'Twas two nights before Christmas...

When all through the house,
I finished gift wrapping, well - at least for my spouse.
The stocking was hung by the chimney with care;
it's stuffed with some goodies - how did those things get there?
In sweatpants I snuggle, warm in my bed,
While my to-do list still dances around in my head:
We leave in the morning and I still need to pack,
and sync up the iPod for the ride there and back.
I suppose we'll leave early to beat the great rush;
Pray the L.I. Expressway is not full of slush!
To church with the family, then off to the feast,
we'll have pasta and bratwurst, but no rare roast beast.
Christmas Eve night, we'll eat such good food,
and with wine we'll be merry and in a good mood.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear -
Gifts under the tree! Looks like Santa was here!
And I'll worry 'bout whether our gifts are enough...
or maybe, just maybe, it's a tad too much.
But it's not about presents or boxes or bows,
It's about loving and giving, as everyone knows.
So, 'though it's Christmas that I wait to be here,
I say to you all, "Happy Holidays and a Splendid New Year!!"

NaNoWriMo?

Earlier this week, a coworker gave me a clipping from November's Self magazine with the heading "Got 3 minutes? Start Writing a Novel." She left a sticky note pointing to the article, saying "Christine - Saw this and thought about you - you can do it!" What a nice gesture. I told her a while ago - maybe a year or two ago - over lunch that I like to write as a hobby. Since then, she's been giving me clippings from magazines or newspapers about writing and getting published. I think that's tremendous that she has so much faith in me, especially being that she's never read any of my writing outside of professional material.

I put the article aside, thinking, well - I don't do novels. I write poetry. Bad poetry, but poetry nonetheless. I tried my hand at short stories a while ago but they never amounted to much. I always lost inspiration...or heart...or interest. Then I started thinking things over again. A novel. I always say, with all the craziness I've seen in my life so far, I could write a book. Maybe now's the time.

Why now? Well, apparently November is National Novel Writing Month. Who knew? Also, apparently, it's the 10th anniversary. So, what exactly does this mean? Click here to find out.

Write 50,000 in 30 days. The thought of it sounds so...daunting. I can't even imagine what 50,000 words look like. I guess novels don't necessarily have to equate Dostoyevsky, though - right? I have to at least try. So...without further ado, I am announcing that I am officially participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I have one week to sort things out and prepare myself.

The article my coworker gave me gave three tips: 1) Find a personal story line, 2) Turn off that critic in your head, 3) Stay Motivated. Sounds easy enough, but we'll see. Wish me luck!

Life Begin Again

It's a day shy of the 7th anniversary of the attacks on September 11. I wasn't going to write anything about this dark day in our nation's history. We have moved on and adjusted to a new way of life. We do not mourn in the same way or to the same degree anymore. When politicians sprinkle speeches with reference to 9/11, their tired words are met with yawns, rolling eyes and irritation by the public. We have once again returned to our cocoons and care more about the mudslinging going on in the race for the Oval Office than we do about each other. We are not unified as we were at that moment in time.

I was not in the New York that day; however, I was at work, 11 miles away, on the Jersey side, and watched plumes of dark smoke waft over the city, cutting into the crystal blue sky, in horror. I was a ball of nerves when I could not get in touch with friends who did work or live in the city. The music lover that I am turned her radio off for weeks. I had friends lose close relatives, neighbors lose spouses. We all have our stories. We have a shared yet individual experience. We have our memories of that day.

The Volume 3:Further in Time by Afro Celt Sound System was released just a few months earlier in June 2001 and was on heavy rotation on my CD player. It was eerie how the song "Life Begin Again", almost literally, captured the emotion and environment of those days immediately after the attacks. With simple yet poignant lyrics sung by Robert Plant, and interspersed with an excerpt from a traditional Welsh ballad "The Lark's Elegy" ("Marwnad yr Ehedydd"), balancing the thunder and soft sorrow over "Middle Eastern" strings, it still gives me chills. When I learned of the translation of the Welsh lyrics (scroll to the end of this post), my heart returned to my throat.

Listen: LIFE BEGIN AGAIN

This is the day, and the hour
The time where the changing begins
The land, and the sky, fall quiet
Silence moves over the plain

The heat of Cwymhr still burning
The heart still beating within
Her songs echoed the fallen
For life to begin again

This is the day and the hour
The time where the changing begins

Land and the sky fallen silent

Quiet moves o'er the plain

Quiet moves o'er the plain
The silence moves over the plain

The land and sky fall quiet
The heart is beating within
Her song echoes calling
For life to begin again
For light to begin again
--------------------------------------------------------
Translation of the Welsh verses from "The Lark's Elegy":

Mi a glywais fod yr hedydd
Wedi marw ar y mynydd;
Pe gwyddwn i mai gwir y geirie,
Awn â gyr o wŷr ac arfe
I gyrchu corff yr hedydd adre.

I have heard that the lark
Has died on the mountain;
If I knew the words to be true,
I would take a band of armed men
To bring the lark’s body home.

Jesus Moth

Is it belief or desperation?
Do you search for the Messiah
in each moldy crumb you're given,
in every hour you're starving,
on the wings of a small prophet,
on cloudy horizons drifting,
on the brink of your salvation,
in a Truth only man defines?

Like a Surgeon...

No, not as in scalpels and incisions. We can save that for another day.

I'm talking about the Poetry Society (UK) who meets to perform poetry surgery during scheduled, and fully pre-planned meetings. The idea of the surgery is to go over a person's poetry and focus on what's good and what could be better. I suppose there are groups in the U.S. that do that, too; I'm just not sure it's so formal. Do you know of any of these groups?

In a way, it reminds me of writing classes in school. I wish I had that kind of feedback now. There are many good writers, but the elusive question remains: what makes just a few "great"? It's on the tip of my tongue, but I seem to bite down on it all the time. I could write and write and write (like I used to back in those pre-career, pre-marriage, pre-adulthood responsibilities kind of days), and my own instincts can tell me whether something is passable, or whether it should never see the light of day again. Which is why I take the chance to post my own poetry here now and then. I like to share, but like most people - I need feedback. I need to know how I'm doing. If I'm ok and you are moved in a small way by my words, I would like to know. If I've been doing it wrong all along, I need to know that, too. I get discouraged now and then, and feel like I should just give up on this whole silly thing that no one really cares about anyway, but then I remember - I care! It means something to me. So I keep on trying, cutting into that skin.

