Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
×
Tongue tired, arms spread aloud, these words wrong me in the best of ways. 
  1. How long have you been on DeviantArt? Longer than I thought I would be.

  2. What does your username mean? I like to think that it means I don't like being used.

  3. Describe yourself in three words. Fictional, officer, mushroom

  4. Are you left or right handed? It depends on the king I'm serving.

  5. What was your first deviation? The standard one.

  6. What is your favorite type of art to create? heART.

  7. If you could instantly master a different art style, what would it be? The lost art of serving up a steaming mug 'o' rococo aikido cocoa.

  8. What was your first favorite? Mandarin orange chocolate sherbet: Baskin-Robbins best flavour ever!!

  9. What type of art do you tend to favorite the most? stARTling.

  10. Who is your all-time favorite deviant artist? Questions like these are silly.

  11. If you could meet anyone on DeviantArt in person, who would it be? The writer I will be yesterday.

  12. How has a fellow deviant impacted your life? Luminous souls like Fllnthblnk, Jade-Pandora, Pseudometry, Seekingmysoul, Blueskye27 have made me more...you know...like that.

  13. What are your preferred tools to create art? The one's that do what I want them to, when I want them to, how I want them to.

  14. What is the most inspirational place for you to create art? That one room.

  15. What is your favorite DeviantArt memory? I might know that tomorrow better than I do today. #DeviantArtistQuestionnaire.

  • Listening to: As I Lay Dying - Within Destruction
  • Reading: The Atlantic
  • Watching: the horizon
  • Playing: the fool
  • Eating: far too much
  • Drinking: Mint Chocolate Cocoa
Bar Napkin Sonnet #11
By Moira Egan

Things happen when you drink too much mescal.
One night, with not enough food in my belly,
he kept on buying.   I'm a girl who'll fall
damn near in love with gratitude and, well, he
was hot and generous and so the least
that I could do was let him kiss me, hard
and soft and any way you want it, beast
and beauty, lime and salt—sweet Bacchus' pards—
and when his friend showed up I felt so warm
and generous I let him kiss me too.
His buddy asked me if it was the worm
inside that makes me do the things I do.
I wasn't sure which worm he meant, the one
I ate?   The one that eats at me alone?

Bar Napkin Sonnet #22

I want to fall in love, but not forever.
Is that the truth, or am I still confused
where love's concerned? Or am I simply used
to Solitary broken by Whoever
looks interested or interesting? Never
quite thought of it that way. What is the juice
that drives the flower, forces green the fuse
that sparks in me—what? Last night, with my lover,
I almost dropped the L word. O confusion!
He gathered up my hair the way they do
when habit seems like love. On top of him
I swear I found some new type of orgasm.
I've swallowed almost anything, but do
you think it's good to swallow I love you?

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:
  • Listening to: As I Lay Dying - Within Destruction
  • Reading: The Atlantic
  • Watching: the horizon
  • Playing: the fool
  • Eating: far too much
  • Drinking: Mint Chocolate Cocoa
There have been five inaugural poets; two of them have read at the inaugural ceremonies of Barack Obama. Can I just say, I very much appreciate having a President who makes a public space for poetry. And so:  

"One Today"
by Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

You can hear Blanco read his poem here: Richard Blanco Reads 'One Today' (or, if you'd rather, you can listen to Beyoncé and Kelly Clarkson sing for the occasion). You can hear a quick interview with Blanco at the same link. You can also read a little about his personal and family history here: The Miami Herald , and then you can pop on over to his personal website here: Richard Blanco Reading where you can listen to him reading over an hours worth of some of his best works at the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival.

(Then maybe you'll want to read a New York Times article about the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival here: Poets, Off the Page and Under the Sky
Maybe.

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:
  • Listening to: As I Lay Dying - Within Destruction
  • Reading: The Atlantic
  • Watching: the horizon
  • Playing: the fool
  • Eating: far too much
  • Drinking: Mint Chocolate Cocoa
Holy is my cow - A Daily Deviation! Holy...

              (wait for it)
   coooooooooooooooooow!

What with work and cooking dinner and washing dishes and work and doing laundry and work, nearly my whole day went by before I had a chance to log in to dA today. And what do I find when I do? A poem has caught my eye in the DD section for the day. And it's mine! What a great and generous gesture of kindness that it is. What a joy it is to receive such an honor.

