I have been writing my poems in a notebook, an actual paper notebook. With lines.
I am going to post a selection briefly this weekend- then remove by the following Friday (Dec 7).
It's complicated, but some of them made me quite happy and I will be submitting them soon and don't want them overexposed on the internet.
shann
Monday, November 26, 2012
Friday, November 02, 2012
poem-a-day November 2, 2012
A Modern Love Poem
does not depend on proper nouns,
a full moon-boon companion blend,
nor big band sound authority
make-it-real inculcation begs.
No, current trends insist we take
our curiosities outside
for air, bare our skins in public
until we stand invisible.
The shadow cast by nothing is
a moth’s breath, the footstep of fish.
Words can be infinitely moved
meaning nothing, garbled nonsense.
Tell everyone this poem is yours,
how I handpicked each turn of phrase.
does not depend on proper nouns,
a full moon-boon companion blend,
nor big band sound authority
make-it-real inculcation begs.
No, current trends insist we take
our curiosities outside
for air, bare our skins in public
until we stand invisible.
The shadow cast by nothing is
a moth’s breath, the footstep of fish.
Words can be infinitely moved
meaning nothing, garbled nonsense.
Tell everyone this poem is yours,
how I handpicked each turn of phrase.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
a month since I posted?
where did the time go?
I must be stuck in a crack, my dress wedged firmly in the fissure and I can't pull it loose. I do what I have to but move neither forward nor back.
Maybe it's Pandora at fault. The songs they pick are just right for melancholy, remembering scraps of happy and shreds of miserable.
Joni Mitchell holds me, Lyle makes me homesick, the Wailing Jennys nurture an ache I forgot about.
Fall. Death. Birthdays of people I care about but don't see anymore. Some mornings I can't get out of bed. Some nights I can't get to sleep. I'd forgotten what hungry feels like.
Whatever. You don't have a clue who I am anyway.
I must be stuck in a crack, my dress wedged firmly in the fissure and I can't pull it loose. I do what I have to but move neither forward nor back.
Maybe it's Pandora at fault. The songs they pick are just right for melancholy, remembering scraps of happy and shreds of miserable.
Joni Mitchell holds me, Lyle makes me homesick, the Wailing Jennys nurture an ache I forgot about.
Fall. Death. Birthdays of people I care about but don't see anymore. Some mornings I can't get out of bed. Some nights I can't get to sleep. I'd forgotten what hungry feels like.
Whatever. You don't have a clue who I am anyway.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Writers reading, stuff like that-
Listed in Style are the latest from the famous and hopeful, legitimate writers with real books--
Calendar HERE
Listed not are the locals, the truly hopefuls who aren't vetted yet, the "rest-of-us", the citizen poets who buy the books the others write. Occasionally, the books are worth the money- sometimes it's just a puzzlement.
Sun the 30th VMFA 3pm readings in the Muse cafe
2nd Friday at art6 7pm, features and open mike (one-two poems)
3rd Thursday at C'est La Vin 6pm, same as above but with music.
every Saturday at 9 at Artspace, Richmond Slam
and Monday night critique group at the Farmhouse Facebook page FMI
Calendar HERE
Listed not are the locals, the truly hopefuls who aren't vetted yet, the "rest-of-us", the citizen poets who buy the books the others write. Occasionally, the books are worth the money- sometimes it's just a puzzlement.
Sun the 30th VMFA 3pm readings in the Muse cafe
2nd Friday at art6 7pm, features and open mike (one-two poems)
3rd Thursday at C'est La Vin 6pm, same as above but with music.
every Saturday at 9 at Artspace, Richmond Slam
and Monday night critique group at the Farmhouse Facebook page FMI
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
all advice/no advice is good advice
all advice/no advice is good advice-
more folks than not try to get away with writing lazy and not doing sufficient rewriting, reading out loud, rethinking-
This is a good start (click here)
in the end, if the poem is good enough there are no rules, or at least no violations. But try, people, try!
more folks than not try to get away with writing lazy and not doing sufficient rewriting, reading out loud, rethinking-
This is a good start (click here)
in the end, if the poem is good enough there are no rules, or at least no violations. But try, people, try!
Friday, September 14, 2012
Monkey wallpaper as metaphor
They're changing the wall paper in the bathrooms at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden.
Changing.
Wallpaper.
WALLpaper.
Changing.
People have been taking little bits, apparently for years.
Wallpaper.
Granted, it is cute as all get out- monkeys in trees, strong colors: green greens, brown browns, all that.
We also have monuments. Battlefields. Churches where liberty and death were discussed.
And wallpaper. How many Virginians does it take to change a lightbulb? Five - one to replace the bulb and four to talk about how glorious the old bulb was.
Wallpaper
The story
Changing.
Wallpaper.
WALLpaper.
Changing.
People have been taking little bits, apparently for years.
Wallpaper.
Granted, it is cute as all get out- monkeys in trees, strong colors: green greens, brown browns, all that.
We also have monuments. Battlefields. Churches where liberty and death were discussed.
And wallpaper. How many Virginians does it take to change a lightbulb? Five - one to replace the bulb and four to talk about how glorious the old bulb was.
Wallpaper
The story
Monday, September 10, 2012
Too many $%^&* Writers!!!
Here's the original: Is Free Verse Killing Poetry?
Here's the follow-up "too many writers"
yes, I referenced the original in the previous blog post, reposting to save people time.
I guess we've decided poetry matters and is not dead. It's also funny the follow-up mentions this is strictly "first world problem".
Here's the follow-up "too many writers"
yes, I referenced the original in the previous blog post, reposting to save people time.
I guess we've decided poetry matters and is not dead. It's also funny the follow-up mentions this is strictly "first world problem".
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
Free or Formal? Leave me alone!
Such a silly thing to worry about, but some people who make their living in the academy must keep the argument going so they can keep their jobs, I suppose!
Check the article out HERE
I write what I write. What do you write?
Check the article out HERE
I write what I write. What do you write?
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Writing? Reading. What August is good for.
I just realized I hadn't blogged much this month. It's not I'm abandoning the place, rather I have been reading far more than I've been writing.
Sometimes it's good to rest the page, absorb other worlds. I have been jotting down ideas and phrases, my dreams are filled with little plots, glimpses into rooms full of words, but my time has been scattered and muddled.
I do need to keep a reading journal- here's this month in a list:
Inferno, Dante. new translation by Mary Jo Bang
The Magicians, Lev Grossman
(ongoing) The Exegesisof Philip K. Dick
Iron Horse Review recent issue
Edisto, Padgett Powell
There are others- I'll post more soon- those books are what I can see from the computer.
If you don't read, you shouldn't be writing- I absolutely believe that.
Sometimes it's good to rest the page, absorb other worlds. I have been jotting down ideas and phrases, my dreams are filled with little plots, glimpses into rooms full of words, but my time has been scattered and muddled.
I do need to keep a reading journal- here's this month in a list:
Inferno, Dante. new translation by Mary Jo Bang
The Magicians, Lev Grossman
(ongoing) The Exegesisof Philip K. Dick
Iron Horse Review recent issue
Edisto, Padgett Powell
There are others- I'll post more soon- those books are what I can see from the computer.
If you don't read, you shouldn't be writing- I absolutely believe that.
Saturday, August 04, 2012
More links to Sofia Starnes poet laureate of Virginia
1.
poem in Blackbird
2. video reading
3. buy her book from the publisher
4. review
5. another poem
6. The Anglican Theological Review (editor)
7. from Here Comes Everybody
2. video reading
3. buy her book from the publisher
4. review
5. another poem
6. The Anglican Theological Review (editor)
7. from Here Comes Everybody
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
So many words! So much writing!
I spent July writing. Seriously writing.
Taking a memoir writing class from Doug Jones at the Visual Arts center on Tuesday nights, attending the West Virginia Writers Woekshop at West Virginia University in Morgantown, and moving words all over the page, then the screen for the entire month.
I highly recommend the activity.
In the meantime, I won some books from Coffee House Books. I'm really looking forward to their arrival.
Not to mention the stack of books from WVA - more about those later.
Also taking a slow read thru the Mary Jo Bang translation of Dante's Inferno AND the Exegesis of Philip K. Dick.
I can never read just one measly book at a time!
Monday, July 09, 2012
KIN: Songs by Mary Karr and Rodney Crowell
Who doesn't love Mary Karr, her novels and poetry?
If you're from Texas it's a done deal. If you and you're people are from East Texas, I don't even know what to say.
I'm writing my story- this is some of my soundtrack. Rodney Crowell grew up not too far from where I did. If I close my eyes it's like hearing family talking.
I'm hungry for home.
Sadly, all I have is what's in my mind.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
Poetry Magazine and Tony
no, I didn't get a poem accepted because I didn't submit one.
But those of you who know me know how much I adore the way Tony Hoagland
puts words down that seem as though he can read my mind and codify what I need to say. I don't know why I feel this link to him- it came to me the second I met him, though I had criticised viciously a poem posted at Slate magazine many years ago. Another friend was severly wounded by him and did not write for three years after we encounteered him (in a workshop). I love both of them and this is inexplicable to me.
Hoagland has three poems in the latest issue of Poetry Magazine, the most uneven publication I know.
The first one makes me ache with recognition- There is no word. I have been writing this for years.
The second is Note to Reality and holds the final twist that I find so fascinating about his poetry.
The last is called Don't Tell Anyone and so squarely captures the secrets I carry I wept when I read it.
I know some people like Mary Oliver and her deep nature, or the Dickman's and their cruel humor, but Tony Hoagland and I seem to share a loving cynicism that is only tamped by how we cling to life and all it's disturbing wonders.
My absolute favorite poet, besides myself.
But those of you who know me know how much I adore the way Tony Hoagland
puts words down that seem as though he can read my mind and codify what I need to say. I don't know why I feel this link to him- it came to me the second I met him, though I had criticised viciously a poem posted at Slate magazine many years ago. Another friend was severly wounded by him and did not write for three years after we encounteered him (in a workshop). I love both of them and this is inexplicable to me.
Hoagland has three poems in the latest issue of Poetry Magazine, the most uneven publication I know.
The first one makes me ache with recognition- There is no word. I have been writing this for years.
The second is Note to Reality and holds the final twist that I find so fascinating about his poetry.
The last is called Don't Tell Anyone and so squarely captures the secrets I carry I wept when I read it.
I know some people like Mary Oliver and her deep nature, or the Dickman's and their cruel humor, but Tony Hoagland and I seem to share a loving cynicism that is only tamped by how we cling to life and all it's disturbing wonders.
My absolute favorite poet, besides myself.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The 2012 Levis Prize from VCU announced
The Department of English andthe MFA Program in Creative Writing at Virginia Commonwealth Universityare pleased to announce that
Radial Symmetry by Katherine Larson
has been selected as the winner of the 2012 Levis ReadingPrize for the best first or second book of poetry published in thecalendar year 2011. The award is named in memory of the late Larry Levis,the poet who taught at VCU. Larson will receive an honorarium of $2000 and will be brought to Richmond, expenses paid, for a reception and publicreading on September 20th, 2012.
Katherine Larson’s Radial Symmetry (Yale University Press, 2011)was also selected by Louise Glück as the winner of the Yale Series of YoungerPoets. Larsen’s work has appeared in AGNI, Boulevard, TheKenyon Review, The Massachusetts Review, Poetry, andPoetry Northwest, among other publications. She is the recipientof a Ruth Lilly Fellowship, the Union League Civic and Arts FoundationPoetry Prize and the Kate Tufts Discovery Award. In addition to her literarycareer, Larson has worked as a molecular biologist and field ecologist.She lives in Arizona with her husband and daughter.