Punk Rock Grrl

Alot of songwriters happen to write lyrics like good poetry; then there are those who are true poets who happen to turn their work into incredible songs. Patti Smith falls into the second category.

Patti Smith moves through our collective imagination as an enigma, the epitome of "cool" and that is part of her appeal. Visionary "Godmother of Punk" of the 1970s, to the American Top-40 listening world, she's probably best known for "Because the Night" co-written with Bruce Springsteen in 1978, and brought into new light after 10,000 Maniacs remade the song in 1993. She's not now, nor has ever really been, mainstay on radio, and seemingly disappeared altogether through most of the 80s and 90s from the public eye. She's back this year with a vengeance, still private yet artistic as ever, and for that, I recommend checking out her work, past and present. I won't make this a review of her work because it's something that just needs to be experienced. You'll understand.

Her ninth book of poetry Auguries of Innocence was first published in 2005 but was re-released this summer in an "expanded" edition, although including only two new poems from the original text. She also has a new album out, also released this summer, entitled "The Coral Sea" with Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine. And her talent is not limited to poetry or song. A book of her photography will be released this November, entitled Patti Smith, Land 250. Also, to get a better glimpse into the life of this transient artist, the book Patti Smith: Dream of Life will be released on Tuesday, August 26, based on the acclaimed film of the same name.

Web: pattismith.net

MySpace: myspace.com/pattismith

And for your listening pleasure, some of her songs:

E-Bow the Letter (with REM)

Gloria

Dancing Barefoot

Without Chains

Land

Reconnecting

"Some people just weren't as interesting as others,"
he said, apologizing for sounding like a jerk
he said, in a connotation of coolness
that fed into the otherwise heady stream
of thought, so intellingent, as if
this thought could be expressed with
it caught between the gripping teeth.

"And some just were not interesting at all,"
I said, to myself, I wish - a reply to give;
instead, I don't answer or acknowledge;
instead, I remain as boring as ever.

Feather

This molted feather floats
from the limbs to the base,
and, as quickly, dissipates

Perhaps to be collected,
pressed in a dust jacket or
left to collect itself.

What little sheen has worn
away, before the cynical eyes
have seen to feel the color

That could have painted the skies.
Instead, the spectrum falls flat,
floats in any direction

Toward light. Turning, turned away.
The feather is not the bird.
The feather is not the bird.

A-traveling we will go

Since as far back as I can remember, I have loved all-things travel related. I used to study maps and, in my little Encyclopedia set, would read about different cultures, flags, languages, topography. Today, the question of travel is never far from my mind. Usually, the conversation is related to work - I travel quite a bit for my job and seem to always be hopping around from place to place all in the name of education. Then, there is unquenchable thirst to live vicariously through friends and family who have traveled to exotic places - or just places I've never been, sometimes never heard of, but suddenly sound fascinating because it's not here. My in-laws are crazy like that. Trips to Egypt, Russia, China, Cape Horn and many more...their next trip is to South Africa including a safari. Not that I'm a slouch when it comes to international travel...just, well...not that extensive. Yet. We're currently in the process of planning a trip now, albeit to Canada.

This probably explains my almost-obsessive relationship with the Travel Channel. By the way, Anthony Bourdain, when you're back in Jersey, give me a "ring." But seriously, it was interesting to see on the Travel Channel's blog site "World Hum" on Wednesday this week, outlining the "Six Ways U.S. Poet Laureate Kay Ryan Could Spend Her $5,000 Travel Allowance." Of course, they're all locations in the US, but I had to smile that the very first location was Amherst and visiting the birthplace/home of Emily Dickinson, to whom Ryan has often been compared. Been there, done that. Great place.

So, on this Friday, as the soft days of summer wind down into more mellow calmness, and official vacation season - mostly a bust this year with most taking "Staycations" - comes to a close, I again refer to The Bishop. Enjoy.

Questions Of Travel (Elizabeth Bishop)

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"

Presidential Candidates Well Versed?

Politics and poetry have long been connected to one another. There are vast collections of poetry and songs about political, social, and racial struggle and persecution, the venomous voice against right-wingers/establishment/government and the stinging retort of those tossed into the fire by words that signify more than ink on paper. Political poetry has brought about keen awareness, violent outrage, shock, and - when done well - change.

I used to say that I'm not a political person. I suppose what I should say is that there is a time and place for politics. Hanging onto whatever thread is left of Emily Post in today's society, I've stuck by the adage to avoid talking about politics and religion with specific company. Some say it's the cowards way out. I just think it's a good way to avoid a fight. And I've been in those fights. And it's not always pretty. Some frown at my politics but truthfully what it comes down to is that we all believe in the basic core values. Mostly. Don't we?

This year is especially heated in the United States with a monumental and historical primary season now behind us and the promise of change in front of us, whichever candidate you choose. It's exciting. And I encourage all of you who are eligble to get out there and do your thing come November. But more about that in the coming weeks.

What does any of this have to do with poetry? Glad you asked. In today's Washington Times, there is an article, "Poet advised Young Obama." What does this mean? Did this said poet, who was a black writer, a communist and avid fighter for equal rights for African Americans during a dangerous time in our nations history have a true impact on the vision of Barak? Does he carry some of the same radical ideas that his mentor did? Maybe. Maybe he was just one of many important people that came along Barak's path but does not hold the monopoly on his insight. That being said, does Barak enjoy poetry? I couldn't say.

As for John McCain? Apparently, he comes from the age when schoolkids used to memorize and recite poetry (I used to have to do that, and I'm more than half his age, but whatever.) Based on this Op-Ed from William Krystal back in January, seemingly another attempt to spotlight John's age difference in comparison with "youthful" Barak. Still, it seems as an adult, he may not be as up to speed on all things poetry. He apparently was stumped by a question a few months back when asked who the poet laurreate of Arizona was (the state does not have one) or of the United States (at the time, Charles Simic).

So, in conclusion, should we choose our next president by how familiar or well-versed he is in poetry? Of course not. I guess the point is - what were their influences, what shaped their ideas, and what are those said ideas? What vision do these students of poetry have to move our country forward? The truth is still unfolding.

