the snow is bright
in the morning light
the yard echoes shouts
as kids go about
the precarious business
of falling downhill
we must take care
with the air we breathe
it's been laced with joy
since Christmas eve
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sea Trails: the Virtual Tour. Starting at The Thirteen Blacbirds. Don't Miss This!
Sea Trails is out and has full sails. Enjoy this Virtual Tour by a contemporary poet you don't want to miss! This post's title is a link to take you there - just click on it!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
alone
(for Debbie)
i have a day
i thought was lost
you were in the mirror
when i looked the first time
after that you were gone
everyone knows
they don't want
to be alone
to know the tragedy
that life is
when it is
theirs alone
mine was about yours
until i got our pronoun right
i have a day
i thought was lost
you were in the mirror
when i looked the first time
after that you were gone
everyone knows
they don't want
to be alone
to know the tragedy
that life is
when it is
theirs alone
mine was about yours
until i got our pronoun right
Thursday, August 06, 2009
January's "Got poetry" campaign
(You will find this post in the comments of the blog you go to when you click on the title of this post.)
January, I'm glad you came back to this issue with some new information and some more thoughts. I think back to Edna St. Vincent Millay and her trips across the country doing readings to huge crowds and wonder where poetry has lost all the popular appeal it once so apparently enjoyed.
On the subject of self-promotion, I definitely agree with both you and Collin on this issue. Additionally, I think we must also jump on each other's bandwagon, so to speak and relentlessly promote other people's poetry that we find important to us as well.
If you look at the difference between the indie and the large publishing house, you immediately see that the latter focuses on a small number of writers and promotes them professionally. Please don’t mistake me for thinking badly of indies, I publish all of my writing there currently and am extremely grateful for their existence. What I am trying to illustrate is that about half the reading public goes to a handful of large houses and the other half goes to a group of indies that is only slightly less numerous than the readership it serves. Among the indies, the promotion ranges from none to rather professional and they don’t repeat-print works (first timers only, please) although that is beginning to change. The net result is a very diffuse and huge group of near nameless poets for whom little or inconsistent promotion is generally applied and for whom the per capita sales of each author are rather small. When compared with the big houses, we can see how effective is their concentration on a small number of name-recognition level writers and strong promotional support for each of those names.
Still, the interest in those names doesn’t seem to approach the level of popularity of Millay, Frost, and a handful like them. It seems to me that something has happened to the perception of poets as interesting, odd, exciting people worthy of, perhaps for lack of a better word, gossiping about. I guess poetry now is about ordinary, if slightly eccentric, people living ordinary lives and legendary figures of immense popular appeal are not to be found in this group anymore. Maybe I’m just trying to take a poke at a windmill here as I really can’t seem to put my finger on why poetry has slipped out of the popular view. If it was just about professional marketing, wouldn’t the big houses already be so successful that the indie market would never have even been able to assert itself? I’m obviously missing something here and would be deeply indebted if someone would be so kind as to point it out.
I hope others will have something to say about this topic and so I’m going to post it to my blog and refer them to yours where this all started. Thanks again January for continuing your discussion of this important issue.
January, I'm glad you came back to this issue with some new information and some more thoughts. I think back to Edna St. Vincent Millay and her trips across the country doing readings to huge crowds and wonder where poetry has lost all the popular appeal it once so apparently enjoyed.
On the subject of self-promotion, I definitely agree with both you and Collin on this issue. Additionally, I think we must also jump on each other's bandwagon, so to speak and relentlessly promote other people's poetry that we find important to us as well.
If you look at the difference between the indie and the large publishing house, you immediately see that the latter focuses on a small number of writers and promotes them professionally. Please don’t mistake me for thinking badly of indies, I publish all of my writing there currently and am extremely grateful for their existence. What I am trying to illustrate is that about half the reading public goes to a handful of large houses and the other half goes to a group of indies that is only slightly less numerous than the readership it serves. Among the indies, the promotion ranges from none to rather professional and they don’t repeat-print works (first timers only, please) although that is beginning to change. The net result is a very diffuse and huge group of near nameless poets for whom little or inconsistent promotion is generally applied and for whom the per capita sales of each author are rather small. When compared with the big houses, we can see how effective is their concentration on a small number of name-recognition level writers and strong promotional support for each of those names.
