At a Certain Age
We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half-opens its thick eyelid
And one sees clearly: "That's me."
I want to get a copy of Merton's and Milosz' correspondence. Once I get the Cassian book from half.com, I will buy this next.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Old Wives' Tales and Richard Wilbur
Jenni on Chanticleer asked the other day what old wives' tales we remembered most--mine was if a bird flies into your house, someone near you is going to die. The idea of a bird flying into a house nagged and nagged at me--till I remembered this poem. What beautiful metrics this poem has--and how profound are the love for the daughter, the struggle with writing...Lovely poem by a wonderful poet.
The Writer--Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where the light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
________________________
I've not been posting much because I've been having severe back and arm pain--went to the doctor yesterday and am going to have a series of tests including an MRI. (For some reason the clanking MRI scanner reminds me of the song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer.") Wish me well.
It also reminds me of castanets, and I dug up this attempt--when I tried to re-cast a fiction exercise as a poem exercise, just breaking the lines and seeing what happens. It's funny how this fell into 10-syllable lines.
_______________________
This exercise really made me question what's a line--and what's a prose poem, and what's just fiction.
The Writer--Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where the light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
________________________
I've not been posting much because I've been having severe back and arm pain--went to the doctor yesterday and am going to have a series of tests including an MRI. (For some reason the clanking MRI scanner reminds me of the song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer.") Wish me well.
It also reminds me of castanets, and I dug up this attempt--when I tried to re-cast a fiction exercise as a poem exercise, just breaking the lines and seeing what happens. It's funny how this fell into 10-syllable lines.
_______________________
This exercise really made me question what's a line--and what's a prose poem, and what's just fiction.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Way I Feel Today
Everyone knows "The Day Lady Died," and his riff on the collapse of Lana Turner, but this was new to me.
STEPS--Frank O'Hara
How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting's not so blue
where's Lana Turner
she's out eating
and Garbo's backstage at the Met
everyone's taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park's full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we're all winning
we're alive
the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building's no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)
and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
STEPS--Frank O'Hara
How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting's not so blue
where's Lana Turner
she's out eating
and Garbo's backstage at the Met
everyone's taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park's full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we're all winning
we're alive
the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building's no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)
and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
Friday, June 24, 2005
Sister Agnes Was Right!
Having taken this quiz three times, I am forced to conclude that I really am:
You are the Devil card. The Devil is based on the
figure Pan, Lord of the Dance. The earthy
physicality of the devil breeds lust. The
devil's call to return to primal instincts
often creates conflict in a society in which
many of these instincts must be kept under
control. Challenges posed by our physical
bodies can be overcome by strength in the
mental, emotional, and spiritual realms. Pan is
also a symbol of enjoyment and rules our
material creativity. The devil knows physical
pleasure and how to manipulate the physical
world. Material creativity finds its output in
such things as dance, pottery, gardening, and
sex. The self-actualized person is able to
accept the sensuality and usefulness of the
devil's gifts while remaining in control of any
darker urges. Image from The Stone Tarot deck.
http://hometown.aol.com/newtarotdeck/
Which Tarot Card Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
You are the Devil card. The Devil is based on the
figure Pan, Lord of the Dance. The earthy
physicality of the devil breeds lust. The
devil's call to return to primal instincts
often creates conflict in a society in which
many of these instincts must be kept under
control. Challenges posed by our physical
bodies can be overcome by strength in the
mental, emotional, and spiritual realms. Pan is
also a symbol of enjoyment and rules our
material creativity. The devil knows physical
pleasure and how to manipulate the physical
world. Material creativity finds its output in
such things as dance, pottery, gardening, and
sex. The self-actualized person is able to
accept the sensuality and usefulness of the
devil's gifts while remaining in control of any
darker urges. Image from The Stone Tarot deck.
http://hometown.aol.com/newtarotdeck/
Which Tarot Card Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Skep to My Lou...isville
From The Writer's Almanac:
"It's Midsummer Night's Eve, also called St. John's Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It's a time when the hives are full of honey. So the full moon that comes this month was called the "mead moon" because honey was fermented to make mead, which is where the word "honeymoon" comes from. It's a time for lovers. As an old Swedish proverb says, "Midsummer night is not long, but it sets many cradles rocking..."
In case this is not clear from my earlier post, MY BOOK IS FINISHED! Now just to type it up and send it out into the world.
I am going to Louisville to celebrate, or maybe Nashville. It's flea market somewhere...
"It's Midsummer Night's Eve, also called St. John's Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It's a time when the hives are full of honey. So the full moon that comes this month was called the "mead moon" because honey was fermented to make mead, which is where the word "honeymoon" comes from. It's a time for lovers. As an old Swedish proverb says, "Midsummer night is not long, but it sets many cradles rocking..."
In case this is not clear from my earlier post, MY BOOK IS FINISHED! Now just to type it up and send it out into the world.
I am going to Louisville to celebrate, or maybe Nashville. It's flea market somewhere...
Skep to My Lou...isville
From The Writer's Almanac:
"It's Midsummer Night's Eve, also called St. John's Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It's a time when the hives are full of honey. So the full moon that comes this month was called the "mead moon" because honey was fermented to make mead, which is where the word "honeymoon" comes from. It's a time for lovers. As an old Swedish proverb says, "Midsummer night is not long, but it sets many cradles rocking..."
In case this is not clear from my earlier post, MY BOOK IS FINISHED! Now just to type it up and send it out into the world.
I am going to Louisville to celebrate, or maybe Nashville. It's flea market somewhere...
"It's Midsummer Night's Eve, also called St. John's Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It's a time when the hives are full of honey. So the full moon that comes this month was called the "mead moon" because honey was fermented to make mead, which is where the word "honeymoon" comes from. It's a time for lovers. As an old Swedish proverb says, "Midsummer night is not long, but it sets many cradles rocking..."
