Ariel and I have been talking, and we'd like to do May Day again! The basic idea is to write a poem a day for the month of May, and in my view, the point is to be more concerned with consistency of output than quality. It might help to look at last year's thoughts.
We're all busy people, so we won't be dictatorial about everyone having to submit a poem a day, though it would be great if people indicate what their goal is at the beginning of the month.
Each poet can indicate the amount of feedback they feel comfortable getting.
Please add your thoughts about this process - see you in May!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Friday, August 19, 2005
Poem accepted
OASIS Journal 2005 (IMAGO Press) in Tucson, Arizon has accepted "Half a Hundred" for publication. The journal will be out in October.
I had to scrunch some lines together to fit their one-page-per-poem requirements, but the words are the same and the changes are minor to me.
I had to scrunch some lines together to fit their one-page-per-poem requirements, but the words are the same and the changes are minor to me.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Notes for Ariel
Ariel - I’m sure I’ll see some of these again to critique in more detail, so for now I’ll just give you my fave poems, lines and details – plenty to select!
Fave poems:
The Humboldt Squid
The ninth day of May [is this about your uncle?]
The twelfth day of May - (part 1)
The Writers’ Retreat: Arnes, MB. - fantastic details
Assiniboine Forest, May 15, 2005. - whole thing great but why last 2 lines?
The eighteenth day of May - Still one of my favourites not just of MayDay but of All (Ariel) Time
The twenty-first day of May - This is powerful – don’t remember reading it in May
The twentieth day of May
Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves - Creepy domisticity!
The twenty-fifth day of May - Heh – would like to see this expanded.
The thirtieth poem
------------
Other great moments:
The first day of May
In Don's Deli the midafternoon light settles
over the stack of crockery plates with crumbs
and blots of butter platters with fork-scarred films of yolk
mugs empty grating against saucers against the gulp-swallow
of the coffeemaker in the corner the percolating of coffee
already burnt
the slow coast of a police car under the careening snowflakes
It is a day of small protests
Saturday night disappointments
as we return to breakfasts refills and the injustice of snow
--------------
The third day in May
if we represent a threat and the bunny has been bronzed
by its caution but the girls are free to recline on their marble
pedestals in their pigtails and perky tits: an old man’s fantasy
as much as the busts of men in power only their heads and shoulders
only their heads and shoulders are an old man’s fantasy
and we walkers could touch the old men the girls in ways they never
would have permitted in life
the same way we know the people in the idling van
in the parking lot pumping exhaust into the air as the trees
pump oxygen will come no further
--------------
The fourth day of May
Fishing for the tail-end of a beautiful fall afternoon
Gudmund had his trusty rod in one hand and his sweating
beer in the other was thinking butter dill the crackle of the fry pan
when he got another bite and felt the arc of protest in his rod
against the heavy thing that lurked below
Fishing for compliments for just the right line
Gudy panicked; he’d be the first to admit that she was dainty
only four-foot-four but despite her corkscrewing suckers
each with its own row of pearly teeth her three hearts of gold
and her big eyes he’d thought it through
he wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment, see?
and there’s always other fish in the sea
And maybe it was because he was better with a nailgun
than a rod better with power tools than power politics
that he got a faceful of ink enough to fill any poet's poison pen
but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he should fling
his doomed darling to the deck open the hatch
and kick her breathless wide-eyed
into the hold
--------------
The fifth day of May
upper right central upper right lateral
upper left central upper left lateral
gold-leafing the morning
timed by the swerving cars only a few feet away
none of them none of us
ever sure where to turn
--------------
Renovation poem #1: after spring thaw
Eggshell & bricky bits
in the tarry
shingle grit,
glass,
& set
grey curls
of pigeon shit
between my house & his
--------------
Renovation poem #2: the ground floor
See how the line is overlaid
by outstretched wings hinged
to a spine laid bare follow the line
of leg up into spine the fine fletching
of wing see how the long feathers
are still intact
black
and how little that matters now
On top of the bones there are butts
smoked down so that all that is left
is tar resin and reason
and the threads of a broken jar
some domestic thing
to be opened and put away
Lie down
Feel the long muscles
in your legs relax your spine
sag as the small of your back
touches down to the ground
see how the long beamsof the building
the lines of shadow
are intact
black
and how little this matters now
--------------
The fourteenth day of May
its soupy sidewalks
cracking under the repeated
demands: freeze!
thaw!
mixed-up lilies
who should be dug up: divide!
conquer!