Lots and lots (and lots and lots and lots and lots) of thanks to :iconleyghan: and :iconthorns: for the honor, to the thousand wonderful deviants who've been so gracious and supportive when reading my work (especially :iconblueskye27: :iconfllnthblnk: :iconprofessor-kirby: :iconashellessmind: :iconthebrassglass: :iconbowie-loon123: :iconreddragonfly: :iconladylincoln: :iconalannavich: :iconpoetatriste: and the dearly missed :icongeneratinghype:), and to :iconjohnprisk:, for getting me on dA to begin with oh those many years ago.

DailyDeviants Featured Stamp by DailyDeviants

And now, as I have a weakness for Jack Spicer, I'd like to share one of his best:

"Any fool can get into an ocean . . ."

Any fool can get into an ocean  
But it takes a Goddess  
To get out of one.
What's true of oceans is true, of course,
Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming  
Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor's seaweed
You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess
To get back out of them
Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly
Out in the middle of the poem
They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the
   water hardly moves
You might get out through all the waves and rocks
Into the middle of the poem to touch them
But when you've tried the blessed water long
Enough to want to start backward
That's when the fun starts
Unless you're a poet or an otter or something supernatural
You'll drown, dear. You'll drown
Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth
But it takes a hero to get out of one
What's true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory. When you start remembering.

I delight in that poem. I often find myself looking for myself in its reefs and on its beaches.

Oh, and this good looking gent, he is also is Jack Spicer:
(Who remembers that good old (but short lived) show Xiaolin Showdown

Cya l8tr Jack Spicer by Pepsi-McFLY Jack Spicer. by paet Jack Spicer by LigerNekoka by JackSpicerFans

Quirky huh? Jack Spicer is both a celebrated poet AND an annoying nemesis in search of redemption. Wait...are those two things actually different? Hmmm.

:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:
  • Listening to: As I Lay Dying - Within Destruction
  • Reading: The Atlantic
  • Watching: the horizon
  • Playing: the fool
  • Eating: far too much
  • Drinking: Mint Chocolate Cocoa
Last Supper
by Charles Wright

I seem to have come to the end of something, but don't know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
                        then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
                   lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.

Perhaps it's a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I don't think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
                                   no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.

Or maybe it's just the way the snow fell
                                        a couple of days ago,
So white on the white snowdrops.
As our fathers were bold to tell us,
                                   it's either eat or be eaten.
Spring in its starched bib,
Winter's cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.

:earth: :stormtrooper: :peace:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Gold on the Ceiling - The Black Keys
  • Reading: Sherlock Holmes - The Star of India
  • Watching: for signs
  • Playing: Tower Defense
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Merlot

This City is a Haunted Place...

Sun Nov 4, 2012, 7:19 PM
On Going Back To The Street After Viewing An Art Show
by Charles Bukowski


they talk down through
the centuries to us,

and this we need more and more,

the statues and paintings
in midnight age 
as we go along 
holding dead hands.


and we would say

rather than delude the knowing:

a damn good show,

but hardly enough for a horse to eat,

and out on the sunshine street where
eyes are dabbled in metazoan faces
i decide again

that in theses centuries

they have done very well

considering the nature of their
brothers:
it's more than good

that some of them,

(closer really to the field-mouse than 
falcon)
have been bold enough to try.

On Looking for Models
by Alan Dugan


The trees in time
have something else to do
besides their treeing. What is it.
I'm a starving to death
man myself, and thirsty, thirsty
by their fountains but I cannot drink
their mud and sunlight to be whole.
I do not understand these presences
that drink for months
in the dirt, eat light,
and then fast dry in the cold.
They stand it out somehow,
and how, the Botanists will tell me.
It is the "something else" that bothers
me, so I often go back to the forests.

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Gold on the Ceiling - The Black Keys
  • Reading: Sherlock Holmes - The Star of India
  • Watching: for signs
  • Playing: Tower Defense
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Merlot
Gotham Wanes
By Bryan D. Dietrich


The mask? Because we were never ugly
enough. Because our ugliness was epic.
Because we were given to it, because
we were so misgiven. You wear one. I
wear one. Yes. Kings, Pharaohs had them
fabricated, poured out in gold and beaten.
Most wore them to the grave. In Mexico
the living wear them, not to scare the dead
away, but as invitation. They leave candy
on the mounds of those they mourn. New
Orleans? Women wear them in order
to bare everything else. Men wear them
in order to watch. I can remember, back
before it all grows grim, making one
out of the news, trying to paste it together.
I remember my mother helping me. I don't
really remember my father. Something
like a face, like the man in the moon.
I understand we're hardwired this way,
to make faces before anything else.
It's why we see the Madonna in mold,
alien architecture in Martian crater creep.
We keep looking for those first faces, first
familia. Every culture, every eon. Witness
the oldest we know, his cave, his wall, one
hundred seventy centuries gone. They call
him Sorcerer. They call me Knight.
We have always lived in the dark.