This year the Prize Committee would also like to recognize the outstandingbooks of two additional finalists, Anthony Carelli for his collection Carnations(Princeton University Press, 2011) and Brian Barker for TheBlack Ocean (Southern Illinois University Press, 2011).
The Levis Reading Prize is presented on behalf of VCU's MFA in CreativeWriting Program. Sponsors include the VCU Department of English, JamesBranch Cabell Library Associates, VCU Friends of the Library, the VCU Libraries,the VCU Honors College, Barnes & Noble @ VCU, and the VCU College ofHumanities and Sciences, with primary funding provided by the family ofLarry Levis.
We would like to express our sincere thanks to all who entered and thushelped to make this annual contest such a success.
For further information aboutthe Levis Reading Prize, see http://www.has.vcu.edu/eng/resources/levis_prize/levis_prize.htm,call 804.828.1329,or contact Katelyn Kiley, Levis Fellow, at kileyk@vcu.edu
*********************************************************
my first reaction is - oh joy, another inexplicable book about nature all metaphored to shit. Ifit has big words (SCIENCE words) it must be good.
Radial Symmetry by Katherine Larson
has been selected as the winner of the 2012 Levis ReadingPrize for the best first or second book of poetry published in thecalendar year 2011. The award is named in memory of the late Larry Levis,the poet who taught at VCU. Larson will receive an honorarium of $2000 and will be brought to Richmond, expenses paid, for a reception and publicreading on September 20th, 2012.
Katherine Larson’s Radial Symmetry (Yale University Press, 2011)was also selected by Louise Glück as the winner of the Yale Series of YoungerPoets. Larsen’s work has appeared in AGNI, Boulevard, TheKenyon Review, The Massachusetts Review, Poetry, andPoetry Northwest, among other publications. She is the recipientof a Ruth Lilly Fellowship, the Union League Civic and Arts FoundationPoetry Prize and the Kate Tufts Discovery Award. In addition to her literarycareer, Larson has worked as a molecular biologist and field ecologist.She lives in Arizona with her husband and daughter.
This year the Prize Committee would also like to recognize the outstandingbooks of two additional finalists, Anthony Carelli for his collection Carnations(Princeton University Press, 2011) and Brian Barker for TheBlack Ocean (Southern Illinois University Press, 2011).
The Levis Reading Prize is presented on behalf of VCU's MFA in CreativeWriting Program. Sponsors include the VCU Department of English, JamesBranch Cabell Library Associates, VCU Friends of the Library, the VCU Libraries,the VCU Honors College, Barnes & Noble @ VCU, and the VCU College ofHumanities and Sciences, with primary funding provided by the family ofLarry Levis.
We would like to express our sincere thanks to all who entered and thushelped to make this annual contest such a success.
For further information aboutthe Levis Reading Prize, see http://www.has.vcu.edu/eng/resources/levis_prize/levis_prize.htm,call 804.828.1329,or contact Katelyn Kiley, Levis Fellow, at kileyk@vcu.edu
*********************************************************
my first reaction is - oh joy, another inexplicable book about nature all metaphored to shit. Ifit has big words (SCIENCE words) it must be good.
Monday, June 04, 2012
Nominations for Virginia Poet Laureate 2012
Congratulations to Henry Hart, Sofia Starnes, and Patsy Anne Bickerstaff,
who were selected by PSV members as finalists for Poet Laureate
of the Commonwealth of Virginia, 2012-2014.
Samples of their poetry and biographical notes have been sent
to Governor McDonnell, who will make the final selection
for the position this summer.
Stuff Going On for Poets
Local poets! Take note!!
River City Secrets
art6, 6 E. Broad St.
June 8, 7pm
The second Friday of every month we bring you a dose of poetry & rock n roll. Talented local wordsmiths kick off the night with featured readings, and the evening progresses with an open mic where all of the poetic persuasion are welcome to share a piece or two of their own. The night wouldn't be complete without the lyrical riffs of our rockstar-in-residence. Light refreshments are served for the whole, and your $5 at the door goes to support the gallery & our ongoing events there. Come out and get heard!
Poetry & Jazz Tasting
C'est Le Vin, 15 N. 17th St.
June 14, 6pm
On Thursday, June 14, we'll be back at local gallery and wine shop C'est Le Vin to sample the best of both new and established regional poets amidst the backdrop of live jazz and enticing wines. Randy Burton & co. of Super64 will be on hand to play some sets & lend their musical talents to the verses of any wordsmith so desiring. The whole is set off by C'est le Vin's enticing wine selection, gourmet delectables & gorgeous art exhibits. We "mini-feature" a wide array of wordsmiths from all experience & publication levels, giving them each 5 minutes to present a "taste" of what they do as poets, so shoot me an email (dottoressa.joanna@hotmail.com) if you'd like to be added to the list!
Workshop & Critique
Urban Farmhouse Market & Cafe, 1217 E. Cary St.
6:30-8pm
Small group critique and workshops continue! Thanks to all who came out get their inspiration on at the UF last month. As always, all of these sessions are open to everyone, completely free and held at the Urban Farmhouse Market and Cafe in Shockoe. June dates are listed below and specific details/assignments forthcoming on Facebook.
June 11-- small group critique
June 18-- small group critique
June 25-- performance workshop (Lance Kelley)
PROSE, POETRY, PIZZA!!
River City Secrets
art6, 6 E. Broad St.
June 8, 7pm
The second Friday of every month we bring you a dose of poetry & rock n roll. Talented local wordsmiths kick off the night with featured readings, and the evening progresses with an open mic where all of the poetic persuasion are welcome to share a piece or two of their own. The night wouldn't be complete without the lyrical riffs of our rockstar-in-residence. Light refreshments are served for the whole, and your $5 at the door goes to support the gallery & our ongoing events there. Come out and get heard!
Poetry & Jazz Tasting
C'est Le Vin, 15 N. 17th St.
June 14, 6pm
On Thursday, June 14, we'll be back at local gallery and wine shop C'est Le Vin to sample the best of both new and established regional poets amidst the backdrop of live jazz and enticing wines. Randy Burton & co. of Super64 will be on hand to play some sets & lend their musical talents to the verses of any wordsmith so desiring. The whole is set off by C'est le Vin's enticing wine selection, gourmet delectables & gorgeous art exhibits. We "mini-feature" a wide array of wordsmiths from all experience & publication levels, giving them each 5 minutes to present a "taste" of what they do as poets, so shoot me an email (dottoressa.joanna@hotmail.com) if you'd like to be added to the list!
Workshop & Critique
Urban Farmhouse Market & Cafe, 1217 E. Cary St.
6:30-8pm
Small group critique and workshops continue! Thanks to all who came out get their inspiration on at the UF last month. As always, all of these sessions are open to everyone, completely free and held at the Urban Farmhouse Market and Cafe in Shockoe. June dates are listed below and specific details/assignments forthcoming on Facebook.
June 11-- small group critique
June 18-- small group critique
June 25-- performance workshop (Lance Kelley)
PROSE, POETRY, PIZZA!!
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Poetry stuff and I'm writing my memoir
Ed Lull, Virginia poet, is receiving a major recognition - The Emyl Jenkins prize from James River Writers!
Good thing, he really deserves it!!
I have officially started writing my memoir. I took a workshop with Doug Jones at the Visual Arts Center and am planning on more classes with him and others. At the West Virginia Writers Workshop at WVU in July I will be working with non-fiction.
Since my Aunt Margaret died at 98 this month, I am now the oldest member living in my family. Therefore, i carry the memories and can now write them down. Sure, my brothers and sisters may disagree with some of what I say but they can't prove any more than I can it is or isn't the truth.
Good thing, he really deserves it!!
I have officially started writing my memoir. I took a workshop with Doug Jones at the Visual Arts Center and am planning on more classes with him and others. At the West Virginia Writers Workshop at WVU in July I will be working with non-fiction.
Since my Aunt Margaret died at 98 this month, I am now the oldest member living in my family. Therefore, i carry the memories and can now write them down. Sure, my brothers and sisters may disagree with some of what I say but they can't prove any more than I can it is or isn't the truth.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
behind and busy
poems poems poems- stories, too
gathering poems into workable manuscripts, working on music for church, dealing with a family that needs to get on with things...
I want to strangle a few people who cannot seem to quit meddling in my life and the lives of those I love-
I need a car
I need money and time to work on projects
I need emotional support
I need to help my children see how precious life is and how we can't let negative and hurtful people take that away
the usual.
my meditation is for balance and peace
my hands are open.
gathering poems into workable manuscripts, working on music for church, dealing with a family that needs to get on with things...
I want to strangle a few people who cannot seem to quit meddling in my life and the lives of those I love-
I need a car
I need money and time to work on projects
I need emotional support
I need to help my children see how precious life is and how we can't let negative and hurtful people take that away
the usual.
my meditation is for balance and peace
my hands are open.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Guess who will be in two places at once?? The amazing Shann Palmer!!!
I'll be at the James River Writers Writing Show at 6pm moderating the panel for National Poetry Month, the winners of the JRW/Richmond Magazine annual contest
AND AT (actually my daughter will be in my place)
Springtime’s Rhymes
Thursday April 26
7:00 p.m.
Cochrane Rockville Branch Library
16600 Pouncey Tract Road
(804) 749-3146
All ages. Local poet Shann Palmer will
read her original poetry, followed by an
open mic where you can share your
own poetry or that of a favorite poet.
Refreshments provided by the Friends of the Rockville Library.
I'll be at the James River Writers Writing Show at 6pm moderating the panel for National Poetry Month, the winners of the JRW/Richmond Magazine annual contest
AND AT (actually my daughter will be in my place)
Springtime’s Rhymes
Thursday April 26
7:00 p.m.
Cochrane Rockville Branch Library
16600 Pouncey Tract Road
(804) 749-3146
All ages. Local poet Shann Palmer will
read her original poetry, followed by an
open mic where you can share your
own poetry or that of a favorite poet.
Refreshments provided by the Friends of the Rockville Library.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day 13
Joyce
She was the kind of Texas woman
who didn’t have two cents to rub,
but if she could manage to find
a handful of shiny nickels, she’d win
enough at a slot machine in Vegas
to buy groceries for her family for a week.
I was walking with her when she conjured
a twenty from under a fist-sized rock
on Rincon Road in nineteen sixty-nine,
I rode shotgun when we had to pray
our way home on a shallow sniff of gas
in the worst rainstorm that summer.
She could puff a breath on her fingers,
then take out ten pins- ball scooting
down the alley like it was hypnotized,
ready to slam itself against the back wall,
she’d take sucker bets without a miss
for hours, even trick shots with a blindfold.
She lost only two things: me, to a yankee,
and her life in single hand. She tried hard
to let ride for another round of hold 'em
but cancer is the house that always wins.
When her will was read, luck wasn’t in it,
she must’ve used it all up in the end.
She was the kind of Texas woman
who didn’t have two cents to rub,
but if she could manage to find
a handful of shiny nickels, she’d win
enough at a slot machine in Vegas
to buy groceries for her family for a week.
I was walking with her when she conjured
a twenty from under a fist-sized rock
on Rincon Road in nineteen sixty-nine,
I rode shotgun when we had to pray
our way home on a shallow sniff of gas
in the worst rainstorm that summer.
She could puff a breath on her fingers,
then take out ten pins- ball scooting
down the alley like it was hypnotized,
ready to slam itself against the back wall,
she’d take sucker bets without a miss
for hours, even trick shots with a blindfold.
She lost only two things: me, to a yankee,
and her life in single hand. She tried hard
to let ride for another round of hold 'em
but cancer is the house that always wins.
When her will was read, luck wasn’t in it,
she must’ve used it all up in the end.