--------------
Assiniboine Forest, May 16, 2005.
but it seems
I must satisfy myself
with what there is
--------------
Assiniboine Park Zoo, Enclosure #41
In the dark the white-tailed deer
tuck their tails under the long lines
of haunch and hip of shadow
and roadside sound
and settle out in the open
while the American bison as boxy as bales
of straw intact bales of hay broken
sleep at the edge of the chain-link
barbed-wire enclosure
the curving line of dark
--------------
The Writers Retreat: Arnes, MB (part the second)
curves of swarming fish
and the sinuous surprise of them is wide
and delicate
as what was shadow now shows
fin ripple
and muscle
through sun-shot water
as I stand ankle-deep
twenty paces out
from the rock-pickers after the perfect
piece of clear quartz
and the purple moth that has
settled
on the cocooned balls
the larval curves
of my shed socks
--------------
Renovation poem #4: foundation
Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up
Fave poems:
The Humboldt Squid
The ninth day of May [is this about your uncle?]
The twelfth day of May - (part 1)
The Writers’ Retreat: Arnes, MB. - fantastic details
Assiniboine Forest, May 15, 2005. - whole thing great but why last 2 lines?
The eighteenth day of May - Still one of my favourites not just of MayDay but of All (Ariel) Time
The twenty-first day of May - This is powerful – don’t remember reading it in May
The twentieth day of May
Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves - Creepy domisticity!
The twenty-fifth day of May - Heh – would like to see this expanded.
The thirtieth poem
------------
Other great moments:
The first day of May
In Don's Deli the midafternoon light settles
over the stack of crockery plates with crumbs
and blots of butter platters with fork-scarred films of yolk
mugs empty grating against saucers against the gulp-swallow
of the coffeemaker in the corner the percolating of coffee
already burnt
the slow coast of a police car under the careening snowflakes
It is a day of small protests
Saturday night disappointments
as we return to breakfasts refills and the injustice of snow
--------------
The third day in May
if we represent a threat and the bunny has been bronzed
by its caution but the girls are free to recline on their marble
pedestals in their pigtails and perky tits: an old man’s fantasy
as much as the busts of men in power only their heads and shoulders
only their heads and shoulders are an old man’s fantasy
and we walkers could touch the old men the girls in ways they never
would have permitted in life
the same way we know the people in the idling van
in the parking lot pumping exhaust into the air as the trees
pump oxygen will come no further
--------------
The fourth day of May
Fishing for the tail-end of a beautiful fall afternoon
Gudmund had his trusty rod in one hand and his sweating
beer in the other was thinking butter dill the crackle of the fry pan
when he got another bite and felt the arc of protest in his rod
against the heavy thing that lurked below
Fishing for compliments for just the right line
Gudy panicked; he’d be the first to admit that she was dainty
only four-foot-four but despite her corkscrewing suckers
each with its own row of pearly teeth her three hearts of gold
and her big eyes he’d thought it through
he wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment, see?
and there’s always other fish in the sea
And maybe it was because he was better with a nailgun
than a rod better with power tools than power politics
that he got a faceful of ink enough to fill any poet's poison pen
but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he should fling
his doomed darling to the deck open the hatch
and kick her breathless wide-eyed
into the hold
--------------
The fifth day of May
upper right central upper right lateral
upper left central upper left lateral
gold-leafing the morning
timed by the swerving cars only a few feet away
none of them none of us
ever sure where to turn
--------------
Renovation poem #1: after spring thaw
Eggshell & bricky bits
in the tarry
shingle grit,
glass,
& set
grey curls
of pigeon shit
between my house & his
--------------
Renovation poem #2: the ground floor
See how the line is overlaid
by outstretched wings hinged
to a spine laid bare follow the line
of leg up into spine the fine fletching
of wing see how the long feathers
are still intact
black
and how little that matters now
On top of the bones there are butts
smoked down so that all that is left
is tar resin and reason
and the threads of a broken jar
some domestic thing
to be opened and put away
Lie down
Feel the long muscles
in your legs relax your spine
sag as the small of your back
touches down to the ground
see how the long beamsof the building
the lines of shadow
are intact
black
and how little this matters now
--------------
The fourteenth day of May
its soupy sidewalks
cracking under the repeated
demands: freeze!
