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.

a raw poem, briefly aired

In the dead of february

It comes to words on paper
deep in the night again
TV murmuring gentle pleas
to better myself as if
what I am doesn’t matter
retraining is necessity.

they don’t know I’m weary
with negotiating the maze
(entitled some might say)
I say "deserve" with a wink
prepared to cut back
because I always have.

Nothing feels quite right
though hindsight serves
(or is that experience?)
a friend disavows birthdays
I count each one a triumph
since the odds belittle time

everyone here will likely live
too long (Margaret) or perish
too soon (Thomas) if you think
suicide is a choice God laughs
"best if used by" is not
always an expiration date

The last time death troubled
I was thirty with two babies
fretting they’d never know me
be scarred by the sudden loss
I held them close and wept
swallowing the scent of life.

as a grain of sand on a window sill
is not a beach, no one will recall
this night, this poem, this well
full of cool water, and I am drunk
with the thoughts I gather here.

Happy New Year 2013!

This is going to be a wonderful year!

Some friends have left the room, relatives, too, but I'm still here and getting better.

Thomas, Aunt Margaret- you will always be with me.

No resolutions.

I have recently stopped watching programs called Infotainment or Reality. I can make my own drama. No more following news stories all night that are not local or don't affect me.

(Anderson Cooper Ridiculist and Joel McHale on the Soup don't count).

This is the year my children will blossom into their own. I can feel it. They are poised to experience all life has to offer: success, achievement, and love!

I am so fortunate to have faithful friends and fun things to do, to write, to walk, to enjoy these years as I approach "mature".

Actually, I am finally comfortable with being a grown-up, though a misplaced harsh word can send me into a little girl terror in an instant, so please be thoughtful with your words.

Live long and prosper! My wish for most of us!

To post and not to post

I have been writing my poems in a notebook, an actual paper notebook. With lines.

I am going to post a selection briefly this weekend- then remove by the following Friday (Dec 7).

It's complicated, but some of them made me quite happy and I will be submitting them soon and don't want them overexposed on the internet.

shann

poem-a-day November 2, 2012

A Modern Love Poem

does not depend on proper nouns,
a full moon-boon companion blend,
nor big band sound authority
make-it-real inculcation begs.

No, current trends insist we take
our curiosities outside
for air, bare our skins in public
until we stand invisible.

The shadow cast by nothing is
a moth’s breath, the footstep of fish.
Words can be infinitely moved
meaning nothing, garbled nonsense.

Tell everyone this poem is yours,
how I handpicked each turn of phrase.

Poem a Day November 1at

matchbook sonnet

Your bodyheat caught me unprepared,
the acrid burn of hell and heaven
as our elbows touched, I was consumed.

Defined by intensity, we played
pretend, lips sealed in understanding:
to match is not to go together.

Alone, I am incomplete, jagged
edge catching on the delicate gauze
our story wears in such circumstance.

You are my everyday devotion,
the scripture I carry in my hand,
fingerprints left on piano keys.

On the horizon a meteor
flares and disappears. We are done.

a month since I posted?

where did the time go?

I must be stuck in a crack, my dress wedged firmly in the fissure and I can't pull it loose. I do what I have to but move neither forward nor back.

Maybe it's Pandora at fault. The songs they pick are just right for melancholy, remembering scraps of happy and shreds of miserable.

Joni Mitchell holds me, Lyle makes me homesick, the Wailing Jennys nurture an ache I forgot about.

Fall. Death. Birthdays of people I care about but don't see anymore. Some mornings I can't get out of bed. Some nights I can't get to sleep. I'd forgotten what hungry feels like.

Whatever. You don't have a clue who I am anyway.

Writers reading, stuff like that-

Listed in Style are the latest from the famous and hopeful, legitimate writers with real books--

Calendar HERE

Listed not are the locals, the truly hopefuls who aren't vetted yet, the "rest-of-us", the citizen poets who buy the books the others write. Occasionally, the books are worth the money- sometimes it's just a puzzlement.

Sun the 30th VMFA 3pm readings in the Muse cafe

2nd Friday at art6 7pm, features and open mike (one-two poems)

3rd Thursday at C'est La Vin 6pm, same as above but with music.

every Saturday at 9 at Artspace, Richmond Slam

and Monday night critique group at the Farmhouse Facebook page FMI

all advice/no advice is good advice

all advice/no advice is good advice-

more folks than not try to get away with writing lazy and not doing sufficient rewriting, reading out loud, rethinking-

This is a good start (click here)

in the end, if the poem is good enough there are no rules, or at least no violations. But try, people, try!