Friday, April 13, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day 12
something in the way
she moves into my line of sight
& takes the air out of the room,
the piccolo part out of my Souza.
It’s hardly enough razzamatazz
to make it worth anyone’s while,
least of all 1st trumpet, 2nd chair.
What’s a flourish without a high
scattershot melody hung out
over the brass-by-golly bravado?
An unfinished chord progression,
that’s what, Sherlock, parse the parts
get the blow going, toot sweet!
Stars and Stripes have been known
to choke even the most cynical heart
we like to tear up at the rallentando.
So keep your hands to yourself, sister!
Music may not be as tough as poetry,
but it’s what I’ve been doing, a long time.
she moves into my line of sight
& takes the air out of the room,
the piccolo part out of my Souza.
It’s hardly enough razzamatazz
to make it worth anyone’s while,
least of all 1st trumpet, 2nd chair.
What’s a flourish without a high
scattershot melody hung out
over the brass-by-golly bravado?
An unfinished chord progression,
that’s what, Sherlock, parse the parts
get the blow going, toot sweet!
Stars and Stripes have been known
to choke even the most cynical heart
we like to tear up at the rallentando.
So keep your hands to yourself, sister!
Music may not be as tough as poetry,
but it’s what I’ve been doing, a long time.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day 11
I'm removing 1-10 tomorrow night. Enjoy them now before they go back in the shop for detailing.
To everything
Tireseus walks the summer wall
naked before the fish and waterfowl.
He is whatever the wind decides.
Before morning comes, the sun
predicts the day, I set the table,
prepare breakfast in tender light.
My journey has been full of magic
& visions, I only stopped to shower,
wash clothes, and break bread.
To everything
Tireseus walks the summer wall
naked before the fish and waterfowl.
He is whatever the wind decides.
Before morning comes, the sun
predicts the day, I set the table,
prepare breakfast in tender light.
My journey has been full of magic
& visions, I only stopped to shower,
wash clothes, and break bread.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day 10
Family Tree
I looked my brother up on google,
found his son is in jail for battery/
domestic abuse, he might be married;
far across the country in another world
where time stalls, my sister’s daughter
bounces checks and doesn’t pay bills.
We don’t talk at all, we five siblings
damaged by circumstance, memories
of welfare food and our passive mother,
a father who couldn’t keep his hands
off us, used the belt, fists, boots, fear,
to crush us under his influence.
Over the years we’ve passed paths
so infrequently I wouldn’t cross the street
to avoid them, I’d never know their faces
by sight, or be able to identify bodies,
barely know the names of their children,
where they shop, if they like arugula.
I’ve heard they are in touch, the four
who stayed to bury our parents. I ran
so hard I made a few bad choices
dwarfed by the one good decision.
I have no regrets, except my children
will never know who my family was.
I am an immigrant to a new land,
full of stories and artifacts, telling
what I think should be remembered,
little injuries concealed in anecdotes,
hoping genetics can be circumvented
by education and unconditional love.
I looked my brother up on google,
found his son is in jail for battery/
domestic abuse, he might be married;
far across the country in another world
where time stalls, my sister’s daughter
bounces checks and doesn’t pay bills.
We don’t talk at all, we five siblings
damaged by circumstance, memories
of welfare food and our passive mother,
a father who couldn’t keep his hands
off us, used the belt, fists, boots, fear,
to crush us under his influence.
Over the years we’ve passed paths
so infrequently I wouldn’t cross the street
to avoid them, I’d never know their faces
by sight, or be able to identify bodies,
barely know the names of their children,
where they shop, if they like arugula.
I’ve heard they are in touch, the four
who stayed to bury our parents. I ran
so hard I made a few bad choices
dwarfed by the one good decision.
I have no regrets, except my children
will never know who my family was.
I am an immigrant to a new land,
full of stories and artifacts, telling
what I think should be remembered,
little injuries concealed in anecdotes,
hoping genetics can be circumvented
by education and unconditional love.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
2012 Poem-a-Day 9
Silhouettes on the Shade
fills the room over and over,
45 rpm stuck in replay set,
mom and dad argue about
cigarettes (nobody bought any)
dig through the kitchen trash
for butts long enough for a puff.
They don’t notice the music
or me, under the piano reading
a science fiction paperback
to the steady pace of shouting,
afraid of being noticed, or worse,
becoming the next target.
Stay in the shadows, little girl,
time will pass and so will they.
Blame may follow all your life,
but try to stay a step ahead,
and it’ll fade way before you do,
like a song from an old movie.
fills the room over and over,
45 rpm stuck in replay set,
mom and dad argue about
cigarettes (nobody bought any)
dig through the kitchen trash
for butts long enough for a puff.
They don’t notice the music
or me, under the piano reading
a science fiction paperback
to the steady pace of shouting,
afraid of being noticed, or worse,
becoming the next target.
Stay in the shadows, little girl,
time will pass and so will they.
Blame may follow all your life,
but try to stay a step ahead,
and it’ll fade way before you do,
like a song from an old movie.
2012 Poem-a-day 8
The Nature of No
Understand the true fact of rejection;
of course, strength is the desired virtue
though often even the best scenario
results in little or no effect at all.
Do you need more information?
A loved B, B cheats on A, A forgives
again and again with diminishing returns.
B doesn’t get it, A doesn’t get it.
Even you and I get stale after too little
meaningful conversation, contact.
Misery can have a cumulative effect,
indifference becomes status quo.
Better to bar the door once it’s shut,
close the blinds, pretend no one’s home.
Wallow in whatever you must until
you can remember how to live again.
of course, strength is the desired virtue
though often even the best scenario
results in little or no effect at all.
Do you need more information?
A loved B, B cheats on A, A forgives
again and again with diminishing returns.
B doesn’t get it, A doesn’t get it.
Even you and I get stale after too little
meaningful conversation, contact.
Misery can have a cumulative effect,
indifference becomes status quo.
Better to bar the door once it’s shut,
close the blinds, pretend no one’s home.
Wallow in whatever you must until
you can remember how to live again.
Saturday, April 07, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day 7
no love lost
nor found in the fields of war,
these are the body baggers,
the silent ones who gather
broken soldiers when smoke clears.
oldest children do the job best,
they carry weight from birth,
guilt a familiar companion,
all their prayers tired out.
they don’t talk while they work.
try to forget when they’re done,
a good day is when the wind blows,
the sky overcast, clouds busy.
A bad day is when a new worker
can’t hold in the horror, gagging,
invoking a deity with every breath,
there are no gods here, no gods.
They work side by side till done,
lost in whatever thoughts they bring.
At night they toss in ugly dreams
clutching old letters tight in their fists
nor found in the fields of war,
these are the body baggers,
the silent ones who gather
broken soldiers when smoke clears.
oldest children do the job best,
they carry weight from birth,
guilt a familiar companion,
all their prayers tired out.
they don’t talk while they work.
try to forget when they’re done,
a good day is when the wind blows,
the sky overcast, clouds busy.
A bad day is when a new worker
can’t hold in the horror, gagging,
invoking a deity with every breath,
there are no gods here, no gods.
They work side by side till done,
lost in whatever thoughts they bring.
At night they toss in ugly dreams
clutching old letters tight in their fists
2012 Poem-a-day 6
Sweet Slumber
must be hiding under the bed tonight,
maybe it’s gone over the transom
in the next room, I don’t hear the kids
stirring anymore, only the rustle of wind
knocking branches against the windows.
Too cold for Easter Sunday 6 am service,
sunrise won’t come soon enough to warm
the brave few who’ll wake up early to watch
a fire built on the sidewalk near the garden,
we’ll light the paschal candle and run inside.
That’s where slumber will tempt, in the pew
with the lilies casting sweet spells of scent,
the candles flickering in morning shadows
as the sun’s fire rises over tall pines,
joyful alleluias sung, by God, with grace.
must be hiding under the bed tonight,
maybe it’s gone over the transom
in the next room, I don’t hear the kids
stirring anymore, only the rustle of wind
knocking branches against the windows.
Too cold for Easter Sunday 6 am service,
sunrise won’t come soon enough to warm
the brave few who’ll wake up early to watch
a fire built on the sidewalk near the garden,
we’ll light the paschal candle and run inside.
That’s where slumber will tempt, in the pew
with the lilies casting sweet spells of scent,
the candles flickering in morning shadows
as the sun’s fire rises over tall pines,
joyful alleluias sung, by God, with grace.
2012 Poem-a-day 5
Fanciful attraction
What a time it must have been, mamma,
when big cars full of cheap gas
took to the pavement, in the summer
you could drive about anywhere
in a halter top and linen shorts
with cuffs and ironed creases,
you were a pretty girl looking for fun,
face freckled, brown hair in a knot.
When you met daddy, did you
go to Corpus Christi right away,
heart full of hope, have corn dogs,
and cold beer on the beach?
The war was over and plenty
was the word on everyone’s lips-
he was handsome, on the G.I bill,
full of adventure and laughter.
it’s not easy to think about
you as a young secretary,
smoothed-faced and careless
taking up with a sweet talker
like him, you didn’t worry at all
about someday and what if,
no one ever does in the beginning,
when the light dances on the water
making the moment look pretty good
even heading home with me in your belly
cruising north till the salty water
disappears behind a stand of lanky pine.
What a time it must have been, mamma,
when big cars full of cheap gas
took to the pavement, in the summer
you could drive about anywhere
in a halter top and linen shorts
with cuffs and ironed creases,
you were a pretty girl looking for fun,
face freckled, brown hair in a knot.
When you met daddy, did you
go to Corpus Christi right away,
heart full of hope, have corn dogs,
and cold beer on the beach?
The war was over and plenty
was the word on everyone’s lips-
he was handsome, on the G.I bill,
full of adventure and laughter.
it’s not easy to think about
you as a young secretary,
smoothed-faced and careless
taking up with a sweet talker
like him, you didn’t worry at all
about someday and what if,
no one ever does in the beginning,
when the light dances on the water
making the moment look pretty good
even heading home with me in your belly
cruising north till the salty water
disappears behind a stand of lanky pine.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day April 4
100% Dacron dream
an American fantasy, like that red Corvette
when you got back from ‘Nam summer of ‘69
stationed in Killeen, Texas a few hours
from Pasadena and the girl you stole
out from under your own brother’s nose.
Okay, it was metallic blue but sounds better red,
and he didn’t want to be stuck in a rut (his words)
so you showed up with comfort and kisses,
opportunistic fellow that you were, the lucky sort
who did three tours and never got a graze.
Dacron might not stretch but stories do, the way
memory gives in to best and worst scenarios,
prettier people, better times, but all I can recall
is the running toilet and your snores in the hotel
off Spencer Highway not that far from home.
If I’d known how to get to the sky, I would have
but the song hadn’t been written yet, and you?
You went blind in Napa Valley, while I learned
to sail on the Chesapeake Bay, sunning myself
under a multicolored spinnaker, unfurled.
an American fantasy, like that red Corvette
when you got back from ‘Nam summer of ‘69
stationed in Killeen, Texas a few hours
from Pasadena and the girl you stole
out from under your own brother’s nose.
Okay, it was metallic blue but sounds better red,
and he didn’t want to be stuck in a rut (his words)
so you showed up with comfort and kisses,
opportunistic fellow that you were, the lucky sort
who did three tours and never got a graze.
Dacron might not stretch but stories do, the way
memory gives in to best and worst scenarios,
prettier people, better times, but all I can recall
is the running toilet and your snores in the hotel
off Spencer Highway not that far from home.
If I’d known how to get to the sky, I would have
but the song hadn’t been written yet, and you?
You went blind in Napa Valley, while I learned
to sail on the Chesapeake Bay, sunning myself
under a multicolored spinnaker, unfurled.