thaw!
mixed-up lilies
who should be dug up: divide!
conquer!
--------------
Assiniboine Forest, May 16, 2005.
but it seems
I must satisfy myself
with what there is
--------------
Assiniboine Park Zoo, Enclosure #41
In the dark the white-tailed deer
tuck their tails under the long lines
of haunch and hip of shadow
and roadside sound
and settle out in the open
while the American bison as boxy as bales
of straw intact bales of hay broken
sleep at the edge of the chain-link
barbed-wire enclosure
the curving line of dark
--------------
The Writers Retreat: Arnes, MB (part the second)
curves of swarming fish
and the sinuous surprise of them is wide
and delicate
as what was shadow now shows
fin ripple
and muscle
through sun-shot water
as I stand ankle-deep
twenty paces out
from the rock-pickers after the perfect
piece of clear quartz
and the purple moth that has
settled
on the cocooned balls
the larval curves
of my shed socks
--------------
Renovation poem #4: foundation
Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Notes for Paul
Two favourites:
within range, montenant
si))(((lens...
And favourite lines:
Re:Setting
i've plumbed my place with them before
as the die is cast
sixsidedly
in lines of long-
and latitude
to fall in with
risk-taking throws
at poetic justice
and global domination
-----
titular indeterminayacy
the mayans had calendars
by my-oh-my if "maya"
isn't just a foundation
for illusion to build pyramids to
(even the stars are blood-spattered)
but
back to my maya
my mayday
the beast with two backlashes:
even my maieutics
are having a midwife crisis
& menno? please!
blistered are the pleasemakers'
lips
no more pleading
wow
i said waking up with
a severe case of enlightenment.
-----
& i've only ever seen a possum once
but i'm completely inept
at giving up completely
because i LOVE
playing in traffic your eyes
deeper than halogen
and your grille
an open invitation
to attempting hot passionate
fusion with your radiator
don't get me started on your bumper
(i look too good
in chrome agony)
there i go
objectifying you again
by just lying there on the road
to keep the asphalt from telling its side
can i be your hood ornament?
-----
schade is too bad in german
my son & i
(this one, not that one)
watch his finals
the personal is political
i tell myself
& yeah
i do vote for me
how's that for happy endings
or edges,
not losing my nerve
just because my skin is raw
& the ball is up in the air
-----
seen from this side of the glass, poker tastes like gin
inverte-berating me
then again we were playing big blind little blind
which goes a long way towards
describing my ability to read people
never mind books
which i do so slowly
i read them in reverse
-----
just lying, there
life is a tupperware casket of donuts
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
-----
<{[(:+:)]}>
[Still like this title!]
within range, montenant
si))(((lens...
And favourite lines:
Re:Setting
i've plumbed my place with them before
as the die is cast
sixsidedly
in lines of long-
and latitude
to fall in with
risk-taking throws
at poetic justice
and global domination
-----
titular indeterminayacy
the mayans had calendars
by my-oh-my if "maya"
isn't just a foundation
for illusion to build pyramids to
(even the stars are blood-spattered)
but
back to my maya
my mayday
the beast with two backlashes:
even my maieutics
are having a midwife crisis
& menno? please!
blistered are the pleasemakers'
lips
no more pleading
wow
i said waking up with
a severe case of enlightenment.
-----
& i've only ever seen a possum once
but i'm completely inept
at giving up completely
because i LOVE
playing in traffic your eyes
deeper than halogen
and your grille
an open invitation
to attempting hot passionate
fusion with your radiator
don't get me started on your bumper
(i look too good
in chrome agony)
there i go
objectifying you again
by just lying there on the road
to keep the asphalt from telling its side
can i be your hood ornament?