To the One Who is Reading Me
By Jorge Luis Borges


Translated from the Spanish by Tony Barnstone
You are invulnerable. Didn't they deliver
(those forces that control your destiny)
the certainty of dust? Couldn't it be
your irreversible time is that river
in whose bright mirror Heraclitus read
his brevity? A marble slab is saved
for you, one you won't read, already graved
with city, epitaph, dates of the dead.
And other men are also dreams of time,
not hardened bronze, purified gold. They're dust
like you; the universe is Proteus.
Shadow, you'll travel to what waits ahead,
the fatal shadow waiting at the rim.
Know this: in some way you're already dead.

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Gold on the Ceiling - The Black Keys
  • Reading: Sherlock Holmes - The Star of India
  • Watching: for signs
  • Playing: Tower Defense
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Merlot

To You

Thu Mar 15, 2012, 7:49 PM
Imagine the surprise...imagine it!
I am honored with a Daily Deviation. :)

Lots and lots (and lots and lots and lots and lots) of thanks to :iconikazon: for the honor, to the thousand wonderful deviants who've been so gracious and supportive when reading my work (especially :iconblueskye27: :iconfllnthblnk: :iconprofessor-kirby: :iconashellessmind: :iconthebrassglass: :iconbowie-loon123: :iconreddragonfly: :iconladylincoln: :iconalannavich: :iconpoetatriste: and the dearly missed :icongeneratinghype:), and to :iconjohnprisk:, for getting me on dA to begin with oh those many years ago.

Good poetry anyone?

To You
by Walt Whitman


LET us twain walk aside from the rest;
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,
Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—Tell me the whole story,
Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.

Miniscule Things
by William Matthews

There's a crack in this glass so fine we can't see it,   
and in the blue eye of the candleflame's needle   
there's a dark fleck, a speck of imperfection

that could contain, like a microchip, an epic
treatise on beauty, except it's in the eye of the beheld.   
And at the base of our glass there's nothing

so big as a tiny puddle, but an ooze, a viscous   
patina like liquefied tarnish. It's like a text
so short it consists only of the author's signature,

which has to stand, like the future, for what might   
have been: a novel, let's say, thick with ambiguous life.   
Its hero forgets his goal as he nears it, so that it's

like rain evaporating in the very sight of parched   
Saharans on the desert floor. There, by chance, he meets   
a thirsty and beautiful woman. What a small world!

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Gold on the Ceiling - The Black Keys
  • Reading: Sherlock Holmes - The Star of India
  • Watching: for signs
  • Playing: Tower Defense
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Merlot

Two

Mon Nov 14, 2011, 9:02 PM
Because two is fewer that three,
and three, I fear, might be to many
or perhaps I mean too much.

Childhood Stories
by Matthew Rohrer


They learned to turn off the gravity in an auditorium
and we all rose into the air,
the same room where they demonstrated
pow-wows and prestidigitation.

But not everyone believed it.
That was the most important lesson
I learned—that a truck driven by a dog
could roll down a hill at dusk
and roll right off a dock into a lake
and sink, and if no one believes you
then what is the point
of telling them wonderful things?

I walked home from the pow-wow
on an early winter night in amazement:
they let me buy the toy tomahawk!
As soon as I got home I was going
to hit my sister with it, but I didn't know this.

The Speaking Tree
by Muriel Rukeyser


for Robert Payne 

Great Alexander sailing was from his true course turned
By a young wind from a cloud in Asia moving
Like a most recognizable most silvery woman;
Tall Alexander to the island came.
The small breeze blew behind his turning head.
He walked the foam of ripples into this scene.

The trunk of the speaking tree looks like a tree-trunk
Until you look again.     Then people and animals
Are ripening on the branches;     the broad leaves
Are leaves;     pale horses, sharp fine foxes
Blossom;     the red rabbit falls
Ready and running.     The trunk coils, turns,
Snakes, fishes.     Now the ripe people fall and run,
Three of them in their shore-dance, flames that stand
Where reeds are creatures and the foam is flame.