2012 Poem-a-Day April 3rd
A Plate on a Stick
In constant rotation, it has one job-
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
dependent on someone else’s skill,
always ready to take the blame
when it crashes, the plate endures
blessed by the certain assurance
it will be caught whole in the end.
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
The rhythmic chant defines:
the spinners’s hands, sticks, plates
in symbiotic motion, unconcerned
with the inevitable pull of gravity,
the shudder growing to a wobble,
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
but everything does eventually.
Should I have locked the door,
begged you stay? Caught up
in the spectacle, I kept spinning,
thinking you would always be
there to catch me when I fell.
In constant rotation, it has one job-
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
dependent on someone else’s skill,
always ready to take the blame
when it crashes, the plate endures
blessed by the certain assurance
it will be caught whole in the end.
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
The rhythmic chant defines:
the spinners’s hands, sticks, plates
in symbiotic motion, unconcerned
with the inevitable pull of gravity,
the shudder growing to a wobble,
don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall
but everything does eventually.
Should I have locked the door,
begged you stay? Caught up
in the spectacle, I kept spinning,
thinking you would always be
there to catch me when I fell.
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
2012 Poem-a-Day April 2
Visitors
I’d ask you in but the place is a mess,
really needs to be painted, vacuumed,
the giant bolt of fabric for new curtains
lolls in the corner of the hallway,
uncut, a good intention mismanaged.
Say the expected lie “It doesn’t matter”.
We both understand you’ll tell someone
the scene: unfolded laundry on the chair,
the scattered Sunday paper, used dishes-
details you will align as if they were ducks.
Reconciled to this dynamical system,
it is a balagan with nuvobohemian flair,
exchanging traditional for quirky kitsch:
the two-foot decorated Christmas tree is iconic.
still up in April, unlit in deference to Easter,
Company never sticks, or is it the spectre
shuffling backwards toward the kitchen
who keeps the conversation indifferent?
Our grandmothers would be horrified,
kneeling women who scrubbed sidewalks.
I won’t bend my knees, not even to pray.
There are photos of when I was single:
candles in the bathroom, arrangements,
leaning out for love, they will lean that way
forever, you should have seen me then
I’d ask you in but the place is a mess,
really needs to be painted, vacuumed,
the giant bolt of fabric for new curtains
lolls in the corner of the hallway,
uncut, a good intention mismanaged.
Say the expected lie “It doesn’t matter”.
We both understand you’ll tell someone
the scene: unfolded laundry on the chair,
the scattered Sunday paper, used dishes-
details you will align as if they were ducks.
Reconciled to this dynamical system,
it is a balagan with nuvobohemian flair,
exchanging traditional for quirky kitsch:
the two-foot decorated Christmas tree is iconic.
still up in April, unlit in deference to Easter,
Company never sticks, or is it the spectre
shuffling backwards toward the kitchen
who keeps the conversation indifferent?
Our grandmothers would be horrified,
kneeling women who scrubbed sidewalks.
I won’t bend my knees, not even to pray.
There are photos of when I was single:
candles in the bathroom, arrangements,
leaning out for love, they will lean that way
forever, you should have seen me then
Sunday, April 01, 2012
2012 Poem-a-day April 1st
Here we go again!! crazy me, crazy, crazy me. April 1st Day one:
hey dave
It’s been too many dead ringers since
serious words puddled in my throat
seeking your ear way north of Richmond
while I fretted about whether spilling
selected personal details down your shirt
makes sense.
Everything important starts
in common circumstance, then slips slopes
to land seat-first in a steady boat-
the point being thinking about
just talking with you
grounds me most days.
hey dave
It’s been too many dead ringers since
serious words puddled in my throat
seeking your ear way north of Richmond
while I fretted about whether spilling
selected personal details down your shirt
makes sense.
Everything important starts
in common circumstance, then slips slopes
to land seat-first in a steady boat-
the point being thinking about
just talking with you
grounds me most days.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Twitter poems 7
I keep almost finished books
by my bed. Procrastination
may kill me, but in the end
I could have extra time to read.
In the night air,
planes chrrr overhead,
trains couple,
trucks shift
on the interstate.
Dreams take me places
without a sound.
Late night guests
chatter softly in my ear
hoping I’m listening.
This poem is written
in spite of them.
not minding either of us
by my bed. Procrastination
may kill me, but in the end
I could have extra time to read.
In the night air,
planes chrrr overhead,
trains couple,
trucks shift
on the interstate.
Dreams take me places
without a sound.
Late night guests
chatter softly in my ear
hoping I’m listening.
This poem is written
in spite of them.
not minding either of us
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Twitter poems 6
I got a mention at Muses and Metaphor 2012 !!
You could paint the stars
to find God, but it’s already been done.
Close your eyes and tell me what you see, Vincent.
(b. March 30, 1853)
Even if your dishes match,
dinner may not satisfy.
Prepare a meal with love,
eat from your lover’s hand.
You will have enough.
My mother waited for the end time
until she found hers, always believing
she was ready.
When death came,
she fought to stay.
You could paint the stars
to find God, but it’s already been done.
Close your eyes and tell me what you see, Vincent.
(b. March 30, 1853)
Even if your dishes match,
dinner may not satisfy.
Prepare a meal with love,
eat from your lover’s hand.
You will have enough.
My mother waited for the end time
until she found hers, always believing
she was ready.
When death came,
she fought to stay.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Twitter poems 5
You are iced coffee & tiramisu.
I am the glass & the plate.
Leave your lip print
on my soft curves, finger
scattered crumbs.
Savory herbs from an old garden
poke through grass & weeds.
If no rescue comes before the weekend,
dinner will be trampled.
The choir sings Monteverdi,
no accompaniment.
The weakest soprano
clings to a bass for support,
wrapped around his vibrato.
I am the glass & the plate.
Leave your lip print
on my soft curves, finger
scattered crumbs.
Savory herbs from an old garden
poke through grass & weeds.
If no rescue comes before the weekend,
dinner will be trampled.
The choir sings Monteverdi,
no accompaniment.
The weakest soprano
clings to a bass for support,
wrapped around his vibrato.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Twitter poems day 4
Beach Interlude
Sand fleas love pink skin
under cover of darkness,
thin blanket no protection.
Better to sleep in the car.
My daughter sits
on the chilly front porch
at midnight
painting abstract landscapes.
I am nowhere to be seen.
Endtimes
Build a bunker underground
for your family.
As the world outside collapses,
you can kill each other with close contact.
Sand fleas love pink skin
under cover of darkness,
thin blanket no protection.
Better to sleep in the car.
My daughter sits
on the chilly front porch
at midnight
painting abstract landscapes.
I am nowhere to be seen.
Endtimes
Build a bunker underground
for your family.
As the world outside collapses,
you can kill each other with close contact.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Twitter poems Day 3
No heaven, says the atheist.
No atheists, states the priest.
Your life is in my capable hands,
says the surgeon.
The smell of (too-early) summer in the air,
I want new tennis shoes,
to run faster, jump higher,
to soar, to be twelve again.
Lack of motivation keeps me
tied to this chair, this screen.
I should write a memoir
in 140 characters. Or less.
I just did.
No atheists, states the priest.
Your life is in my capable hands,
says the surgeon.
The smell of (too-early) summer in the air,
I want new tennis shoes,
to run faster, jump higher,
to soar, to be twelve again.
Lack of motivation keeps me
tied to this chair, this screen.
I should write a memoir
in 140 characters. Or less.
I just did.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Twitter poems Day 2
getting ready for National Poetry Month with little bits of poems:
Day 2
Sing the body, celebrate woman,
wear your beads
but leave the drum in your car,
it’s really lame & you have no sense of rhythm.
You won’t help me move because it’s raining.
I have to be out by tomorrow.
Landlords disrespect global warming.
I’m melting.
No face painting at the park today,
Mrs. Bunny went back to bed.
If it’s raining later, we could dye some eggs,
hem your dress.
Day 2
Sing the body, celebrate woman,
wear your beads
but leave the drum in your car,
it’s really lame & you have no sense of rhythm.
You won’t help me move because it’s raining.
I have to be out by tomorrow.
Landlords disrespect global warming.
I’m melting.
No face painting at the park today,
Mrs. Bunny went back to bed.
If it’s raining later, we could dye some eggs,
hem your dress.
Friday, March 23, 2012
How about some twitter poems??
Yeah- why not? If NPR cares, why shouldn't I?
Violets devour the lawn, tiny ants climb walls
to an open kitchen window for careless crumbs.
If this isn’t spring it should be.
Let them be for a while.
Butter Pecan ice cream from a local farm.
A picnic in Sabino Canyon
remembered. Letters
tied with red ribbon in a cedar chest.
Each word on my tongue.
Rather than gather characters for a story,
I’m taking long-on-the-page poems,
rendering them to a sudden spontaneous photograph.
Violets devour the lawn, tiny ants climb walls
to an open kitchen window for careless crumbs.
If this isn’t spring it should be.
Let them be for a while.
Butter Pecan ice cream from a local farm.
A picnic in Sabino Canyon
remembered. Letters
tied with red ribbon in a cedar chest.
Each word on my tongue.
Rather than gather characters for a story,
I’m taking long-on-the-page poems,
rendering them to a sudden spontaneous photograph.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
A poem
Where it happened
The sand is not precisely white-
more an expanse of empty, as death
to an atheist, there is no after-
life here has been radiated into null
space: no thriving planets, black holes,
Alamogordo gone nova, if you believe
hype tells the story (it doesn’t)
but you can land the shuttle nearby,
tap dance on the Atari tomb.
When the sun burst through the gap
in the curtains it was so bright
I had to squint to see the red slash
across the bed; no baby, never had been.
It was finished. We could go home.
our fearful trinity undone by nature.
Nothing was as we had expected:
barren land surrounded the motel,
science triumphed, deferred to the sun,
you started your period after all.
We had become wound together
until the world imploded, cast us out,
falling from the epicenter of "us"
rendered into relief, sadness.
Nothing made sense in the moment.
I drove back to Tucson, you slept,
face gaunt from crying, a stranger
who resembled someone I knew.
The view changed: white to brown,
to black as the sun slipped away
changing everything in a blink.
The sand is not precisely white-
more an expanse of empty, as death
to an atheist, there is no after-
life here has been radiated into null
space: no thriving planets, black holes,
Alamogordo gone nova, if you believe
hype tells the story (it doesn’t)
but you can land the shuttle nearby,
tap dance on the Atari tomb.
When the sun burst through the gap
in the curtains it was so bright
I had to squint to see the red slash
across the bed; no baby, never had been.
It was finished. We could go home.
our fearful trinity undone by nature.
Nothing was as we had expected:
barren land surrounded the motel,
science triumphed, deferred to the sun,
you started your period after all.
We had become wound together
until the world imploded, cast us out,
falling from the epicenter of "us"
rendered into relief, sadness.
Nothing made sense in the moment.
I drove back to Tucson, you slept,
face gaunt from crying, a stranger
who resembled someone I knew.
The view changed: white to brown,
to black as the sun slipped away
changing everything in a blink.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
The art of rewrite
Usually rewriting involves culling words- refining. Someone who has a good ear said more was needed in this case, so I rearranged and refitted some thoughts, details. See what you think.
Version one
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
It was a nice day to go the doctor-
the only place she drove anymore,
there and church, and Weingarten’s.
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would drive a Ford"
she’d say but I never knew why.
To me, one ride was good as another.
but no car can help the driver too blind
to notice two-way streets changed
after a lifetime, new signs unreadable
without her glasses, left home deliberately,
her doc being a tall drink of cool water
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
dump trucks don’t leave pretty victims,
Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the lid, too-rouged cheeks, wig,
in a white linen suit she’d loved though
hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This old house"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer,
Tyler was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and orange tiger lilies.