In case this is not clear from my earlier post, MY BOOK IS FINISHED! Now just to type it up and send it out into the world.
I am going to Louisville to celebrate, or maybe Nashville. It's flea market somewhere...
Best Reason Ever to Publish/Telesti
“Look, Msabu,” he said, “this is a good book. It hangs together from the one end to the other. Even if you hold it up and shake it strongly, it does not come to pieces. The man who has written it is very clever. But what you write,” he went on, both with scorn and a sort of friendly compassion, “is some here and some there. When the people forget to close the door it blows about, even down on the floor and you are angry. It will not be a good book.”
—Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa
It is finished, finally--Anything in the Thicket. Now wotnhell do I do with it?
Going full tilt to fiction and 1969 now. Anybody out there remember Woodstock--I was 11...
—Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa
It is finished, finally--Anything in the Thicket. Now wotnhell do I do with it?
Going full tilt to fiction and 1969 now. Anybody out there remember Woodstock--I was 11...
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
James Merrill
One of my favorites--definitely has to be read aloud to see how good his ear is...
The Victor Dog
Bix to Buxtehude to Boulez,
The little white dog on the Victor label
Listens long and hard as he is able.
It's all in a day's work, whatever plays.
From judgment, it would seem, he has refrained.
He even listens earnestly to Bloch,
Then builds a church upon our acid rock.
He's man's—no—he's the Leiermann's best friend,
Or would be if hearing and listening were the same.
Does he hear? I fancy he rather smells
Those lemon-gold arpeggios in Ravel's
"Les jets d'eau du palais de ceux qui s'aiment."
He ponders the Schumann Concerto's tall willow hit
By lightning, and stays put. When he surmises
Through one of Bach's external boxwood mazes
The oboe pungent as a bitch in heat,
Or when the calypso decants is raw bay rum
Or the moon in Wozzeck reddens ripe for murder,
He doesn't sneeze or howl; just listens harder.
Adamant needles bear down on him from
Whirling of outer space, too black, too near—
But he was taught as a puppy not to flinch,
Much less to imitate his bete noire Blanche
Who barked, fat foolish creature, at King Lear.
Still others fought in the road's filth over Jezebel,
Slavered on hearths of horned and pelted barons.
His forebears lacked, to say the least, forbearance.
Can nature change in him? Nothing's impossible.
The last chord fades. The night is cold and fine.
His master's voice rasps through the grooves' bare groves.
Obediently, in silence like the grave's
He sleeps there on the still-warm gramophone
Only to dream he is at the premiere of a Handel
Opera long thought lost—Il Cane Minore.
Its allegorical subject is his story!
A little dog revolving round a spindle
Gives rise to harmonies beyond belief,
A cast of stars . . . Is there in Victor's heart
No honey for the vanquished? Art is art.
The life it asks of us is a dog's life.
Those last two lines--oh my.
SELF-ASSIGNMENT: Write about a trademark/logo/cartoon character.
The Victor Dog
Bix to Buxtehude to Boulez,
The little white dog on the Victor label
Listens long and hard as he is able.
It's all in a day's work, whatever plays.
From judgment, it would seem, he has refrained.
He even listens earnestly to Bloch,
Then builds a church upon our acid rock.
He's man's—no—he's the Leiermann's best friend,
Or would be if hearing and listening were the same.
Does he hear? I fancy he rather smells
Those lemon-gold arpeggios in Ravel's
"Les jets d'eau du palais de ceux qui s'aiment."
He ponders the Schumann Concerto's tall willow hit
By lightning, and stays put. When he surmises
Through one of Bach's external boxwood mazes
The oboe pungent as a bitch in heat,
Or when the calypso decants is raw bay rum
Or the moon in Wozzeck reddens ripe for murder,
He doesn't sneeze or howl; just listens harder.
Adamant needles bear down on him from
Whirling of outer space, too black, too near—
But he was taught as a puppy not to flinch,
Much less to imitate his bete noire Blanche
Who barked, fat foolish creature, at King Lear.
Still others fought in the road's filth over Jezebel,
Slavered on hearths of horned and pelted barons.
His forebears lacked, to say the least, forbearance.
Can nature change in him? Nothing's impossible.
The last chord fades. The night is cold and fine.
His master's voice rasps through the grooves' bare groves.
Obediently, in silence like the grave's
He sleeps there on the still-warm gramophone
Only to dream he is at the premiere of a Handel
Opera long thought lost—Il Cane Minore.
Its allegorical subject is his story!
A little dog revolving round a spindle
Gives rise to harmonies beyond belief,
A cast of stars . . . Is there in Victor's heart
No honey for the vanquished? Art is art.
The life it asks of us is a dog's life.
Those last two lines--oh my.
SELF-ASSIGNMENT: Write about a trademark/logo/cartoon character.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Somebody's Hands Went Too Far Right on the Keyboard!
|
I had to look this one up, as no teacher ever inflicted this during any of my workshops.
Six line stanza: syllables run eight, eight, seven; eight, eight, seven. Lines one and two rhyme with the middle of line three; lines four and five rhyme with the middle of line six; lines three and six rhyme with each other.
This sounds a little bit like Eliot in places, or have all those hidden rhymes befuddled me utterly?
New Scritching, Old Chicken Scratching
This morning, we were awakened at 4 a.m. by a scritching, scratching sound by our bedroom window. The giant mama raccoon was trying to gain egress into our attic. Four little bandits trailed behind her like smaller beads on a rosary.
The sound of that reminded me of this poem, which I wrote, all at once, decades ago. It's not very "poetic," but I like it anyway. Dancing mouse and all--sounds like Disney...
The sound of that reminded me of this poem, which I wrote, all at once, decades ago. It's not very "poetic," but I like it anyway. Dancing mouse and all--sounds like Disney...