Still, the interest in those names doesn’t seem to approach the level of popularity of Millay, Frost, and a handful like them. It seems to me that something has happened to the perception of poets as interesting, odd, exciting people worthy of, perhaps for lack of a better word, gossiping about. I guess poetry now is about ordinary, if slightly eccentric, people living ordinary lives and legendary figures of immense popular appeal are not to be found in this group anymore. Maybe I’m just trying to take a poke at a windmill here as I really can’t seem to put my finger on why poetry has slipped out of the popular view. If it was just about professional marketing, wouldn’t the big houses already be so successful that the indie market would never have even been able to assert itself? I’m obviously missing something here and would be deeply indebted if someone would be so kind as to point it out.
I hope others will have something to say about this topic and so I’m going to post it to my blog and refer them to yours where this all started. Thanks again January for continuing your discussion of this important issue.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
FIRST PUBLISHED VS. POPULAR ALREADY
The 'previously unpublished' versus the 'piece that is becoming popular' question is a big issue for me. This is something poets and publishers need to actively discuss because I believe that a wrong choice here can diminish the chance that a poem which has attracted some public interest will ever achieve the distribution and therefore exposure it would have experienced under the older print media system (which had its own flaws, let me hasten to add).
Much of the current electronic publication activity is, at best, counter-productive for the success of poetry in general (we need readers who are recreational and not just other poets). The small presses are struggling with minimal interest on the part of the consuming public and therefore are in perpetual financial difficulties. Many of them react to this situation so conservatively and narrowly that, believing they are serving their own best interests, they further limit the possible interest of the larger consuming public that poets and publishers used to enjoy in the past.
People (poets and non-poets) like to have their current favorite works available to read multiple times. Furthermore, they like the reassurance that others are just as excited about those works as they are. The more places in which their favorite poems show up, the more they feel as if their personal preference is justified. They like the critical interest generated by popular poems because they better learn how to understand them by reading what scholars are saying about their favorites. These issues are key ones to those who do not already possess educated specific background in poetry and poetry writing. The perilous inaccessibility of some modern poetry which demands deep technical understanding and considerable intellectual aesthetic attention is an understandable putt-off to people who already have no clue as to why MFA poets write the way they do.
I can’t think of a process more alien to this than our current small press activity. Are the current trends for publication in them actually endangering the growth of a real group of public readership (which would really be in the best interest of them specifically and modern poetry in general)?
Much of the current electronic publication activity is, at best, counter-productive for the success of poetry in general (we need readers who are recreational and not just other poets). The small presses are struggling with minimal interest on the part of the consuming public and therefore are in perpetual financial difficulties. Many of them react to this situation so conservatively and narrowly that, believing they are serving their own best interests, they further limit the possible interest of the larger consuming public that poets and publishers used to enjoy in the past.
People (poets and non-poets) like to have their current favorite works available to read multiple times. Furthermore, they like the reassurance that others are just as excited about those works as they are. The more places in which their favorite poems show up, the more they feel as if their personal preference is justified. They like the critical interest generated by popular poems because they better learn how to understand them by reading what scholars are saying about their favorites. These issues are key ones to those who do not already possess educated specific background in poetry and poetry writing. The perilous inaccessibility of some modern poetry which demands deep technical understanding and considerable intellectual aesthetic attention is an understandable putt-off to people who already have no clue as to why MFA poets write the way they do.
I can’t think of a process more alien to this than our current small press activity. Are the current trends for publication in them actually endangering the growth of a real group of public readership (which would really be in the best interest of them specifically and modern poetry in general)?
Monday, April 13, 2009
On writing for NaPoMo
I'm not much of a 'write for contests' kind of guy, preferring to commit to art rather than things which would produce some kind of personal recognition but I have participated, for the first time, in National Poetry Month because it is, in part, about something in which I believe. For any of you who are unfamiliar with it, this is an American event created to specifically promote poetry and increase public awareness of poetry and poets, in general. What is asked of us during the month of April is to write a poem each day of the month. I begin to be a little uncertain here, wondering if some quantitative value is going to do anything worthwhile for poetry but, what the heck; it’s for a good cause so I can tolerate a portion of sloppy logic to go with the good intentions.