New Poet Laureate

A belated congratulations to Kay Ryan for becoming the 16th US Poet Laureate!

I'm just starting now to backtrack and read her work, which I relate to immediately and find to be a breath of fresh air. She is the kind of writer that I can appreciate right away, not just for her wonderful work but for her lack of pretension, the way she can connect with people through her words, her preference for short poems instead of epics, her introspection and tendency to feel like an outsider, and her epiphany around the age of 30 to devote her professional life to poetry and writing. I am at that age, and even though I'm still waiting for that great epiphany to happen, I can certainly relate to her internal struggle with that question.

So, again - congratulations. I look forward to reading much more of your work.

Poetry Placement (a response)

I was happy to read Kirsten Ogden's Poetry Placement on The Kenyon Review blog on Wednesday. I think she's on to something: using "poetry placement" like companies use "product placement" to promote their merchandise. I missed the episode of AMC's Mad Men that she is referring to; well - ok, I haven't seen a single episode. It looks like a smart, entertaining show, but 10 pm on a work night?...well, yes, it's past my bedtime. I think it's time to include it on my FiOs DVR. But I digress.

Mad Men is popular, and mentioning a sophisticated collection of poetry by one of the key poets of our modern age in the context of the show surely caught the attention of a lot of people...people who probably never heard of Frank O'Hara or his book...people who are now interested in reading it to see what all the hype is about. I didn't even see the episode, and I'm interested! That's pretty good.

Now, I'm not saying that if poetry is prominently mentioned on TV or in a movie, etc., the audience would necessarily feel the urge to go to their local Barnes & Noble to snatch it up. I mean, when you think about movies - each time you see a can of Coke or a FedEx box (Cast Away, anyone?) or such - that doesn't mean that you will go out and become a preferred Coke drinker after years of drinking Pepsi (just an example). But it will get your attention. And stay in your mind...Maybe make you curious... And poetry is much better for you than Coke. It's the real thing.

Spoke'N'Word

When most people think of "bikers", images of the scruffy/grizzly, tattooed, leather-clad warriors of the road who cuss worse than a sailor and have a maniacal look in their eyes come to mind. I suppose some are, but truthfully - most aren't. I'm not a biker, but in the past few years, I have come to know many and have been surprised by how much they dispell the stereotype. Even if they have that rough'n'tumble look about them, bikers are intelligent, often hold a white-collar job, live well, and would seem more at-home on the golf course than on a steel horse.

Why do I mention this? In two words: Road Poet (and its sibling Road Poet-NY). I recently learned that August is National Biker Poetry Month (NBPM). Bikers and poetry? That combination seems as likely as Britney Spears opening for Metallica. But it's true - and why not? OK - yes, I'm a skirt and have never been on a bike. From what I hear, though, there is such a sense of freedom, a sense that all is right with the world, verging almost on the philosophical and spiritual, that it must be inspiring.

I'm going to explore this Road Poet a little more, but in case you're interested in NBPM, there is a schedule for those of you in the Northeast on Road-Poet NY. Check it out.

"I spent $20,000 for that??"

I have to start this blog entry with a DISCLAIMER:
First, I believe a college education is a valuable asset to have in today's world - because, let's face it, a high school diploma doesn't get you too far anymore - and support those willing to challenge themselves to grow and learn and develop into responsible human beings, no matter what field they go into. Second, I wish I had listened to myself a little more closely in those crazy college days and had a little more confidence to pursue the field that I now know would have been a perfect fit for me. Not that I'm complaining about the route I eventually followed, but there's always the "what if". I find myself trying to bury that ever-present twinge of jealousy toward those I know who have become journalists, writers, English teachers, publishers and even editors. That could have been me.

I remember being a senior in high school, when my father asked "what will be your major?" I paused and thought about it; I think I even considered "journalism" but quickly decided "psychology" - a major as elusive now as it was then, I suppose. Granted, I enjoyed psychology - graduating with honors - and although I didn't go into the clinical field, I did learn much that I have applied directly in my career. Still, I always snuck those non-essential creative writing courses into my course schedule...just...because...and probably remember the advise of those professors more than my psych profs.

So, why should it be a surprise that someone, Columbia College Chicago, finally decided to make "Poetry" an official undergraduate major? Maybe because poetry is already covered under the umbrella of "English" or "Literature" or one of the existing majors. Maybe because, and let's be honest here, it's just not one of those lucrative career fields. I don't know. In the same breath, I think it's great that there would be such a demand and interest in poetry that it would warrant a college to allot enough funds to create a new major - especially when it seems most colleges are cutting back and sticking to the basics.

All I know is that if I told my father those many moons ago that I wanted to major in "Poetry", he would probably have disowned me, and certainly would not have paid his hard-earned money to put me through school to study something that may or may not have produced any marketable skills in his daughter. Then again, would I have had the confidence to have demanded this be my chosen field?

What do you think about "Poetry" as a major? Good idea, bad idea, just don't care?

For those of you who are considering this major, check out the CCC poetry blog.

Self-Help Books

All the positive energy and smiley words -
so precious. so, so precious.
like a little lamb that bounces into the woods,
chasing out the darkness.
And who knows the root of this evil?
It's not evil, just misguided
perceptions that happen standing still.
The pages, all the pages that confided
it's not me. It's them. It's you.
But is it true? APA just might agree:
Bad relationships - chapter 1-2
Dependency - chapter 3
Social Anxiety - chapter 4
Depression - chapter 5
and more! There's much, much more
wrong with me. Can I survive?
Yes, if we just think positively
the ickies will go away. {Whew}
I suppose this skewed reality
is why I avoid these books too.

Can't Sleep? Take One of These...

Having trouble sleeping? Listen to someone reading a poem.

Ok, not quite - but that's the idea behind the world's longest movie, "The Cure for Insomnia." Created in 1987, it runs (depending on the source you read) anywhere from 85-87 hours, with Lee Groban reading his nearly 5,000 page poem of the same name, interspersed with heavy metal and X-rated video. Have I seen it? In a word, no. Even when I have trouble sleeping, I think I can manage just fine without staying up for 3 and a half days watching. Have you seen it? I'm curious if it lives up to the hype and if it's the psychedelic trip that it sounds to be. I don't even know if, in today's digitalized world, it still exists and can be viewed by anyone anymore.