Trailing Clouds of--Well, Not Immortality
Memed again! What five things do you miss about your childhood?
1. The scent of mimeographed paper--also the scent of autumn leaves burning. (which is illegal now), and the skitttering sound they made blowing down the sidewalk.
2. The glow of lightning bugs in a blue Mason jar.
3. The view from the top of my grandmother's pear tree and the sweet rotten scent as bees and wasps buzzed over the windfallen fruit.
4. My grandmother's Tabu bottle shaped like a violin and the box it came in--the violinist and the pianist in a permanent clench. Also the heavy scent of it, which is the only smell for grandmothers.
5. My grandmother's sewing box with the little safety pins hanging like possums from the bigger one, and the scissors like birds' beaks.
There are others--but I think it's interesting that most of my memories have scent and sight, but not so much tone, taste, or texture.
1. The scent of mimeographed paper--also the scent of autumn leaves burning. (which is illegal now), and the skitttering sound they made blowing down the sidewalk.
2. The glow of lightning bugs in a blue Mason jar.
3. The view from the top of my grandmother's pear tree and the sweet rotten scent as bees and wasps buzzed over the windfallen fruit.
4. My grandmother's Tabu bottle shaped like a violin and the box it came in--the violinist and the pianist in a permanent clench. Also the heavy scent of it, which is the only smell for grandmothers.
5. My grandmother's sewing box with the little safety pins hanging like possums from the bigger one, and the scissors like birds' beaks.
There are others--but I think it's interesting that most of my memories have scent and sight, but not so much tone, taste, or texture.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Bake and Shake
Antiquing Finds:
3 vintage casserole dishes.
Jessie Wheeler Wilcox print.
Wicker plant stand--awesome for ferns. Top's shaped just like a tulip bulb.
Alabaster Fu bookends--awesome. Husband collects fu dogs.
Perfect white narrow kitchen cupboard with vintage fruit/vegetable paper.
Food Flights:
Invention of New Decadent Milkshake--two scoops black walnut ice cream, 1 scoop dutch chocolate ice cream, plus chocolate syrup. Tastes just like a liquid version of the Walnut Chew from Whitman's Sampler candies (more on these later).
Anti-Milk Shake: Add 3 scoops orange sherbet and pour in Sundrop for the only caffeine containing shake you'll ever want. So good!
Eggplant parmesan/shrimp scampi/flourless chocolate cake--even better.
Paint-by-Numbers:
Shutters are all done, swing is done, porch window and ceiling, mailbox, and front door are all done. Today's the day we finish the columns and maybe most of the railings. Then all we'll lack is the 2nd story gingerbread/millwork. This house is going to have 7 total colors by the time we are done. One more and we'd qualify as a PRIMARY CRAYOLA BOX.
Query:
Has anyone ever built a deck? We are hesitant. I think I'd rather have a flagstone/brick patio with moss between the bricks. Our backyard gets very wet, and I think we'd have major problems with a deck.
Poetry: William Empson.
C. Dale Young posted Empson's "Missing Dates" villanelle. I prefer his "Aubade." Especially since here in Kentucky we're having earthquakes! Small ones, not like California's, but tremors nonetheless.
"Aubade"
Hours before dawn we were woken by the quake.
My house was on a cliff. The thing could take
Bookloads off shelves, break bottles in a row.
Then the long pause and then the bigger shake.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
And far too large for my feet to step by.
I hoped that various buildings were brought low.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed.
The guarded tourist makes the guide the test.
Then I said The Garden? Laughing she said No.
Taxi for her and for me healthy rest.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
The language problem but you have to try.
Some solid ground for lying could she show?
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
None of these deaths were her point at all.
The thing was that being woken he would bawl
And finding her not in earshot he would know.
I tried saying Half an Hour to pay this call.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie.
Till you have seen what a threat holds below,
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains,
Who’s tortured by the drought, who by the rains.
Glut me with floods where only the swine can row
Who cuts his throat and let him count his gains.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky.
Only the same war on a stronger toe.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this,
Or tell me with less drama what they miss
Who call no die for a god for a throw,
Who says after two aliens had one kiss
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
But as to risings, I can tell you why.
It is on contradiction that they grow.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
Up was the heartening and the strong reply.
The heart of standing is we cannot fly.
3 vintage casserole dishes.
Jessie Wheeler Wilcox print.
Wicker plant stand--awesome for ferns. Top's shaped just like a tulip bulb.
Alabaster Fu bookends--awesome. Husband collects fu dogs.
Perfect white narrow kitchen cupboard with vintage fruit/vegetable paper.
Food Flights:
Invention of New Decadent Milkshake--two scoops black walnut ice cream, 1 scoop dutch chocolate ice cream, plus chocolate syrup. Tastes just like a liquid version of the Walnut Chew from Whitman's Sampler candies (more on these later).
Anti-Milk Shake: Add 3 scoops orange sherbet and pour in Sundrop for the only caffeine containing shake you'll ever want. So good!
Eggplant parmesan/shrimp scampi/flourless chocolate cake--even better.
Paint-by-Numbers:
Shutters are all done, swing is done, porch window and ceiling, mailbox, and front door are all done. Today's the day we finish the columns and maybe most of the railings. Then all we'll lack is the 2nd story gingerbread/millwork. This house is going to have 7 total colors by the time we are done. One more and we'd qualify as a PRIMARY CRAYOLA BOX.
Query:
Has anyone ever built a deck? We are hesitant. I think I'd rather have a flagstone/brick patio with moss between the bricks. Our backyard gets very wet, and I think we'd have major problems with a deck.
Poetry: William Empson.