Rewrite
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would ever drive a Ford"
she’d say, leaving the reason dangling.
To a kid, one ride was good as another.
It was a delightful day to be on the road,
she only used the car for appointments,
that and to church, and Weingarten’s.
She was half-blind but eager to see
her new doc, him being an Elvis look-alike
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
What she didn’t know was the month prior
some city-hall hotshot brought in a consultant
who redirected many of the downtown streets.
Where she’d driven a lifetime was now one-way,
right turns she’d made half a century or more
turned directly into oncoming traffic, busses.
Without her glasses, left home deliberately
in a fit of vanity, she failed to see new signs-
the dump truck driver said she never saw him.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
those kind of wrecks don’t leave pretty victims,
though Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the mahogany lid, rouged cheeks, wig,
dressed in a white linen suit she’d loved
though hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This Old House"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer.
Tyler, Texas was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens of bouquets at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and a lot of orange tiger lilies.
Version one
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
It was a nice day to go the doctor-
the only place she drove anymore,
there and church, and Weingarten’s.
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would drive a Ford"
she’d say but I never knew why.
To me, one ride was good as another.
but no car can help the driver too blind
to notice two-way streets changed
after a lifetime, new signs unreadable
without her glasses, left home deliberately,
her doc being a tall drink of cool water
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
dump trucks don’t leave pretty victims,
Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the lid, too-rouged cheeks, wig,
in a white linen suit she’d loved though
hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This old house"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer,
Tyler was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and orange tiger lilies.
Rewrite
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would ever drive a Ford"
she’d say, leaving the reason dangling.
To a kid, one ride was good as another.
It was a delightful day to be on the road,
she only used the car for appointments,
that and to church, and Weingarten’s.
She was half-blind but eager to see
her new doc, him being an Elvis look-alike
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
What she didn’t know was the month prior
some city-hall hotshot brought in a consultant
who redirected many of the downtown streets.
Where she’d driven a lifetime was now one-way,
right turns she’d made half a century or more
turned directly into oncoming traffic, busses.
Without her glasses, left home deliberately
in a fit of vanity, she failed to see new signs-
the dump truck driver said she never saw him.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
those kind of wrecks don’t leave pretty victims,
though Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the mahogany lid, rouged cheeks, wig,
dressed in a white linen suit she’d loved
though hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This Old House"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer.
Tyler, Texas was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens of bouquets at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and a lot of orange tiger lilies.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Poems-a-day deleted!
Poems-a-day deleted because they were really just drafts and need to be scrubbed up before I can send them off to various publications.
I'll let you know when and where that happens.
In the meantime, did I tell you PIF is doing a print :"Best of" and they want to include Mrs. Klute> It appeared in the November 2011 issue. Yeah!!
I remember workshopping it with Denise Duhamel and my workshop group a few years ago-
keep the words coming
I'll let you know when and where that happens.
In the meantime, did I tell you PIF is doing a print :"Best of" and they want to include Mrs. Klute> It appeared in the November 2011 issue. Yeah!!
I remember workshopping it with Denise Duhamel and my workshop group a few years ago-
keep the words coming
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Giving up on a Poem-a-Day temporarily
Yes, Virginia, I am abandoning writing a poem-a-day for a brief (I hope) time.
I have done so because I am being forced to be political. My home state has decided to attack the rights of women and their autonomy over their bodies. I have to write letters and make phone calls so the people I helped elect get back to the business of business.
There are hoards of old, white men who are willing to do just about anything to keep women in this state from making reasonable, personal choices about having an abortion if they so desire. Sure, they wrap it in the hot button issue of state (and national) funding, but the truth is it affects all of us on more than constitutional levels.
I want women to be able to make the choice of their hearts, their religious beliefs, their conscience. I would no more refuse a woman an abortion than I would force her to have one. I would drive a young woman to another state and help her pay for one if she felt she needed to do so. I would also support her getting aid if needed to raise that child I wished she had not given birth to. I'm old enough to remember when secret phone numbers were passed among us, when the university I attended would give you antibiotics and buy a bus ticket to Mexico and take care of you when you got back so you didn't die from the horrible conditions.
Keep in mind- we will choose, legally or illegally. My own grandmother was so damaged by a backalley abortion in Texas in the 30's she never was able to have another child (plus other issues with her body). Other women will abuse and sometimes murder those unwanted babies you insist must be born.
We may consider ourselves a "Christian" nation, but we are not all one religion, certainly not all Christians. Consider your own conscience and I hope you can see my position. First give us choice, then get back to fixing the economy, making the job market larger, eliminating lobbyists and bringing on term limits.
I have done so because I am being forced to be political. My home state has decided to attack the rights of women and their autonomy over their bodies. I have to write letters and make phone calls so the people I helped elect get back to the business of business.
There are hoards of old, white men who are willing to do just about anything to keep women in this state from making reasonable, personal choices about having an abortion if they so desire. Sure, they wrap it in the hot button issue of state (and national) funding, but the truth is it affects all of us on more than constitutional levels.
I want women to be able to make the choice of their hearts, their religious beliefs, their conscience. I would no more refuse a woman an abortion than I would force her to have one. I would drive a young woman to another state and help her pay for one if she felt she needed to do so. I would also support her getting aid if needed to raise that child I wished she had not given birth to. I'm old enough to remember when secret phone numbers were passed among us, when the university I attended would give you antibiotics and buy a bus ticket to Mexico and take care of you when you got back so you didn't die from the horrible conditions.
Keep in mind- we will choose, legally or illegally. My own grandmother was so damaged by a backalley abortion in Texas in the 30's she never was able to have another child (plus other issues with her body). Other women will abuse and sometimes murder those unwanted babies you insist must be born.
We may consider ourselves a "Christian" nation, but we are not all one religion, certainly not all Christians. Consider your own conscience and I hope you can see my position. First give us choice, then get back to fixing the economy, making the job market larger, eliminating lobbyists and bringing on term limits.
Friday, February 03, 2012
I AM a World Book Giver- Join me!!
I got my letter today- the deadline has been extended to Monday the 6th.
They want us to give away books, something I've been really good at in the past few years.
Go HERE to find out how you can give away books, too.
They want us to give away books, something I've been really good at in the past few years.
Go HERE to find out how you can give away books, too.
Monday, January 30, 2012
wrapped/rapt in my own ennui
here are some things to do while you wait for me to emerge from this fugue:
A poem by Dorianne Laux
A little blob of commentary
A commercial, long in the tooth and all made up
A poet on the road
A poet you should read
that'll do for a bit.
A poem by Dorianne Laux
A little blob of commentary
A commercial, long in the tooth and all made up
A poet on the road
A poet you should read
that'll do for a bit.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Poetry Society of Virginia Contest deadline approaches!!! Jan 19
Go to the Poetry Society of Virginia website for info on entering the annual contest- our judges are top tier (have included Claudia Emerson and many others) and the cash prizes are sweet- poems not published unless you consent so are still available for submitting elsewhere JANUARY 19 DEADLINE!!!
LINK HERE
LINK HERE
Friday, January 13, 2012
remembering what was in poetry/ chapter one
I started writing poetry on computers back when Compuserve was king. I belonged to the writers forum and later the poetry forum (there was a brief run of an erotic writing forum- I recall being booted off because someone said I was underage.)
Judson Jerome had been on the forum but died the fall before I found the place.
It was early 1992 when I jumped into the forum with my first serious poems since my teenage years. I had won a scholastic magazine competition with a poem called "To be, to go, to die" in 1967(?) which included a charm for a bracelet I still own. I went to music school and got distracted.
Compuserve had the cafe (for fun), a workshop of some kind, and the hell called "No Holds Barred". After browsing a few days I posted a poem in "No Holds Barred". For whatever reason (my poetry was raw, unformed but not horrid) the regulars did not skewer me, but were kind and helpful. A retired marine named Jerry Jenkins encouraged me to send a poem to the print magazine Echoes for the memorial day issue and I was published.
We had flame wars, later I traveled to England and Scotland, staying with forum friends. I was churning out poetry like time was running out. It's tough to remember details of the demise of CIS, my children were small and I was working part-time. Mostly I remember being exhausted.
I was running open mikes and poetry events from 1996 on, wrote a column for about.com (paid!!), edited an online zine. I attended three Austin International Poetry Festivals, had poems in their anthologies. Compuserve faded away but I had the Melic Natter, Alsops Review's Gazebo, other places for fun and light criticism.
Twenty years ago this month: the forum was first. I have printouts of most of the poems and correspondencies.
Those and the rest are preserved on floppy disks.
I made good friends, still keep in close touch with one.
This is how it began.
Judson Jerome had been on the forum but died the fall before I found the place.
It was early 1992 when I jumped into the forum with my first serious poems since my teenage years. I had won a scholastic magazine competition with a poem called "To be, to go, to die" in 1967(?) which included a charm for a bracelet I still own. I went to music school and got distracted.
Compuserve had the cafe (for fun), a workshop of some kind, and the hell called "No Holds Barred". After browsing a few days I posted a poem in "No Holds Barred". For whatever reason (my poetry was raw, unformed but not horrid) the regulars did not skewer me, but were kind and helpful. A retired marine named Jerry Jenkins encouraged me to send a poem to the print magazine Echoes for the memorial day issue and I was published.
We had flame wars, later I traveled to England and Scotland, staying with forum friends. I was churning out poetry like time was running out. It's tough to remember details of the demise of CIS, my children were small and I was working part-time. Mostly I remember being exhausted.
I was running open mikes and poetry events from 1996 on, wrote a column for about.com (paid!!), edited an online zine. I attended three Austin International Poetry Festivals, had poems in their anthologies. Compuserve faded away but I had the Melic Natter, Alsops Review's Gazebo, other places for fun and light criticism.
Twenty years ago this month: the forum was first. I have printouts of most of the poems and correspondencies.
Those and the rest are preserved on floppy disks.
I made good friends, still keep in close touch with one.
This is how it began.
Saturday, January 07, 2012
Digging up the past (again)
from the melic review- a poem I had forgotten about...
Every so often I'll do a google search and an old poem will appear, like this one from summer, 2000
written after returning from the Austin International Poetry Festival that spring- it is mostly true.
I BROKE MY TOOTH IN TEXAS
This is the Gospel truth, most likely it was
on a olive seed in a Greek restaurant Friday night,
somewhere in Austin after I did a poetry reading.
It cracked in two pieces like a well-made biscuit splits,
clean but crumbly, next to last molar on the left side.
Didn't take notice right away, I was drinking at the piano bar
in the Driscoll Hotel, figuring it was a hard piece of gristle,
or a chunk of tortilla chip jammed way in the back,
I chewed and jawed all night with abandon,
Too busy carrying on to worry about it much,
I ignored it, acting as if food might be outlawed
by the weekend, and me starving for everything Texas.
I was inhaling barbeque, steak, grilled chicken,
red beans and rice, tortillas off my plate and
into my mouth like I hadn't been home in years,
(I hadn't) I let it fester, digging at it with my tongue.
In the airplane on the way home I ate my pack of nuts
on the other side of my mouth, and didn't crunch my ice.
By chance and fate, I had a dentist appointment
the very next day, so I took my kid in my place
hoping for a reprieve and time to heal the tender spot.
She took one look, rolled her eyes, sat me down
and said, "We gotta get to the root of this one right now,
You want shots or the gas?" and I was stuck for the morning.
Now my temporary crown has abdicated into two monarchies
a week until the real one arrives from the molar factory,
but it was worth it all, at least I broke a tooth and not my heart,
like I did thirty-three years ago in Pasadena when Greg Lind took
Patrice Jordy to Homecoming back in nineteen sixty-something.
