Saturday, April 18, 2009
Libraries Without Walls / the first dream
Two blackout poems borne of the same text - sisters? brothers? siamese twins?
The Whale Less Traveled
Just another silly piece of writing about whales
Two whales diverged in a forest
and sorry I could not follow both,
could not watch these great transports
of song and common breath, could not
swim beside them lumbering and gliding
all at once to the lengths I'll never know,
I dove, swimming deeper into the same
axis point from where I saw the whales
push off, tails like continents pumping
the water behind them. Neither whale
to follow, I followed no distance and sought
instead the depths of where I already
was, depths I had no breath to reach
but pushed until my lungs began to find
the oxygen in the water, until my fingers
webbed and my feet stuck together like
a continent and I doubted if I should ever
come back. If I should ever turn back.
Two whales diverged in a blue forest,
one whale submerged into a wet-born breath,
one man lost himself in the airless depths,
one man, one whale - and that was all
the difference.
Two whales diverged in a forest
and sorry I could not follow both,
could not watch these great transports
of song and common breath, could not
swim beside them lumbering and gliding
all at once to the lengths I'll never know,
I dove, swimming deeper into the same
axis point from where I saw the whales
push off, tails like continents pumping
the water behind them. Neither whale
to follow, I followed no distance and sought
instead the depths of where I already
was, depths I had no breath to reach
but pushed until my lungs began to find
the oxygen in the water, until my fingers
webbed and my feet stuck together like
a continent and I doubted if I should ever
come back. If I should ever turn back.
Two whales diverged in a blue forest,
one whale submerged into a wet-born breath,
one man lost himself in the airless depths,
one man, one whale - and that was all
the difference.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Talkbox
My roommate built a talkbox.
Now I spend large chunks of each day
trying to speak like a robot.
The plosives are simple,
but "s" and "x" sounds are
another matter altogether.
Funny, how Blade Runner led me astray.
Those replicants were so well spoken.
The #2 in Santa Fe
Here is where the dust settles
the sighs escape
the shoulders droop.
Here, everyone knows
everyone, knows everyone's
business. Which is alcohol,
the woman wearing dusty beads
who unwraps stories like cheap toys
and holds them up in the dark to see,
or the one who takes them, shakes them
like a piggy bank, and laughs
when they are empty?
A man professes his will to teach
someday, that he will teach
a lesson longer than this line,
and one that doesn't end
where it began.
Sage fool, I think.
Here is where words dissipate.
I hear a man
who speaks a dream
will watch it fade
into the fumes. Push it
forward, slur it
down, lurch it
back.
the sighs escape
the shoulders droop.
Here, everyone knows
everyone, knows everyone's
business. Which is alcohol,
the woman wearing dusty beads
who unwraps stories like cheap toys
and holds them up in the dark to see,
or the one who takes them, shakes them
like a piggy bank, and laughs
when they are empty?
A man professes his will to teach
someday, that he will teach
a lesson longer than this line,
and one that doesn't end
where it began.
Sage fool, I think.
Here is where words dissipate.
I hear a man
who speaks a dream
will watch it fade
into the fumes. Push it
forward, slur it
down, lurch it
back.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Pickle
You would be a lovely thing
to pickle and keep on a high shelf.
I would spend my time
looking at you from a distance.
Stepping back to step forward again,
to see how you change, if at all.
I would only drink
the brine in the jar,
and seal my lips with a closing sip
after I drink deep deep.
*A man waiting at the Davis bus stop told me I would be a lovely thing to pickle. I still don't know how I feel about this.
to pickle and keep on a high shelf.
I would spend my time
looking at you from a distance.
Stepping back to step forward again,
to see how you change, if at all.
I would only drink
the brine in the jar,
and seal my lips with a closing sip
after I drink deep deep.
*A man waiting at the Davis bus stop told me I would be a lovely thing to pickle. I still don't know how I feel about this.
Binomial
How when in need of names
those dusty scientists found
among the options of nomenclature a
poet to limn the borders of what
we call the animal not alone, the even
wandering ones we hope find
another, someday - a pitying
of turtledoves, a siege of herons -
and how when I, my hope
lighting on the end of wandering
on some bright afternoon I call
the I not alone Us.
those dusty scientists found
among the options of nomenclature a
poet to limn the borders of what
we call the animal not alone, the even
wandering ones we hope find
another, someday - a pitying
of turtledoves, a siege of herons -
and how when I, my hope
lighting on the end of wandering
on some bright afternoon I call
the I not alone Us.
This Is Just To Say
I got the idea to loosely imitate the poem "This Is Just To Say" from an episode of This American Life that I listened to yesterday:
This Is Just To Say
Roommate,
that I have taken
to a party
three bottles of Miller Lite
from our fridge
which was okay
I thought
because they were technically mine.
I left a half-dozen
to drink at another time
during a hockey game
or when I felt like having one
but now they are all gone
And I'm wondering
why did you need to drink
six bottles of beer
of my beer
on a Wednesday night
alone
anyway?