I’m used to external discipline as it is applied to learning. I’m a teacher and I try to do this for my students all the time as I also help them with the process of learning how to do that for and by themselves (called learner autonomy). In my life as a poet, I frequently find I need to learn more about my art. How does W. C. Williams bring that larger context along with that object, The Red Wheelbarrow, with such a simple, short poem? How does Basho find the soul of something physical and familiar to us? How does a sonnet or sestina work? I must learn from these external things so I can do what the art of poetry demands of me.
When I seek to gain knowledge from external sources I am practicing learner autonomy in my own life. If a poet acquaintance like Robert Lee Brewer takes upon himself to post a daily prompt for each day of National Poetry Month for use by hundreds of poets on the internet, this is another form of external discipline because now I must write not only daily (which I already do) but on a specific theme. Sometimes a thousand or more poets respond and post their themed results on an internet location where they can be collected and judged. I am the kind of poet that likes to revise and this regime gives no time for that activity to take place. In essence, we are being asked to produce the best work we can with rather short notice and with very little opportunity to revise before submission. This is so far away from the writing regime I have been using for years but I find I am learning some unplanned lessons in areas I usually don’t even think about by participating in this experience.
We are nearly half way through and it is not too late to pick up your pen and join in the fun. If, like me, you would never consider doing such a silly (although well motivated) thing like this, I invite you to give it a try. After all, being a holy person in the isolation of living on a high mountain is one thing but coming down and trying to be pure in the city with its myriad temptations is a whole ‘nother. Join the crowd!
I’m used to external discipline as it is applied to learning. I’m a teacher and I try to do this for my students all the time as I also help them with the process of learning how to do that for and by themselves (called learner autonomy). In my life as a poet, I frequently find I need to learn more about my art. How does W. C. Williams bring that larger context along with that object, The Red Wheelbarrow, with such a simple, short poem? How does Basho find the soul of something physical and familiar to us? How does a sonnet or sestina work? I must learn from these external things so I can do what the art of poetry demands of me.
When I seek to gain knowledge from external sources I am practicing learner autonomy in my own life. If a poet acquaintance like Robert Lee Brewer takes upon himself to post a daily prompt for each day of National Poetry Month for use by hundreds of poets on the internet, this is another form of external discipline because now I must write not only daily (which I already do) but on a specific theme. Sometimes a thousand or more poets respond and post their themed results on an internet location where they can be collected and judged. I am the kind of poet that likes to revise and this regime gives no time for that activity to take place. In essence, we are being asked to produce the best work we can with rather short notice and with very little opportunity to revise before submission. This is so far away from the writing regime I have been using for years but I find I am learning some unplanned lessons in areas I usually don’t even think about by participating in this experience.
We are nearly half way through and it is not too late to pick up your pen and join in the fun. If, like me, you would never consider doing such a silly (although well motivated) thing like this, I invite you to give it a try. After all, being a holy person in the isolation of living on a high mountain is one thing but coming down and trying to be pure in the city with its myriad temptations is a whole ‘nother. Join the crowd!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Another trip to Luciole Press
The Spring/Summer Issue is out! This is a big issue just packed with all sorts great art by some wonderfully talented people. It is an honor to be included in their company. Enjoy this!
(The previous post about the fall'\/Winter Issue will take you there also. I don't know if they have archives or not but will try to find out)
(The previous post about the fall'\/Winter Issue will take you there also. I don't know if they have archives or not but will try to find out)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Fragment
what’s old is the ancient quest of restless dreams
chugging through the night
what’s new is that in the gathering pre-dawn
birds sing eagerly
bells urging me to find that empty pew in
the church of my heart
chugging through the night
what’s new is that in the gathering pre-dawn
birds sing eagerly
bells urging me to find that empty pew in
the church of my heart
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Undeclared Love
He smells her hair,
He holds his place.
It's so unfair,
This lovely face.
There's no broken heart
For him to mend.
This is the part
That doesn't end.
A languid limb
Of hers reclines;
For beauty’s hymn
Sorrow defines.
Of all the ways pain can name,
This is the one he would not claim.