C. Dale Young posted Empson's "Missing Dates" villanelle. I prefer his "Aubade." Especially since here in Kentucky we're having earthquakes! Small ones, not like California's, but tremors nonetheless.
"Aubade"
Hours before dawn we were woken by the quake.
My house was on a cliff. The thing could take
Bookloads off shelves, break bottles in a row.
Then the long pause and then the bigger shake.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
And far too large for my feet to step by.
I hoped that various buildings were brought low.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed.
The guarded tourist makes the guide the test.
Then I said The Garden? Laughing she said No.
Taxi for her and for me healthy rest.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
The language problem but you have to try.
Some solid ground for lying could she show?
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
None of these deaths were her point at all.
The thing was that being woken he would bawl
And finding her not in earshot he would know.
I tried saying Half an Hour to pay this call.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie.
Till you have seen what a threat holds below,
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains,
Who’s tortured by the drought, who by the rains.
Glut me with floods where only the swine can row
Who cuts his throat and let him count his gains.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky.
Only the same war on a stronger toe.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this,
Or tell me with less drama what they miss
Who call no die for a god for a throw,
Who says after two aliens had one kiss
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
But as to risings, I can tell you why.
It is on contradiction that they grow.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
Up was the heartening and the strong reply.
The heart of standing is we cannot fly.
Friday, June 17, 2005
GET A GOOGLE POEM: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
Insomnia: Poets in Their Underwear
And let us not forget the poets, “The Red
Panties” of William Carlos Williams, when your self-
esteem is dependent on your underwear being compared
to Swinburne and Lawrence, but also reflecting influences
of the Beat poets. The resume is impressive. ...
Shot on location in Seattle, Serious Underwear is
a poetry video for the Bumbershoot Arts Festival:
She cried, ”A head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains, is
where Fred's underwear remains...At night when we’re
back to bed, crawling under blankets as our
coffee machine drips, or the intermitttent hum from
television news cries Wake Up! Wake Up! ...this
keeps my thoughts away from my grocery list
and such....It seems to me that poetry
has become fearful, poets will not come out
from behind their work. ...think underwear is supposed
to be hidden....that it's better to be
commando than sorry--a manifestation of the
inner god in the outer world. Nothing is
more intimate ...and after all how many living
poets have streets named after them? Old love
letters and unpaid bills, even the poets I
had taken to my soul: Levis, Matthews , Levertov--
are kept in bureau drawers with winter gloves,
all my decent underwear. Does the underwear thief
stop to consider lingerie’s elite shadow as he
searches out The Next Generation of American Formalists'
crisp sheets, clean underwear? Poetry has become fearful!
In the modernist park I loiter in my
underwear and worn overcoat--I don’t want to Frost
my Robert, after all...What we don’t know
won’t hurt anyone but the poet of course--
we have to acknowledge and reflect our influences,
we have to look at specific techniques...In their
best underwear, poets look like a million dollars,
and what if, like rose petals, your underwear
blew off? No more safety blankets, no thermal
underwear red as roses, sweet as our coffee
house career was--we bring our large vocabularies
with us to the mike and spout: "I
have seen the best behinds of my Generation..."
And let us not forget the poets, “The Red
Panties” of William Carlos Williams, when your self-
esteem is dependent on your underwear being compared
to Swinburne and Lawrence, but also reflecting influences
of the Beat poets. The resume is impressive. ...
Shot on location in Seattle, Serious Underwear is
a poetry video for the Bumbershoot Arts Festival:
She cried, ”A head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains, is
where Fred's underwear remains...At night when we’re
back to bed, crawling under blankets as our
coffee machine drips, or the intermitttent hum from
television news cries Wake Up! Wake Up! ...this
keeps my thoughts away from my grocery list
and such....It seems to me that poetry
has become fearful, poets will not come out
from behind their work. ...think underwear is supposed
to be hidden....that it's better to be
commando than sorry--a manifestation of the
inner god in the outer world. Nothing is
more intimate ...and after all how many living
poets have streets named after them? Old love
letters and unpaid bills, even the poets I
had taken to my soul: Levis, Matthews , Levertov--
are kept in bureau drawers with winter gloves,
all my decent underwear. Does the underwear thief
stop to consider lingerie’s elite shadow as he
searches out The Next Generation of American Formalists'
crisp sheets, clean underwear? Poetry has become fearful!
In the modernist park I loiter in my
underwear and worn overcoat--I don’t want to Frost
my Robert, after all...What we don’t know
won’t hurt anyone but the poet of course--
we have to acknowledge and reflect our influences,
we have to look at specific techniques...In their
best underwear, poets look like a million dollars,
and what if, like rose petals, your underwear
blew off? No more safety blankets, no thermal
underwear red as roses, sweet as our coffee
house career was--we bring our large vocabularies
with us to the mike and spout: "I
have seen the best behinds of my Generation..."
Kiss Off
You have an entrancing kiss~ the kind that leaves
your partner bedazzled and maybe even feeling
he/she is dreaming. Quite effective; the kiss
that never lessens and always blows your
partner away like the first time.
What kind of kiss are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Not that I think there is much to this, but in the disco era, there was a "Kiss Off for Charity" in my town whereby a magician was to be kissed, and SOMEBODY said she would participate by kissing the magician only if she went first, and upon going first the contest was declared immediately closed, and SOMEBODY was the winner.
And when I kissed my husband goodnight on our first date, he wrecked his car immediately afterwards.
Way too much information, but after reading Reb Livingston, I am empowered.
By the way, I have also ridden a camel and an elephant and can juggle down, as well as up.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Found on Poetry--The Online Version
Taken from an Epigraph in Poetry, June 2005
A little village
in Texas has
lost its idiot.
-Caption on a protest sign
A little village
in Texas has
lost its idiot.