-----
schade is too bad in german
my son & i
(this one, not that one)
watch his finals
the personal is political
i tell myself
& yeah
i do vote for me
how's that for happy endings
or edges,
not losing my nerve
just because my skin is raw
& the ball is up in the air
-----
seen from this side of the glass, poker tastes like gin
inverte-berating me
then again we were playing big blind little blind
which goes a long way towards
describing my ability to read people
never mind books
which i do so slowly
i read them in reverse
-----
just lying, there
life is a tupperware casket of donuts
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
-----
<{[(:+:)]}>
[Still like this title!]
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Comments for Jonathan
Jonathan -
My favorites:
Wolves
The Poets
Growing Poets
My friends are beginning to die
to dance
[though don’t need last stanza maybe – perhaps combine with “A Poem for Mandy”]
Planning the Shot
film haiku
Take me to America
Apples
[like the unexpected way it unravels!]
------------
Fave lines from others:
The Toads of Hamburg
If you were to ask one of the toads
it would simply swell up, affronted by the question,
and burst. This line of inquiry
will get us nowhere.
We must trust in science.
We must trust in our leaders.
We must trust in the government.
We must trust that, one day,
things will return to normal.
Until then,
the crows feast.
------------
my bones so
but the thought of
my bones
moving under
my skin
breaking
breaks me
inside
------------
Cooley in Germany
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say
------------
Cold
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
------------
Among Roses
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
----------
Tired
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
----------
Best of luck with all your Projects and going back to Skool!
My favorites:
Wolves
The Poets
Growing Poets
My friends are beginning to die
to dance
[though don’t need last stanza maybe – perhaps combine with “A Poem for Mandy”]
Planning the Shot
film haiku
Take me to America
Apples
[like the unexpected way it unravels!]
------------
Fave lines from others:
The Toads of Hamburg
If you were to ask one of the toads
it would simply swell up, affronted by the question,
and burst. This line of inquiry
will get us nowhere.
We must trust in science.
We must trust in our leaders.
We must trust in the government.
We must trust that, one day,
things will return to normal.
Until then,
the crows feast.
------------
my bones so
but the thought of
my bones
moving under
my skin
breaking
breaks me
inside
------------
Cooley in Germany
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say
------------
Cold
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
------------
Among Roses
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
----------
Tired
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
----------
Best of luck with all your Projects and going back to Skool!
Comments for Myra
Myra -
I've listed my absolute faves first. If I just have the title, that means I liked the whole thing - I've also listed some favourite lines from some that jumped out at me.
-------------
Water Falling Lavendar
Away With Leave
Good News From Duckie
So It Is [with editing, this will be even stronger]
Reading The Names
------------
Planting time
How can the spring drunk hand
not touch,
not push
the roaming root to it’s new
warm place?
Guide the root to reach
for the juice that will spread and rise
through the already up reaching
already eager signal
green text message flashing in each
flowing vein.
------------
A Little Help
The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
---------
Half a Hundred
The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
------------
Fave lines from others:
Jumping the Gun
I feel wrapped in their
city love, the nesting pair
of love birds who call
me Mom. I am a giant
Chimichanga of love.
------------
Meeting On The Road
[Just went to Tulsa for the first time last month – was fascinated by it]
The city passes barely noticed
Like another attendee at a conference,
“My name is Tulsa,”
when only movement matters—
------------
Pondering Sorrell
Good cooks require courage.
And abundance
------------
Picnic Effervescence
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
--------
What We Eat
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
------------
Enough For Me
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
------------
Dusk Ablaze
When day has slipped its foot
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
------------
Drops of Day
[like how this one relates back to “Enough for Me” and “Dusk Ablaze”
----------
Circuit
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
------------
Before Paper Cranes
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
===============
Hope this helps! Good luck with venturing out into publishing!
I've listed my absolute faves first. If I just have the title, that means I liked the whole thing - I've also listed some favourite lines from some that jumped out at me.