The first two stanzas of this poem were written as a group effort at English club at K.I.M.E.P. recently and are the combined efforts of several people, including Nurmerey Shakhanova and Akerke Almanova. The last stanza and the couplet I wrote subsequently and the poem you have just read is the result. I want to say thank you to those who participated in the creation of this sonnet.
He holds his place.
It's so unfair,
This lovely face.
There's no broken heart
For him to mend.
This is the part
That doesn't end.
A languid limb
Of hers reclines;
For beauty’s hymn
Sorrow defines.
Of all the ways pain can name,
This is the one he would not claim.
The first two stanzas of this poem were written as a group effort at English club at K.I.M.E.P. recently and are the combined efforts of several people, including Nurmerey Shakhanova and Akerke Almanova. The last stanza and the couplet I wrote subsequently and the poem you have just read is the result. I want to say thank you to those who participated in the creation of this sonnet.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Go read Luciole Press
You will find two of my poems in the winter issue. Just click on the title and it will take you to them. There is some wonderful poetry in this issue so please take some time to enjoy a few of the many fine works while you are there.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Go read the Blue Fifth Review!
Blue Fifth Review has graciously published one of my recent poems. It is called dream and you can find it in the first section of their Fall 2008 edition. There is so much wonderful poetry in that issue you couldn't go wrong even if you got lost reading and it took you a long time to find my poem. Enjoy!
Friday, August 15, 2008
Journey
I do not know how it calls
but I bounce off what I'm doing
and float on the words
the world is changed and gone away
the time that ticks so viciously
means exactly the next moment
and all those things that mean
there is nothing else and yet
gratefully it gathers in a grey ball
of thread and does not unravel
hangs there more motionless
than any illusion and the word
is the only motion I know
moving but carrying no twigs or branches
no leaves no gum wrappers
and there are no markers
that time could count
it was his special journey
everything had become indistinct
the war was it won or lost
his home his children
the house the cities with
order and direction roads to travel
these were thoughts that
tumbled endlessly
a washing machine in orbit
weightless cleaning nothing
everything tumbling
meaninglessly forever
maybe this is Circe
for whom he had searched unknowingly
but there were so many of them
each with their own
special enchantments
the magic of an oriental bazaar
the song of many temptresses
locked on land
trapped in offering trivial dangers
wasted songs tempting the
shipwrecked already of departed souls
pirates confused by bureaucracy
seeking plunder from empty ships
this and nights in the heat
and cold made dreamlike
with passion and slow lilting music
that stretches endlessly
without ever growing thin and dangerous
there is so much of it
and it is as if he was happy
thinking nothing of deep thoughts
dark swift dangerous
not watching running aground
on bars which you can't miss
with neon lights like beacons
head for the lighthouse
to save you with
night on the rocks
actually looking for it to end
but finding you must do it
over and over
this is the long of it
when time has gone away
and Odysseus lounges
on the endless sand
of an oceanless beach
drinking fragrant tea in bowls
and wondering
if he will ever
stop eternity grown to sameness
(First published in Autumn Leaves, volume 12(15), August 1, 2008
This poem is copyright © 2008, Russell Ragsdale, all rights reserved.
but I bounce off what I'm doing
and float on the words
the world is changed and gone away
the time that ticks so viciously
means exactly the next moment
and all those things that mean
there is nothing else and yet
gratefully it gathers in a grey ball
of thread and does not unravel
hangs there more motionless
than any illusion and the word
is the only motion I know
moving but carrying no twigs or branches
no leaves no gum wrappers
and there are no markers
that time could count
it was his special journey
everything had become indistinct
the war was it won or lost
his home his children
the house the cities with
order and direction roads to travel
these were thoughts that
tumbled endlessly
a washing machine in orbit
weightless cleaning nothing
everything tumbling
meaninglessly forever
maybe this is Circe
for whom he had searched unknowingly
but there were so many of them
each with their own
special enchantments
the magic of an oriental bazaar
the song of many temptresses
locked on land
trapped in offering trivial dangers
wasted songs tempting the
shipwrecked already of departed souls
pirates confused by bureaucracy
seeking plunder from empty ships
this and nights in the heat
and cold made dreamlike
with passion and slow lilting music
that stretches endlessly
without ever growing thin and dangerous
there is so much of it
and it is as if he was happy
thinking nothing of deep thoughts
dark swift dangerous
not watching running aground
on bars which you can't miss
with neon lights like beacons
head for the lighthouse
to save you with
night on the rocks
actually looking for it to end
but finding you must do it
over and over
this is the long of it
when time has gone away
and Odysseus lounges
on the endless sand
of an oceanless beach
drinking fragrant tea in bowls
and wondering
if he will ever
stop eternity grown to sameness
(First published in Autumn Leaves, volume 12(15), August 1, 2008
This poem is copyright © 2008, Russell Ragsdale, all rights reserved.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Tagged by Pris Campbell
Okay, I was tagged by Pris Campbell who was tagged by Sam Rasnake in his second meme (go to his blog to read his):
Here is mine:
As an adult, the following selections have influenced or impacted me the most...