-Caption on a protest sign
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Miscellaneous and Totally Irrelevant Biography
In my family tree are glassblowers from Russia, who moved to England and then to the Carolinas. My breath is caught in a small vase I keep in our parlor.
I was married after knowing my husband 10 weeks and dating him for 6 weeks. (It's going on 2 decades).
I am a MLS/CMT, which basically means I can spell and punctuate medical reports.
I was in a new-wave band and know the songs of The B52s and Blondie inside out.
I know how to read palms. I used to date a magician, too. He taught me how to cut cards in half and win at poker/blackjack.
I type 250 words a minute. No kidding.
My friend and I used to run a Poetry Hotline. If you called up, we'd read you a poem, day or night. You would tell us what you wanted to hear and we would read it to you.
This same friend and I used to tell guys in bars our names were Abbie Hoffman and Jeri Rubin. I have been approached in Nashville by a total stranger and introduced to his spouse as "Meet Abbie Hoffman. We went to college together. What have you been up to the last 20 years?"
My son had to tell me the meanings of "cloakless" and "commando." I am a hopeless cause when it comes to slang.
I can pick up dimes with my toes and shake my eyeballs.
I have an original Pink Floyd PIG t-shirt that I still wear.
I used to be an artists' model--I was hired because I was the only applicant who did not fidget. Inertia pays off.
I was married after knowing my husband 10 weeks and dating him for 6 weeks. (It's going on 2 decades).
I am a MLS/CMT, which basically means I can spell and punctuate medical reports.
I was in a new-wave band and know the songs of The B52s and Blondie inside out.
I know how to read palms. I used to date a magician, too. He taught me how to cut cards in half and win at poker/blackjack.
I type 250 words a minute. No kidding.
My friend and I used to run a Poetry Hotline. If you called up, we'd read you a poem, day or night. You would tell us what you wanted to hear and we would read it to you.
This same friend and I used to tell guys in bars our names were Abbie Hoffman and Jeri Rubin. I have been approached in Nashville by a total stranger and introduced to his spouse as "Meet Abbie Hoffman. We went to college together. What have you been up to the last 20 years?"
My son had to tell me the meanings of "cloakless" and "commando." I am a hopeless cause when it comes to slang.
I can pick up dimes with my toes and shake my eyeballs.
I have an original Pink Floyd PIG t-shirt that I still wear.
I used to be an artists' model--I was hired because I was the only applicant who did not fidget. Inertia pays off.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
FUN FUN FUN
This is an exercise from Peter's Virtual World, based on an N7 exercise from http://www.godsrudewireless.co.uk/n7/.
It's like Babelfish meets Jabberwocky.
Oh my, I do love this exercise! I'm sure that you can guess the origin of this poem.
Sundown Song
I've turned you over like a fine gold fob.
The whisper slapped your eardrums, and your sobs
Took their place among featherpillows.
Watch your back, old statue.
In a drafty room, your blankness
Savages the windows. I stand blankly, shadows whisper.
I'm no more your murderer
Than the caul that covers a mirror, to reflect its only
Face--an empty hat.
All night your moon-white
Skin flickers among the flat black shadows. I wake to sleep:
A sentence moves over my head.
One day, and I’m stunted, bent croquet-heavy
In my shirtwaist sorrow.
Your eyes open, clean as wonder. The wind
Talks its dull tales. And now you fly,
fluttering your fingers:
The white tines rise like birds.
It's like Babelfish meets Jabberwocky.
Oh my, I do love this exercise! I'm sure that you can guess the origin of this poem.
Sundown Song
I've turned you over like a fine gold fob.
The whisper slapped your eardrums, and your sobs
Took their place among featherpillows.
Watch your back, old statue.
In a drafty room, your blankness
Savages the windows. I stand blankly, shadows whisper.
I'm no more your murderer
Than the caul that covers a mirror, to reflect its only
Face--an empty hat.
All night your moon-white
Skin flickers among the flat black shadows. I wake to sleep:
A sentence moves over my head.
One day, and I’m stunted, bent croquet-heavy
In my shirtwaist sorrow.
Your eyes open, clean as wonder. The wind
Talks its dull tales. And now you fly,
fluttering your fingers:
The white tines rise like birds.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Advice from a Fortune Cookie (Writer)
Don’t have too complicated a mind,” he said. “Think in ten-word sentences."
Hardscrabble Scrabble
Spruik (sprook) To give an elaborate speech, especially to attract customers.
Our daughter Raleigh implored us to buy a Scrabble game at a yard sale, so of course we plunked down 50 cents. This purchase has unwittingly led to a war at our house. My husband Harvey has refused to play me for the first 19 years of our marriage, and our son Daniel(who hates to spell) had never shown the slightest interest in Scrabble. Raleigh and Harvey sat down to play, and it was funny how well she was doing. I sat down to help her about halfway through the game, and we clobbered him. My son, who was watching, said, "I think I can play this." So he and I squared off (sorry about the pun), me thinking, "How can I win gracefully?"
You all know what happened--he SLAUGHTERED me. It turns out he can spell when triple-letter scores are involved, and he has a huge vocabulary. The next match, I brought my A game, got all the good letters and some crucial blanks--and he still won by a narrow margin. (Remember, this is his first night of Scrabble).
All this spiel is preface to the above--I am on the prowl for new words and maybe with "spruik" he'll go down.
And isn't that a great word?
Our daughter Raleigh implored us to buy a Scrabble game at a yard sale, so of course we plunked down 50 cents. This purchase has unwittingly led to a war at our house. My husband Harvey has refused to play me for the first 19 years of our marriage, and our son Daniel(who hates to spell) had never shown the slightest interest in Scrabble. Raleigh and Harvey sat down to play, and it was funny how well she was doing. I sat down to help her about halfway through the game, and we clobbered him. My son, who was watching, said, "I think I can play this." So he and I squared off (sorry about the pun), me thinking, "How can I win gracefully?"
