Showing posts with label intro-09. Show all posts
Showing posts with label intro-09. Show all posts
Thursday, May 14, 2009
oh, by the way
(I would perfectly understand if you are wondering just who this Curiousity and Joy fellow is. My name is Kevin Hehir and I live in St. John's. I haven't always lived in St. John's, there were stints in such lovely prairie places as Winnipeg, Belmont, Yorkton, S'toon, and Candle Lake. This provenance got me friendly with Branda Schmidt on whose facebook page I met Andie who suggested that I get into this May Day Project. I hadn't written a poem in 2 years (some may say I still haven't) and I'm going to use this project to unstog the jam seems to have coagulated at the same time as my first child arrived. I'll try and get five out before the end of the month. Thanks for having me!)
Monday, May 04, 2009
i'm late to the party!
my study is perfect, except that it lacks a door. half the windows in the condo separate me from the parking lot, the neighbours.
occasionally some of the keys on my laptop stop working.
this morning "u" is recalcitrant.
****
i'm glad to join the party again this year -- however late i am. i'm between longer projects, so i'm mostly hoping to produce some material. if all goes well, you'll hear from me three or more times a week.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
This is not a poem
As requested I will write a bit about myself. I live in a land where two great rivers meet, in a small house outside the gray city, surrounded by neighbors’ trees and my scattered beds of herbs and flowers. I have 13 windows, one for each moon so I watch the world and listen to sounds coming to tell me simple things. In my kitchen I cook for anyone who is hungry or desires good taste. Food is convenient art, disappearing and requiring no studio to hold its canvases. I gather supplies at farmer’s markets or in my yard.
I write poetry in small servings. I get feedback from friends and some readings. I still consider poetry to be an oral art form so the sounds are primary to me. In my heart I am telling stories around a hearth or campfire, hoping my voice and rhythm helps the image stay where it’s heard.
A poem from an earlier May Day project “Iris Revolution” will be included in an upcoming anthology of St. Louis poets. I am being encouraged, pressured by others to start submitting work for publishing. I resist. Once written the poems seem finished to me. I continue to listen as others nudge me to be more public.
I get out and smell the love of language when I can, basking in the poetic vitamins of others’ verses. It makes my writing bones stronger. It reminds me that others value these clotheslines of words where I pin my thoughts to dry.
In the meantime, I ponder how much basil to plant for this year’s pesto predictions. I also need to sand the rough bits off wooden clothes pins and wash plastic mayo jars to make presents for children, the dropping game they love to play when they visit. I have no grandchildren; yet a circle of many ages surrounds me. Someday I may have to lock my front door but never my heart. This week we are watching Eurasian Tree sparrows feed their young outside our kitchen table window.
Echinacea are multiplying, enough to harvest for making tincture and still have plenty to bloom. And carpet of apple mint comes up to the house. Lilies and peonies are rising. Sounds of a wood lathe purr from my basement, sounds of the bearded kind man who shares his strength and love with me for the last quarter century.
I look forward to the full moon later in the week, the icon of all cyclical life, a sky gift freely shared.
I write poetry in small servings. I get feedback from friends and some readings. I still consider poetry to be an oral art form so the sounds are primary to me. In my heart I am telling stories around a hearth or campfire, hoping my voice and rhythm helps the image stay where it’s heard.
A poem from an earlier May Day project “Iris Revolution” will be included in an upcoming anthology of St. Louis poets. I am being encouraged, pressured by others to start submitting work for publishing. I resist. Once written the poems seem finished to me. I continue to listen as others nudge me to be more public.
I get out and smell the love of language when I can, basking in the poetic vitamins of others’ verses. It makes my writing bones stronger. It reminds me that others value these clotheslines of words where I pin my thoughts to dry.
In the meantime, I ponder how much basil to plant for this year’s pesto predictions. I also need to sand the rough bits off wooden clothes pins and wash plastic mayo jars to make presents for children, the dropping game they love to play when they visit. I have no grandchildren; yet a circle of many ages surrounds me. Someday I may have to lock my front door but never my heart. This week we are watching Eurasian Tree sparrows feed their young outside our kitchen table window.
Echinacea are multiplying, enough to harvest for making tincture and still have plenty to bloom. And carpet of apple mint comes up to the house. Lilies and peonies are rising. Sounds of a wood lathe purr from my basement, sounds of the bearded kind man who shares his strength and love with me for the last quarter century.
I look forward to the full moon later in the week, the icon of all cyclical life, a sky gift freely shared.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Chickens
Through sawdust wet with urine and shit,
the chicken dragged its broken leg, pink and package-ready.
