Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Monday, February 11, 2013
It's been a while, so here's a poem
The shape of lit windows
It's a technique we've seen since forever
Placid, the blurred whatever outside
Dark-neutral frame for the clarity light brings
The rigid box for bright fights or
Sex, or maybe it's just TV
Quickly painting the faces different colors.
It's a porthole, outside of which are buses
Moving rectangles lit up like anglerfish
Cruising, stopping to swallow you up
And you are glad to be
Away from the ambiguity of night.
Fixed boxes of light float by
And you wouldn't see them in the daytime
And as you're digested in this bus,
Gliding into the dark you think,
I know it differently at night;
I can see you now, your lives,
in these windows.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Another amazing poem
(Reprinted WITHOUT permission... I hope I don't get sued one of these days)
Antilamentation
by Dorianne Laux
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
"Antilamentation" by Dorianne Laux, from The Book of Men. © W. W. Norton & Company, 2011.
Rule: Okay, this isn't really a rule, but I'm getting my daily dose of poetry from "The Writer's Almanac," which is the e-newsletter from Garrison Keillor, of "A Prairie Home Companion" fame. I highly recommend subscribing to it, to get more reading of awesome stuff into your life. Then again, you might be reading that week's post from me. Oh well. My favorite lines are "You were meant to inhale those smoky nights / over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings / across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed / coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches."
Antilamentation
by Dorianne Laux
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
"Antilamentation" by Dorianne Laux, from The Book of Men. © W. W. Norton & Company, 2011.
Rule: Okay, this isn't really a rule, but I'm getting my daily dose of poetry from "The Writer's Almanac," which is the e-newsletter from Garrison Keillor, of "A Prairie Home Companion" fame. I highly recommend subscribing to it, to get more reading of awesome stuff into your life. Then again, you might be reading that week's post from me. Oh well. My favorite lines are "You were meant to inhale those smoky nights / over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings / across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed / coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Holy crap wow
Zero Holding
by Robyn Sarah
I grow to like the bare
trees and the snow, the bones and fur
of winter. Even the greyness
of the nunneries, they are so grey,
walled all around with grey stones —
and the snow piled up on ledges
of wall and sill, those grey
planes for holding snow: this is how
it will be, months now, all so still,
sunk in itself, only the cold alive,
vibrant, like a wire — and all the
busy chimneys — their ghost-breath,
a rumour of lives warmed within,
rising, rising, and blowing away.
"Zero Holding," by Robyn Sarah, from The Touchstone. © House of Anansi Press, 1992. Reprinted WITHOUT permission.
No rule this week, I have a massive amount of germs attacking my body. Just enjoy the lovely writing of this lady.
by Robyn Sarah
I grow to like the bare
trees and the snow, the bones and fur
of winter. Even the greyness
of the nunneries, they are so grey,
walled all around with grey stones —
and the snow piled up on ledges
of wall and sill, those grey
planes for holding snow: this is how
it will be, months now, all so still,
sunk in itself, only the cold alive,
vibrant, like a wire — and all the
busy chimneys — their ghost-breath,
a rumour of lives warmed within,
rising, rising, and blowing away.
"Zero Holding," by Robyn Sarah, from The Touchstone. © House of Anansi Press, 1992. Reprinted WITHOUT permission.
No rule this week, I have a massive amount of germs attacking my body. Just enjoy the lovely writing of this lady.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Words are lovely
Let's read someone who says it better than I do:
(Reprinted WITHOUT permission)
Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
"Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language. © W.W. Norton and Co., 1998.
Rule: Think of what the dining table/space means to you. Post comments. Also, when it is continually 90 degrees F and muggy as all getout, PICK UP YOUR DOG DOOKS. Oh the humanity. (Doo-manity)
(Reprinted WITHOUT permission)
Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
"Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language. © W.W. Norton and Co., 1998.
Rule: Think of what the dining table/space means to you. Post comments. Also, when it is continually 90 degrees F and muggy as all getout, PICK UP YOUR DOG DOOKS. Oh the humanity. (Doo-manity)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Time to revise old writing.
A bit of lighthearted fun in considering everyday objects.
Highlighter
Spends its days making some ideas more important than others. It is the color of citrus fruits sent in from joyful, sunny places. Eye-attractant, it pulls your attention like a burly sailor pulls a man who's gone overboard. Something this powerful shouldn't cost under a dollar. But you're not going to tell the corporates that. It's an interpreter of text, a summarizer, a distiller of meaning. It's a cylinder of controlled liquid epiphany. It is your cue to say, "Aha!"
Ballad of the TP
Toilet paper rolls
Sit soft and white
Like unhatched eggs in a nest.
They wait in the dark cabinet
Only to have their lives
Unraveled
In the light.
Rule: Make yourself look at your old writing. Cry a little bit. Then try to make it better.
