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
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, March 26, 2007
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
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
Monday, March 19, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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 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)
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)
Saturday, February 10, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
This is a HOOT-
chinese rejection
getting ready for First Friday (Feb 2) and my one-woman show (Feb 23)
art 6
chinese rejection
getting ready for First Friday (Feb 2) and my one-woman show (Feb 23)
art 6
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
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
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
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
"Obviously you have mistaken me for a much taller woman"
Come on out!!
- 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!!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
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
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
Saturday, December 16, 2006
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
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
Monday, December 11, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, November 10, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
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 /
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 /
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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)
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)
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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
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
Friday, October 20, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
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)
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)
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Lunch poems in the previous post-
for more choices click HERE
and if that doesn't work, google this-
owner:ucberkeley lunch poems
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] | |
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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!!
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.
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.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
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-
Here IT is-
Monday, September 18, 2006
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-
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-
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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-
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-
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, August 21, 2006
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!!!
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!!!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
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.) ;-)
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.) ;-)
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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...
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
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
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Check it out!!
My poem "Dreaming Freddie Mercury" is up over at the new issue of The Hiss Quarterly.
I like the set-up!
My poem "Dreaming Freddie Mercury" is up over at the new issue of The Hiss Quarterly.
I like the set-up!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
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.
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!!!!!!!)
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!!!!!!!)
Friday, July 14, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
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...
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...
Thursday, July 06, 2006
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
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
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Poetry Thursday- I almost forgot-
Angelina Ballerina
Show your Fosse fingers
and watch the cha-cha start!!
Ultra-Black is the new pink.
Any dream will do what your head
says, think dark thoughts- you should,
nobody loves a goody-toe-shoe.
Even if you fuck up today, shut up
tomorrow. What doesn’t kill, will
codify the princess pea of anger
that keeps you up all night using
profanity. You know, twenty percent
stopped paying attention at ‘fuck’.
So do it for the rest, the eighty-P,
Angie-B, that guy you want is no more
than the sum of his farts, bless his
heart, you gotta have moxie, epoxy,
whatever it takes to enable you to
stick out in a crowd, not by his side.
Take all the Cadillac's in Texas,
line ‘em up and all you get is a line
way too long from here to who cares.
When you dance alone, it’s still a tango.
Angelina Ballerina
Show your Fosse fingers
and watch the cha-cha start!!
Ultra-Black is the new pink.
Any dream will do what your head
says, think dark thoughts- you should,
nobody loves a goody-toe-shoe.
Even if you fuck up today, shut up
tomorrow. What doesn’t kill, will
codify the princess pea of anger
that keeps you up all night using
profanity. You know, twenty percent
stopped paying attention at ‘fuck’.
So do it for the rest, the eighty-P,
Angie-B, that guy you want is no more
than the sum of his farts, bless his
heart, you gotta have moxie, epoxy,
whatever it takes to enable you to
stick out in a crowd, not by his side.
Take all the Cadillac's in Texas,
line ‘em up and all you get is a line
way too long from here to who cares.
When you dance alone, it’s still a tango.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Poetry Thursday
Undertow
I don’t know where
my mother lived before she died,
with a blue lamp,
the what-not shelf,
a cartwheel of snapshots
out of sequence and filled
with strangers, daddy,
who packed an eclair
in my lunch box each morning
with unsweetened tea
in a thermos, to
promote independence.
A chair forgets
the shape of its owner, in time
a hand print fades, painted
over in Williamsburg Blue
there is a color
no one remembers
the sibilant chant, names
rustling through the willows.
In this foreign land,
I have forgotten the tune.
Undertow
I don’t know where
my mother lived before she died,
with a blue lamp,
the what-not shelf,
a cartwheel of snapshots
out of sequence and filled
with strangers, daddy,
who packed an eclair
in my lunch box each morning
with unsweetened tea
in a thermos, to
promote independence.
A chair forgets
the shape of its owner, in time
a hand print fades, painted
over in Williamsburg Blue
there is a color
no one remembers
the sibilant chant, names
rustling through the willows.
In this foreign land,
I have forgotten the tune.
Monday, June 19, 2006
We have a team for the National Slam- it was a great time, a great crowd, and the team is strong- more later.
June 20th is my 25th wedding anniversary. My children are 22 and 18. I have lived in this house 21 years. I have lost 15 pounds since quitting my job March 17. My in-laws will be here for a visit in 11 days.
I have 44 poems in circulation to 14 magazines, 3 have replied, 2 poems accepted.
There are six peaches ripening in the kitchen, and one cantaloupe.
It is 10 days until I get another paycheck.
I feel empty and without purpose.
June 20th is my 25th wedding anniversary. My children are 22 and 18. I have lived in this house 21 years. I have lost 15 pounds since quitting my job March 17. My in-laws will be here for a visit in 11 days.
I have 44 poems in circulation to 14 magazines, 3 have replied, 2 poems accepted.
There are six peaches ripening in the kitchen, and one cantaloupe.
It is 10 days until I get another paycheck.
I feel empty and without purpose.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday poem:
Annabel Lee of Dumbarton
Mornings, weekdays, she makes the trek
from Azalea Avenue to Hermitage Rd.
with a blue visor and cane. We note time
from her locus on the curve. Too far down
and we’re late again, mid-way, we’re okay,
no specious excuses to be made at school.
Imagine that she sells tricks at Divine Magic
in the strip mall at the bottom of the hill,
or shoots pool at the Luxor Salon next door.
More likely she’s out for her daily exercise
a suggestion from her young gerontologist
at Westminster-Canterbury, senior home.
We depend on her to be our railroad whistle,
rooster, church bell that marks our passing,
in rain we are but a white Volvo slipping
through layers of time between concrete
and sodden clouds, no wizened beldame
to prophesy, recall jonquils, quote Poe.
If Annabel is not her name, it should be,
or Alice, who leaves us to wonder, does she
speak to ghosts at Upham Brook, soldiers,
the woman swept from her car by Gaston?
Anywhere you go around here, the past
intrudes, watches from the kudzu shadow.