You all know what happened--he SLAUGHTERED me. It turns out he can spell when triple-letter scores are involved, and he has a huge vocabulary. The next match, I brought my A game, got all the good letters and some crucial blanks--and he still won by a narrow margin. (Remember, this is his first night of Scrabble).
All this spiel is preface to the above--I am on the prowl for new words and maybe with "spruik" he'll go down.
And isn't that a great word?
Saturday, June 11, 2005
The Sultry Typewriter
Pamela Johnson Parker's Aliases |
| Your movie star name: Almonds John |
| Your fashion designer name is Pamela Paris |
| Your socialite name is Honey Kingston |
| Your fly girl / guy name is P Par |
| Your detective name is Cat Mayfield |
| Your barfly name is Almonds White Russian |
| Your soap opera name is Johnson Foster |
| Your rock star name is Milky Way Jaguar |
| Your star wars name is Pamsha Parhar |
| Your punk rock band name is The Sultry Typewriter |
The'>http://www.blogthings.com/meganames/">The Amazing Meganame Generator
Friday, June 10, 2005
Wild Thing, I Think I Love You
It's Maurice Sendak's birthday today. He's as cute as ever. (Check him out on NPR).
How can you not love a man who admits his favorite hobby is "scaring children" but obviously does no such thing?
How can you not love a man who admits his favorite hobby is "scaring children" but obviously does no such thing?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Ah, Crusoe in England--I Knew I Wrote That!
You are Elizabeth Bishop and, God help us, you know
it! You suffer no fools and you cannot even
suffer yourself. No wonder you drink yourself
into a stupor often. You cannot stand the fact
you aren't perfect.
Which Famous Modern American Poet Are You?
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Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Whitman and Dunn--Imago Imago Imago (Sorry, Nabokov)
Today, I've been perplexed about Walt Whitman's paper Psyche, that painted lady perched on the hand of the Good Gray Poet. It's cardboard--it's Easter ephemera, and he wired it into a ring (like his own wedding band) and posed with it in his favorite photograph of himself. All these years, and I was conned into believing it was a real butterfly he'd charmed...
Here's the prop: http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/wwhtml/butterfly.html
Looking up images of this butterfly, I found this fabulous poem. It speaks for itself.
Stephen Dunn - Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry
Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:
Good. Now here's what poetry can do.
Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.
Here's the prop: http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/wwhtml/butterfly.html
Looking up images of this butterfly, I found this fabulous poem. It speaks for itself.
Stephen Dunn - Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry
Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:
Good. Now here's what poetry can do.
Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.
You'd Think at Nearly 48, This Wouldn't Ring a Bell
http://photos1.blogger.com/img/296/2612/1024/seeme.jpg
I will never be "forgiven" for chosing a family over a career. And see how well this image goes with the Whitman post, above. I think there's a collage happening.
I will never be "forgiven" for chosing a family over a career. And see how well this image goes with the Whitman post, above. I think there's a collage happening.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Poems Going into Estivation
The poems I have formerly posted were all unpublished, and some of them are going to be coming out of estivation soon-- so to avoid any problems, I've moved them all to draft. I don't know if this is considered self-publishing, but I am not going to take the risk. I have had a grand total of 104 visits to my site--total--so I don't see how this could be self-publishing, when probably 98 of them have been from my husband. (At least I have one fan!)
I wish this wasn't such a grey issue. I really did not ever intend this to be self-promotion or self-publishing. I really considered this blog to be like a bulletin board, or a refrigerator door...And I wish I could bring my drafts of my poems out of the dark and look at them. I put them here because I liked seeing them stare back at me.
I wish this wasn't such a grey issue. I really did not ever intend this to be self-promotion or self-publishing. I really considered this blog to be like a bulletin board, or a refrigerator door...And I wish I could bring my drafts of my poems out of the dark and look at them. I put them here because I liked seeing them stare back at me.
Major Junking
That's what we call thrift shop prowling, driveby yardsaling, and flea market meandering.
Lately, I have not posted on our forays into the world of second-hand, but although tapped out by porch paint, we have found the following:
1. Dragon Tea Set (perfect condition, perfect gilt, and no guilt about the $2 price!)
2. USA pottery magnolia-colored vase, shaped just like a hot air balloon and ideal for peonies.
3. Walking stick with carved woodpecker handle--beautiful carving and perfect flagging-down wife across a crowded flea market tool--that redheaded woodpecker just burns.
4. Broom with snake carved around the handle (these last two are awesome folk art)--I feel like Eve when I use it. The snake actually fits me like a handgrip!
5. The best shoe last I've ever seen, complete with tin sole and 10-pound weight advertising on the wood. The color is something between rust and cinnamon--awesome, awesome, on its original oiled leather cord. This is one for hanging over the fireplace, next to the bellows hand-carved with a galleon...but that's another trip...Best spent dollar of the week!
6. Yellow bulldog planter. We now have quadruplets--others are Vintage Blue, Jade, and Cream.
7. New kitten that strayed onto Harvey's path and is now living here, and surprisingly getting along with Loco the Mad. The most loved and loudest of all finds is Shadow (after the RLS poem).
8. Evil clown cookie jar in green suit.
9. Many, many books.
10. Carved dragon in honey jade strung on a red silk cord.
11. Bakelite bracelet with "ivory" carved Buddhas--major add to the treasure trove--some day I'm writing that Bakelite poem! (PS Also Bakelite tri-colored tulip pendant--very cool but not as cool as the bracelet).
12. Miscellaneous postcards (me) and Star Wars/McDonald's Disney toys (husband--well, I know that I've described him as perfect, and except for this slight--well--affliction, he is).
I am sure there are also Christmas ornaments and art supplies I have forgotten to mention, but I'll stop at a dozen.