[These works may or may not be your favorites, and you may have first encountered them when you were much younger.]
the book:
Savage Beauty, Nancy Milford, Ransom House
the film / network series:
Matrix, 1999, Directed by the Wachowski Brothers
the music / spoken word recording:
The Magic Flute, by Mozart (in German)
What are your choices?
I tag Ozy, S. L. Corsua, Katy and anyone else who would like to put theirs up.
Here is mine:
As an adult, the following selections have influenced or impacted me the most...
[These works may or may not be your favorites, and you may have first encountered them when you were much younger.]
the book:
Savage Beauty, Nancy Milford, Ransom House
the film / network series:
Matrix, 1999, Directed by the Wachowski Brothers
the music / spoken word recording:
The Magic Flute, by Mozart (in German)
What are your choices?
I tag Ozy, S. L. Corsua, Katy and anyone else who would like to put theirs up.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Four Haiku:
(for Alan Summers)
Night (Senyru/Senyru):
1
end of a long, hard day
breath held in
suddenly let out
2
journal of a dream
hand writing on pillow
cat wants to play
Morning (Senyru/Haiku):
3
toast soaks up butter
egg in skillet
morning sunrise
4
prayer towers subdue
the rusty hinge
of cloudless dawn
Night (Senyru/Senyru):
1
end of a long, hard day
breath held in
suddenly let out
2
journal of a dream
hand writing on pillow
cat wants to play
Morning (Senyru/Haiku):
3
toast soaks up butter
egg in skillet
morning sunrise
4
prayer towers subdue
the rusty hinge
of cloudless dawn
Friday, June 27, 2008
origin
I have found a church in your smile
a faith in your eyes
I’m lost in every other context
hard vacuous thought
wandering confused in the night
this is not that
this is vigorous
uncountable
no choice
loss is inexplicable
je suis fou
that makes sense
I am at last matrixed
to everything about you
a faith in your eyes
I’m lost in every other context
hard vacuous thought
wandering confused in the night
this is not that
this is vigorous
uncountable
no choice
loss is inexplicable
je suis fou
that makes sense
I am at last matrixed
to everything about you
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
prayer
air conditioner words
cool comforting
wanting nothing in return
a kind of silence
with words waiting
patiently inside
dust on Mars
having no breeze
to help realize
what it is
patina
of hope
covering everything
cool comforting
wanting nothing in return
a kind of silence
with words waiting
patiently inside
dust on Mars
having no breeze
to help realize
what it is
patina
of hope
covering everything
Friday, June 13, 2008
saved
day with its broken phrases
of brick and cement
tired and stuttering
a problem called cohesion
sunlight stretched too much
long late afternoon shadow
a lingering patient
thick with sage heavy breath
verb quick surgeons
waiting to open
patient flesh
that houses everything
too much possibility
need to do
something
suddenly
we knew it
flat line of
horizon at sunset
thick liquid dark
transfusion has started
a new life
darkness follows light
word metronome measuring
the breath necessary
for a few
tercets into night
of brick and cement
tired and stuttering
a problem called cohesion
sunlight stretched too much
long late afternoon shadow
a lingering patient
thick with sage heavy breath
verb quick surgeons
waiting to open
patient flesh
that houses everything
too much possibility
need to do
something
suddenly
we knew it
flat line of
horizon at sunset
thick liquid dark
transfusion has started
a new life
darkness follows light
word metronome measuring
the breath necessary
for a few
tercets into night
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
doctor scar
I fell on some lips
ripe with despondent promise
just as
he was going to pretend he didn’t exist
she saved him by pretending he did
and ordered the execution
it took place the following night
as a small and forgotten
suicide
but we hope
he’ll be better soon
could she laugh
damn right she could
did I
did I do da
all night long
with strong upturns
the following afternoon
like a day of sun
the night has been
praying for
a laconic laceration
in a flotsam jacket
at the fountain I
exchange coins with hope
ripe with despondent promise
just as
he was going to pretend he didn’t exist
she saved him by pretending he did
and ordered the execution
it took place the following night
as a small and forgotten
suicide
but we hope
he’ll be better soon
could she laugh
damn right she could