Annabel Lee of Dumbarton
Mornings, weekdays, she makes the trek
from Azalea Avenue to Hermitage Rd.
with a blue visor and cane. We note time
from her locus on the curve. Too far down
and we’re late again, mid-way, we’re okay,
no specious excuses to be made at school.
Imagine that she sells tricks at Divine Magic
in the strip mall at the bottom of the hill,
or shoots pool at the Luxor Salon next door.
More likely she’s out for her daily exercise
a suggestion from her young gerontologist
at Westminster-Canterbury, senior home.
We depend on her to be our railroad whistle,
rooster, church bell that marks our passing,
in rain we are but a white Volvo slipping
through layers of time between concrete
and sodden clouds, no wizened beldame
to prophesy, recall jonquils, quote Poe.
If Annabel is not her name, it should be,
or Alice, who leaves us to wonder, does she
speak to ghosts at Upham Brook, soldiers,
the woman swept from her car by Gaston?
Anywhere you go around here, the past
intrudes, watches from the kudzu shadow.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
It's raining, which we need, but I don't-
wrote last night while trying to settle myself into a state of peace
Daily obligations
performed without guile,
sans excessive history, spill
into meditation, medication
for the sin-sick soul, a balm,
not to be mistaken for a cure;
a tsouris- that which troubles.
Dishes, mail, errands, trash,
bedclothes, linens; reinforce,
drive the deeds as they come,
the days tumble unrecorded.
The art of doing simple,
the mastery in not losing
countless hours to broken sleep,
worry of what's to come, as
ocean turned to mountain range-
we are vast, hard to navigate,
ways set before our being, we are
lead to tasks, obligations, daily.
wrote last night while trying to settle myself into a state of peace
Daily obligations
performed without guile,
sans excessive history, spill
into meditation, medication
for the sin-sick soul, a balm,
not to be mistaken for a cure;
a tsouris- that which troubles.
Dishes, mail, errands, trash,
bedclothes, linens; reinforce,
drive the deeds as they come,
the days tumble unrecorded.
The art of doing simple,
the mastery in not losing
countless hours to broken sleep,
worry of what's to come, as
ocean turned to mountain range-
we are vast, hard to navigate,
ways set before our being, we are
lead to tasks, obligations, daily.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
read this- Kay Day's take on the state of lit-
The local James River Writers Festival doesn't list any poets (yet)- last year there were two 'panels' with local people, mostly (at least those that showed up). The best for me was meeting Reb Livingston-
wait- I just checked- there are SIX poets listed for 'panels'. Of course five are local and so well known around here I can quote some of their poetry- the one exception being Elena Georgiou - who I've never heard of but went to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts-
I may as well go to Dodge- it's the same weekend, I hear.
The local James River Writers Festival doesn't list any poets (yet)- last year there were two 'panels' with local people, mostly (at least those that showed up). The best for me was meeting Reb Livingston-
wait- I just checked- there are SIX poets listed for 'panels'. Of course five are local and so well known around here I can quote some of their poetry- the one exception being Elena Georgiou - who I've never heard of but went to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts-
I may as well go to Dodge- it's the same weekend, I hear.
Well, tomorrow IS the big day- the daughter graduates from high school. 3pm (as does my friend Dave's in PA- big hugs to you and yours!)
She has so many different cords (Center for the Arts-vocal music theater and art, Thespians, the school color cords) she looks like a de colores bumper sticker on a white car-
She made her dress out of remnants of white eyelet- made it today- it's gorgeous and cost her about $10 and $2 of that was for the invisible zipper- while we were at the fabric store the mother and daughter in front of us were buying for a dress project they were going to work on for the summer- if all went well "she'll make her prom dress for next spring!"
The daughter looked at me with THAT look- she's finishing up 5 costumes for the AnimeCon this weekend- Tokoyomew-mew- wigs, boots, elaborate costumes for herself and four friends. They will be awesomely hot, as her boyfriend said!
After getting ready, doing other stuff this weekend, and unexpected guests from out of town- not for graduation, just passing through- I was off kilter and tired so missed the Shockoe reading today and the art6 meeting. Such is life- my family comes first, poetry gets plenty of time-just not this weekend.
No Jam at Cafe Gutenburg tomorrow night- good thing- we'll probably take her out to dinner.
Tuesday morning I take her to get drug test and physical for her summer full-time job as a costumer for Parks & Recs/Dogwood Dell performance program.
Then I get some of my days back for poetry-
Tuesday night 7:30 pm Barnes&Noble Libbie Place
Wednesday night 6:00 pm Carytown books poetry group
Saturday night 8:00pm Womenspeak at art6 - I'm one of the readers
Y'all come.
She has so many different cords (Center for the Arts-vocal music theater and art, Thespians, the school color cords) she looks like a de colores bumper sticker on a white car-
She made her dress out of remnants of white eyelet- made it today- it's gorgeous and cost her about $10 and $2 of that was for the invisible zipper- while we were at the fabric store the mother and daughter in front of us were buying for a dress project they were going to work on for the summer- if all went well "she'll make her prom dress for next spring!"
The daughter looked at me with THAT look- she's finishing up 5 costumes for the AnimeCon this weekend- Tokoyomew-mew- wigs, boots, elaborate costumes for herself and four friends. They will be awesomely hot, as her boyfriend said!
After getting ready, doing other stuff this weekend, and unexpected guests from out of town- not for graduation, just passing through- I was off kilter and tired so missed the Shockoe reading today and the art6 meeting. Such is life- my family comes first, poetry gets plenty of time-just not this weekend.
No Jam at Cafe Gutenburg tomorrow night- good thing- we'll probably take her out to dinner.
Tuesday morning I take her to get drug test and physical for her summer full-time job as a costumer for Parks & Recs/Dogwood Dell performance program.