Happy searching to you fellow junkers--and don't forget the thermos, the flashlight, and the essential requirement of plastic bags and paper towels for storing your treasures safely. LOL.
Lately, I have not posted on our forays into the world of second-hand, but although tapped out by porch paint, we have found the following:
1. Dragon Tea Set (perfect condition, perfect gilt, and no guilt about the $2 price!)
2. USA pottery magnolia-colored vase, shaped just like a hot air balloon and ideal for peonies.
3. Walking stick with carved woodpecker handle--beautiful carving and perfect flagging-down wife across a crowded flea market tool--that redheaded woodpecker just burns.
4. Broom with snake carved around the handle (these last two are awesome folk art)--I feel like Eve when I use it. The snake actually fits me like a handgrip!
5. The best shoe last I've ever seen, complete with tin sole and 10-pound weight advertising on the wood. The color is something between rust and cinnamon--awesome, awesome, on its original oiled leather cord. This is one for hanging over the fireplace, next to the bellows hand-carved with a galleon...but that's another trip...Best spent dollar of the week!
6. Yellow bulldog planter. We now have quadruplets--others are Vintage Blue, Jade, and Cream.
7. New kitten that strayed onto Harvey's path and is now living here, and surprisingly getting along with Loco the Mad. The most loved and loudest of all finds is Shadow (after the RLS poem).
8. Evil clown cookie jar in green suit.
9. Many, many books.
10. Carved dragon in honey jade strung on a red silk cord.
11. Bakelite bracelet with "ivory" carved Buddhas--major add to the treasure trove--some day I'm writing that Bakelite poem! (PS Also Bakelite tri-colored tulip pendant--very cool but not as cool as the bracelet).
12. Miscellaneous postcards (me) and Star Wars/McDonald's Disney toys (husband--well, I know that I've described him as perfect, and except for this slight--well--affliction, he is).
I am sure there are also Christmas ornaments and art supplies I have forgotten to mention, but I'll stop at a dozen.
Happy searching to you fellow junkers--and don't forget the thermos, the flashlight, and the essential requirement of plastic bags and paper towels for storing your treasures safely. LOL.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Kenneth Koch and Memorization
Permanently
One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.
Each Sentence says one thing-for example,
"Although it was a dark rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face until the day I perish from the green, effective earth."
Or, "Will you please close the window, Andrew?"
Or, for example, "Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby."
In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.
A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, "And! But!"
But the Adjective did not emerge.
As the adjective is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat--
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language.
___________________________
For a poem so memorable, this poem is darned hard to memorize. I thought I had it--but the second stanza is a killer.
One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.
Each Sentence says one thing-for example,
"Although it was a dark rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face until the day I perish from the green, effective earth."
Or, "Will you please close the window, Andrew?"
Or, for example, "Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby."
In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.
A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, "And! But!"
But the Adjective did not emerge.
As the adjective is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat--
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language.
___________________________
For a poem so memorable, this poem is darned hard to memorize. I thought I had it--but the second stanza is a killer.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Porch Progress and Poem
Part of my original post didn't come through. The porch ceiling is painted--the pale aqua beadboard ceiling is so beautiful. The mailbox in celadon with white fleur-de-lis is exactly the way we thought it would be. Raleigh got to prime the porch rails and the mailbox. She is so excited to help. Daniel ran off to a Magick card tournament, wisely knowing he would be expected to help. He bought our lunch first, so he's a little bit off the hook. Tom Sawyer would never have snookered Daniel into white-washing that fence.
All of this porch talk reminds me of porches. I remember a couple of line of a poem--don't have a clue who wrote it--"Old men peel like tarpaper/from porches and are gone." All I remember of the poem is loving those lines. Maybe I dreamt it up. I'd surely like to think I did.
I have one porch poem, below:
All of this porch talk reminds me of porches. I remember a couple of line of a poem--don't have a clue who wrote it--"Old men peel like tarpaper/from porches and are gone." All I remember of the poem is loving those lines. Maybe I dreamt it up. I'd surely like to think I did.
I have one porch poem, below:
Friday, June 03, 2005
Who Writes Short-Shorts? Answer: Kafka
Well, I'm trying...but here are two by Franz Kafka that are absolutely mind-boggling.
Absent-Minded Window-Gazing
What are we to do with these spring days that are now fast coming on? Early this morning the sky was gray, but if you go to the window now, you are surprised and lean your cheek against the latch of the casement.
The sun is already setting, but down below you see it lighting up the face of the little girl who strolls along looking about her, and at the same time you see her eclipsed by the shadow of the man behind overtaking her. And then the man has passed by and the little girl's face is quite bright.
(What an eclipse he's written here--and now get ready for Kafka in a mode I've never considered for him--observation so intense, it's, er...well, I'll let you judge...)
________________________
On the Tram
I stand on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried along by this tram, nor for the people who give way to the tram or walk quietly along or stand gazing into shop windows. Nobody asks me to put up a defense, indeed, but that is irrelevant.
The tram approaches a stopping place and a girl takes up her position near the step, ready to alight. She is as distinct to me as if I had run my hands over her. She is dressed in black, the pleats of her skirt hang almost still, her blouse is tight and has a collar of white fine-meshed lace, her left hand is braced flat against the side of the tram, the umbrella in her right hand rests on the second top step. Her face is brown, her nose, slightly pinched at the sides, has a broad round tip. She has a lot of brown hair and stray little tendrils on the right temple. Her small ear is close-set, but since I am near her I can see the whole ridge of the whorl of her right ear and the shadow at the root of it.
At that point I asked myself: How is it that she is not amazed at herself, that she keeps her lips closed and makes no such remark?
_________________________
(That "as if" comparison--whew!)