Stiff Alexander stands.     He cannot turn.
But he is free to turn : this is the speaking tree,
It calls your name.     It tells us what we mean.

:earth: :peace: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: That's Not My Name - The Ting Tings
  • Reading: The Stranger - Albert Camus
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: Siege Hero
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Shiraz

Greater or Lesser than...

Sun Sep 4, 2011, 2:28 PM
You and me both.

Unit of Measure
by Sandra Beasley

All can be measured by the standard of the capybara.
Everyone is lesser than or greater than the capybara.
Everything is taller or shorter than the capybara.
Everything is mistaken for a Brazilian dance craze
more or less frequently than the capybara.
Everyone eats greater or fewer watermelons
than the capybara. Everyone eats more or less bark.
Everyone barks more than or less than the capybara,
who also whistles, clicks, grunts, and emits what is known
as his alarm squeal. Everyone is more or less alarmed
than a capybara, who—because his back legs
are longer than his front legs—feels like
he is going downhill at all times.
Everyone is more or less a master of grasses
than the capybara. Or going by the scientific name,
more or less Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris—
or, going by the Greek translation, more or less
water hog. Everyone is more or less
of a fish than the capybara, defined as the outermost realm
of fishdom by the 16th-century Catholic Church.
Everyone is eaten more or less often for Lent than
the capybara. Shredded, spiced, and served over plantains,
everything tastes more or less like pork
than the capybara. Before you decide that you are
greater than or lesser than a capybara, consider
that while the Brazilian capybara breeds only once a year,
the Venezuelan variety mates continuously.
Consider the last time you mated continuously.
Consider the year of your childhood when you had
exactly as many teeth as the capybara—
twenty—and all yours fell out, and all his
kept growing. Consider how his skin stretches
in only one direction. Accept that you are stretchier
than the capybara. Accept that you have foolishly
distributed your eyes, ears, and nostrils
all over your face. Accept that now you will never be able
to sleep underwater. Accept that the fish
will never gather to your capybara body offering
their soft, finned love. One of us, they say, one of us,
but they will not say it to you.

Bernini's Pillars by swizzleSTIX41 Bodies on the Altar by swizzleSTIX41 Off the Shoulder by swizzleSTIX41

Fountain of the Four Rivers by swizzleSTIX41 Alighieri by swizzleSTIX41 Who Watches by swizzleSTIX41

Wending by swizzleSTIX41 To Remind by swizzleSTIX41 Like Lightning by swizzleSTIX41

Atop by swizzleSTIX41 What Lines the Sky by swizzleSTIX41 Text Messaging by swizzleSTIX41

:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: That's Not My Name - The Ting Tings
  • Reading: The Stranger - Albert Camus
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: Siege Hero
  • Eating: Dark Chocolate
  • Drinking: Shiraz

Travel Broadens

Thu Aug 18, 2011, 9:03 PM
the mind...and boy could I use one of those right about now.

Bernini's Pillars by swizzleSTIX41 Text Messaging by swizzleSTIX41 Off the Shoulder by swizzleSTIX41

Fountain of the Four Rivers by swizzleSTIX41 Alighieri by swizzleSTIX41 Who Watches by swizzleSTIX41

Wending by swizzleSTIX41 To Remind by swizzleSTIX41 Like Lightning by swizzleSTIX41

Atop by swizzleSTIX41 Bodies on the Altar by swizzleSTIX41 What Lines the Sky by swizzleSTIX41

Travel
THE railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.

Edna St. Vincent Milay

The Long Beach Dew
I

The Long Beach dew
turns Valley steam
before your heart
warms up
as this
one inside my chest

II

The Long Beach dew
is green
like those sharp hills
that guard Alaska
The calm white skies
of June
and the full bloom
of ancient trees
As I drive
cross the valleys
the Getty's hill
Hollywood streets
unnoticed by the
Californian eyes
my mind does smile:
Something belongs to me
in Argentina

You can find more like this right here thewanderlife.com/a-long-beach… :D
:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: The Poem of the Day
  • Reading: The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: a little more Angry Birds
  • Eating: Chipotle
  • Drinking: Nantucket Nectar

Bernadette Mayer...Who Knew

Tue May 10, 2011, 10:07 PM
First, a good joke -

[Sonnet] You jerk you didn't call me up
By Bernadette Mayer

You jerk you didn't call me up
I haven't seen you in so long
You probably have a fucking tan
& besides that instead of making love tonight
You're drinking your parents to the airport
I'm through with you bourgeois boys
All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts
Only money can get—even Catullus was rich but

Nowadays you guys settle for a couch
By a soporific color cable t.v. set
Instead of any arc of love, no wonder
The G.I. Joe team blows it every other time

Wake up! It's the middle of the night
You can either make love or die at the hands of
                               the Cobra Commander


_________________

To make love, turn to page 121.
To die, turn to page 172.