Then I get some of my days back for poetry-
Tuesday night 7:30 pm Barnes&Noble Libbie Place
Wednesday night 6:00 pm Carytown books poetry group
Saturday night 8:00pm Womenspeak at art6 - I'm one of the readers
Y'all come.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
It's Poetry Thursdsay
Opportunity
By the time I get time
to call you, it’s too late:
you’re out on a run or
home where I’m never
sure if hearing from me
is what you need right
now with her and them
and supper needing to
be cooked, consumed,
cleaned-up after, her or
someone else craving
your voice for comfort
more, far away as I am
not really alone either
only lonely for an ear
to fill with what I can’t
or won’t say here, so
I dial seven of eleven
numbers, hang up, talk
myself out of the need
to ramble off in all the
directions I do whenever
we talk, if I can recreate
how I feel when you
soothe my restlessness
like nothing else can,
no one else does, I won’t
have to call right now,
too late, give myself
permission to wait till
tomorrow when maybe
I’ll get the opportunity
in time to call you before
everything gets all crazy
complicated like today.
Opportunity
By the time I get time
to call you, it’s too late:
you’re out on a run or
home where I’m never
sure if hearing from me
is what you need right
now with her and them
and supper needing to
be cooked, consumed,
cleaned-up after, her or
someone else craving
your voice for comfort
more, far away as I am
not really alone either
only lonely for an ear
to fill with what I can’t
or won’t say here, so
I dial seven of eleven
numbers, hang up, talk
myself out of the need
to ramble off in all the
directions I do whenever
we talk, if I can recreate
how I feel when you
soothe my restlessness
like nothing else can,
no one else does, I won’t
have to call right now,
too late, give myself
permission to wait till
tomorrow when maybe
I’ll get the opportunity
in time to call you before
everything gets all crazy
complicated like today.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A change of pace-
I want to recommend one of my favorite writers- Sheri Reynolds
Her first book Bitterroot Landing was recommended by a friend who did a lit circle for a women's group. I read it in one sitting, the people in the story were very real to me, I don't think I've ever been so affected by a book.
other books are: The Rapture of Canaan an Oprah pick- but please don't hold that against her, A Gracious Plenty, and her latest (long-awaited) The Firefly Cloak.
She has the most wonderful way of fleshing out characters, or maybe she knows many of the same people I do, past and present.
I don't think she's strictly a 'chick-lit' writer- I think she captures certain aspects of a southern life that few others have. She speaks to me. Read her.
I want to recommend one of my favorite writers- Sheri Reynolds
Her first book Bitterroot Landing was recommended by a friend who did a lit circle for a women's group. I read it in one sitting, the people in the story were very real to me, I don't think I've ever been so affected by a book.
other books are: The Rapture of Canaan an Oprah pick- but please don't hold that against her, A Gracious Plenty, and her latest (long-awaited) The Firefly Cloak.
She has the most wonderful way of fleshing out characters, or maybe she knows many of the same people I do, past and present.
I don't think she's strictly a 'chick-lit' writer- I think she captures certain aspects of a southern life that few others have. She speaks to me. Read her.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Here is a WONDERFUL article on the state of narrative poetry.
Of course, the article cites Tony Hoagland- one of my MOST favorite poets.
read it- read it- then write!!!
Of course, the article cites Tony Hoagland- one of my MOST favorite poets.
read it- read it- then write!!!
Tonight's the last qualifier for the SlamRichmond event- the best of the best will compete in 2 weeks for positions on the team that will go to the nationals at Austin in August.
Austin in August??? Who thought that was a good place to hold a hot poetry fest???
It's a big world out there, plenty of poetry pie for everyone. Particularly here in Central Virginia, in America. Seven nights in every week, fifty-two weeks in a year.
Pay attention.
Austin in August??? Who thought that was a good place to hold a hot poetry fest???
It's a big world out there, plenty of poetry pie for everyone. Particularly here in Central Virginia, in America. Seven nights in every week, fifty-two weeks in a year.
Pay attention.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Thursday poem:
Anglophile
She fancies herself an heiress,
a horsy sort with closets full
of Harris tweeds and skeletons,
sensible shoes, nubbly woolen socks.
BBC America is the only thing she cares
to watch, “Local news is so absurd!”
Names her cat Miss Marple, and each day
at four o’clock, they share scones and tea.
Never mentions any kind of family,
that crusty bunch in Pittsburgh
to whom she feigns an accent
when they call, she keeps it short.
They can have their coal and steel,
she writes poetry now about a cottage
where she didn’t live, a schoolyard
near a church she’s never seen.
Having recently learned to tat, each knot
starves a memory while cinching
in its place a lovely bit of fantasy,
shoring up a lacy fine facade.
An unsophisticated visitor might think
she’s UK born, not Pennsylvania poor,
a dainty London bloom transplanted,
widowed in a walk-up far from home.
Her obituary written, it hangs beside
the ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ instructions
at her door. Then she’ll be as she wanted:
someone else, and something more.
Anglophile
She fancies herself an heiress,
a horsy sort with closets full
of Harris tweeds and skeletons,
sensible shoes, nubbly woolen socks.
BBC America is the only thing she cares
to watch, “Local news is so absurd!”
Names her cat Miss Marple, and each day
at four o’clock, they share scones and tea.
Never mentions any kind of family,
that crusty bunch in Pittsburgh
to whom she feigns an accent
when they call, she keeps it short.
They can have their coal and steel,
she writes poetry now about a cottage
where she didn’t live, a schoolyard
near a church she’s never seen.
Having recently learned to tat, each knot
starves a memory while cinching
in its place a lovely bit of fantasy,
shoring up a lacy fine facade.
An unsophisticated visitor might think
she’s UK born, not Pennsylvania poor,
a dainty London bloom transplanted,
widowed in a walk-up far from home.
Her obituary written, it hangs beside
the ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ instructions
at her door. Then she’ll be as she wanted:
someone else, and something more.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Support Your Local Poets!
How hard is this? Why do people insist upon cross-scheduling events when all they have to do is check around a few calendars here and there?
In the next two weeks there are two groups in Richmond that have scheduled events on the same night- two had been scheduled since at least April 1st, and the other two slipped in just this week (one yesterday morning) and plopped on top of the others.