I just thought this was funny. I mean, people have trouble staying awake when listening to a short poem, let alone a 5,000 pager. It's my impression that when most people even hear the word "poem" that it makes them feel cramped and like they are living this 3 and a half day diatribe.

Was it done for art? Shock value? Drugs? Not sure. This video from a few years ago is of Lee Groban himself (seemingly an upstanding kind of guy) explaining, in part, the project:

In the News...

Found an interesting blog, the Poetry Hut, that links online articles of poetry in the news. Short, sweet, to the point - and a good reminder that poetry is still out there, folks, working its magic in the real world, one way or another.

Ron Silliman occassionally does something similar, but his is more of a rolling list (that sometimes is unnecessarily long) than a condensed top 10 stories of the day. Either way, check them out.

Implications of Rain

Maybe it's the way the light casts down and bends
around the evergreens; the clouds descend
and infiltrate the undergrowth; the shadows crawl
along the forest floor, into membrane walls.
The gloominess exasperates
that it's Monday; and so it takes
that much more blood to climb from bed.
My heart crawls where shadows tread.

Sound is imprisoned like each day before -
the lonely drop that signals hundreds more,
all of which are indifferent to my prayers for sun,
and soon my prayers dwindle down to none.
The perfidy exacerbates
that's it's Sunday now; the levee quakes
with water moaning for God to take -
to take the bruise-colored clouds that shake -

Clouds, squeezed almost dry, remain aloft -
impervious darkness, trailing off,
(or blending, really) into the damp night shade
and horizons met where the distinction fades.
These are the days that ghosts stumble upon;
my eyes adjust to see before they're gone.
Silence hasn't changed in all these tired days
except the ringing echo that always stays
and seems to grow louder in intensity
and I wonder if the sun will ever shine on me...

...Then I wake...and it's still Monday morning;
insignificant hills shrug off the storming.
Time for me to crawl along and do the same;
such are the implications of rain.

A Smile

A smile in simplicity
is as rare as emerald stones
without fracture or resistance
or obligations to reflect.
And though its luster is foreign
against the worn surfaces shown,
its brevity of being haunts
with pure joy that it projects.

Modern Poets (a response)

I was moved the other day by Nic Haralambous and his blog posting on July 1 when he acknowledges that there are many fine poets from the past who brought us the quintessential poems we have learned or heard or quoted over time; however, he also asks the poignant question, who are the poets of his (our) era?

His question is the crux of another key question: does poetry still matter? If poetry is still significant in these modern times, who are our leaders in the fight to keep it so? The conclusion came, as many of us have recognized, that modern songwriters are filling in that gap now and claiming the crown as the poets of our time. I agree, absolutely. Afterall, why do you think I post my "favorite lyrics" on here? Why are we inspired, enchanted, empowered, or reminded when we hear the words to a song? Because it's poetry.

I responded to his posting that I believe poetry still has a place in our society. And it does. It should never be discounted. On a small scale, think about how many times you quote something that has become almost trite, only to remember that it was derived from a poem. But, to his original point, who's creating these words now? Who are the modern poets?

I search for them. There are writers, for certain. But most are minor and like me, just trying to get the message out there, whether successfully or not. There are very few "greats" that future generations will quote in fondness. Maya Angelou? Ok, there's one. What about Charles Simic (US poet laureate)? Ever hear of him? There have got to be more. Are there?

In the meantime, I'll let the gap be filled by mr. ipod...

Poetic Justice, Indeed

Middlebury College professor and writer Jay Parini's essay on A Case of Poetic Justice first appeared in the Washington Post on June 22, 2008. To summarize: a few kids in Vermont vandalized Robert Frost's summer home back in December (i.e. - broke in and threw a blowout) , were caught and part of their "sentence" (community service) was to discuss Frost's poetry with Parini. As he points out in his essay - that's hardly "punishment" and as it turned out, it was a revealing lesson to those kids.

Parini recently wrote a book on "Why Poetry Matters" (do you sense a theme on my blog here?), and his essay is brilliant in demonstrating that, yes, it does matter. To those kids, he was able to get through to them the challenge of choice and following the "road not taken."

Poetry is not punishment and its magic is when you can apply it to your own life (or even take you out of your own life for a while).

I won't rehash his entire essay - it's best if you read it for yourself. If you've never read Frost or the quintessential "The Road Not Taken" - do yourself a favor. You can thank me later.

Boys on Bikes

In my sullen compact, I drive the few miles linking
the adult world of work and the adult world of home,
bouncing between the cushions of both -
feeling the walls behind thin insulation.
The breath of summer sweeps down from the clouds.
It's going to rain. Probably within the hour.
The windows in the bedroom are open.

Alongside me speeds in single file
three boys on bicycles, racing
alongside time. The clouds are nonexistent.
They are no victims if the rain drops
down. They don't mind. They fly

around the traffic of sturdy drivers
listening to NPR and the weather reports,
windows rolled up to hold in arctic air.

Building around the Foundation

In my continual search for my muse and that ever elusive fluidity of thought, my path brings me upon Websites that are great illustrations of why I'm on here in the first place. One site is from The Poetry Foundation. There is a lot of good information here and interviews, poems, comments, ideas from published writers, media personalities, critics and so on.

I like this site for it's legitimacy, among other things. As poetry is still not one of those things on the top of everyone's "must have" lists, the sites out there range from rudementary (albeit, valuable) manuals for school kids/lesson plans for teachers on poetry appreciation to second rate personal blogs about poetry and such, most of which can not be validated (and this blog may fall into that category, no?), and poetry scams. Truly, I do not trust poetry.com and their contests. Others may disagree; the organization will defend. Still, that's my position.

So, The Poetry Foundation brings to life the poetry movement that needs to happen on a larger scale. The pessimist that I am says that will not happen - not with our attention spans shorter than ever and usurped by the likes of Britney's big comeback and a media-conjured rumor of a pregnancy pact between high school girls. But it's a start.

A Journey...

...not a destination,
still, we're searching for the exit signs
that inform us where to be...