And then it's time to get serious -

Length of Moon
by Arna Bontemps

Then the golden hour
Will tick its last
And the flame will go down in the flower.
A briefer length of moon
Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune.
Then we may think of this, yet
There will be something forgotten
And something we should forget.
It will be like all things we know: .
A stone will fail; a rose is sure to go.
It will be quiet then and we may stay Long at the picket gate
But there will be less to say.

Or maybe I have it backwards.

:peace:  :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: The Poem of the Day
  • Reading: The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: a little more Angry Birds
  • Eating: Chipotle
  • Drinking: Nantucket Nectar

Strange Times

Tue May 3, 2011, 2:56 PM
When is it righteous to hate? I was reading this piece in The Huffington Post. I was thinking about this.

from Celebrating a Death
by Paul Brandeis Raushenbush

When I think of bin Laden I think of evil.

But I have to be careful in my celebrations of bin Laden's death. I was a chaplain at Columbia University during Sept. 11, 2001. Two days after the attacks, some of my students put on an art exhibit in response called Peace Kitchen. In one piece a student had put a film of bin Laden's face over a mirror so we saw our own face staring back at us through his. The point was not that there was equivalency between bin Laden and us, but to acknowledge that evil is not something that only exists outside of us that we can point to and kill once and for all. Evil doesn't work like that. All humans have the potential for grace, but we also all have the potential to sin and do evil. It is a tempting yet dangerous practice to look around the world for evil people and target them. That is just what Osama bin Laden thought he was doing. We must be vigilant that we do not become what we despise. We must be careful in the way we use religion and the name of God to further our own causes or to ever manipulate people into hate.

So, let us mute our celebrations. Let any satisfaction be grim and grounded in the foundation of justice for all who have suffered at bin Laden's bloody hands. And also justice for crimes against God -- for using God as an instrument of terror and and promoting distrust between peoples of different religions and nations. Let us put bin Laden's body in the ground, and in doing so bury his disastrous and blasphemous religious legacy.

Ultimately, judgment is not ours to make. But I believe in a just God and I believe that Osama bin Laden, for all the talk of rewards in heaven, will not be enjoying his meeting with the God of Creation.

You can read the rest here:Celebrating A Death. Then read a poem by Carl Sandburg:

Death Snips Proud Men
DEATH is stronger than all the governments because the governments are men and men die and then death laughs: Now you see ’em, now you don’t.

Death is stronger than all proud men and so death snips proud men on the nose, throws a pair of dice and says: Read ’em and weep.

Death sends a radiogram every day: When I want you I’ll drop in—and then one day he comes with a master-key and lets himself in and says: We’ll go now.

Death is a nurse mother with big arms: ’Twon’t hurt you at all; it’s your time now; you just need a long sleep, child; what have you had anyhow better than sleep?
:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: The Poem of the Day
  • Reading: The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: a little more Angry Birds
  • Eating: Chipotle
  • Drinking: Nantucket Nectar

Two

Thu Feb 10, 2011, 12:13 PM
Because it's not three, but it's more than one.

Robin Redbreast
by Stanley Kunitz


It was the dingiest bird
you ever saw, all the color
washed from him, as if
he had been standing in the rain,
friendless and stiff and cold,
since Eden went wrong.
In the house marked FOR SALE,
where nobody made a sound,
in the room where I lived
with an empty page, I had heard
the squawking of the jays
under the wild persimmons
tormenting him.
So I scooped him up
after they knocked him down,
in league with that ounce of heart
pounding in my palm,
that dumb beak gaping.
Poor thing! Poor foolish life!
without sense enough to stop
running in desperate circles,
needing my lucky help
to toss him back into his element.
But when I held him high,
fear clutched my hand,
for through the hole in his head,
cut whistle-clean . . .
through the old dried wound
between his eyes
where the hunter’s brand
had tunneled out his wits . . .
I caught the cold flash of the blue
unappeasable sky.