This Is Just To Say
Roommate,
that I have taken
to a party
three bottles of Miller Lite
from our fridge
which was okay
I thought
because they were technically mine.
I left a half-dozen
to drink at another time
during a hockey game
or when I felt like having one
but now they are all gone
And I'm wondering
why did you need to drink
six bottles of beer
of my beer
on a Wednesday night
alone
anyway?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I, So Tired, I
want to sleep in my clothes
and give myself away
to no dream but find purity
streaming blankly across
my mind and then nestle
into the dark emptiness
of no one
and give myself away
to no dream but find purity
streaming blankly across
my mind and then nestle
into the dark emptiness
of no one
Unicorn
What I truly desire out of this art:
You
creature loping out of myths
into the white white clouds
your grand wings of White,
all of you
into the white clouds white
with your white white body
perfect, in another word, with your
single, magnificent, white
horn running through our
insides.
You
creature loping out of myths
into the white white clouds
your grand wings of White,
all of you
into the white clouds white
with your white white body
perfect, in another word, with your
single, magnificent, white
horn running through our
insides.
A Poem of Circumstance And Collaboration
I want to play Wii,
If the TV is free.
That's fine with me.
Rhyming, are we?
I just remembered,
I have to write a poem.
POETRY CHALLENGE
Alright gang. This week's challenge is going to require a little extra time commitment / technology commitment, but it is one of my favorite types of poem so you should try to do one.
BLACKOUT POEMS
Blackout poems are created by manipulating pre-existing texts into compressed, tightened new meanings. I like to use found documents -- things from the scrap print pile at the library or newspaper clippings. The idea is to physically black out all but a few words and phrases, and let that remainder be a poem. I'll include a nice example below. If you'd like to do a variation on this type of poem, such as one that moves it to a digital sphere or just plays with the idea of positive and negative space, compression, etc, that's cool too. I love this form because it forces you to work with a limited set of words and find the most fruitful combinations and meanings in a fixed space, and because it has so much to do with space, the black expanse.
Happy poem-ing!
Face of the Earth, by Austin Kleon.
BLACKOUT POEMS
Blackout poems are created by manipulating pre-existing texts into compressed, tightened new meanings. I like to use found documents -- things from the scrap print pile at the library or newspaper clippings. The idea is to physically black out all but a few words and phrases, and let that remainder be a poem. I'll include a nice example below. If you'd like to do a variation on this type of poem, such as one that moves it to a digital sphere or just plays with the idea of positive and negative space, compression, etc, that's cool too. I love this form because it forces you to work with a limited set of words and find the most fruitful combinations and meanings in a fixed space, and because it has so much to do with space, the black expanse.
Happy poem-ing!
Face of the Earth, by Austin Kleon.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Roses I had thought
might be nice at school in the room
that is a box, the length of a bed.
They were leftovers from Easter.
Ivory half opened and half
used, wholly unwanted. Rarely
do we crave what is slightly off
the edge of death. It might as well
die upon infection or infected
we will feel with fear. The passing
of the moment for passing, between
to pass and past, between
the voluptuous blossom and the hard
fragrant head held later is worst
to endure because it is the best
collage of where once we were
a mystery and where now one is
thick and grown over with clarity.
that is a box, the length of a bed.
They were leftovers from Easter.
Ivory half opened and half
used, wholly unwanted. Rarely
do we crave what is slightly off
the edge of death. It might as well
die upon infection or infected
we will feel with fear. The passing
of the moment for passing, between
to pass and past, between
the voluptuous blossom and the hard
fragrant head held later is worst
to endure because it is the best
collage of where once we were
a mystery and where now one is
thick and grown over with clarity.
Dead on the Page
I have dragged my chair
Out of line to peek through
Towering heads on green
Bean necks to watch the mouse
Man read his poems in the quiet
Breeze that is his own echo.
I am curled tight, clutching
My knees to my lips, while
My friend of the long legs
Stretches them in the absence
Of my proper place. Together
We struggle against sleep
In the warm wind of voice,
Lulled into the invulnerable nakedness
Of an unthreatened audience,
Barely registering the touch
Of the dead poet of the page lapping
Flaccidly around our calves.
Out of line to peek through
Towering heads on green
Bean necks to watch the mouse
Man read his poems in the quiet
Breeze that is his own echo.
I am curled tight, clutching
My knees to my lips, while
My friend of the long legs
Stretches them in the absence
Of my proper place. Together
We struggle against sleep
In the warm wind of voice,
Lulled into the invulnerable nakedness
Of an unthreatened audience,
Barely registering the touch
Of the dead poet of the page lapping
Flaccidly around our calves.
Like a River
[Again, this would/should have occurred last Saturday]
What in the hours was preparation
In the emptiness was forgetting to eat
We stared through the dust
And counted the years of
Preparation the years
We were dying through
The dust
What in the hours was preparation
In the emptiness was forgetting to eat
We stared through the dust
And counted the years of
Preparation the years
We were dying through
The dust
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Poem I Won't Be Reading At My Sister's Wedding
Love is love, love, love,
so love is love is love,
somebody loves loves loves loves somebody,
so love, love, love,
if somebody loves loves somebody then somebody loves someone,
love, love, love.