Highlighter
Spends its days making some ideas more important than others. It is the color of citrus fruits sent in from joyful, sunny places. Eye-attractant, it pulls your attention like a burly sailor pulls a man who's gone overboard. Something this powerful shouldn't cost under a dollar. But you're not going to tell the corporates that. It's an interpreter of text, a summarizer, a distiller of meaning. It's a cylinder of controlled liquid epiphany. It is your cue to say, "Aha!"
Ballad of the TP
Toilet paper rolls
Sit soft and white
Like unhatched eggs in a nest.
They wait in the dark cabinet
Only to have their lives
Unraveled
In the light.
Rule: Make yourself look at your old writing. Cry a little bit. Then try to make it better.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Brains spill out
Rule: Make time for yourself and the things you value.
Remember that long list of stuff to do?
So far I have only done:
- buy an effing comforter and duvet cover (just bought a comforter that was attractive)
- find hippie deodorant that works well (actually just decided I'm not hippie enough for hippie deodorant and instead bought some awesome Nivea deodorant on the internet)
- save more money (just a little, but hooray!)
- read more
Which, I mean, crossing stuff off the list is cool, but this is not a lot compared to the original list. My comforter effing rocks though, especially in the chilly weather we're having. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I really don't have a post for you guys, so I'm going to dig up some old poetry and post it here as a placeholder. It's NaNoWriMo and Movember, y'all, and while I hate one and love the other, I don't have the temerity or hormones to do either (I'll let you guess which is a requirement of which). But maybe you'll see some better attempts at writing.
So I guess my rule really is:
Rule: Gee, Sandy should've planned ahead for this week, huh? Instead of pigging out on Kouign Amann and having crazy butter-induced dreams.
Anyway, at least this poem is fall-themed.
Remember that long list of stuff to do?
So far I have only done:
- buy an effing comforter and duvet cover (just bought a comforter that was attractive)
- find hippie deodorant that works well (actually just decided I'm not hippie enough for hippie deodorant and instead bought some awesome Nivea deodorant on the internet)
- save more money (just a little, but hooray!)
- read more
Which, I mean, crossing stuff off the list is cool, but this is not a lot compared to the original list. My comforter effing rocks though, especially in the chilly weather we're having. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I really don't have a post for you guys, so I'm going to dig up some old poetry and post it here as a placeholder. It's NaNoWriMo and Movember, y'all, and while I hate one and love the other, I don't have the temerity or hormones to do either (I'll let you guess which is a requirement of which). But maybe you'll see some better attempts at writing.
So I guess my rule really is:
Rule: Gee, Sandy should've planned ahead for this week, huh? Instead of pigging out on Kouign Amann and having crazy butter-induced dreams.
Anyway, at least this poem is fall-themed.
How I wanted to lecture my daughter
Don’t you feel kind of bad for them?
The saplings, so smooth and round and skinny
twigtips – outstretched - to feel - the sun?
Any old breeze can brush by
and bruise their ego, their limbs
trembling with rage and passion to grow upward
like they’re ready to get
outta this town.
Older trees creak – whisper – hushhh
in the night while the
saplings twist – breathe – ahhhh
so pliable. And then
The fall comes.
The chlorophyll withdraws.
Stately maples blush while the juveniles
burn so hot in the autumn light they
are on fire – they are on fire – they
are on fire – they
have so few of those leaves to drop,
you can see between each one
but they toss them on the ground until
nakedness.
A melancholy pool of red at their feet. And
later, when the ice comes,
I wonder:
Do they regret?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Porn for Wendell Berry
This is what I got in my inbox over the weekend. I feel like this might make Mr. Berry quite aroused.
Vegetable Love
by Barbara Crooker
Feel a tomato, heft its weight in your palm,
think of buttocks, breasts, this plump pulp.
And carrots, mud clinging to the root,
gold mined from the earth's tight purse.
And asparagus, that push their heads up,
rise to meet the returning sun,
and zucchini, green torpedoes
lurking in the Sargasso depths
of their raspy stalks and scratchy leaves.
And peppers, thick walls of cool jade, a green hush.
Secret caves. Sanctuary.
And beets, the dark blood of the earth.
And all the lettuces: bibb, flame, oak leaf, butter-
crunch, black-seeded Simpson, chicory, cos.
Elizabethan ruffs, crisp verbiage.
And spinach, the dark green
of northern forests, savoyed, ruffled,
hidden folds and clefts.
And basil, sweet basil, nuzzled
by fumbling bees drunk on the sun.
And cucumbers, crisp, cool white ice
in the heart of August, month of fire.
And peas in their delicate slippers,
little green boats, a string of beads,
repeating, repeating.
And sunflowers, nodding at night,
then rising to shout hallelujah! at noon.