Monkey wallpaper as metaphor

They're changing the wall paper in the bathrooms at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden.

Changing.
Wallpaper.
WALLpaper.
Changing.

People have been taking little bits, apparently for years.

Wallpaper.

Granted, it is cute as all get out- monkeys in trees, strong colors: green greens, brown browns, all that.

We also have monuments. Battlefields. Churches where liberty and death were discussed.

And wallpaper.  How many Virginians does it take to change a lightbulb? Five - one to replace the bulb and four to talk about how glorious the old bulb was.

Wallpaper

The story

Too many $%^&* Writers!!!

Here's the original: Is Free Verse Killing Poetry?

Here's the follow-up "too many writers"

yes, I referenced the original in the previous blog post, reposting to save people time.

I guess we've decided poetry matters and is not dead. It's also funny the follow-up mentions this is strictly "first world problem".

Free or Formal? Leave me alone!

Such a silly thing to worry about, but some people who make their living in the academy must keep the argument going so they can keep their jobs, I suppose!


Check the article out HERE

I write what I write. What do you write?

Writing? Reading. What August is good for.

I just realized I hadn't blogged much this month. It's not I'm abandoning the place, rather I have been reading far more than I've been writing.

Sometimes it's good to rest the page, absorb other worlds. I have been jotting down ideas and phrases, my dreams are filled with little plots, glimpses into rooms full of words, but my time has been scattered and muddled.

I do need to keep a reading journal- here's this month in a list:

Inferno, Dante. new translation by Mary Jo Bang
The Magicians, Lev Grossman
(ongoing) The Exegesisof Philip K. Dick
Iron Horse Review recent issue
Edisto, Padgett Powell

There are others- I'll post more soon- those books are what I can see from the computer.

If you don't read, you shouldn't be writing- I absolutely believe that.

More links to Sofia Starnes poet laureate of Virginia

1. poem in Blackbird

2. video reading

3. buy her book from the publisher

4. review

5. another poem

6. The Anglican Theological Review (editor)

7. from Here Comes Everybody

SCOOP! SCOOP! The new poet laureate of Virginia (appointed by the governor with the suggestion of the Poetry Society of Virginia- but don't hold either of those things against her) is: Sofia Starnes, a wonderful poet- bio and links to follow!!

So many words! So much writing!

I spent July writing. Seriously writing. Taking a memoir writing class from Doug Jones at the Visual Arts center on Tuesday nights, attending the West Virginia Writers Woekshop at West Virginia University in Morgantown, and moving words all over the page, then the screen for the entire month. I highly recommend the activity. In the meantime, I won some books from Coffee House Books. I'm really looking forward to their arrival. Not to mention the stack of books from WVA - more about those later. Also taking a slow read thru the Mary Jo Bang translation of Dante's Inferno AND the Exegesis of Philip K. Dick. I can never read just one measly book at a time!

KIN: Songs by Mary Karr and Rodney Crowell

Who doesn't love Mary Karr, her novels and poetry? If you're from Texas it's a done deal. If you and you're people are from East Texas, I don't even know what to say. I'm writing my story- this is some of my soundtrack. Rodney Crowell grew up not too far from where I did. If I close my eyes it's like hearing family talking. I'm hungry for home. Sadly, all I have is what's in my mind.

I hate it when I fall for these things...

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Poetry Magazine and Tony

no, I didn't get a poem accepted because I didn't submit one.

But those of you who know me know how much I adore the way Tony Hoagland
puts words down that seem as though he can read my mind and codify what I need to say.  I don't know why I feel this link to him- it came to me the second I met him, though I had criticised viciously a poem posted at Slate magazine many years ago. Another friend was severly wounded by him and did not write for three years after we encounteered him (in a workshop). I love both of them and this is inexplicable to me.

Hoagland has three poems in the latest issue of Poetry Magazine, the most uneven publication I know.

The first one makes me ache with recognition- There is no word. I have been writing this for years.

The second is Note to Reality and holds the final twist that I find so fascinating about his poetry.

The last is called Don't Tell Anyone and so squarely captures the secrets I carry I wept when I read it.

I know some people like Mary Oliver and her deep nature, or the Dickman's and their cruel humor, but Tony Hoagland and I seem to share a loving cynicism that is only tamped by how we cling to life and all it's disturbing wonders.

My absolute favorite poet, besides myself.