-------------
Water Falling Lavendar
Away With Leave
Good News From Duckie
So It Is [with editing, this will be even stronger]
Reading The Names
------------
Planting time
How can the spring drunk hand
not touch,
not push
the roaming root to it’s new
warm place?
Guide the root to reach
for the juice that will spread and rise
through the already up reaching
already eager signal
green text message flashing in each
flowing vein.
------------
A Little Help
The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
---------
Half a Hundred
The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
------------
Fave lines from others:
Jumping the Gun
I feel wrapped in their
city love, the nesting pair
of love birds who call
me Mom. I am a giant
Chimichanga of love.
------------
Meeting On The Road
[Just went to Tulsa for the first time last month – was fascinated by it]
The city passes barely noticed
Like another attendee at a conference,
“My name is Tulsa,”
when only movement matters—
------------
Pondering Sorrell
Good cooks require courage.
And abundance
------------
Picnic Effervescence
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
--------
What We Eat
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
------------
Enough For Me
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
------------
Dusk Ablaze
When day has slipped its foot
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
------------
Drops of Day
[like how this one relates back to “Enough for Me” and “Dusk Ablaze”
----------
Circuit
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
------------
Before Paper Cranes
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
===============
Hope this helps! Good luck with venturing out into publishing!
As we edge out ever farther from May...
I've got comments for Myra and Jonathan, which I will post now. And I'm working on Paul and Ariel (though I know Ariel's already culled and started editing!)
Also, I fixed the setting on comments so we know WHEN people commented!
I would welcome even just a list of a few favourites from mine, as I'm culling and editing, and am curious to know which poems people felt were most worthy of pursuing and putting more work into...
Hope all is well with everyone and you're getting out to enjoy summer!
Also, I fixed the setting on comments so we know WHEN people commented!
I would welcome even just a list of a few favourites from mine, as I'm culling and editing, and am curious to know which poems people felt were most worthy of pursuing and putting more work into...
Hope all is well with everyone and you're getting out to enjoy summer!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Processing
I've copied everyone poems, including mine into a word doc, and separated them by poet. If anyone wants a copy, just leave me a note here or email me and I'll send it off to you.
Hope everyone is doing well. Just got back from a very fun 12 days with family and friends in the U.S.
I should have notes for potes in the next few days...
Hope everyone is doing well. Just got back from a very fun 12 days with family and friends in the U.S.
I should have notes for potes in the next few days...
Sunday, June 12, 2005
forget that deadline
it seems that nobody (including myself) has been able to stick to my arbitrary deadline. so let's just say that we'll all try to provide said feedback by the end of the month.
myra had wanted more info on my publishing imprint ... well, it's just a small chapbook press, newly starting up. there seems to be a fair amount of interest though. i have put out two small books and two more are in progress. a little more info at www.martianpress.blogspot.com.
the 3rd book is by calgary poet derek beaulieu and the 4th book will be by ottawa poet rob mclennan. the may day poems would in theory be the 5th book. to be published late fall/early winter. if not everybody's interested maybe we'll just do a selection of the interested poets.
jonathan
myra had wanted more info on my publishing imprint ... well, it's just a small chapbook press, newly starting up. there seems to be a fair amount of interest though. i have put out two small books and two more are in progress. a little more info at www.martianpress.blogspot.com.
the 3rd book is by calgary poet derek beaulieu and the 4th book will be by ottawa poet rob mclennan. the may day poems would in theory be the 5th book. to be published late fall/early winter. if not everybody's interested maybe we'll just do a selection of the interested poets.
jonathan
Thursday, June 02, 2005
a new deadline
i am going to arbitrarily name June 10 as the day that we will post our favourite 3-5 poems from each poet, as written during this project. that's gives us time to relax and think.
also, let me know if you are still interested in putting together a chapbook from the site/project. i'm game.
also, let me know if you are still interested in putting together a chapbook from the site/project. i'm game.
The first day of June
Around 11 pm tonight, my brain started churning. The usual oh-shit-I've-got-to- post- before-midnight anxiety...but also the usual oh-shit-I've-got-to-post-before-midnight pleasure.