These are events that involve the same set of poets, and are not distinct enough to seek different audiences (for instance- if the University MFA's had a reading and the Slam poets had a reading the crossover is inconsequential- a couple of poets and myself might have to choose).
SUPPORT your local poets- your friends, your colleagues, your fellow toilers in the field of words.
How hard is this? Why do people insist upon cross-scheduling events when all they have to do is check around a few calendars here and there?
In the next two weeks there are two groups in Richmond that have scheduled events on the same night- two had been scheduled since at least April 1st, and the other two slipped in just this week (one yesterday morning) and plopped on top of the others.
These are events that involve the same set of poets, and are not distinct enough to seek different audiences (for instance- if the University MFA's had a reading and the Slam poets had a reading the crossover is inconsequential- a couple of poets and myself might have to choose).
SUPPORT your local poets- your friends, your colleagues, your fellow toilers in the field of words.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Thursday Poem
Absolute
Shoving full paper bags into the trunk,
she pauses only to rub eye to sleeve
nose to wrist, she has wept enough.
A pillar,a cellar,a shaker,a lick,
cracked with disappointment,
she leaves hard, eaten away.
Their final argument stands,
there is No, there is Yes, there is
a staircase going down and up
tipped on its side, every step
becomes a corner, every move lateral,
que sera, she whispers, que sera.
Whatever fits will go, one carload.
The rest is his and welcome to it-
skillets hold memories, pillows too.
For now, to be alone suits just fine,
the dust she leaves tells the story,
she shakes it off her feet, drives away.
Absolute
Shoving full paper bags into the trunk,
she pauses only to rub eye to sleeve
nose to wrist, she has wept enough.
A pillar,a cellar,a shaker,a lick,
cracked with disappointment,
she leaves hard, eaten away.
Their final argument stands,
there is No, there is Yes, there is
a staircase going down and up
tipped on its side, every step
becomes a corner, every move lateral,
que sera, she whispers, que sera.
Whatever fits will go, one carload.
The rest is his and welcome to it-
skillets hold memories, pillows too.
For now, to be alone suits just fine,
the dust she leaves tells the story,
she shakes it off her feet, drives away.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
George Garrett is the 2006 winner of the Weinstein Poetry Prize for Central Virginia.
It's a $10,000 annual prize BTW. He's a wonderful choice. A great man.
I would be too, someday.
I do a lot for poetry in Central Virginia, but there's that academic bias and the lack of a published book. I suspect there is an unwritten list somewhere of all the people that have to get it before anyone 'out of the club' can be considered. I should live so long.
I've got issues, don't I?
It's a $10,000 annual prize BTW. He's a wonderful choice. A great man.
I would be too, someday.
I do a lot for poetry in Central Virginia, but there's that academic bias and the lack of a published book. I suspect there is an unwritten list somewhere of all the people that have to get it before anyone 'out of the club' can be considered. I should live so long.
I've got issues, don't I?
The Poetry festival was fun, sort of, sort of not. I always enjoy the people.
Two speakers on Friday were subs (Claudia Emerson's brother died so she was not with us, the other scheduled speaker also had a death in the family) but Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda and Sophia Starnes, both Virginia poets, did a great job of filling in- the third speaker, a poetry professor (I will not name) and frequent speaker was strangely aloof and gave a 'free' lecture (his words) and read hardly any poetry. He was kind of full of attitude.
The last event was a dreadful horrible 'poetry play' about Jamestown and the 400th year celebration. I'm not even sure- it was painful, except for one part in the middle where a woman (well-known around here) did her thing poetry-wise. Guitar, clarinet, drum, and 3 speakers. HORRIBLE!!!! I only hope people in Virginia don't see this thing and think that's what poetry is supposed to be. My teeth still hurt.
Friday night party in my room was GREAT! Saturday, with readings and meetings, and a few more tedious sessions before the Slam was bearable. the slam was hot.
Was it worth $140 bucks??? (meals, hotel, registration) Not so much, but then again, I'm low on cash this year because of the job thing.
They would have talked about me if I hadn't gone.
Two speakers on Friday were subs (Claudia Emerson's brother died so she was not with us, the other scheduled speaker also had a death in the family) but Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda and Sophia Starnes, both Virginia poets, did a great job of filling in- the third speaker, a poetry professor (I will not name) and frequent speaker was strangely aloof and gave a 'free' lecture (his words) and read hardly any poetry. He was kind of full of attitude.
The last event was a dreadful horrible 'poetry play' about Jamestown and the 400th year celebration. I'm not even sure- it was painful, except for one part in the middle where a woman (well-known around here) did her thing poetry-wise. Guitar, clarinet, drum, and 3 speakers. HORRIBLE!!!! I only hope people in Virginia don't see this thing and think that's what poetry is supposed to be. My teeth still hurt.
Friday night party in my room was GREAT! Saturday, with readings and meetings, and a few more tedious sessions before the Slam was bearable. the slam was hot.
Was it worth $140 bucks??? (meals, hotel, registration) Not so much, but then again, I'm low on cash this year because of the job thing.
They would have talked about me if I hadn't gone.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Thursday poem (if I haven't gone to bed yet, it's still Thursday, right?)
Anticipation
with a nod to Bertolt Brecht
She will grovel and fetch,
stay below stairs, behind doors
that she might swot power
from understanding this:
she wants everything
they have, Pirate Jenny reborn.
As she wipes their leavings
from tables, floors, walls,
under toilet seats; she lists
each grind behind her lids
in a second set of books,
where accounting lies
for opportunity to sail in
when she will number hours,
convict by actuation,
cull, prepared to be quick
or dead, there is no middle,
ground underfoot too long
she will rise hard, refined
in fury’s fire, made from
the slop of men, squeezed
into the bucket knowing
her rightful place awaits
she takes to mop again, soon.
Anticipation
with a nod to Bertolt Brecht
She will grovel and fetch,
stay below stairs, behind doors
that she might swot power
from understanding this:
she wants everything
they have, Pirate Jenny reborn.