I just loved these and hope you will, also. They've really made me think about the possibilities of prose poems and point of view in short fiction.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I'm No Fingerprint
| You Are 60% Normal (Really Normal) |
 Otherwise known as the normal amount of normal You're like most people most of the time But you've got those quirks that make you endearing You're unique, yes... but not frighteningly so! |
How Normal Are You?
Painted Ladies: Gingerbread, Gypsum and Lemon Meringue Pie
We live in a 2-story Queen Anne built in 1888. It has irregular angles, pointy gables, the works. It's pale yellow (the shade of Eagle Brand milk), with white gingerbread trim and a brick front porch with more gingerbread. We're biting the bullet and going tri-color:
Gypsum (a white that's not too white--has a little blue tint to it like good milkglass), with celadon and true-lavender accents on the egg and dart porch columns and spindle trim and on the lacy gingerbread over the windows. Celadon and gypsum scallops over the windowtops. Gypsum for the shutters, still (since we just painted them). Bulls eyes on the shutters and windowcasings accented in celadon.
Sky-blue paint on the tongue-in-groove porch ceiling.
Front porch foldable swing in celadon.
Oak (already painted dull white ) antique front door in celadon with gypsum accents on the trim.
Mailbox celadon with white fleur-de-lys.
Porch rail spindles in gypsum (accented with celadon only).
Leave the main house this pale yellow, the shade of the "real lemon pie" that's mentioned in Million Dollar Baby. Power wash the trim (it looks a little dingy). This is the bargain here.
Leave the wicker white.
Add a ceiling fan with a stained glass shade to the ceiling. I saw one with morning glories that would be perfect--but it's way expensive.
I think we are becoming the talk of the local hardware store. They cannot believe I want violet-hued paint for any reason.
Somebody, somewhere, tell me my paint scheme sounds delightful. PULEEZZE.
Harvey, bless him, has scraped and caulked and primed the porch ceiling already. I haven't the heart to tell him that next year we're pouring for a patio out back and will be bricking the steps. I'll tell him on our anniversary, when hopefully we're sipping cappucino in Venice. (Dream vacation alert--the long awaited REAL honeymoon--more on this planning later).
I've found an Apologies and Regrets special edition of a magazine. I'm sending them the central poem from my chapbook, which is a self-apology, and also a story I wrote called Sans Pieta. It's set in Venice, so maybe that's a good omen.
Still no word on Patti Smith story--after the initial editor's kind ink, taking it to the main editor--getting very antsy about this. I am a neophyte to sending out stuff. I WOULD get my nerve up just at the time that magazines are closing their reading periods.
Sent a short-short story called "Kudzu" to Glimmer Train. Protagonist's name is Hollis--how southern is THAT???
I don't write much about my fiction because I'm too busy thinking about it and writing it, but after years of alopecia caused by formal poetry, it is such a change.
Pamela
Gypsum (a white that's not too white--has a little blue tint to it like good milkglass), with celadon and true-lavender accents on the egg and dart porch columns and spindle trim and on the lacy gingerbread over the windows. Celadon and gypsum scallops over the windowtops. Gypsum for the shutters, still (since we just painted them). Bulls eyes on the shutters and windowcasings accented in celadon.
Sky-blue paint on the tongue-in-groove porch ceiling.
Front porch foldable swing in celadon.
Oak (already painted dull white ) antique front door in celadon with gypsum accents on the trim.
Mailbox celadon with white fleur-de-lys.
Porch rail spindles in gypsum (accented with celadon only).
Leave the main house this pale yellow, the shade of the "real lemon pie" that's mentioned in Million Dollar Baby. Power wash the trim (it looks a little dingy). This is the bargain here.
Leave the wicker white.
Add a ceiling fan with a stained glass shade to the ceiling. I saw one with morning glories that would be perfect--but it's way expensive.
I think we are becoming the talk of the local hardware store. They cannot believe I want violet-hued paint for any reason.
Somebody, somewhere, tell me my paint scheme sounds delightful. PULEEZZE.
Harvey, bless him, has scraped and caulked and primed the porch ceiling already. I haven't the heart to tell him that next year we're pouring for a patio out back and will be bricking the steps. I'll tell him on our anniversary, when hopefully we're sipping cappucino in Venice. (Dream vacation alert--the long awaited REAL honeymoon--more on this planning later).
I've found an Apologies and Regrets special edition of a magazine. I'm sending them the central poem from my chapbook, which is a self-apology, and also a story I wrote called Sans Pieta. It's set in Venice, so maybe that's a good omen.
Still no word on Patti Smith story--after the initial editor's kind ink, taking it to the main editor--getting very antsy about this. I am a neophyte to sending out stuff. I WOULD get my nerve up just at the time that magazines are closing their reading periods.
Sent a short-short story called "Kudzu" to Glimmer Train. Protagonist's name is Hollis--how southern is THAT???
I don't write much about my fiction because I'm too busy thinking about it and writing it, but after years of alopecia caused by formal poetry, it is such a change.
Pamela
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Fly Papers
(Section 50 of Tennyson's In Memoriam, published 1850)
Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.
Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
___________________________________
Dickinson's #465 , written in 1862
I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air -
Between the Heaves of Storm -
The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset - when the King
Be witnessed - in the Room -
I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable - and then it was
There interposed a Fly -
With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
Between the light - and me -
And then the Windows failed -
and then I could not see to see -
__________________________
I always wonder if Emily's #465 is in response to Tennyson's 50.
Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.
Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
___________________________________
Dickinson's #465 , written in 1862
I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air -
Between the Heaves of Storm -
The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset - when the King
Be witnessed - in the Room -
I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable - and then it was
There interposed a Fly -
With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
Between the light - and me -
And then the Windows failed -
and then I could not see to see -
__________________________
I always wonder if Emily's #465 is in response to Tennyson's 50.
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