Blockhead

Arrgh! That darn writer's block. It has struck once again. All the ideas are swirling about, but it's like a big mess when I try to verbalize them - a big...gooey...mess. I've read a few things on writer's block, and basically the conclusion was made that it's not so much a function of not being able to write, but not wanting to write out of fear it will be terrible.

I wouldn't categorize my condition as not wanting to write - in fact, it's quite the opposite- but there is probably a slight taste of fear in my mouth with these words. I know I'm always comparing myself to other writers, new and old, and I feel like I can never quite break the barrier to say what I want to say, the way I want to say it, and have it still be meaningful to the reader. I guess maybe it's not so much a writer's block as it is a mental block.

Today, I'm giving my mind a break, for just a little bit anyway. So, in the meantime, enjoy some baby animals:

Island In The Sun - Weezer

Fun at Work

Ok - it's Wednesday, hump day. I don't mind Wednesdays, except that they're not Fridays, and Friday's aren't Saturdays...but I'm not complaining. Really!

Wednesday is as good of an excuse as any to release a deep, relaxing sigh, to kick back and let down your hair. Ahhh! Ok, that's enough relaxing - there are meetings to be had and numbers to crunch and interviews to give. Work always awaits.

On that note, I stumbled across a site from Robert Petta, Office Poetry, which is basically an extension of his same-titled book of poems with correlating illustrations and live performances. His material takes the mundane, insane and overall fruitful experience of work and puts a humorous slant on it. Now, I wouldn't say his work ranks as high poetry, but it's funny and light, and we can all relate to one degree or another. The site itself doesn't have much of his work, but I recommend the poem of the day and free samples. For the rest - buy the book or go see it live.

I love the irreverence in humor because - as you can see from previous postings - I tend to stay on the darker/heavier side of things when I write. If you knew me in person, I'm as goofy as anything and love to joke around and laugh. So - I look to Robert Petta as one of my inspirations to lighten up a bit. I'm working on that for you, I promise! Until then - enjoy some of his Office Poetry.

BJ Ward

A few years ago, I became a fan of BJ Ward, a college professor and writer from my local area who has published three books of poetry. What made me a fan was his work in Gravedigger's Birthday, which is reflective of his blue-collar upbringing in New Jersey. A person (especially in this area) can truly relate to his words for all their grit and sincere depiction of what his life is really like; there is no confectionery dusting to it.

I admire his work because in my own, I have trouble breaking through the barriers - saying in plain language what I need to say and describing the circumstances in jagged tones instead of glossing over. Not to say life's all doom and gloom; it's just not all pink and bubbly either.

If you're in the area, he'll be reading at The Pavillion at Nassau Square Park in West Winsor, NJ on Sunday, June 22, 2008 at 4:30 PM.

From Gravedigger's Birthday by BJ Ward:
The Star-Ledger

287 was the long road to the newspaper plant
my black-handed father would ride beneath
the weight of a night sky.
A father who works the night shift
knows that weight, how it accumulates from within
when his mistakes and debt
begin to press on his children and wife.
And so went his life-
If the stars spelled something real,
they might spell the equation
that my father never mastered--
the news just ran through his hands
and what slid there left the black residue
of the world's doings, pressed knowledge
that read like misaligned tea leaves in his hardening palms,
and in his life line and heart line and other lines
that would normally speak a fortune,
the night just accumulated itself-
a little sky he would spread over us
when the world redelivered him in the morning.

Desert Floor

Overtly kitschy backseat-shower rain down upon the madman like glitter
of the gold rush poured from dirty bottles but how it shines
in the pass-thru shotgun wedding by the pelvis shaking sideways sideburns ignite
the desert floor like the cigarette hole punched through to the center
of the worn leather couch in the penthouse basement rise from this oasis
dustpan hands drip of dried earth clouds mirage of the last drop of water
for many miles around this valley of the dolls that peak at midnight exploding red
hot and blue stars like fireballs or damp sparklers on Mars
and the strutting sleekness of the ostrich as pale as Satan’s pretty smile and the talons he projects to grasp the pencil necks of snakes
and turn them into belts or boots to stomp upon the low-life jabberwocky sidekick
mavericks with engraved holsters tied to the side drop down deep into the pocket the plinking sound of change slot machine stroke for luck a kiss to every cowboy
wrangler and carpenter with hammers overriding the flap of angry vultures
swooping overhead the dead that walk around town side to side left to right
in the heat of the atrium light that seems as artificial as the background set
movies show like Flamingo open wide in bloom for the shielded sight of the hit-man
with his mistress and I misread the instructions come back at four or maybe later for the henchmen when the laughter isn’t laughter but a switchblade click knocking over
flutes of champagne and stiletto heels and the girls that want to waitress
instead of wait this time around for a chance to go somewhere
along a stretch of open highway straight as a page ripped from stained novellas
in brown paper sacks brushed by plush entrance ways
to all the flashing noise all around here is enough to entice
the epileptic disco like a strobe song twist the dance floor and plastic carousels round and round the crooning magpies for the wide eyes around slant angles
in shadowed corners dug deep and far enough away
from the whitewashed breed of proper subtleties
instead of flipping on electric night like daytime when day crawls
like impassable snakes along dried riverbeds in this desert forked between mountains
forsaken beauty that serves as distant canvass or fenced gateway
to overtly kitschy madman clichés like the pass-thru glitter Vegas baby song
that shakes cracks of dry earth
from this desert floor

Fatherside

When I was born, they said I looked like you,
and my features remained reflective
of the Ukrainian stoicity,
eyes of a subtle shade of blue
like a rough sea upon the storm.
Even then it was understood
a boy would have been preferred
rather than the cooing pink thing -
the scissors to the cord
of your legacy.
Identity in limbo, I transformed
(or tried with all my girlish might)
to be as rugged as any son.
All that was gained were scrapes
and bruises that remain.
So, a score and 10 breaths later,
we're both still searching
for what was never meant to be,
never fully able to embrace
what is apparent in our blue eyes.

Where for Art Thou, Readers?