As she wipes their leavings
from tables, floors, walls,
under toilet seats; she lists
each grind behind her lids
in a second set of books,
where accounting lies
for opportunity to sail in
when she will number hours,
convict by actuation,
cull, prepared to be quick
or dead, there is no middle,
ground underfoot too long
she will rise hard, refined
in fury’s fire, made from
the slop of men, squeezed
into the bucket knowing
her rightful place awaits
she takes to mop again, soon.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Thursday poem
Piano Interlude
Thursday afternoon
births static tension
turning to thunder,
louder, harder when
five fingers know,
then ten, what action
the progression intends.
Lean in to play staccato,
hunch, hover low,
move slow, recreate,
instigate a melody,
bind the tune, there
in the crook of your arm,
let the cadence wind out
as sound fades into rumble
from a far off place.
Hold the pedal down,
stay still hands on ivory,
listen, wait, listen.
Piano Interlude
Thursday afternoon
births static tension
turning to thunder,
louder, harder when
five fingers know,
then ten, what action
the progression intends.
Lean in to play staccato,
hunch, hover low,
move slow, recreate,
instigate a melody,
bind the tune, there
in the crook of your arm,
let the cadence wind out
as sound fades into rumble
from a far off place.
Hold the pedal down,
stay still hands on ivory,
listen, wait, listen.
Monday, May 08, 2006
reading today-
links to articles about plagarists from harvard, funa facts, and the crazy book world
listening to (while reading- I AM a multitasker)
Mobylives, my favorite place- listen to the last interview- should be people who use cell phnes in libraries be shot? I think so-
The more I read about publishing, the less I want to, even if I ever finish my book and fix all my short stories for the world to see- I think I'll stick with my little chapbooks for now- see below to order-
links to articles about plagarists from harvard, funa facts, and the crazy book world
listening to (while reading- I AM a multitasker)
Mobylives, my favorite place- listen to the last interview- should be people who use cell phnes in libraries be shot? I think so-
The more I read about publishing, the less I want to, even if I ever finish my book and fix all my short stories for the world to see- I think I'll stick with my little chapbooks for now- see below to order-
Saturday, May 06, 2006
What a day!
My daughter's 18th birthday-
First Friday at the gallery (art6)
Slow crowds (1007) okay- it's Cinco de Mayo and Nascar weekend but
geez- the gallery needed to make a little cash-
and
I managed to lose $100 of what we did make- whenever the cash box gets five $20's- I take them out and put them elsewhere- just a precautionary thing-
but somehow tonight I managed to lose $100.
Yes, I've looked everywhere- I think it slipped out of my bra (yes, my bra) and someone picked it up.
I have no idea where I will get the money to replace it- twenty months (plus extra performances) I have been doing this and I have never lost a dime, and in fact have MADE money for the gallery.
This is crazy.
My daughter's 18th birthday-
First Friday at the gallery (art6)
Slow crowds (1007) okay- it's Cinco de Mayo and Nascar weekend but
geez- the gallery needed to make a little cash-
and
I managed to lose $100 of what we did make- whenever the cash box gets five $20's- I take them out and put them elsewhere- just a precautionary thing-
but somehow tonight I managed to lose $100.
Yes, I've looked everywhere- I think it slipped out of my bra (yes, my bra) and someone picked it up.
I have no idea where I will get the money to replace it- twenty months (plus extra performances) I have been doing this and I have never lost a dime, and in fact have MADE money for the gallery.
This is crazy.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
A respite from constant writing- I'm now revising like crazy, getting ready for a reading in Williamsburg on Saturday, washing bedclothes (first of the month), and going back to the high school to play piano for the senior showcase.
Some thoughts- That Harvard kid accused of plagarizing? I think there's more to it than dirty dealings and 'absorption' of other books.
I think a lot of the problem is: all the books she's accused of lifting from are cookie cutter anyway, as are many of the adult feel good trade paperbacks you find at the front tables at bookstores and big stacks at Costco.
Have you looked at the passages they cite as copied? It's all vapid- young girl-speak to common shared cultural experiences (Indian, my ass- it's the same everywhere- certain dishes on special days, the way a place smells in your memory).
She's simply not a good enough writer to be able to write more complex prose- it's juvenile fiction basically- meant to be read by young girls. Give her twenty years and some real issues, then we'll see.
And shame on the people who raised her up for their own gain- shame, shame, shame!
Some thoughts- That Harvard kid accused of plagarizing? I think there's more to it than dirty dealings and 'absorption' of other books.
I think a lot of the problem is: all the books she's accused of lifting from are cookie cutter anyway, as are many of the adult feel good trade paperbacks you find at the front tables at bookstores and big stacks at Costco.
Have you looked at the passages they cite as copied? It's all vapid- young girl-speak to common shared cultural experiences (Indian, my ass- it's the same everywhere- certain dishes on special days, the way a place smells in your memory).
She's simply not a good enough writer to be able to write more complex prose- it's juvenile fiction basically- meant to be read by young girls. Give her twenty years and some real issues, then we'll see.
And shame on the people who raised her up for their own gain- shame, shame, shame!
Friday, April 28, 2006
I'm off in about forty-five minutes for a church retreat at Shrinemont, the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia's home in the Appalachians- the place used to be a high-class hot springs for wealthy Washingtonians, fell into near ruin, and was purchased by the church. I have few responsibilities, just leading music, and so can rest, relax, and eat the fabulous food they serve.
The final three poems will be posted Sunday night, but written daily, as promised.
Have a great weekend, y'all!
The final three poems will be posted Sunday night, but written daily, as promised.
Have a great weekend, y'all!
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
A Virginia poet makes good- see here
Listen to her here and here
She's been to Richmond to read a few times, she's really charming and her poetry has all the comfort of a well-built house with all the extra details you could want.
It's good to see a new woman on the national front, this should increase her speaking fees (I hope so, for her sake).
and I've got her books- signed, so there!
Listen to her here and here
She's been to Richmond to read a few times, she's really charming and her poetry has all the comfort of a well-built house with all the extra details you could want.
It's good to see a new woman on the national front, this should increase her speaking fees (I hope so, for her sake).
and I've got her books- signed, so there!