Apparently, after thirty-one days of this chemical slurry, this lazy adrenalin rush, my brain had geared up for another grasping-at-straws outing.
Though, sadly, I refrained from writing the poem, on this First Day of June I wanted to note that I am already missing (and mourning the end of) May Day.
I'm missing having somewhere to post my terrible first drafts, my tits and goddamns and frogsong.
I'm missing the after-midnight browse (coming down coming down) of your poems.
Anyways, thanks.
Apparently, after thirty-one days of this chemical slurry, this lazy adrenalin rush, my brain had geared up for another grasping-at-straws outing.
Though, sadly, I refrained from writing the poem, on this First Day of June I wanted to note that I am already missing (and mourning the end of) May Day.
I'm missing having somewhere to post my terrible first drafts, my tits and goddamns and frogsong.
I'm missing the after-midnight browse (coming down coming down) of your poems.
Anyways, thanks.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
The thirtieth poem
And always that one tree
at the end of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tungsten bright
shallow-rooted dry on the median
the thin divide
between tarred roads and ditches full
drowning the thicker belts
and bottoms of boreal
And always that one deer
at the edge of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tapetum bright
thin-lipped shy at the treeline
the long stride
between dried grasses and gardens full
crowning the thicker stems
and sepals of suburbia
* * *
That's it. It's eleven-fifty-something pm and I'm still short a poem.
Can I possibly be content with only thirty poems when there are thirty one days in May?
Only time will tell.
A.
The Poem to End all Poems
Winter Cinquain
cold feet
sockless pathos
reaching sneaking seeking
yearn for a warm place of comfort
your legs
cold feet
sockless pathos
reaching sneaking seeking
yearn for a warm place of comfort
your legs
The thirty-first day of May
First signs of spring: a West Nile screed
Bare-legged women clean the muck
of still-sodden parkland
off their first-hot-day sandals
in the puddle that mirrors the tree-line
the mowed lines of the canopy
the first base line beyond
muddling the reflection
the soft light
of evening
the water sloshes
is still
by the time the women slide
into their cars
scratching at the backs of winter-white knees
the water is still
except for the twilight stipple
of mosquitoes laying
the plumb line
the vertical between the sky
and the soil
as the soft blue carcasses
of crows
magpies
ravens
fall
from the trees
right smack
into the morning paper
Standing by
Waiting waiting
waiting
put on hold
can't get what I want
when I want it
don't know what I need
until I need it
Through the empty room
a few words whistle by
the Universe is standing by -
call now!
waiting
put on hold
can't get what I want
when I want it
don't know what I need
until I need it
Through the empty room
a few words whistle by
the Universe is standing by -
call now!
Love Poem - to be Continued...
I woke this morning
to a curious sound
at first I could not place
then realized
he laughs in his sleep
Yet another trait
to add to the list
of what makes him
different from anyone
I've ever known
He keeps me warm
in winter
drives anger
to laughter
makes up words
to songs
He lets me be weak
so I can be strong
the rest of the time
Out There
to a curious sound
at first I could not place
then realized
he laughs in his sleep
Yet another trait
to add to the list
of what makes him
different from anyone
I've ever known
He keeps me warm
in winter
drives anger
to laughter
makes up words
to songs
He lets me be weak
so I can be strong
the rest of the time
Out There
Half a Hundred
So easily we imagined
ourselves decrepit at this age
so nearly bent
in two
with aches and lack of hope—
no drives
to push us out of bed
or into the arms of lovers
or faraway cities
No lust for the sight of another
shore or taste of a grape brought
in a bottle from a year and region
we missed
in our aging. But
we were wrong and see
the dawn as another
opening of
a day
with more light than we
Imagined with more sun
than was predicted,
full of people who know
our names and love
the sound of them being
called. It strikes us with
no surprise but sheer
Anticipation that reservations
have been made for celebrations—
innumerable days and dinners,
cake all round for everyone
and more sweet ice cream than
we thought capable of
ever making. Candy and
gifts fall
from the sky in shapes
we never imagined would
Hold value or even exist
when we were a fraction
of these present years
Thinking we were as
wise as one ever gets. And
now we know ourselves to be