Can poetry matter? That was the question asked by author Dana Gioia back in 1991, but is still relevant almost 20 years later. No doubt it has been asked many times before his essay, and many times since. (Click here to read essay)

Now, if you'll allow me the cliche - I love poetry: reading, writing, listening, and analysing it. For me, poetry has been a faithful friend that I can return to time and again, no matter what shape I'm in. Poems, to me, are not arbitrary words stuck together because they sound pretty or intelligent. They are messages. They are windows onto the world, and doorways into the author's heart and mind. Poetry challenges me to think differently, to see the world from other perspectives, and to communicate myself in ways that I cannot verbally find words (or sometimes, the courage) for. It gives me a sense of peace. It is my therapist. It is my mentor.



But like many other writers, I am all too aware that our culture breeds many poets but little need or appreciation for poetry. People may like to write it on their own behalf, but what about reading it? What place does poetry have in our world? There are many in my own circle who equate poetry with either the dry boring behemoth read in school or the depressed young girl writing about unrequited love, and that sort of thing. Even having my blog focused on poetry, I know I am taking a risk of turning people off.

What isn't realized is that poetry is all around us - even in the most basic formats: song lyrics, familiar quotes, some advertisements. It expands beyond that 10 lb anthology on your dusty bookshelf. Look and see what you stumble across.

I don't write to become famous or recognized. I don't write because I think my poetry is so astounding that I think everyone should see it. I write because I love it. I write because I want to help people to understand there is so much more to poetry than imagined, and is still very much relevant in our lives. This question of "Can Poetry Matter" is one that I will continue to explore, but I would love to hear from you and what your thoughts are.

Excessive Heat

We lay prostrate to the growing heat
that swells up,
suffocating
with all its weight pressing down,
and pushing in -
my lungs are inflamed;
there must be some Relief...
Relief from mercury and Mars,
from the rain men
who control the weather
like gods perched on high;
Relief from the stench
of stagnant air
and lazy immobility.
There is no shelter anymore;
we are exposed
to the elements that surround -
from this ungodly swelter,
there MUST be some Relief.
Perhaps come November
when the wind shifts stream.

Tangerine and Blue

Finger prick crevice sound, wired belly drowning out
And how the bass moans deep into summer’s early sleep.
Something shifts in mood, colors take on different hues
From the cemetery cue to tangerine and blue.
Finger glide on ivory tusk then trigger ebony -
Right hand lift from left hand side, carry over once then slide.
Cerebral dance from shutter bloom, flicker fast yet smooth
From the lullaby snooze to tangerine and blue.
Stick beat the pulse alive out of synch but drawing lines
From blackhole slumber room to sunlight afternoon
Finger click to jump feet tap, smile forces out a laugh
Darkness strips its layered muse to tangerine and blue.

The Bishop

Last summer I bought a book a little bookstore in Northampton, MA entitled Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments by Elizabeth Bishop and Alice Quinn. It includes 108 poems and 11 prose pieces, were not previously published, including 16 drafts of one of her most famous (and one of my personal favorite) poems "One Art."

The book in itself is incredible - to have access to unpublished pieces by one of the most prolific writers of a generation is always exciting. But I think one of the things I admire most is seeing the drafts and handwritten notes of "One Art" and the amount of labor spent over its creation. Most times, I'll write something, thinking it sounds great; when I reread it - not so much. Any writer can appreciate the process of creating and revising...and revising until it's just right.

I'm not going to make this posting a biography of Elizabeth Bishop's life, although, as one of my favorite poets, I'm sure I'll write about her from time to time. She died when I was a baby; yet, her impact has resounded throughout generations. I love her imagery, the way she can be intimate and have you see through her eyes without getting overtly personal, and of course her natural flow of words without sounding stuffy.

So, for your reading pleasure - "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop:

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Running in a Race That's Long Ended

To have crammed my development
within four years of juvenile transition,
to have expected full plumage in adolescence,
and eloquence of my description
would have been a sorry misjudgement
of what I truly was, just about invisible,
and now mostly disappeared from memory
to those who sat in front, those traceable
still, and excelling the way I should be
(a competitive streak that is unbearable).

Back during those years, I tried to run beside
those in the lead; never much attention was paid
to the way I just couldn't connect pavement and stride,
and perhaps lack of ambition or direction plagued
what could have been triumphant instead of implied.
Confidence was never quite the ally, so still
I am running alone in a race that has long ended -
don't inquire about the stakes...just a whole to fill...
achievement to be counted, although now, I'm winded,
lagging as the precedent of enviable will.

Types of Poetry

I'm always caught up with the notion that poems have to rhyme. Well, no - that's not entirely true. I write quite a bit that doesn't rhyme and could be considered free verse. But I do have a nagging voice in the back of my mind saying that poems need to be structured, have a form and a rhyming scheme. That gets to be so boring, doesn't it?

There are many styles of writing. I found this site that lists and briefly describes different Types of Poetry and they say it's only a very few examples. I haven't taken any sort of writing course since college (in my not-so-distant past) but the impression was left that there were just a handful of poetry formats. Not so, my friends - not so.



Just yet another reason why poetry rocks my sox.

Keep the Car Running

I first heard this song in the beginning of the year - even though it was released on the album Neon Bible by Montreal's Arcade Fire in the beginning of 2007. On the surface, it's a fast, upbeat, very "pop" kind of alternative song (I still love to listen to it when I'm driving), but when you listen to the words, you know there's something going on that's a little deeper.

Everyone interprets the lyrics in a different way, but the most compelling is that it's said to be about the Rapture (see: Book of Revelations in the Bible) and the Christian perspective on that belief. Basically - if you're baptised, you'll be welcomed into Heaven when Jesus comes back to Earth at the end of the world to gather all the true believers. Nonbelievers and those not baptised don't get invited to the party. There are many blogs and sites out there that discuss possible interpretations. I may not particularly share the religious belief that is so cleverly manifested in these song lyrics (and I don't know whether the band members do, either), but it's an interesting concept to put into a pop, non-Christian song. Perhaps it's just a mockery of belief?

Listen: "Keep The Car Running"



Lyrics:
Every night my dream’s the same.
Same old city with a different name.
Men are coming to take me away.
I don’t know why but I know I can’t stay.

There’s a weight that’s pressing down.
Late at night you can hear the sound.
Even the noise you make when you sleep.
Can’t swim across a river so deep.

They know my name 'cause I told it to them,
But they don’t know where
And they don’t know
When It’s coming, when It’s coming.