The other chickens using it as a springboard
to brawl their way to fresh water,
the meager half bag of feed we found
and wrestled into the pen of meat birds,
who hadn’t been fed in five days.
The owner had buggered off and now
they were ours to tend till the SPCA stepped in.
Bethany in her rubbers, swarmed by beak and claw
while we held up the mesh frame,
held our noses away from the stench
that buddy would have sold for organic.
Debating, we took the injured chicken out,
and put it in a cardboard box in the garden.
All afternoon we chased the cat off it,
gave food, water. At night, we put it in the shed
and left the light on, like you would for a child
afraid of the dark. And in the morning,
without the heat of the others, found it dead.
***
Hi everyone! I'm happy to be posting my first poem. My goal is to post for three poems a week. Not all of these will be brand new. Some are poems I wrote in January and February that I'm working hard to revise. Hope that's not bending the rules too much. Look forward to the frenzy. Bren
the chicken dragged its broken leg, pink and package-ready.
The other chickens using it as a springboard
to brawl their way to fresh water,
the meager half bag of feed we found
and wrestled into the pen of meat birds,
who hadn’t been fed in five days.
The owner had buggered off and now
they were ours to tend till the SPCA stepped in.
Bethany in her rubbers, swarmed by beak and claw
while we held up the mesh frame,
held our noses away from the stench
that buddy would have sold for organic.
Debating, we took the injured chicken out,
and put it in a cardboard box in the garden.
All afternoon we chased the cat off it,
gave food, water. At night, we put it in the shed
and left the light on, like you would for a child
afraid of the dark. And in the morning,
without the heat of the others, found it dead.
***
Hi everyone! I'm happy to be posting my first poem. My goal is to post for three poems a week. Not all of these will be brand new. Some are poems I wrote in January and February that I'm working hard to revise. Hope that's not bending the rules too much. Look forward to the frenzy. Bren
Friday, May 01, 2009
Happy May Day
Hello, everyone. This is my second time participating in this project and my goal is to write anything at all. Having been locked in deadly writer's block for the better part of a year, I would be satisfied to get anything accomplished. I look forward to reading everyone else's stuff.
preamble, poem
Once again May tip toes in, then startles me. Likewise, May Day. Here we are; year 4 for me.
While I never like to commit to posting 31 poems, I've been able to do it twice in the three years I've taken part in May Day. I hope it'll happen again this year, but I know how mentally draining it is, and how much -- by the end -- I resent the obligation, even though it's just one made to myself, by myself. But, it's been worthwhile and my most productive time of year for writing.
No real plan this month, but lately I've been working on a series of poems about boxing, so I expect that will find it's way here (as it does today). Every year my goal is to not write about the weather. I have yet to achieve it. I live in Winnipeg.
gloved
punch deep, hook fingers
into dark, dead-end of glove
braced in your coach’s belly –
soft, slow dig to the gut
as she cinches laces
around forearms
tied and taped, you can’t pat
sweat from your face,
sweep hair from eyes
gloves turn hands dumb,
useless except for hammering
nose flush with cheekbone
testing for hollow
behind ribs
between rounds you beg
to have water
poured into your mouth,
tip your head back
and swallow
While I never like to commit to posting 31 poems, I've been able to do it twice in the three years I've taken part in May Day. I hope it'll happen again this year, but I know how mentally draining it is, and how much -- by the end -- I resent the obligation, even though it's just one made to myself, by myself. But, it's been worthwhile and my most productive time of year for writing.
No real plan this month, but lately I've been working on a series of poems about boxing, so I expect that will find it's way here (as it does today). Every year my goal is to not write about the weather. I have yet to achieve it. I live in Winnipeg.
gloved
punch deep, hook fingers
into dark, dead-end of glove
braced in your coach’s belly –
soft, slow dig to the gut
as she cinches laces
around forearms
tied and taped, you can’t pat
sweat from your face,
sweep hair from eyes
gloves turn hands dumb,
useless except for hammering
nose flush with cheekbone
testing for hollow
behind ribs
between rounds you beg
to have water
poured into your mouth,
tip your head back
and swallow
Edisonia: An account of a drowning, circa 1853
The creek, mum. I went to swim
in the creek with –.
And I took off
my shoes & shirt this time like you
told me & I stayed in
the rocky shallows – the cold
an open-handed slap, mum – and he charged
ahead, water in waves around him,
water in shiny coins that fell back
into the water: wishes for longer afternoons
of creeks & shallows & inky
tadpoles nudging at the split
cup of my fingers
And then he came back
& we pushed each other down & splashed & I tore
his shirt a bit. He tromped away, mad,
& I had a leech between my toes & it was a tongue,
mum, rasping between my toes,
so I sat on the shore
& pulled it off.