All over the garden, the whisper of leaves
passing secrets and gossip, making assignations.
All of the vegetables bask in the sun,
languorous as lizards.
Quick, before the frost puts out
its green light, praise these vegetables,
earth's voluptuaries,
praise what comes from the dirt.
"Vegetable Love" by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance. © Word Press, 2005. Reprinted without permission.
Rule: Do these things. And then film yourself eating the vegetables. Then send copies to me.
Vegetable Love
by Barbara Crooker
Feel a tomato, heft its weight in your palm,
think of buttocks, breasts, this plump pulp.
And carrots, mud clinging to the root,
gold mined from the earth's tight purse.
And asparagus, that push their heads up,
rise to meet the returning sun,
and zucchini, green torpedoes
lurking in the Sargasso depths
of their raspy stalks and scratchy leaves.
And peppers, thick walls of cool jade, a green hush.
Secret caves. Sanctuary.
And beets, the dark blood of the earth.
And all the lettuces: bibb, flame, oak leaf, butter-
crunch, black-seeded Simpson, chicory, cos.
Elizabethan ruffs, crisp verbiage.
And spinach, the dark green
of northern forests, savoyed, ruffled,
hidden folds and clefts.
And basil, sweet basil, nuzzled
by fumbling bees drunk on the sun.
And cucumbers, crisp, cool white ice
in the heart of August, month of fire.
And peas in their delicate slippers,
little green boats, a string of beads,
repeating, repeating.
And sunflowers, nodding at night,
then rising to shout hallelujah! at noon.
All over the garden, the whisper of leaves
passing secrets and gossip, making assignations.
All of the vegetables bask in the sun,
languorous as lizards.
Quick, before the frost puts out
its green light, praise these vegetables,
earth's voluptuaries,
praise what comes from the dirt.
"Vegetable Love" by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance. © Word Press, 2005. Reprinted without permission.
Rule: Do these things. And then film yourself eating the vegetables. Then send copies to me.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
I've gone crazy! Two rules at once! WOOO *lifts shirt*
Backlogged rule 3:
Well, actually, it's a series of rules.
In my Gmail news feed this morning [March 18]: "Poetry Contest - DorothyPrizes.org - Prizes of $1000 to $25000. Heartfelt poems due Nov. 6."
Poems that you slapped together without thinking about it just for this contest due Dec. 8.
Angsty poems you wrote in high school and you thought your life was so hard due when your mom comes down to the basement, brings you juice, and reminds you, "Oh honey, wasn't that poetry thing due today?"
Poems that involve dragons due when your testicles descend.
Poems about cancer that you wrote because, "Oh, cancer is just so sad!" are not due. Ever.
Poems written about the first thing you saw out the window are due Oct. 9.
Poems about your favorite pastime or sport that you love so much but can't describe and it just is so great and I'm going to use a lot of words like "passion," "exhilarate," and "soar" must be submitted in the approved format: ashes in an urn crafted from oven-fired ferret feces.
Poems you wrote about world hunger, world peace, true love, and how much you love your yorkshire terrier (and you own a bumper sticker that says, "my yorkie is cuter than your honor student") will all be judged in a separate category. Please coat in egg wash and panko breadcrumbs before entering.
---
Next rule: Hey comma Brita pitcher. Effing filter my water.
I paid $15 for you to produce deliciously purified water. I did not pay $15 for you to filter so slowly that the catchment turns into a mosquito pond.
Well, actually, it's a series of rules.
In my Gmail news feed this morning [March 18]: "Poetry Contest - DorothyPrizes.org - Prizes of $1000 to $25000. Heartfelt poems due Nov. 6."
Poems that you slapped together without thinking about it just for this contest due Dec. 8.
Angsty poems you wrote in high school and you thought your life was so hard due when your mom comes down to the basement, brings you juice, and reminds you, "Oh honey, wasn't that poetry thing due today?"
Poems that involve dragons due when your testicles descend.
Poems about cancer that you wrote because, "Oh, cancer is just so sad!" are not due. Ever.
Poems written about the first thing you saw out the window are due Oct. 9.
Poems about your favorite pastime or sport that you love so much but can't describe and it just is so great and I'm going to use a lot of words like "passion," "exhilarate," and "soar" must be submitted in the approved format: ashes in an urn crafted from oven-fired ferret feces.
Poems you wrote about world hunger, world peace, true love, and how much you love your yorkshire terrier (and you own a bumper sticker that says, "my yorkie is cuter than your honor student") will all be judged in a separate category. Please coat in egg wash and panko breadcrumbs before entering.
---
Next rule: Hey comma Brita pitcher. Effing filter my water.
I paid $15 for you to produce deliciously purified water. I did not pay $15 for you to filter so slowly that the catchment turns into a mosquito pond.
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