There’s a fear I keep so deep,
Knew its name since before I could speak:
Aaaah aaaaaah aaaaah aaaaaah

They know my name 'cause I told it to them,
But they don’t know where
And they don’t know
When It’s coming,
Oh! when It’s coming
Keep the car running

If some night I don’t come home,
Please don’t think I’ve left you alone.
The same place animals go when they die,
You can’t climb across a mountain so high.
The same city where I go when I sleep,
You can’t swim across a river so deep.
They know my name 'cause I told it to them,
But they don’t know where
And they don’t know
When It’s coming,
Oh! when is it coming?
Keep the car running
Keep the car running
Keep the car running

Becoming Currer Bell

By the grace of God I thank my stars that I'm alive and we still are
advancing now although still slow come equity to those who co-inhabit
this space with men who know we serve as we did then;
no need to hide identities when writing farce or tragedies.
The skeptics say we cannot hold ourselves up to the manly mold -
just stories of romance and dreams of girls who play in make-believe,
just poetry that won't add up or earn such praise or test enough
of will and strength, no image clear when dreams just have no use here.

But no, now times are different, right? Women are heard and in well-sight
of earning posts as high as light and are judged on merit as all men might.

A culture sewn together well by threads of cloth slit to sell.
And films where men in nudity are shown as much as girls may be.
Magazines that push the skin to rub enough, absorb within;
the human form was made to sell; that's all I need - no talent fell
before your eyes, no need to blind you
with the wool that I may toss in verses lost by my chest size.

Luckily, it could be worse as we have seen in journals' terse
accounts of women in the Middle East where women are thought less than the beast
that runs amuck in city streets, in blood of men through desert heat.

We have the liberty to speak and fight and vote and drink and sleep.
We are allowed to work alone outside the house and choose our own way to live
if choose we must, but ask not what this means for us.
If you don't know or understand you'll never know; so must I stand
and beg you for equality in stature, sexuality, and strength
you've never given out of fear you'll lose your own?
In all the years since Currer Bell, I hope we must have grown.

If the only way to sell my art is to sell myself as a sugar tart
and flaunt my ass the way they do to show that trash is worth a ransom, too,
than maybe I should find a church to re-baptize myself for another birth
so that I can avoid all the trappings still net and inequalities that have not balanced yet.
Perhaps I’ll become the next Currer Bell and then, by merit, my art will sell.

Saroyan

I just came across an article, written back in April in the NY Times Book review section about the release of the Complete Minimal Poems by Aram Saroyan. The article sounds as though Aram is someone I should be aware of - a poet of poets that expanded the meaning of what poetry can be. I suppose he is, but in my bourgeois knowledge of the world - I have never heard of him. Forgive.

What strikes me is the simplicity of his work. I'm not giving an opinion on whether I like it or not, because that is irrelevant. His work seems so base and uncomplicated; yet, I suppose to alot of people, there is great meaning and the words seem tangible: Sample of his work

I have been writing since I was 12. Sure - it hasn't been all good stuff. In fact, the majority of it is terrible - and I won't even address how bad it was in the early days. But perhaps in my Catholic school training of formalities, I feel the need for proper, meaty poems, when in fact, they can be a single word. Lighght is not poetry to me, but perhaps I should open my mind to it. So...

SuNnnshiine. There, I wrote a poem for you :)

Mining the underside

I'm re-evaluating my footing, and the shoreline on which I stand,
watching waves slide in and slide out,
slide in and slide out
over my imprint that changes in the shifting sand.
I collect all the shells that are strewn on the path,
empty of life but beautiful to look at,
beautiful to remember, to smile, and to laugh...
and I am aware of what I have become.

I'm as frightened as I ever was, and as confident...
my failures persist on impromptu visits,
as if I needed a reminder, and my heart repents
for beating in strange rhythms like this.

But I must dig into the walls of this cavern,
and the collapsing sand that fills in the hole,
because the tide is coming in again,
as it always washes in again.

Life, Death, and Everything in Between

Born on a Monday night, died on a Wednesday morn.
Reincarnated with every breath, each release,
Every transition a person can make at warp speed.
Done once, twice – fine for a while, but then
A third, fourth, fifth – accelerating, spinning
Sixth, seventh time – to realize it’s only the start
Of this cyclical pattern of self-resurrection.

Met on a Friday night. Dined on a Saturday.
Roses ensued, as did wine and pet name for me.
Conversations swirl about in non-sequitor interests.
My heart overflowing with the sea, lips turned from the river.
Your eyes covered from the sting of the coming eclipse.
We flutter like locusts on a field of ourselves,
Doing more harm with our song than hanging silence.

Fell in a Tuesday room. Left in a Thursday box.
Wrapped hastily to give to any begging hand
But then stop and wait, burning time like a match
Blow and it’s gone that quickly. It weighs down
After a while on these limbs, these bones, this heart
Only to discover a force within to spark light
To engulf this box, this room, this frame, this clock.

Born in a fever’s grip. Died when my hands stole its breath
Fought for sophomoric gambles, like my wager first time around
All for survival to see if the late show is better,
Yet Darwin never vouched for his neighbor’s estate.
It’s all a game to test one’s will and strength.
Go over the bridge, slide under the poles and plunge
Deep into the streams that only empty in the sea.

Of God and Man

Illumination, but not enlightenment,
from such brilliance hailed in dark hours -
Sophomoric assumptions of thoughts well-spent,
but conclusion in controversy sours.
Technical mind, commissioned cogs and wheels,
serving progress like an avenger
of the archaic mills and faith that steals
common sense, so say the faithless defender.
And if God be real, where were our hours spent?
Would He mind that the illusion was thought grandeur?
Science has overthrown that Intelligent
Design; still - what proof have they to be sure?

(inspired by the recent auction of Einstein's "God" letter)

The Trouble with Bleeding

We purge ourselves of sinful indulgence,
Of heartache, neglect and regrets we’ve not welcomed.
Flash in a dream what we were in a past life;
The heaviness weighs like an impending sentence.
To all that we’ve seen through the eyes of the Devil,
And all that we’ve done in this life we’ve unravelled,
There’s some spark of light if we’ve known love’s existence,
There’s truth in the heart that no man’s mind creates.
Spirits entwine playfully in the absence
Of rules and constructions of other men’s games.
We bleed ourselves trying to live for tomorrow,
To survive and to find the labyrinth’s gate.
Innocence lost like spoiled confections
Years long ago at the least chosen moment.
All these things rush like blood to the membrane,
All of these things I cared not to say,
Washing me clean to myself as I once knew.
Let it rush through now – I’m calm and awake.