And I laid back, watching
a robin building in a tree overhanging
the creek with the hanks of wool leftover
from spinning and the strands of hair from your brush
I set out in the yard this morning
& then I didn’t hear him. But I thought
he was just around the bend
or hiding in the reeds so I put my shoes on
& carefully – carefully, mum – buttoned
And then I heard you calling out
the back door so I came, thinking he’d snuck
home & I was hungry & that man
who came in just now was crying, mum.
It was –‘s dad & he was crying & he popped
two of my buttons.
I’m sorry, mum. About – lying cold
and dead at the bottom of the creek. I didn’t know.
I didn’t. And the hole in my foot
where the bloody leech was aches.
But I’ve got the buttons here in my hand
and if you teach me how,
* * *
My name is Ariel Gordon and this is my fifth year May-Day-ing. Polly Washburn and I started the site back in 2004 and I'm glad glad glad at how it's grown.
This year, after several years where it just wasn't possible, I'm going to try to write a poem a day.
I'll most likely write/post poems in two veins. The first will be what I call 'exercize' poems, based off the wikiHows (How to Seduce a Woman, How to Rip a Phonebook in Half, How to Connect with Your Father). They'll be one-offs, riff-raff, volunteers.
The second will be poems like this one, that will eventually find their way into my manuscript of poems about absent parents. Though much of this manuscript is intensely, frighteningly personal, there's also a section based on the relationship between inventor Thomas Alva Edison and his eldest daughter Marion Estelle Edison, also known as "Dot."
A bit about me: I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. I've a couple of things being published this spring and my first book will be published next spring. (Fun!)
in the creek with –.
And I took off
my shoes & shirt this time like you
told me & I stayed in
the rocky shallows – the cold
an open-handed slap, mum – and he charged
ahead, water in waves around him,
water in shiny coins that fell back
into the water: wishes for longer afternoons
of creeks & shallows & inky
tadpoles nudging at the split
cup of my fingers
(oh the poor boy!)wasted.
And then he came back
& we pushed each other down & splashed & I tore
his shirt a bit. He tromped away, mad,
& I had a leech between my toes & it was a tongue,
mum, rasping between my toes,
so I sat on the shore
& pulled it off.
And I laid back, watching
a robin building in a tree overhanging
the creek with the hanks of wool leftover
from spinning and the strands of hair from your brush
I set out in the yard this morning
& then I didn’t hear him. But I thought
he was just around the bend
or hiding in the reeds so I put my shoes on
& carefully – carefully, mum – buttoned
(oh his poor mother!)my shirt & waited.
And then I heard you calling out
the back door so I came, thinking he’d snuck
home & I was hungry & that man
who came in just now was crying, mum.
It was –‘s dad & he was crying & he popped
two of my buttons.
I’m sorry, mum. About – lying cold
and dead at the bottom of the creek. I didn’t know.
I didn’t. And the hole in my foot
where the bloody leech was aches.
But I’ve got the buttons here in my hand
and if you teach me how,
(oh my poor boy!)I’ll sew them back on.
* * *
My name is Ariel Gordon and this is my fifth year May-Day-ing. Polly Washburn and I started the site back in 2004 and I'm glad glad glad at how it's grown.
This year, after several years where it just wasn't possible, I'm going to try to write a poem a day.
I'll most likely write/post poems in two veins. The first will be what I call 'exercize' poems, based off the wikiHows (How to Seduce a Woman, How to Rip a Phonebook in Half, How to Connect with Your Father). They'll be one-offs, riff-raff, volunteers.
The second will be poems like this one, that will eventually find their way into my manuscript of poems about absent parents. Though much of this manuscript is intensely, frighteningly personal, there's also a section based on the relationship between inventor Thomas Alva Edison and his eldest daughter Marion Estelle Edison, also known as "Dot."
A bit about me: I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. I've a couple of things being published this spring and my first book will be published next spring. (Fun!)
printemps premiere/May 1 & intro
LOCATION: 3rd curling rock from the suncentre of the universe, ~ middle of the prairie.
PROFESSION: Writing. Editing. Editing what I write. Writing what I edit. Trying to pretend I'm not a poet, or else trying to pretend I am, as the season takes me.
Sometimes: great success. Lyrically. Others: epic fail. Ironically. (note use of internet cliché)
COMMITMENT: Normally commitments frighten me, however I'm scheduling myself for some heavily committed but likely brief erratic acts of poetry. Minimum of WEEKLY, maximum of DAILY.
I am keen on micro poetry just now. c'est tout, say toot.
PROFESSION: Writing. Editing. Editing what I write. Writing what I edit. Trying to pretend I'm not a poet, or else trying to pretend I am, as the season takes me.