Bring me an aspirin and a cold co-cola and I'll tell you all about it.
here's some others from Melic, a right fine journal in its time:
Throwing in the Towel winter 1998
Driving Icarus summer 1999
(I wanted to) autumn 1999 also apppeared in The Best of Melic, in print 2003
A Parable spring 2000
I have let you autumn 2000
Not by the Book (poems about sex with Martha Stewart) fall 2001
When Billy Collins reads (poems about Billy Collins) fall 2001
After 2001, I was a first reader for poetry (on and off) and CE was a stickler for not publishing the staff unless the work had appeared somewhere else first. I rejected more than one poet who is well-known today. During the next few years I also edited issues of La Petite Zine (prior to Daniel Nestor). I am very proud of my work there (archived here and here) but CE had warned me about working with the publisher. I should have listened.
Every so often I'll do a google search and an old poem will appear, like this one from summer, 2000
written after returning from the Austin International Poetry Festival that spring- it is mostly true.
I BROKE MY TOOTH IN TEXAS
This is the Gospel truth, most likely it was
on a olive seed in a Greek restaurant Friday night,
somewhere in Austin after I did a poetry reading.
It cracked in two pieces like a well-made biscuit splits,
clean but crumbly, next to last molar on the left side.
Didn't take notice right away, I was drinking at the piano bar
in the Driscoll Hotel, figuring it was a hard piece of gristle,
or a chunk of tortilla chip jammed way in the back,
I chewed and jawed all night with abandon,
Too busy carrying on to worry about it much,
I ignored it, acting as if food might be outlawed
by the weekend, and me starving for everything Texas.
I was inhaling barbeque, steak, grilled chicken,
red beans and rice, tortillas off my plate and
into my mouth like I hadn't been home in years,
(I hadn't) I let it fester, digging at it with my tongue.
In the airplane on the way home I ate my pack of nuts
on the other side of my mouth, and didn't crunch my ice.
By chance and fate, I had a dentist appointment
the very next day, so I took my kid in my place
hoping for a reprieve and time to heal the tender spot.
She took one look, rolled her eyes, sat me down
and said, "We gotta get to the root of this one right now,
You want shots or the gas?" and I was stuck for the morning.
Now my temporary crown has abdicated into two monarchies
a week until the real one arrives from the molar factory,
but it was worth it all, at least I broke a tooth and not my heart,
like I did thirty-three years ago in Pasadena when Greg Lind took
Patrice Jordy to Homecoming back in nineteen sixty-something.
Bring me an aspirin and a cold co-cola and I'll tell you all about it.
here's some others from Melic, a right fine journal in its time:
Throwing in the Towel winter 1998
Driving Icarus summer 1999
(I wanted to) autumn 1999 also apppeared in The Best of Melic, in print 2003
A Parable spring 2000
I have let you autumn 2000
Not by the Book (poems about sex with Martha Stewart) fall 2001
When Billy Collins reads (poems about Billy Collins) fall 2001
After 2001, I was a first reader for poetry (on and off) and CE was a stickler for not publishing the staff unless the work had appeared somewhere else first. I rejected more than one poet who is well-known today. During the next few years I also edited issues of La Petite Zine (prior to Daniel Nestor). I am very proud of my work there (archived here and here) but CE had warned me about working with the publisher. I should have listened.
Friday, January 06, 2012
The more things change... poets at the VMFA TONIGHT!!!
John Hoppenthaler and Deborah Ager will be reading
(see bios in previous posts)
In the place of Bernadette Geyer and Anna Claire Hodge
GREG DONOVAN and SHANN PALMER
will be reading!! 6-8pm FREE
Virginia Museum of Fine Arts
Richmond, VA
(see bios in previous posts)
In the place of Bernadette Geyer and Anna Claire Hodge
GREG DONOVAN and SHANN PALMER
will be reading!! 6-8pm FREE
Virginia Museum of Fine Arts
Richmond, VA
First Friday Poets at VMFA 6-8pm Meet Poet # 4
Poet John Hoppemthaler
TONIGHT!!! FREE 6-8pm VMFA
Meet Mr. Hoppenthaler:
John Hoppenthaler books of poetry are Lives Of Water (2003) andAnticipate the Coming Reservoir (2008), both titles from Carnegie Mellon University Press. With Kazim Ali, he has co-edited a volume of essays on the poetry of Jean Valentine (forthcoming from U of Michigan P, 2012). His poetry appears in Ploughshares, Southern Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Laurel Review, Barrow Street, West Branch,Christian Science Monitor, Pleiades, and Blackbird, as well as a number of anthologies, includingPoetry Calendar (Alhambra Publishing),Making Poems: 40 Poems with Commentary by the Poets (State U of New York P), September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond (Etruscan Press), Blooming Through the Ashes (RutgersUP), The Sound of Poets Cooking (JACAR Press), and Chance Of A Ghost (Helicon Nine Editions). Among his honors are an Arts Fellowship Award for Excellence in the Field of Literature from the West Virginia Division of Culture and History and the West Virginia Commission on the Arts, a North Carolina Community Council for the Arts Regional Artist Project Grant, and residency fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, The Elizabeth Bishop House, and the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. For eleven years, he served as Poetry Editor for Kestrel, and he now edits A Poetry Congeries for the cultural siteConnotation Press: An Online Artifact and curates a guest-edited poetry feature. He also serves as Advisory Board Member forFairleigh Dickinson University’s Words and Music Festival (WAMFEST). Personal Assistant to Toni Morrison for nine years, he is now an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Literature atEast Carolina University. He lives on the banks of the PamlicoRiver in Washington,NC with his wife, Christy, his stepson, Danny, and their kitten, Obi.
TONIGHT!!! FREE 6-8pm VMFA
Meet Mr. Hoppenthaler:
John Hoppenthaler books of poetry are Lives Of Water (2003) andAnticipate the Coming Reservoir (2008), both titles from Carnegie Mellon University Press. With Kazim Ali, he has co-edited a volume of essays on the poetry of Jean Valentine (forthcoming from U of Michigan P, 2012). His poetry appears in Ploughshares, Southern Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Laurel Review, Barrow Street, West Branch,Christian Science Monitor, Pleiades, and Blackbird, as well as a number of anthologies, includingPoetry Calendar (Alhambra Publishing),Making Poems: 40 Poems with Commentary by the Poets (State U of New York P), September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond (Etruscan Press), Blooming Through the Ashes (RutgersUP), The Sound of Poets Cooking (JACAR Press), and Chance Of A Ghost (Helicon Nine Editions). Among his honors are an Arts Fellowship Award for Excellence in the Field of Literature from the West Virginia Division of Culture and History and the West Virginia Commission on the Arts, a North Carolina Community Council for the Arts Regional Artist Project Grant, and residency fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, The Elizabeth Bishop House, and the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. For eleven years, he served as Poetry Editor for Kestrel, and he now edits A Poetry Congeries for the cultural siteConnotation Press: An Online Artifact and curates a guest-edited poetry feature. He also serves as Advisory Board Member forFairleigh Dickinson University’s Words and Music Festival (WAMFEST). Personal Assistant to Toni Morrison for nine years, he is now an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Literature atEast Carolina University. He lives on the banks of the PamlicoRiver in Washington,NC with his wife, Christy, his stepson, Danny, and their kitten, Obi.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
First Friday Poets @VMFA Jan 6th Poet # 3
First Friday poets at VMFA January 6
Anna Claire Hodge # 3
Anna Claire Hodge # 3
Poets at the Virginia Museum January 6th (First Friday) Local Poet Alert!!
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
Meet Ms. Hodge:
Anna Claire Hodge is a graduate of VCU's MFA program in poetry. Her poems have appeared in Breakwater Review, Blue Earth Review, Miracle Monocle, Makeout Creek, and Hayden's Ferry, among others. Her work has been nominated for both the AWP Intro Journals award, as well as the Best New Poets anthology. A native Floridian, she is currently a columnist in Orlando.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
First Friday poets at VMFA January 6 Poet # 2
First Friday poets at VMFA January 6
Bernadette Geyer Poet # 2
Bernadette Geyer Poet # 2
Poets at the Virginia Museum January 6th (First Friday) Local Poet Alert!!
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
About Ms. Geyer:
Bernadette Geyer lives inVienna, Virginia, where she works as a freelance writer and editor. Shereceived a 2010 Strauss Fellowship from the Arts Council of Fairfax County and isthe author of the poetry chapbook WhatRemains (Argonne House Press). Her poems have appeared in Verse Daily, Oxford American, The MidwestQuarterly, North American Review, and elsewhere. Geyer was twice selected asa Jenny McKean Moore Poetry Scholar at The George Washington University, and threeof her poems appeared on Northern Virginia buses as part of the Moving Wordsprogram, sponsored by the Cultural Affairs Division of the Arlington CountyDepartment of Parks, Recreation, and Cultural Resources. Geyer has served as apoet-in-the-schools in Northern Virginia through the Humanities Project of theArlington Public Schools, and collaborated with the Greater Reston Arts Center in2010 on a program to teach students how to write poetry in response to visualart. In 2011, she participated in the 3rd Annual Poetry Expo atMount Vernon High School, in Mt. Vernon, Virginia.
Monday, January 02, 2012
First Friday poets at VMFA January 6 Deborah Ager Poet # 1
Poets at the Virginia Museum January 6th (First Friday) Local Poet Alert!!
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
About Ms. Ager:
Deborah Ager’s poetry collection is Midnight Voices. Her poems have
appeared in journals such as New England Review, The Georgia Review,
Quarterly West, New Letters, New South and elsewhere. She’s founding
editor and publisher of 32 Poems Magazine and has overseen the
magazine since its inception in 2003. Many poems first appearing in 32
Poems have been honored in the Best American Poetry and Best New Poets
anthologies and on Verse Daily and Poetry Daily.
poems and more 32 Poems Journal
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
About Ms. Ager:
Deborah Ager’s poetry collection is Midnight Voices. Her poems have
appeared in journals such as New England Review, The Georgia Review,
Quarterly West, New Letters, New South and elsewhere. She’s founding
editor and publisher of 32 Poems Magazine and has overseen the
magazine since its inception in 2003. Many poems first appearing in 32
Poems have been honored in the Best American Poetry and Best New Poets
anthologies and on Verse Daily and Poetry Daily.
poems and more 32 Poems Journal
Monday, December 19, 2011
Poets at the Virginia Museum January 6th (First Friday)
Local Poet Alert!!
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
Click here for more info- I'll be posting individual pages for each poet soon!
First Friday in January at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts you will have the opportunity to meet and hear four WONDERFUL poets reading- Deborah Ager, Bernadette Geyer, Anna Claire Hodge, and John Hoppenthaler. They will read 25 minutes each from 6pm to 8pm in the atrium. Free.
Click here for more info- I'll be posting individual pages for each poet soon!
Monday, December 12, 2011
30 Things to Stop Doing to Yourself!
There are mornings when my web reading while I breakfast is a terrible waste-
not this morning.
I wish the list were shorter so I could carry it around, some of the thoughts are repetitive, but whatever-
Go Here and Free yourself
then get back to whatever you were doing before you read this. Did it make any difference?
not this morning.
I wish the list were shorter so I could carry it around, some of the thoughts are repetitive, but whatever-
Go Here and Free yourself
then get back to whatever you were doing before you read this. Did it make any difference?
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
If you're looking for my poem-a-day entries
If you're looking for my poem-a-day entries-
you won't find them here anymore. They were all drafts, unformed, unfinished poem starts- and I will be fiddling with them for awhile.
I miss writing a whole poem each day, I feel a little lost, aimless. January- I'm looking forward to getting serious again.