Sit Down

This song sums up how I feel on most days, and I'm having one of those days today. Instead of posting a mediocre poem, I'm going to post the lyrics to this song. Check out a live performance of the song.


Artist(Band): James

I sing myself to sleep
A song from the darkest hour
Secrets I can’t keep
Inside of the day
Swing from high to deep
Extremes of sweet and sour
Hope that God exists
I hope I pray

Drawn by the undertow
My life is out of control
I believe this wave will bear my weight
So let it flow

Oh sit down, Oh sit down, Oh sit down
Sit down next to me
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, down
In sympathy

Now I’m relieved to hear
That you’ve been to some far out places
It’s hard to carry on
When you feel all alone
Now I’ve swung back down again
It’s worse than it was before
If I hadn’t seen such riches
I could live with being poor

Oh sit down, Oh sit down, Oh sit down
Sit down next to me
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, down
In sympathy

Those who feel the breath of sadness
Sit down next to me
Those who find they’re touched by madness
Sit down next to me
Those who find themselves ridiculous
Sit down next to me
In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate
Down
Down
Oh sit down, Oh sit down, Oh sit down
Sit down next to me
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, down
In sympathy
Oh sit down, Oh sit down, Oh sit down
Sit down next to me
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, down
In sympathy
Down

Anniversary

I try to think of something clever to say,
to embellish the emotions
and dress the ordinary routine
we have grown accustomed to.
This wasn't me or you just a few years ago,
and it may not be red-carpet glamour,
but it shines, and I am reminded in your smile
how you showed me it was safe to love
and be loved.
And you still do.

Wax and Wane

Here we go kids, put your nickels down
Down here, place your bets wisely.
The joker’s gonna come, come down
And spin that wheel of fortune –
Spin it; see the colors twirl, twirl
Like kaleidoscopes, like Colecovision.
They say that there’s no Fate,
But we dined just last evening – dined
On raspberries and wine,
Dined until our mouths bled.
It’s rushing now, down like avalanches,
Quickly,
It’s rushing down here, down
Until the valley breaks its fall.
Can someone explain how we come down,
Down fast in a rush like snow tumbles down
In a heap on the valley
When our flags wave from the top?
Mine still waves from the top
Of Mount Washington, I see it bend
In the breeze. See it bend? It’s still there.
So, if there’s no Fate,
I must have dined here alone, dined
In the comforts of home, neigh,
Under quicksand and stone.
But Potential will visit me, visit
This Saturday night, to dine –
Find a breakpoint and dine
On the rest of those berries and wine.

Inside These Spheres

Dust. Particles. Bits. Halves.
Wholes divided. Widened.
A seed. Embryonic
Ideas. Still. Wet.
Shaped. Into
lifeforms. Centrifuge.
Rotating
Two. Four. Eight parts
Overlap. Faster.
Fractions split
To enhance. Spheres
Not aligned. But on one
Axis. Diagonal.
For each group.
Different parts
for each part
Of each day.
Different sounds.
Different forms.
In the form
Of circles. Rounds.
Overhead. Around. Through
Each other. Not
Together. But all one.
Eventually.
When still.
Particles. Form. Wholes.
Inside. These Spheres.

Writer's Block

Where are my words? All the well-behaved nouns and verbs,
All the descriptive metaphors and rhyming scores, no more...
and it's not for impassive thought, but worse - I'm brought
into a playpen of bouncing sounds that consistently abound
every waking hour, on the tip of my pen or parched lip.
On "adjusting to marriage": all is fine; still - in my mind
I'm frustrated; nothing's mine, not even this time I take to write
because it brings us back to the half life - a crime.
On my "job" (which is a job, not a career): I stay clear
of getting sucked deeper. From the bottom, steeper
The ascension to achieve as much as you.
On the spirling "family" ball - stones to haul
and they pile on from day to day; there's no escape
from obligations and new regressions.
On the wars and world - political pearls
like grenades and spades that tout; innocence fades...
there's no peace
no peace
no peace
no peace
and I sit on this weathered night, weary of violet light
because it will all start again the morning, then
where will I be? Still looking for my words to embody these things.

As We are So General

I don't know your language or cliches you toss about the mouth that tangles, touching something that doesn't taste as good just now.

I love how we're so general, the way we weave into a world of words so meaningless, generic limits that we can endow.

I'm just the girl in the hallway, hair pulled back and no distinguished features to imprint on you, and you're the same.

We'll say hello in passing and talk about the weather and the cold and complain about the inertia of the day.

In the evening when we leave we barely utter anything and act unknown to the face before, but say "good night"

Maybe that's just how I am and I don't want to be your friend as if you even cared; I know I don't and never might.

But it's just the game we toss about our mouths like cotton on the teeth or chalkboards drawn by dirty nails.

I give you nothing here that you can grasp and possibly ever carry back and in that, I don't see I've failed.

I love how we're so general, the way we weave into a world of universal glances, insignificance on an empty hand.

I don't know you're language or cliches that tangle and relentlessly get pushed out by your own command.

Gush

One word dangles and falls from my lip
Spit up from a vile of feverish blood
Another drips slowly to add to the waste,
Shooting from left to right from my hip.

A third slams together the letters I know
And forces its way from the walls through a hole.
A sentence starts forming before I can stop it,
Linking the verbs in no certain flow.

Now, to compensate for the lack of much sense,
Or to caulk the space between ceiling and floor,
I squeeze from my tongue another straight line
That curls up around my flat confidence.

So here I stand naked while your fully dressed
And my pantyhose drop from my fingertips
You grab for your coat and you glance at your watch
You make me feel sinful for what I’ve confessed.

Yet your door is frozen by ages of rust
So instead you look down where my bare feet stand
And wonder how far I can walk without shoes.
I wonder how far you carried my trust.

One word pushed up and choked by my lip
Spit up from a vile of feverish blood
There’s none left, I feel, to add to the waste,
As I slide my pantyhose back on my hip.