Sarabande
by Norma Cole


“and then looks at
the stars” from the
bed in the ambulance

looks up at boughs of
trees shifting quickly
lit in blackness

blackening soft, deep
siren’s song—she died
several times that night

and only in the weeks
to come started and
started to come back

then forward which is
real life

:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: The Poem of the Day
  • Reading: The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin
  • Watching: my mouth
  • Playing: a little more Angry Birds
  • Eating: Chipotle
  • Drinking: Nantucket Nectar

Huzzah! Huzzah!

Mon Jan 17, 2011, 3:41 PM
There are birds by hogret Real Objects by hogret
:iconhogret::iconhogret::iconhogret::iconhogret::iconhogret:

Three cheers for Margret who has created some yummy bits of digital collage using my poems There are birds and Real Objects as her prompts. They most yummy, no?!

A pair of poems, to celebrate whatever is making you happy.

The Illiterate
By William Meredith

Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think that this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.

His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
that keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?

Houdini
by Kay Ryan

Each escape
involved some art,
some hokum, and
at least a brief
incomprehensible
exchange between
the man and metal
during which the
chains were not
so much broken
as he and they
blended. At the
end of each such   
mix he had to
extract himself. It
was the hardest
part to get right
routinely: breaking
back into the   
same Houdini.

:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: The Poem of the Day
  • Reading: Devil in a Blue Dress - Walter Mosely
  • Watching: Darth Vader tell time
  • Playing: less Angry Birds
  • Eating: Pizza
  • Drinking: Qoo

The Art of the Collage

Tue Jan 4, 2011, 5:37 PM
From the French - to glue. :D Without blathering on and on, I'd just like to say I'm a sucker for it and you should be too! If only because it reminds us that everything can become other than what it is; everything is part of the becoming of something else (and how great is that).

Here are some tasty pieces, brought to you by the talented hands of a few artists here on dA that work in the medium.

:iconhogret: *hogret

The Three Graces by hogret

Mature Content

Family Mavericks by hogret
Sugar Rush by hogret

Dream: Act VI, Scene iii by hogret The Assemblage Muse by hogret Dream: Act III, Scene vi by hogret

A Farewell to Essay Writing by hogret The Unknown Exponent by hogret

:iconlauratringaliholmes: *weedlace

Winning by LauraTringaliHolmes Adam by LauraTringaliHolmes

Future Tense by LauraTringaliHolmes The World Is by LauraTringaliHolmes

:icontimshel-that: ~timshel-that

West Lake by timshel-that Ars Longa Vita Brevis by timshel-that

Vanitas by timshel-that Light-Giver by timshel-that

:iconrichardleach: *tinkwig

Twist two by RichardLeach Directions by RichardLeach Slow Dancer - Fourth Dimension by RichardLeach

And then there's me...

Guidence Systems Go by swizzleSTIX41 The Face of the Queen by swizzleSTIX41

Mature Content

The Same Tissue by swizzleSTIX41


:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper: dear people.

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Voodoo Elvis - Rogue Traders Vs Elvis Costello
  • Reading: Devil in a Blue Dress - Walter Mosely
  • Watching: Time March On
  • Playing: Angry Birds
  • Eating: Pizza
  • Drinking: Qoo
Okay I have to share this; it's just too good a bit to keep all to myself.  

I was online yesterday, reading a little of this and that, and I ran across this post over at HTMLGIANT called Laurel Nakadate’s Untitled : Pornstars Reading Poems, and it made me pause and think, "Hm, there's something you don't hear about every day." It starts off like this:

Poetry readings. Whether you love them or hate them, they can sometimes be an uncomfortable or bland affair. Some contemporary authors are committed to reinventing the format of “the reading”—using vulnerability, performance, and other attention-grabbing techniques to pump a little life into these often humdrum happenings. But video artist Laurel Nakadate takes the “the reading” to a whole new level.

In the video Untitled, Laurel has porn actresses read poems by Dora Malech. The interplay between Dora’s poems and the premise of the video is brilliant. The poems grapple with the tension between corporeality and disembodied intellect—being pure body or pure voice, being of the flesh or of the mind, but they settle on neither. Laurel’s video project and Dora’s text collapses those distinctions, using the body itself to speak. “If you give me a dollar I’ll take my top off / and let you see my heart,” reads actress Robbye Bentley. The body is not that which is mute, but that which sings. Another poem speaks to the ecstasy of being an embodied human with the line, “Believe me / when I tell you I’m kept / awake by the light / from my body, splayed star.”