Got a couple of no's from my submissions, both with nice comments and please send more, it's a good kind of rejection, I suppose.
I've had two wonderful opportunities to write, one at The Porches (if you look at the photo on the webpage, my room was second floor with the chimney- the blue room- see below). The other time "away" was house sitting for a friend west of Richmond, where I slept a lot and made some clay doodads. It was good to clear my head, but home is still somewhat chaotic, what with four adults in a small house (and we all have different schedules).
Writing is a solitary ordeal. When I was in college, music was a solitary ordeal. Creativity, for me, is primarily solitary. The older I get, the more I crave silence and empty rooms. I was to get rid of the excess around me, pare down, uncomplicate.
I sense some new directions for the winter. Come with me.
you won't find them here anymore. They were all drafts, unformed, unfinished poem starts- and I will be fiddling with them for awhile.
I miss writing a whole poem each day, I feel a little lost, aimless. January- I'm looking forward to getting serious again.
Got a couple of no's from my submissions, both with nice comments and please send more, it's a good kind of rejection, I suppose.
I've had two wonderful opportunities to write, one at The Porches (if you look at the photo on the webpage, my room was second floor with the chimney- the blue room- see below). The other time "away" was house sitting for a friend west of Richmond, where I slept a lot and made some clay doodads. It was good to clear my head, but home is still somewhat chaotic, what with four adults in a small house (and we all have different schedules).
Writing is a solitary ordeal. When I was in college, music was a solitary ordeal. Creativity, for me, is primarily solitary. The older I get, the more I crave silence and empty rooms. I was to get rid of the excess around me, pare down, uncomplicate.
I sense some new directions for the winter. Come with me.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Read some current work out there right now...
Chapbook over at the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature
Poem "Mrs. Klute" at PIF
Poem "The bells done rung" at Qarrtsiluni
Plus the daily poems, to be updated shortly
Thanks for reading my work!
Poem "Mrs. Klute" at PIF
Poem "The bells done rung" at Qarrtsiluni
Plus the daily poems, to be updated shortly
Thanks for reading my work!
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Are you writing a poem a day in November?
Here's some good places for inspiration:
Book of Kells
also
Poetic Asides
or take a headline from the newspaper
or get on twitter and check out some of the folks who are poets
Book of Kells
also
Poetic Asides
or take a headline from the newspaper
or get on twitter and check out some of the folks who are poets
Thursday, October 27, 2011
I can't help being proud
Poems are like children I finish up (as best I can) then shoo them out into the world hoping they make something of themselves.
My poem "On the Ninety-Ninth Floor" which I wrote about 9-11 in 2001 (also titled "On the Hundred and First Floor" on the advice of an editor who was a Rolling Stones fan) has been used in two different school English programs and been published numerous times in print and on the web.
While googling myself (if you submit poetry, you should check occasionally) I found another instance where the poem was used, this time in a commemoration ceremony at Harper College in Illinois, read by Anne Davidovich, an English professor.
HERE is the link. Thanks, Professor Davidovicz!
My poem "On the Ninety-Ninth Floor" which I wrote about 9-11 in 2001 (also titled "On the Hundred and First Floor" on the advice of an editor who was a Rolling Stones fan) has been used in two different school English programs and been published numerous times in print and on the web.
While googling myself (if you submit poetry, you should check occasionally) I found another instance where the poem was used, this time in a commemoration ceremony at Harper College in Illinois, read by Anne Davidovich, an English professor.
HERE is the link. Thanks, Professor Davidovicz!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Poetry Tasting Thursday!
Thursday, October 27 · 6:00pm - 8:00pm | |
C'est Le Vin 15 N. 17th St. RVA 23219  | |
Friday, October 21, 2011
Is that a poet behind those $5 sunglasses?
or is it Shann with a new haircut by her personal stylist?
Makes me wanna write a jazz hot poem-
Makes me wanna write a jazz hot poem-
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Poetry Society of Virginia Newsletter October
If you are interested, find it HERE
If you want to receive a copy in your email, let me know, I'm the editor!
The annual contest begins November 1st and runs through January 19th (Poe's Birthday)
Cash prizes, some pretty substantial, quality well-known judges that change every year!
C'mon- you know you want to!
If you want to receive a copy in your email, let me know, I'm the editor!
The annual contest begins November 1st and runs through January 19th (Poe's Birthday)
Cash prizes, some pretty substantial, quality well-known judges that change every year!
C'mon- you know you want to!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Fountain Books and Chop Suey
And this is why I purchase books at these two stores (or occasionally from a writer at a reading):
Read this article if you love books
My husband noticed Books-a-Million on Broad Street is closed. I never much cared for the place for books- the staff was generally good and the magazine selection was the best in town (at least for my cross stitch). The loss of any bookstore diminishes all of us.
You laugh now, but wait until Amazonofthefuture tells us what to read.
and they don't like poetry.
Read this article if you love books
My husband noticed Books-a-Million on Broad Street is closed. I never much cared for the place for books- the staff was generally good and the magazine selection was the best in town (at least for my cross stitch). The loss of any bookstore diminishes all of us.
You laugh now, but wait until Amazonofthefuture tells us what to read.
and they don't like poetry.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Halloween Poems??? You bet your pumpkin!
What could be more fun than poems for Halloween??
A most benign holiday, apparently safe for all faiths- or those with little.
Click HERE for selections.... and Boo!
A most benign holiday, apparently safe for all faiths- or those with little.
Click HERE for selections.... and Boo!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
$10,000 Poetry Prize Winner
Congratulation
Lisa Russ Spaar
2011 Recipient
The Carole Weinstein Prize in Poetry, established in 2005, is awarded annually to a poet with strong connections to central Virginia. The $10,000 prize recognizes significant recent contribution to the art of poetry and a broad range of achievement in the field.
from Poetry Daily
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sevenlings and Shann
Did I mention I'm writing a sevenling a day for the month of October?
So far, it's been interesting- not as easy as I'd thought, but fun.
link HERE
give it a try- I'll post one soon...
So far, it's been interesting- not as easy as I'd thought, but fun.
link HERE
give it a try- I'll post one soon...
Monday, October 10, 2011
Thursday, October 06, 2011
And who, you ask- is this Transtromer dude??
He's writes difficult poetry, only available through translation.
He's 80.
He's not Bob Dylan, or American.
"Transtromer, whose subtle, multi-layered work often deals with the relation between man and nature or the conscious and unconscious, is a regular on the list of favourites to win the prize." Simon Johnson, Reuters
What do I think? Dunno, really. I'm not a huge fan of The Poet With the Name That Sounds Like a Sci-Fi Movie. (or should I say Syfy?)
HERE be some useful links
He's 80.
He's not Bob Dylan, or American.
"Transtromer, whose subtle, multi-layered work often deals with the relation between man and nature or the conscious and unconscious, is a regular on the list of favourites to win the prize." Simon Johnson, Reuters
What do I think? Dunno, really. I'm not a huge fan of The Poet With the Name That Sounds Like a Sci-Fi Movie. (or should I say Syfy?)
HERE be some useful links
Friday, September 30, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Poets coming to town!!
Lotsa Poets! Put on yer underwear and get ready to go!
Nick Lantz Sept 28
Norge Library reading Oct 1
Megan Martin and Kristi Maxwell Oct 3
Richmond Secrets reading art6 October 14
Carolyn Forche Oct 14 UR
more coming
Nick Lantz Sept 28
Norge Library reading Oct 1
Megan Martin and Kristi Maxwell Oct 3
Richmond Secrets reading art6 October 14
Carolyn Forche Oct 14 UR
more coming
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Forgotten poem from 2004
Sequence
All my poems scamble in shrimp nets, full
and fishy, tossed across the deck of boats
where lazy afternoons sway honky-tonk music.
Sometimes in the middle of a dream I'll hear
a Cajun tune I can't remember when I'm awake.
Makes me wonder what else I've forgotten, who sang.
When I shut my eyes I see grainy 8mm movies,
stop-action black and white flashbacks in wonky angles,
smooth pine floors, a single bed in a back room;
somewhere there's a party in progress.
Thinking about it arouses me, and I don't know why.
It was Tucson in the spring or an East Texas summer.
Some men wear the smell of their work: creosote,
wet peat, fresh cut wood, motor oil and sweat—
I'm in line at the movies when I torque into a faded Polaroid
and try to inch my way closer to the guy in front of me.
His smell snaps me back into the arms of that mechanic.
We fucked all night in a rollaway bed a million years ago.
The rug was olive green, the wine was fruity and dark,
words are vivid colors and fais-dodo lovers who wait
dancing on the other side of a closed door,
at the end of the dock, in an elevator going up.
April/May 2004 Eclectica
All my poems scamble in shrimp nets, full
and fishy, tossed across the deck of boats
where lazy afternoons sway honky-tonk music.
Sometimes in the middle of a dream I'll hear
a Cajun tune I can't remember when I'm awake.
Makes me wonder what else I've forgotten, who sang.
When I shut my eyes I see grainy 8mm movies,
stop-action black and white flashbacks in wonky angles,
smooth pine floors, a single bed in a back room;
somewhere there's a party in progress.
Thinking about it arouses me, and I don't know why.
It was Tucson in the spring or an East Texas summer.
Some men wear the smell of their work: creosote,
wet peat, fresh cut wood, motor oil and sweat—
I'm in line at the movies when I torque into a faded Polaroid
and try to inch my way closer to the guy in front of me.
His smell snaps me back into the arms of that mechanic.
We fucked all night in a rollaway bed a million years ago.
The rug was olive green, the wine was fruity and dark,
words are vivid colors and fais-dodo lovers who wait
dancing on the other side of a closed door,
at the end of the dock, in an elevator going up.
April/May 2004 Eclectica
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Poetry tonight 9-6 at the University of Richmond
It's been awhile- earthquakes, hurricanes, 5 day power outages, but I'm back and ready to go with news and such:
Tonight at UR:
Honor Moore, Distinguished Writer in Residence
Tuesday, September 6, 2011 at 7 p.m.
Brown-Alley Room, Weinstein Hall
Honor Moore has published a memoir, The Bishop’s Daughter, and a biography, The White Blackbird, A Life of the Painter Margarett Sargent by Her Granddaughter. The Bishop’s Daughter was named an Editor’s Choice by the New York Times and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. In 2009 the Library of America published Poems from the Women’s Movement, an anthology edited by Moore, and in 2010 the Feminist Press published her translation of Taslima Nasrin’s Revenge. She is also the author of three collections of poetry—Memoir, Darling, and Red Shoes—and her play, Mourning Pictures, was produced on Broadway. Moore has received awards in poetry and playwriting from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council for the Arts, and the Connecticut Commission for the Arts, and in 2004 was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in non-fiction.
HERE is the link to the rest of the year - STEVE ALMOND is coming!!!!
Tonight at UR:
Honor Moore, Distinguished Writer in Residence
Tuesday, September 6, 2011 at 7 p.m.
Brown-Alley Room, Weinstein Hall
Honor Moore has published a memoir, The Bishop’s Daughter, and a biography, The White Blackbird, A Life of the Painter Margarett Sargent by Her Granddaughter. The Bishop’s Daughter was named an Editor’s Choice by the New York Times and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. In 2009 the Library of America published Poems from the Women’s Movement, an anthology edited by Moore, and in 2010 the Feminist Press published her translation of Taslima Nasrin’s Revenge. She is also the author of three collections of poetry—Memoir, Darling, and Red Shoes—and her play, Mourning Pictures, was produced on Broadway. Moore has received awards in poetry and playwriting from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council for the Arts, and the Connecticut Commission for the Arts, and in 2004 was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in non-fiction.
