yeah!

2 acceptances and 3 rejections- and a bunch more still out!

AND while I'm on the subject of good news-

Carolyn Kreiter Foronda was sworn in as the next poet laureate of Virginia! She is a wonderful poet and I am proud to count her as a friend. Congratulations, Carolyn!

more poems by Carolyn: Eclectica poem, more info...

Poetry Thursday

Inspired by Ad Tacitum: Renderings from Tacitus by Kevin McFadden
posted on Poetry Daily July 6, 2006


Ad McCartney: Renderings from Paul McCartney

I spent my early life
upstairs on a bus
before they built the road
off the straight and narrow
chasing the running stream
in the heart of the country
where the holy people grow.

There wasn’t any reason left
in the town where I was born
beneath the blue suburban skies,
the fool on the hill
can be heard across
the even landscape.

The silver vibration of a note
in the hall of the great cathedral;
something inside
without a suitcase,
creeping like a nun.

I don’t care how I do it
I will hold you as long as you like,
and when I go away
don’t ever ask me why.
Set aside arrangements to be made
as each green blade stretches for the sun.


Blackbird Singing: Poems and Lyrics 1965-1999, Paul McCartney
Pages referenced to the Norton hardback edition, 2001

Stanza 1: 23.1, 23.5, 23.13, 26.15, 27.5, 28.4, 28.10
Stanza 2: 32.19, 39.1, 44.10, 49.29, 58.3, 59.4
Stanza 3: 79.5, 86.6, 110.7, 111.5, 111.6
Stanza 4: 128.3, 149.5, 154.1, 154.18, 162.7, 174.3

Lady-in-Waiting

Small white rectangle, baby pink half,
the big one the color of Texas clay-
I’ve taken every remedy I have, in spite
of these tokens I still twitch and itch
all night till sunrise backs the blinds,
lightens the air. Under my bloody eyes
are half moons, bruised apple slices
where mischief must have been done.

Not by dancing, though this gown
is not the one I put to bed in
and my slippers are frazzled dull,
unless you’d call a toss and turn a jig,
a furtive pace a worn Whitsunday Ale,
the path to bathroom, kitchen sink,
and hall a shadowed tour of this house
where aegri somnia would be welcome.

I’m up and dozing, misled by a mantra
given in a head shop thirty years past,
my Kammatthana a work in progress.
I am distractible and a sorry pilgrim,
like a fat woman who nibbles at meals
found later gorging from cast-off plates,
there is no sense to the harm I do myself,
as the sky turns the color of baked brie.

Obituary (if you get to the main page, search the Obituaries from the San Francisco Chronicle" using "Talcott")

There may be a few of you who remember when William Talcott came to Richmond (96 or 97) and did readings at Borders on Broad Street and Barnes & Noble when it was at Willow Lawn. He came to Trinity Episcopal School and spent a day with my creative writing students (mostly remembered because we had to meet in the senior lounge because he was a chain smoker and had to leave constantly to go to the edge of the woods-off school property- to smoke).

He wrote "Benita's Book" about his long-term affair with another man's wife, edited the excellent magazine Carbuncle, and was a good friend of Andrei Codrescu.

We had quite a friendship on CompuServe, he was a wonderful person and poet, full of life. I had been thinking of him recently- I lost his email ages ago.