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Thanks, J.B.Rowell-
JANE KENYON
Depression
. . . a mote. A little world. Dusty. Dusty.
The universe is dust. Who can bear it?
Christ comes. The women feed him, bathe his feet
with tears, bring spices, find the empty tomb,
burst out to tell the men, are not believed. . . .
JANE KENYON
Depression
. . . a mote. A little world. Dusty. Dusty.
The universe is dust. Who can bear it?
Christ comes. The women feed him, bathe his feet
with tears, bring spices, find the empty tomb,
burst out to tell the men, are not believed. . . .
There's an awful lot of slapping & snapping going on the the blog world about the PW article and the consequent male/fem debate (ha!) going on.
I write- occasionally comment- isn't that enough?
apparently not
I write- occasionally comment- isn't that enough?
apparently not
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
I go to so many poetry readings and open mikes- here's an article that everyone should be able to use, at least some part-
not a bad book either-
not a bad book either-
Monday, April 10, 2006
It's true- web publishing is legit- Publisher's Weekly says so here.
It even mentions La Petite Zine, yours truly being editor of issues 2 & 3.
more poetry, better distribution, books sold-
that's that.
It even mentions La Petite Zine, yours truly being editor of issues 2 & 3.
more poetry, better distribution, books sold-
that's that.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
There is much discussion on the net about the "new narrative." Here's a page by Dana Gioia.
I think I have always written this way- Ruby Redd (scroll down), Scavenger-The Junkman's Tale (won a prize not online), my April 5 NaPoMo entry.
They don't rhyme, aren't ballads, but have the same flow. Thoughts on your work?
And now for something completely different-
here's an interesting request-
bleeding on the page- submit now!
I wrote mine with a tampon
I think I have always written this way- Ruby Redd (scroll down), Scavenger-The Junkman's Tale (won a prize not online), my April 5 NaPoMo entry.
They don't rhyme, aren't ballads, but have the same flow. Thoughts on your work?
And now for something completely different-
here's an interesting request-
bleeding on the page- submit now!
I wrote mine with a tampon
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Collision, Coarse
There once was a woman who loved a certain man
more than life; more than her own, in any case.
She was known to boast “I’d take a bullet for him”
but the opportunity was unlikely, and she remained
untried, left to let her brazen words lie unproven.
What might happen in the face of such devotion?
The question speculative and moot, at best- truth
less interesting than might be hoped; she lived,
he lived, there is no more. Nothing passed between.
They love in some alternative universe, a place
where they do not is somewhere else, perhaps
in this space, their love is unfulfilled, unreal.
Irony stays bitter only briefly, on the tongue
hope is alive, still thriving, better love concrete.
There once was a woman who loved a certain man
more than life; more than her own, in any case.
She was known to boast “I’d take a bullet for him”
but the opportunity was unlikely, and she remained
untried, left to let her brazen words lie unproven.
What might happen in the face of such devotion?
The question speculative and moot, at best- truth
less interesting than might be hoped; she lived,
he lived, there is no more. Nothing passed between.
They love in some alternative universe, a place
where they do not is somewhere else, perhaps
in this space, their love is unfulfilled, unreal.
Irony stays bitter only briefly, on the tongue
hope is alive, still thriving, better love concrete.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Collusion Course
We are so far apart and so close
together we become better irony
to spite the price of fuel and food,
tooled in disturbed habitats, we are
luculent dandelions, everywhere.
Another choice each hour episodic:
epistolary whispers, hoarse blankets,
video killed the radical star, who
never bothered to bank a nickel bag
leaving the fans broke and prayerless.
They've got a wall in China, a whale
of a wall, even Jonah knew to turn
back, fall out of time, save daylight
himself, by Jove, Jehovah, the dark
knows when to be patient, patiently.
Only male poets are fat, old women
get more respect but not much longer,
better to show cleavage than cleave
in mid-air, the ground below looks
up and waits, like a clock, for us all.
after, somewhat, jacques brel
We are so far apart and so close
together we become better irony
to spite the price of fuel and food,
tooled in disturbed habitats, we are
luculent dandelions, everywhere.
Another choice each hour episodic:
epistolary whispers, hoarse blankets,
video killed the radical star, who
never bothered to bank a nickel bag
leaving the fans broke and prayerless.
They've got a wall in China, a whale
of a wall, even Jonah knew to turn
back, fall out of time, save daylight
himself, by Jove, Jehovah, the dark
knows when to be patient, patiently.
Only male poets are fat, old women
get more respect but not much longer,
better to show cleavage than cleave
in mid-air, the ground below looks
up and waits, like a clock, for us all.
after, somewhat, jacques brel
An interesting event review by Daniel Nester- toward the end is this paragraph
I’m not saying the audience is rude, but if I were a book reviewer from, say, Sheboygan, Wisconsin, I might chat over the poetry segment too, especially given the relative unfamiliarity of the nominees this year. Even Jack Gilbert, a “poet’s poet,” older than the other nominees by an average 35 years, is a relative recluse. How would a general audience recognize any of these names?
I read a lot of poetry and all the names were familiar to me- I even have books by three of them- does he mean 'general public' audience or 'poetry-reading' audience?
hmmm
I 'met' (over the phone) Daniel Nester when a certain zine owner dumped me from his roster because (I believe) he wanted a younger, hipper editor- (I did 2 very good issues which are not archived on the site) Nester has since left the fold- or was also forced out because he didn't kowtow properly (either).
He seemed very nice- a regular guy, I suppose.
Back to local events- the Just Poetry Slam was last night- loooooooooooong poems- I really like the official designation of three minutes for read poems. Like a good sermon, a good poem can be honed to perfect in that amount of time IMO. After that, it becomes more of a dramatic monologue than a poem- a story, a narrative.
I attended the DC Slam on Sunday night- a refreshing sip of poetry, I wish more locals would go and hear a different viewpoint.
2nd SlamRichmond on April 3rd (and come out for the April 2nd Tenth National Poetry Month Open Reading at Artspace at 4pm.