The sloppy puppies
and kittens
still chasing our tails
in search of whatever is there
when we catch up with
Ourselves. The glee in the
eyes of our elders hints at
birthdays still capable of
blowing out
all the candles
we could ever think of
Lighting. The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
5-31-05
ourselves decrepit at this age
so nearly bent
in two
with aches and lack of hope—
no drives
to push us out of bed
or into the arms of lovers
or faraway cities
No lust for the sight of another
shore or taste of a grape brought
in a bottle from a year and region
we missed
in our aging. But
we were wrong and see
the dawn as another
opening of
a day
with more light than we
Imagined with more sun
than was predicted,
full of people who know
our names and love
the sound of them being
called. It strikes us with
no surprise but sheer
Anticipation that reservations
have been made for celebrations—
innumerable days and dinners,
cake all round for everyone
and more sweet ice cream than
we thought capable of
ever making. Candy and
gifts fall
from the sky in shapes
we never imagined would
Hold value or even exist
when we were a fraction
of these present years
Thinking we were as
wise as one ever gets. And
now we know ourselves to be
The sloppy puppies
and kittens
still chasing our tails
in search of whatever is there
when we catch up with
Ourselves. The glee in the
eyes of our elders hints at
birthdays still capable of
blowing out
all the candles
we could ever think of
Lighting. The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
5-31-05
Simple Play
Two girls attempt to draw
in chalks the boxes
holding numbers
they will use to jump and
hop a game.
Their play
Is at least half
in the chalking
as much as the hopping
but some grown person
knowing better
in their set cement mind
Must take the chalk—
make the numbers darker
the lines straighter—
So the game is turned
to work and insistent perfection.
The small gleaming children
Watch in baffled amusement
as the adult tries
to wash the play
out of the game
as rain may wash
the chalk away
But wait until
the one obsessed
finally walks away
so they can resume
their simple sport—
small feet hopping
On the imperfect numbers
hidden underneath
the rigid corrections.
5-30-05
in chalks the boxes
holding numbers
they will use to jump and
hop a game.
Their play
Is at least half
in the chalking
as much as the hopping
but some grown person
knowing better
in their set cement mind
Must take the chalk—
make the numbers darker
the lines straighter—
So the game is turned
to work and insistent perfection.
The small gleaming children
Watch in baffled amusement
as the adult tries
to wash the play
out of the game
as rain may wash
the chalk away
But wait until
the one obsessed
finally walks away
so they can resume
their simple sport—
small feet hopping
On the imperfect numbers
hidden underneath
the rigid corrections.
5-30-05
Honey Flight
It seems the bees flee
their comb-filled hive
in route to a place
known only to them
in their flurry
humming all the way
to a dark hollow tree
or gray timbered
shaky leaning
abandoned place
where there is
room to build
a sweet life again
no more aware of the drive
that lifts
the honey center of their lives
that relocates the chambers
they will as one mind build
in symmetrical designs
all linked by wax walls
unable to withstand
the unsheltered
heat of a bright day,
how do they settle
in to calm at the noise
of their own homecoming
that sound the black and gold
swarm makes striping
the morning air
when greeting itself
after the panic of leaving.
5-29-05
their comb-filled hive
in route to a place
known only to them
in their flurry
humming all the way
to a dark hollow tree
or gray timbered
shaky leaning
abandoned place
where there is
room to build
a sweet life again
no more aware of the drive
that lifts
the honey center of their lives
that relocates the chambers
they will as one mind build
in symmetrical designs
all linked by wax walls
unable to withstand
the unsheltered
heat of a bright day,
how do they settle
in to calm at the noise
of their own homecoming
that sound the black and gold
swarm makes striping
the morning air
when greeting itself
after the panic of leaving.
5-29-05
Th-th-th-that's all folks!
Well, I just put up my last poem. I've enjoyed this a lot. It is interesting to see what you come up with when you are forced to create a new work every day. I will have to take a few days off before I can come back and pick out poems by other people that I liked best but rest assured I will do so once things settle down a little, maybe early next week or this weekend.
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