did I
did I do da
all night long
with strong upturns
the following afternoon
like a day of sun
the night has been
praying for
a laconic laceration
in a flotsam jacket
at the fountain I
exchange coins with hope
Sunday, June 01, 2008
In response to a visit by S. L. Corsua
I am everywhere
the puppy is me
I am lost and I pray
you will look for me
(I am at home)
thank you for saving me
on a cloudless
night of sturm und drang
endless misery
suddenly concludes in your eyes
change of season
is a metaphor
I am the subject laid prostrate
by the object
the puppy is me
I am lost and I pray
you will look for me
(I am at home)
thank you for saving me
on a cloudless
night of sturm und drang
endless misery
suddenly concludes in your eyes
change of season
is a metaphor
I am the subject laid prostrate
by the object
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
camera
everything’s slowing down
I have lit the candle
cat sniffing this page
camera freezing life
into little splashes
of light and color
painting hanging patiently
slow metallic drag
of the shutter
ancient shuffle of my feet
punctuation when the shutter closes
light like a haze
pale with slowing down
black cat asleep
white cat
rubbing her pink nose
on this pen
it falls
from my hand
slowly
camera finally clicks closed
last picture inside
but not understood
it let a little light in
each time
I know that now
tt works so slowly
taking so much time
when that was all that’s left
when people have gone
when always only
same places
pictures empty now
images in a mirror
with no one looking
I have become
the book I write in
between black and white
cat bookends
looking up to see
if there are angels
falling from the skies
I have lit the candle
cat sniffing this page
camera freezing life
into little splashes
of light and color
painting hanging patiently
slow metallic drag
of the shutter
ancient shuffle of my feet
punctuation when the shutter closes
light like a haze
pale with slowing down
black cat asleep
white cat
rubbing her pink nose
on this pen
it falls
from my hand
slowly
camera finally clicks closed
last picture inside
but not understood
it let a little light in
each time
I know that now
tt works so slowly
taking so much time
when that was all that’s left
when people have gone
when always only
same places
pictures empty now
images in a mirror
with no one looking
I have become
the book I write in
between black and white
cat bookends
looking up to see
if there are angels
falling from the skies
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
arf
the dog of summer
hanging around
scratching fleas
wagging his tail
articulate hesitations
sitting there
with a slipper
in his mouth
airport calls
planes answer
sit there
good boy
sun like butter
smooth yellow warm
hanging around
scratching fleas
wagging his tail
articulate hesitations
sitting there
with a slipper
in his mouth
airport calls
planes answer
sit there
good boy
sun like butter
smooth yellow warm
Monday, April 14, 2008
Judy
your name stays with me
I am a suitcase of dreams
night is for hunting sleepers
it depends on dreams
as a day is a long dream
eyes see what they are thinking about
nightmares rise with the sun
your name has no words in it
is a sigh uttered in sleep
where arms flinch empty
I am insubstantial
I float through you
an unanswered question
I have dreamed myself
and you dreamed me
those lost forms float
through each other
never meeting
hands have no meaning
I can touch myself
only when the dream
becomes bright and wistful
intense and strangely sad
I can feel us
me having a body and a life
and then it goes pale
like a thief
prisoner of the future
and the past
a ghost that still knows
forty yeas of gray
cannot take one satin night away
I am a suitcase of dreams
night is for hunting sleepers
it depends on dreams
as a day is a long dream
eyes see what they are thinking about
nightmares rise with the sun
your name has no words in it
is a sigh uttered in sleep
where arms flinch empty
I am insubstantial
I float through you
an unanswered question
I have dreamed myself
and you dreamed me
those lost forms float
through each other
never meeting
hands have no meaning
I can touch myself
only when the dream
becomes bright and wistful
intense and strangely sad
I can feel us
me having a body and a life
and then it goes pale
like a thief
prisoner of the future
and the past
a ghost that still knows
forty yeas of gray
cannot take one satin night away
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Spring haikus (2)
1.