Sometimes: great success. Lyrically. Others: epic fail. Ironically. (note use of internet cliché)
COMMITMENT: Normally commitments frighten me, however I'm scheduling myself for some heavily committed but likely brief erratic acts of poetry. Minimum of WEEKLY, maximum of DAILY.
I am keen on micro poetry just now. c'est tout, say toot.
Night letters
I'm going to try and go for it but can't promise as I'll be on ex. with the infantry for the first week of May. Here is the first from Night Letters.
I continue to be interested in the idea of letters, especially one-way letters, as I was last year.
For those interested, my letters to a lover in Afghanistan continue and are going to be staged in 2010.
Anyone curious can visit my website: www.warpoet.ca to catch up on the storyline.
Good luck everybody, I can't wait to see what you'll post.
* * *
night letters
pinned to doors, tucked into fence cracks, walls. pushed through open windows. delivered by hand. or express post. savour-letters. hide-letters. kept. in a locker at work. or waterproof box. maybe in a barn. a workshop. under the seat of a truck. or jacket pocket. folded. read. over and over. sniffed. put against lips. try to unseal the kiss. wish it never happened. wish it would again letters. laugh letters, lust letters, hurricane letters. night letters. just for you.
I continue to be interested in the idea of letters, especially one-way letters, as I was last year. For those interested, my letters to a lover in Afghanistan continue and are going to be staged in 2010.
Anyone curious can visit my website: www.warpoet.ca to catch up on the storyline.
Good luck everybody, I can't wait to see what you'll post.
* * *
night letters
pinned to doors, tucked into fence cracks, walls. pushed through open windows. delivered by hand. or express post. savour-letters. hide-letters. kept. in a locker at work. or waterproof box. maybe in a barn. a workshop. under the seat of a truck. or jacket pocket. folded. read. over and over. sniffed. put against lips. try to unseal the kiss. wish it never happened. wish it would again letters. laugh letters, lust letters, hurricane letters. night letters. just for you.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Hello all,
This is my first year with the May Day poetry project, so I figure I'll start small with my goals and try to post one poem a week (minimum).
I am in the process of writing a manuscript about my experiences living in the Yukon, so the poems I post will come from this.
Best,
Kelly-Anne Riess
Regina, SK
This is my first year with the May Day poetry project, so I figure I'll start small with my goals and try to post one poem a week (minimum).
I am in the process of writing a manuscript about my experiences living in the Yukon, so the poems I post will come from this.
Best,
Kelly-Anne Riess
Regina, SK
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Crow Murders
Hey all! Jonathan Ball here, I am in the midst of rewrites on my first novel, The Crow Murders, and since this novel will include an appendix of poetry, I will be contributing these poems to the May Day blog. I'll be posting first and second draft work as it is written or rewritten, and looking for comments on how to improve the singular pieces. They are related thematically but not meant to be considered as a whole. Rather, they represent fragments of a larger, unknown (and unknowable) work by the late author Richard Crow. Since we do not know the precise contours of this larger work, it is not necessary to consider the poems in relation to one another, only as discrete works. My goal is to end up with 30 pages of useable poems, whatever the posting schedule. Looking forward to reading everyone's poems during May!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Identity: Tracy Hamon
Years on Planet MayDay: 4
Place of inspiration: Regina, SK
Goals: The idea this year is to gather evidence about an old allegorical tale and make it contemporary. The story is Samson and Delilah; however, due to the privacy of the aforementioned individuals, the names shall henceforth be known as Jay and Ellie. How many poems I post will depend on how the poetry seems to be working. Or not.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Allô - À l'eau, bientôt?
Has it really been a year since our last affaire de poésie, toi et moi? With such a very long winter season barely behind us, I can only hope that I will have tossed my scarves and gloves at the very back of the hallway closet come May 1st.
I'm happy to see so many familiar names on this year's list of poets - it will be très cool to meet you all again! I look forward to feeding myself on your words, and growing in my own with the help of your critiques.
My goal for 'May Day V' is to (do I dare?) publish daily. But, I've already decided that SIZE DOESN'T MATTER. Yes, you heard right. It's all about content, baby!
Here's wishing you all inspiration out the yin yang, and
A happy May to all my creative cohorts!
See you in a week . . .
I'm happy to see so many familiar names on this year's list of poets - it will be très cool to meet you all again! I look forward to feeding myself on your words, and growing in my own with the help of your critiques.
My goal for 'May Day V' is to (do I dare?) publish daily. But, I've already decided that SIZE DOESN'T MATTER. Yes, you heard right. It's all about content, baby!
Here's wishing you all inspiration out the yin yang, and
A happy May to all my creative cohorts!
See you in a week . . .
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