The porn actresses in the video were asked to come to the “audition” (the audition being the final video itself) wearing their usually business attire: lacy lingerie, bright color bras. One woman—Robbye Bentley—even delivers her poems topless, covering her breasts with the poem “script” about a woman taking her top off for money. In recontextualizing the poetry reading event by having porn actresses read poems in settings like bathrooms and bedrooms, the video also dashes another expectation: that the porn actress is somehow less intellectual than the poet. The pairing of poetry and porn initially seemed unnatural to me. On the phone I asked Laurel, “Did the actresses think it was weird to be asked to read poems? How did they react?” She said no, that they loved it, that they were excited to be a part of the project.


Well, as I read and watched, I found myself thinking that this is a pretty nifty piece of work in its own way. I did. And I'm wondering, what do you think? You can read the rest of the article and watch some of the video "auditions" shot by Laurel Nakadate over at HTMLGIANT if I've made you curious.

And when you tire of that, I'd invite you to hit Lemon Hound's blog Conceptual Writing 101 were you'll find many fine little gems of conceptual writing, including this fine post about Mayer/ Bernstein Writing Experiments.  

* Systematically eliminate the use of certain kinds of words or phrases from
a piece of writing: eliminate all adjectives from a poem of your own, or
take out all words beginning with 's' in Shakespeare's sonnets.

* Rewrite someone else's writing. Experiment with theft and plagiarism.

* Systematically derange the language: write a work consisting only of
prepositional phrases, or, add a gerund to every line of an already existing
work.

* Get a group of words, either randomly selected or thought up, then form
these words (only) into a piece of writing-whatever the words allow. Let
them demand their own form, or, use some words in a predetermined way.
Design words.

* Pick a word or phrase at random, let mind play freely around it until a
few ideas have come up, then seize on one and begin to write. Try this with
a non- connotative word, like "so" etc.

* Eliminate material systematically from a piece of your own writing until
it is "ultimately" reduced, or, read or write it backwards, line by line or
word by word.


(Only six more shopping days until Christmas you know - it may be time to start thinking about poems as gifts for all the friends you find it just too hard to shop for :D) Then you can pop over to  wewhoareabouttodie and check out a load of clips and links exploring the nature and process of "Conceptual Writing". Sound like a plan?

:peace: :earth: :stormtrooper:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Sly Fox - Let's go All the Way
  • Reading: The last of the semester exams
  • Watching: Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
  • Playing: dumb
  • Eating: heartily
  • Drinking: nog

Hear Ye...

Sat Nov 6, 2010, 4:56 PM
Whatever it is, I'd like you to take it seriously.

Trying to Pray
by James Wright


This time, I have left my body behind me, crying
In its dark thorns.
Still,
There are good things in this world.
It is dusk.
It is the good darkness
Of women's hands that touch loaves.
The spirit of a tree begins to move.
I touch leaves.
I close my eyes and think of water.

The Minimal
by Theodore Roethke


I study the lives on a leaf: the little
Sleepers, numb nudgers in cold dimensions,
Beetles in caves, newts, stone-deaf fishes,
Lice tethered to long limp subterranean weeds,
Squirmers in bogs,
And bacterial creepers
Wriggling through wounds
Like elvers in ponds,
Their wan mouths kissing the warm sutures,
Cleaning and caressing,
Creeping and healing.

To England
by Richard Brautigan


There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.

:peace:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Joe Walsh - Life's Been Good
  • Reading: David Sedaris - Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk
  • Watching: the days get shorter
  • Playing: dumb
  • Eating: heartily
  • Drinking: down to the lees

Zombies - fer the eatin'

Sat Oct 16, 2010, 11:39 PM
Because it's the season for such things, and I've just finished watching Shaun of the Dead (again), I thought we might indulge ourselves with a holiday feast - Zombie haiku!!

As our appetizer, may I recommend that we begin with a few morsels from a Zombie haiku contest over at boingboing

Crunching through his brain,
I realized I no longer cared
whether he loved me

by victriviaqueen

The radio told
me that I would be safe here -
Crowded Stadium

by apocalypticbeef

Zombies by JohnPrisk :thumb2911234:

Zombies are disgusted by salad and the like, so we'll skip those courses and move on to one of the signature entrees of the season (available on Twitter): haiku of the dead.  