I’m not saying the audience is rude, but if I were a book reviewer from, say, Sheboygan, Wisconsin, I might chat over the poetry segment too, especially given the relative unfamiliarity of the nominees this year. Even Jack Gilbert, a “poet’s poet,” older than the other nominees by an average 35 years, is a relative recluse. How would a general audience recognize any of these names?
I read a lot of poetry and all the names were familiar to me- I even have books by three of them- does he mean 'general public' audience or 'poetry-reading' audience?
hmmm
I 'met' (over the phone) Daniel Nester when a certain zine owner dumped me from his roster because (I believe) he wanted a younger, hipper editor- (I did 2 very good issues which are not archived on the site) Nester has since left the fold- or was also forced out because he didn't kowtow properly (either).
He seemed very nice- a regular guy, I suppose.
Back to local events- the Just Poetry Slam was last night- loooooooooooong poems- I really like the official designation of three minutes for read poems. Like a good sermon, a good poem can be honed to perfect in that amount of time IMO. After that, it becomes more of a dramatic monologue than a poem- a story, a narrative.
I attended the DC Slam on Sunday night- a refreshing sip of poetry, I wish more locals would go and hear a different viewpoint.
2nd SlamRichmond on April 3rd (and come out for the April 2nd Tenth National Poetry Month Open Reading at Artspace at 4pm.
Monday, March 27, 2006
from my high school listserve- I didn't actually graduate from La Porte High School because my parents took off for Arizona over Thanksgiving break in 1967- so I walked the walk at Tucson High in Arizona, but I'm a Texan all the way through-
some little known Texas facts:
El Paso is as close California as it is to Dallas
World's first rodeo was in Pecos... July 4, 1883.
The Flagship Hotel in Galveston is the only hotel in North America built
over water.
The Heisman Trophy was named after John William Heisman who was the first
full time coach for Rice University in Houston.
Brazoria County has more species of birds than any other area in North
America.
Aransas Wildlife Refuge is the winter home of North America's only remaining
flock of whooping cranes.
Jalapeno jelly originated in Lake Jackson in 1978.
The worst natural disaster in U.S. history was in 1900 caused by a hurricane
in which over 8000 lives were lost on Galveston Island.
The first word spoken from the moon, July 20, 1969, was " Houston.."
King Ranch is larger than Rhode Island.
Tropical Storm Claudette brought a U.S. rainfall record of 43" in 24 hours
in and around Alvin in July 1979.
Texas is the only state to enter the U.S. by TREATY, instead of by
annexation. (This allows the Texas flag to fly at the same height as the US
flag.)
A Live Oak tree near Fulton is estimated to be 1500 years old.
Caddo Lake is the only natural lake in the state.
Dr Pepper was invented in Waco in 1885. There is no period after Dr in Dr
Pepper.
Texas has had six capital cities:.
1. Washington-on-the-Brazos
2. Harrisburg
3. Galveston
4. Velasco
5. West Columbia
6. Austin
The Capitol Dome in Austin is the only dome in the U.S. which is taller than
the Capitol Building in Washington D.C (by 7 feet).
The name Texas comes from the Hasini Indian word "tejas" meaning friends.
Tejas is not Spanish for Texas.
The State animal is the Armadillo. (An interesting bit of trivia about the
armadillo is they always have four babies! They have one egg which splits
Into four and they either have four males or four females. (Well. I thought
it was interesting anyway!)
The first domed stadium in the U.S. was the Astrodome in Houston.
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS - TEXAS STYLE
People here in Texas have trouble with all those shalls and shall nots in
the Ten Commandments. Folks here just aren't used to talking in those terms.
So, some folks out in west Texas got together and translated the "King
James" version into "King Ranch" version: Ten Commandments, cowboy style.
Cowboy's Ten Commandments posted on the wall at Cross Trails Church in
Fairlie, Texas .
(1) Just one God.
(2) Honor yer Ma & Pa.
(3) No telling tales or gossipin'.
(4) Git yourself to Sunday meeting.
(5) Put nothin' before God.
(6) No foolin' around with another fellow's gal.
(7) No killin'.
(8) Watch yer mouth.
(9) Don't take what ain't yers.
(10) Don't be hankerin' for yer buddy's stuff.
forgive me, please- I couldn't help myself-
some little known Texas facts:
El Paso is as close California as it is to Dallas
World's first rodeo was in Pecos... July 4, 1883.
The Flagship Hotel in Galveston is the only hotel in North America built
over water.
The Heisman Trophy was named after John William Heisman who was the first
full time coach for Rice University in Houston.
Brazoria County has more species of birds than any other area in North
America.
Aransas Wildlife Refuge is the winter home of North America's only remaining
flock of whooping cranes.
Jalapeno jelly originated in Lake Jackson in 1978.
The worst natural disaster in U.S. history was in 1900 caused by a hurricane
in which over 8000 lives were lost on Galveston Island.
The first word spoken from the moon, July 20, 1969, was " Houston.."
King Ranch is larger than Rhode Island.
Tropical Storm Claudette brought a U.S. rainfall record of 43" in 24 hours
in and around Alvin in July 1979.
Texas is the only state to enter the U.S. by TREATY, instead of by
annexation. (This allows the Texas flag to fly at the same height as the US
flag.)
A Live Oak tree near Fulton is estimated to be 1500 years old.
Caddo Lake is the only natural lake in the state.
Dr Pepper was invented in Waco in 1885. There is no period after Dr in Dr
Pepper.
Texas has had six capital cities:.
1. Washington-on-the-Brazos
2. Harrisburg
3. Galveston
4. Velasco
5. West Columbia
6. Austin
The Capitol Dome in Austin is the only dome in the U.S. which is taller than
the Capitol Building in Washington D.C (by 7 feet).
The name Texas comes from the Hasini Indian word "tejas" meaning friends.
Tejas is not Spanish for Texas.
The State animal is the Armadillo. (An interesting bit of trivia about the
armadillo is they always have four babies! They have one egg which splits
Into four and they either have four males or four females. (Well. I thought
it was interesting anyway!)
The first domed stadium in the U.S. was the Astrodome in Houston.