a lost pleasure is
tucked in the folds of darkness
birds sing to sunrise
2.
the apricot tree
long bare suddenly flowers
at which spring smiles back
a lost pleasure is
tucked in the folds of darkness
birds sing to sunrise
2.
the apricot tree
long bare suddenly flowers
at which spring smiles back
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Ion
undershirt overcoat in the vale little not big glade cut from the town with a blade run through by the train not on the vale but in it or under is better for worse far worse is than eyeless is the dirt like the worms making new friends at the funeral . that , is enough they welcome him in friends make a fence with their bodies won’t let him out ! this is your hole , forever like a door open like I’m sorry like I miss you like the lid closing with the smack of a kiss that sounds underground a subway somewhere simpers )
Let me add a few words about this strange new prose poem thing I have been playing with lately. This is a poem for Ion (pronounced yawn) Drimba, my friend and coach. He died in Brazil in 2006 and is much missed. I have attempted to (with the exception of internal punctuation such as contractions) use punctuation only as a verbalized part of the poem. So when you encounter one sitting strangely separated off from the phrases, please say what it is (for instance ! exclamation point , comma and the like). They have no other function in this poem, in reality. There are some natural rhythms here and some caesura that is unavoidable and I’m confident you will find them as you read this out loud. That, unfortunately is the only way this strange poem will make any sense at all. It might seem a little confusing (strange rhymes lost without the perspective that lines and stanzas provide, alliterative phrases that are inherently awkward) at first but let the parsimony principle be your guiding light and all will be delightfully murky. Enjoy!
These are the Friday Five words used:
kiss
train
fence
vale
simper
Let me add a few words about this strange new prose poem thing I have been playing with lately. This is a poem for Ion (pronounced yawn) Drimba, my friend and coach. He died in Brazil in 2006 and is much missed. I have attempted to (with the exception of internal punctuation such as contractions) use punctuation only as a verbalized part of the poem. So when you encounter one sitting strangely separated off from the phrases, please say what it is (for instance ! exclamation point , comma and the like). They have no other function in this poem, in reality. There are some natural rhythms here and some caesura that is unavoidable and I’m confident you will find them as you read this out loud. That, unfortunately is the only way this strange poem will make any sense at all. It might seem a little confusing (strange rhymes lost without the perspective that lines and stanzas provide, alliterative phrases that are inherently awkward) at first but let the parsimony principle be your guiding light and all will be delightfully murky. Enjoy!
These are the Friday Five words used:
kiss
train
fence
vale
simper
Monday, March 17, 2008
place
town of my dreams
streets slick with night
green spring sunny days
time
to sit
and write
breakfast
and lunch on the terrace
sparkling sea water
peaceful
walks along the beach
talks with friends
colleagues students
artists
sunny day
convertible drives
top down
along a coastal highway
trips to mountains
picnics in meadows
music at the symphony hall
ballet and opera
at the theater
cocktails on the boat
in evening
cathedrals
cool large and hushed
outdoor cafes in the afternoon
people walking by
us sitting talking laughing
snorkeling
in quiet coves
of afternoon sun
barbeques
with friends
kids and grandkids
and time
precious time
streets slick with night
green spring sunny days
time
to sit
and write
breakfast
and lunch on the terrace
sparkling sea water
peaceful
walks along the beach
talks with friends
colleagues students
artists
sunny day
convertible drives
top down
along a coastal highway
trips to mountains
picnics in meadows
music at the symphony hall
ballet and opera
at the theater
cocktails on the boat
in evening
cathedrals
cool large and hushed
outdoor cafes in the afternoon
people walking by
us sitting talking laughing
snorkeling
in quiet coves
of afternoon sun
barbeques
with friends
kids and grandkids
and time
precious time
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