Resourceful teacher,
downing undead schoolchildren
with safety scissors.

Light in the darkness.
Racing to the campfire -
at last, a warm meal.

Get it through your head:
bites kill you, bites bring you back.
It's a simple truth.

The playground empty
save for a lone cursed creature,
battling a swing.

As their numbers grew,
humans clung to each other.
Convenient really...

He won't stop talking.
If the zombies don't get him,
I think I'll have to.

+zombie+ by nayruasukei Zombie Doodle by belldandy105

If you still have room for dessert, and I know some of you do, I'd like to recommend the very fresh If Famous Poets Wrote Zombie Haiku by Ryan Mecum.

Zombie Haiku by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle
into that zombie plagued night.
And take the shotgun.

Zombie Haiku by Sylvia Plath
From head to black shoe,
daddy, I had to eat you
because I’m starving.

Zombie Haiku by Robert Frost
Two lobes in the skull.
I eat the bloodier one –
not much difference.

Zombie Haiku by e.e. cummings
if anyone lived
in this wretched how town (they)
would be soon eaten.

support zombie hunting by Ashwings Zombie Kirby Sprite -Walk- by CodeGeorge Zombie Plan by secretgal1234  

And for our petit fours, we have a nice little bit of something scrumptious from Wild Poets 2009 Zombie poetry contest:

so tired just let me rest a sec
nah it's just a scratch but yeah
lost a lot of...
hey man...
hey man
hey
if I...
if I... you know...

turn...

here's the chainsaw

by thug

Zombie 1 by pophipi zombie zombie by markmandu

And do try the wine; it's a fine vintage.

Zombies aren't
by Tom Beckett

Zombies aren't
usually affiliated
with organized
religions. They're
visibly uncomfortable
in church,
synagogue, temple
or mosque.
Zombies don't
read scripture.
Zombies don't
read poetry.
Zombies don't
read pornography.
Zombies read
telephone directories.

:peace:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Lostprophets - We Still Kill the Old Way
  • Reading: David Sedaris - Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk
  • Watching: the days get shorter
  • Playing: dumb
  • Eating: heartily
  • Drinking: down to the lees

To Look for, Forage, Ferret Around

Thu Sep 23, 2010, 10:11 PM
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Epic Win!

qallupilluit by msklystron painted by the wonderful :iconmsklystron:

Whatever that means? :shrug: Oh well.
Now that you're here, these are worth your time; they mean - they mean big.

The True Encounter
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.

"Wolf! Wolf!"— and up would start
Good neighbors, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.

At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.

The light and the shadow by JakezDaniel Lucy in the Sky....... by foureyes

Saint Judas
by James Wright

When I went out to kill myself, I caught
A pack of hoodlums beating up a man.
Running to spare his suffering, I forgot
My name, my number, how my day began,
How soldiers milled around the garden stone
And sang amusing songs; how all that day
Their javelins measured crowds; how I alone
Bargained the proper coins, and slipped away.

Banished from heaven, I found this victim beaten,
Stripped, kneed, and left to cry. Dropping my rope
Aside, I ran, ignored the uniforms:
Then I remembered bread my flesh had eaten,
The kiss that ate my flesh. Flayed without hope,
I held the man for nothing in my arms.

Got any? by eXcer Distrustful by eXcer On Time by 1rainmaker

Kicks
by Howard Nemerov

The fishermen on Lake Michigan, sometimes,
For kicks, they spit two hunks of bait on hooks
At either end of a single length of line
And toss that up among the scavenging gulls,

Who go for it so fast that often two of them
Make the connection before it hits the water.
Hooked and hung up like that, they do a dance
That lasts only so long. The fishermen

Do that for kicks, on Lake Michigan, sometimes.

Flying High by TakeMeToAnotherPlace
:peace: :earth:

Simons Cat _Fly PWNED_ Stamp by ImHisEternalAngel Conflict and Terror by StJoan Yellow Stamp by MammaThatMakes :thumb60045796: I support DLD by HugQueen I dreamt I WASN'T dreaming... by cos22 284 : Hot, Throbbing Stamp by witegots


Visitor Map
Create your own visitor map!
  • Listening to: Election Day - Arcadia
  • Reading: Say Yes - Tobias Wolff
  • Watching: the days get shorter
  • Playing: dumb
  • Eating: heartily
  • Drinking: down to the lees