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS - TEXAS STYLE
People here in Texas have trouble with all those shalls and shall nots in
the Ten Commandments. Folks here just aren't used to talking in those terms.
So, some folks out in west Texas got together and translated the "King
James" version into "King Ranch" version: Ten Commandments, cowboy style.
Cowboy's Ten Commandments posted on the wall at Cross Trails Church in
Fairlie, Texas .
(1) Just one God.
(2) Honor yer Ma & Pa.
(3) No telling tales or gossipin'.
(4) Git yourself to Sunday meeting.
(5) Put nothin' before God.
(6) No foolin' around with another fellow's gal.
(7) No killin'.
(8) Watch yer mouth.
(9) Don't take what ain't yers.
(10) Don't be hankerin' for yer buddy's stuff.
forgive me, please- I couldn't help myself-
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
How time passes when you're playing piano ten hours a day!
Another showcase at the high school for the arts!
however- Saturday, I went to the Poetry Society of Virginia meeting in Leesburg, VA (another highly overrated historical town- "fun for all rich white people" I mean, c'mon- they all look alike, don't they? though the food was pretty nice at the Eiffle Tower Cafe)where I met the purveyor of Orchises Press, Roger Lathbury- who seems to love books, printing presses, and all that wonderful stuff- I purchased a copy of Kinky by denise duhamel
I'm pretty sure that helped us raise $30 at the raffle at the
VERY FIRST qualifying round of the SlamRichmond, which was a raging hit- read all about it on the link! And come on April 3rd- be a part of this historical event! (It's Virginia- if it ain't historical, it ain't worth shit!)
and in the meantime- I'm reading and loving Riverfall by Simmons Buntin, editor of one of my favorite zines-
Write on, y'all!
Another showcase at the high school for the arts!
however- Saturday, I went to the Poetry Society of Virginia meeting in Leesburg, VA (another highly overrated historical town- "fun for all rich white people" I mean, c'mon- they all look alike, don't they? though the food was pretty nice at the Eiffle Tower Cafe)where I met the purveyor of Orchises Press, Roger Lathbury- who seems to love books, printing presses, and all that wonderful stuff- I purchased a copy of Kinky by denise duhamel
I'm pretty sure that helped us raise $30 at the raffle at the
VERY FIRST qualifying round of the SlamRichmond, which was a raging hit- read all about it on the link! And come on April 3rd- be a part of this historical event! (It's Virginia- if it ain't historical, it ain't worth shit!)
and in the meantime- I'm reading and loving Riverfall by Simmons Buntin, editor of one of my favorite zines-
Write on, y'all!
Friday, March 17, 2006
how about a poem for a change- maybe a poem rewrite-
Dreaming Freddie Mercury
Don't worry trouble into an envelope
he said I cut my tongue on whispers
licking too much of what was, in love
before I knew the tang of words like
wily, coyote, white-line, rule of thumb
out waiting for a ride to Harrisburg, PA.
All the King's ranches, and all of Ming's kin
can't fix a lyric sung so wrong so long
when you're party wise and panty foolish
I said no one knows how to hum or
harmonize anymore, the hourglass is empty,
grab your purse, say blackbird bye.
By all means take a look around before
sunset changes everything, it will change
everything, if you're ready to listen
to what's said on the last day of your life
under your breath the sweetest sounds,
the ones only you are meant to understand.
Dreaming Freddie Mercury
Don't worry trouble into an envelope
he said I cut my tongue on whispers
licking too much of what was, in love
before I knew the tang of words like
wily, coyote, white-line, rule of thumb
out waiting for a ride to Harrisburg, PA.
All the King's ranches, and all of Ming's kin
can't fix a lyric sung so wrong so long
when you're party wise and panty foolish
I said no one knows how to hum or
harmonize anymore, the hourglass is empty,
grab your purse, say blackbird bye.
By all means take a look around before
sunset changes everything, it will change
everything, if you're ready to listen
to what's said on the last day of your life
under your breath the sweetest sounds,
the ones only you are meant to understand.
Another curse on the common folk in poetry, the League of American Poets Beware!
but good news on the TV front- Canadian Poets
It's always a balance, isn't it?
First day without the regular job- I walked off yesterday at about 4pm. We did the usual "Come back and visit us" bullshit- and I may go back for the graduation ceremony (I worked with kids with mental disabilities, some of them would really be thrilled to see me there, but none of them would remember I wasn't).
Of course- my calendar is already full- it's mid April before I get a totally free day, and like today it will fill up. I have to drive the daughter to school, drive closer to town to hear the radio program on WRIR with T.S. and Kelly advertising the new SlamRichmond events that start Monday night- then at 1:30 pick up my son, then my daughter's boyfriend at the university, take the son to work, the boyfriend to a job interview at ComedySportz (where the Slam will take place, coincidentally), pick up the daughter at school, pick up the boyfriend, take them both (I hope) back to work at Comedy Sportz, somehow in the middle of all this cook my corned beef and cabbage, and maybe get to the gym to swim around 6pm.
Oh yeah- and wash clothes. Thank goodness I quit my day job.
but good news on the TV front- Canadian Poets
It's always a balance, isn't it?
First day without the regular job- I walked off yesterday at about 4pm. We did the usual "Come back and visit us" bullshit- and I may go back for the graduation ceremony (I worked with kids with mental disabilities, some of them would really be thrilled to see me there, but none of them would remember I wasn't).
Of course- my calendar is already full- it's mid April before I get a totally free day, and like today it will fill up. I have to drive the daughter to school, drive closer to town to hear the radio program on WRIR with T.S. and Kelly advertising the new SlamRichmond events that start Monday night- then at 1:30 pick up my son, then my daughter's boyfriend at the university, take the son to work, the boyfriend to a job interview at ComedySportz (where the Slam will take place, coincidentally), pick up the daughter at school, pick up the boyfriend, take them both (I hope) back to work at Comedy Sportz, somehow in the middle of all this cook my corned beef and cabbage, and maybe get to the gym to swim around 6pm.
Oh yeah- and wash clothes. Thank goodness I quit my day job.
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