HERE is the link to the rest of the year - STEVE ALMOND is coming!!!!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
No posts due to earthquake ennui!
I can't sleep- I hate this- I am behind on everything!
Poetry workshop again at Grace Church Wednesday, August 31 at 2pm and 7:30pm
scroll down the page for more info- Please come!
my personal earthquake damage.
At least the Waterford (colleen) tumbler didn't break.
Poetry workshop again at Grace Church Wednesday, August 31 at 2pm and 7:30pm
scroll down the page for more info- Please come!
At least the Waterford (colleen) tumbler didn't break.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
top ten "best of" poets?
It;'s a new world out there, children.
They can cast Philip Levine as the Studs Terkel of poetry, but they can't make a single baby boomer young again- and double that when you judge it poetry. (Okay, I got a little lost on the good ship trope but I'm not rewritting this- it's not a poem).
ANYWAY, Click here to get some interesting opinions- and click on the specific poetry links.
Tell me what you think- I'm not sure yet what I think.
I've never heard of ANY of these poets, that I can remember (and that worries me).
They can cast Philip Levine as the Studs Terkel of poetry, but they can't make a single baby boomer young again- and double that when you judge it poetry. (Okay, I got a little lost on the good ship trope but I'm not rewritting this- it's not a poem).
ANYWAY, Click here to get some interesting opinions- and click on the specific poetry links.
Tell me what you think- I'm not sure yet what I think.
I've never heard of ANY of these poets, that I can remember (and that worries me).
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
So yeah, this made me almost cry
Poetry can do that, if it's the right poem (by Cate Peebles) at the right moment of chaos in my day
Read it and weep
Maybe it's because I window shopped at a couple of little odd-shops on Lakeside Ave today (across the street from Consignment Corner, where we also shopped).
There's something about the sight of objects someone doesn't need anymore that makes me happy - they are relieving themselves of the burden of "things".
but what if they have died or lost everything because of difficult circumstances?
Conflict. That's what makes poets. Conflicts. That's what makes poems.
Read it and weep
Maybe it's because I window shopped at a couple of little odd-shops on Lakeside Ave today (across the street from Consignment Corner, where we also shopped).
There's something about the sight of objects someone doesn't need anymore that makes me happy - they are relieving themselves of the burden of "things".
but what if they have died or lost everything because of difficult circumstances?
Conflict. That's what makes poets. Conflicts. That's what makes poems.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
New National Poet Laureate
Head wordy fella
And so it's the personable curmudgeon Philip Levine as our new poet laureate.
A "working man" because he grew up in Detroit. A "common" man because he isn't an elite New Yorker.
I happen to like his poems. A lot. But there is a certain cynicism attached to the decision to offer up a "commoner" to the people, when the middle class is under such pressure.
At least that would be the case if anyone really cared- except a handful of poets sprinkled across the country.
Another drop in the ocean, A sweet one.
And so it's the personable curmudgeon Philip Levine as our new poet laureate.
A "working man" because he grew up in Detroit. A "common" man because he isn't an elite New Yorker.
I happen to like his poems. A lot. But there is a certain cynicism attached to the decision to offer up a "commoner" to the people, when the middle class is under such pressure.
At least that would be the case if anyone really cared- except a handful of poets sprinkled across the country.
Another drop in the ocean, A sweet one.
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Wanna Free Book? Do you like Dead Penguins?
Check this out:
an ebook promo from MelvilleHouse Publishing
AND
you can get it right here in Richmond at The Fountain Bookstore!!
It's free if you do it in the next four days!!
I got mine.
an ebook promo from MelvilleHouse Publishing
AND
you can get it right here in Richmond at The Fountain Bookstore!!
It's free if you do it in the next four days!!
I got mine.
A summer poem...by Tony Hoagland
Summer is tough for poetry- it's hot, other things call (barbecue, watermelon, naps) and general folderoling around.
So I got nothin'
But here's a poem by Tony Hoagland you might like
Summer
mmm, yeah.
So I got nothin'
But here's a poem by Tony Hoagland you might like
Summer
mmm, yeah.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Hanging out with old poems (by old poets)
eleven years ago on PIF
Interstate
nine years ago at the Melic Review
(I wanted to) Dance on Your Grave
if they had been published in print journals, these poems would be lost.
I love the internet!!
Interstate
nine years ago at the Melic Review
(I wanted to) Dance on Your Grave
if they had been published in print journals, these poems would be lost.
I love the internet!!
Poet Laureate of Virginia
To all concerned:
There is NO List at this time for nominations for Virginia Poet Laureate!
Kelly Cherry is the current laureate and will serve until her term expires in Fall of 2012.
When the time comes, probably early spring, the newsletter for the Poetry Society of Virginia will contain a ballot where interested parties can submit names. Ten names will go forward to the MEMBERSHIP of the poetry society for a vote which will then be reduced to 5 names (three from the committee, two from at-large candidates). Up until that time, no names or candidates will be considered and it does not make me very happy to receive all these letters of support in my email, since I have one vote and one vote only, just like every other member of the society.
If you want to be eligible to vote, join the poetry society. We have been appointed by the legislature to suggest names to the governor.
Your candidate may be the most qualified, may receive enough votes to be on the final list, but all of this is more than six months away. This is NOT a popularity contest. Letters of support hold no sway and will not be considered. Someone needs to nominate your candidate when the time comes.
There will be many wonderful and well-qualified candidates. The poet laureate spends the two years traveling all over the state presenting programs and readings. It is not an award to be given as a tribute, it is a difficult, expensive, and time-consuming job.
Please go to http://www.poetrysocietyofvirginia.org/ for more information and to join the society, if you wish.
There is NO List at this time for nominations for Virginia Poet Laureate!
Kelly Cherry is the current laureate and will serve until her term expires in Fall of 2012.
When the time comes, probably early spring, the newsletter for the Poetry Society of Virginia will contain a ballot where interested parties can submit names. Ten names will go forward to the MEMBERSHIP of the poetry society for a vote which will then be reduced to 5 names (three from the committee, two from at-large candidates). Up until that time, no names or candidates will be considered and it does not make me very happy to receive all these letters of support in my email, since I have one vote and one vote only, just like every other member of the society.
If you want to be eligible to vote, join the poetry society. We have been appointed by the legislature to suggest names to the governor.
Your candidate may be the most qualified, may receive enough votes to be on the final list, but all of this is more than six months away. This is NOT a popularity contest. Letters of support hold no sway and will not be considered. Someone needs to nominate your candidate when the time comes.
There will be many wonderful and well-qualified candidates. The poet laureate spends the two years traveling all over the state presenting programs and readings. It is not an award to be given as a tribute, it is a difficult, expensive, and time-consuming job.
Please go to http://www.poetrysocietyofvirginia.org/ for more information and to join the society, if you wish.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
So far behind! So much poetry!!!
Poem accepted for Scissors & Spackle for the 1/11 Equinox issue (out September 30th)
Submitting like crazy-
leaving tomorrow for West Virgina for the Writers Workshop at WVU with Denise Duhamel-
I hope the family doesn't stop up the sink or the toilet while I'm gone!
More poems after that- still working on my "Assassin" series.........
Submitting like crazy-
leaving tomorrow for West Virgina for the Writers Workshop at WVU with Denise Duhamel-
I hope the family doesn't stop up the sink or the toilet while I'm gone!
More poems after that- still working on my "Assassin" series.........
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
I'm from the FDA and I'm here to kill you...
Watch this movie free thru Sunday night-
seriously- watch it!!!
http://healthimpactnews.com/2011/the-proven-cancer-cure-the-fda-has-tried-to-surpress/
I'm from the FDA and I'm here to kill you...oh- and to get rich from your money while I do it!
seriously- watch it!!!
http://healthimpactnews.com/2011/the-proven-cancer-cure-the-fda-has-tried-to-surpress/
I'm from the FDA and I'm here to kill you...oh- and to get rich from your money while I do it!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
June 14 poem-a-day
Why Poets are not Optimists
up too late
assembling chapbooks
she hopes to make gas money,
maybe get a sandwich,
have a little extra for the weekend
for the farmers market-
early tomatoes, peaches, maybe,
feel like a success
in the face of so many
people grinding out poetry,
she doesn’t even have
what she’ll read
picked out
or her dress
nothing is timed
nor in large fonts
now she won’t get
enough sleep
she never does
preparing to tell strangers
her deepest secrets
they should at least
buy a lousy chapbook.
up too late
assembling chapbooks
she hopes to make gas money,
maybe get a sandwich,
have a little extra for the weekend
for the farmers market-
early tomatoes, peaches, maybe,
feel like a success
in the face of so many
people grinding out poetry,
she doesn’t even have
what she’ll read
picked out
or her dress
nothing is timed
nor in large fonts
now she won’t get
enough sleep
she never does
preparing to tell strangers
her deepest secrets
they should at least
buy a lousy chapbook.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Mark Rylance on the Tony Awards
In case you thought Mark Rylance was riffing- here is the prose poem he used in his acceptance speech...
POEM
Don't tell me poetry can't be memorized if it doesn't rhyme!
POEM
Don't tell me poetry can't be memorized if it doesn't rhyme!
June 12 poem-a-day
Selected
Jumble of covers,
I am not trapped,
I am not trapped.
Aggregate calamities,
opportunity + idea = advantage.
Covert operations indicate
a lack of documentation.
Sancho Panza got it right
(about the pitcher).
Slipping into tepid waters,
I remember how to swim.
Under the influence/
it is too easy to ignore
the obvious
old injuries
telegraph a warning,
too late, too late
I throw myself against the wall of your smile.
Jumble of covers,
I am not trapped,
I am not trapped.
Aggregate calamities,
opportunity + idea = advantage.
Covert operations indicate
a lack of documentation.
Sancho Panza got it right
(about the pitcher).
Slipping into tepid waters,
I remember how to swim.
Under the influence/
it is too easy to ignore
the obvious
old injuries
telegraph a warning,
too late, too late
I throw myself against the wall of your smile.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
June 6 poem-a-day
Half an inch of water
I’ve never been confused for someone else,
who’s missed a plane to Memphis,
fought with a ragtag few against the many,
stepping forward when those near me don't.
I’d rather duck and run, look busy, divert
attention when necessary, or just say No.
As the rope gets to me, I’ll ease it out,
unwilling to hang alone or with others.
When it is time to stand I’ll watch
from a comfortable distance in a lawn chair,
shaded under the gnarl of a grape arbor,
as the vine grows to cover my transgressions.
I’ll never be a martyr, or a blessed saint,
my convictions are fluid, convenient,
fleeting as first love, only a pin prick deep,
silent in mourning, I will not speak first.
I’ve never been confused for someone else,
who’s missed a plane to Memphis,
fought with a ragtag few against the many,
stepping forward when those near me don't.
I’d rather duck and run, look busy, divert
attention when necessary, or just say No.
As the rope gets to me, I’ll ease it out,
unwilling to hang alone or with others.
When it is time to stand I’ll watch
from a comfortable distance in a lawn chair,
shaded under the gnarl of a grape arbor,
as the vine grows to cover my transgressions.
I’ll never be a martyr, or a blessed saint,
my convictions are fluid, convenient,
fleeting as first love, only a pin prick deep,
silent in mourning, I will not speak first.
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Friday, June 03, 2011
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
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Your bodyheat caught me unprepared,
the acrid burn of hell and heaven
as our elbows touched, I was consumed.
Defined by intensity, we played
pretend, lips sealed in understanding:
to match is not to go together.
Alone, I am incomplete, jagged
edge catching on the delicate gauze
our story wears in such circumstance.
You are my everyday devotion,
the scripture I carry in my hand,
fingerprints left on piano keys.
On the horizon a meteor
flares and disappears. We are done.