*directly taken from my Intro to Elementary Logic lecture notes.
so love is love is love,
somebody loves loves loves loves somebody,
so love, love, love,
if somebody loves loves somebody then somebody loves someone,
love, love, love.
*directly taken from my Intro to Elementary Logic lecture notes.
The Evolution of Our Being
[Technically, this should have been written and posted on Good Friday]
Yes, he had already exhumed
the final pocket of living air from below
his chest when the night had started to fill
the empty spaces without stars.
Late, it was acknowledged.
Time to go, yes.
No need to break his legs and slump him
into the weighty breathlessness of broken supports.
Yet there was a spear, yet
it opened his side where there was
blood and water like a river.
Yes, he had already exhumed
the final pocket of living air from below
his chest when the night had started to fill
the empty spaces without stars.
Late, it was acknowledged.
Time to go, yes.
No need to break his legs and slump him
into the weighty breathlessness of broken supports.
Yet there was a spear, yet
it opened his side where there was
blood and water like a river.
Planning for the Future.
“Times are tough,” the voices rang
from out my television,
“A war is on, the world grows hot,
propriety’s in rescission.”
It is today my search begins
for what, oh what, comes next.
Alack! This market's dearth of jobs
has found me quite perplexed!
I cannot be a banker, for
the banks have all been shut.
I cannot be a lawyer, for
I laugh when I rebut.
It’s no time to enter business
and besides I lack the skill
to sell you sweater blankets
or a new George Foreman grill.
I haven’t taken science since
around eleventh grade,
don’t know a single thing about
how guns and drugs are made,
I haven’t got the wit to write
for pithy, poignant blogs,
and I’m far to small in stature
to walk all the neighbors' dogs.
Whatever shall I do! I cry,
and throw my hands above,
when at once the answer hits me
like a leather dueling glove –
My path is clear, the challenge set,
now that I finally know it –
the only job for times like these
is this: professional poet.
I’ll use the word “Diaphanous”
(though I do not know its meaning),
I’ll let me studio go grey
from months of never cleaning.
I’ll write the tale of Orpheus,
(that’s one you’ve never heard),
I’ll write about the Writer’s lot
(the burden is absurd).
The smoke of a thousand cigarettes
will curl around my face
grown wrinkled far before its time
with haggard artist’s grace.
I’ll write in odes and ballads,
here and there the odd Haiku.
If your culture has a subtle form,
you can bet I’ll steal it too!
I’ll write my dedications
to the poets of the past,
with all the cheeky knowledge
that my skillz have theirs surpassed.
And when I die in poverty,
as all great poets do,
I’ll do it with the knowledge
to mine own self, I’ve been true.
For it takes the greatest courage
to compose in metered lines,
and all my greatest iambs will be
summoned in their time
To take the boldest statements down
in bile and blood and ink…
just please don’t make me get a job,
it’s clearly going to stink.
from out my television,
“A war is on, the world grows hot,
propriety’s in rescission.”
It is today my search begins
for what, oh what, comes next.
Alack! This market's dearth of jobs
has found me quite perplexed!
I cannot be a banker, for
the banks have all been shut.
I cannot be a lawyer, for
I laugh when I rebut.
It’s no time to enter business
and besides I lack the skill
to sell you sweater blankets
or a new George Foreman grill.
I haven’t taken science since
around eleventh grade,
don’t know a single thing about
how guns and drugs are made,
I haven’t got the wit to write
for pithy, poignant blogs,
and I’m far to small in stature
to walk all the neighbors' dogs.
Whatever shall I do! I cry,
and throw my hands above,
when at once the answer hits me
like a leather dueling glove –
My path is clear, the challenge set,
now that I finally know it –
the only job for times like these
is this: professional poet.
I’ll use the word “Diaphanous”
(though I do not know its meaning),
I’ll let me studio go grey
from months of never cleaning.
I’ll write the tale of Orpheus,
(that’s one you’ve never heard),
I’ll write about the Writer’s lot
(the burden is absurd).
The smoke of a thousand cigarettes
will curl around my face
grown wrinkled far before its time
with haggard artist’s grace.
I’ll write in odes and ballads,
here and there the odd Haiku.
If your culture has a subtle form,
you can bet I’ll steal it too!
I’ll write my dedications
to the poets of the past,
with all the cheeky knowledge
that my skillz have theirs surpassed.
And when I die in poverty,
as all great poets do,
I’ll do it with the knowledge
to mine own self, I’ve been true.
For it takes the greatest courage
to compose in metered lines,
and all my greatest iambs will be
summoned in their time
To take the boldest statements down
in bile and blood and ink…
just please don’t make me get a job,
it’s clearly going to stink.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The Shapes We Inhabit
[This is probably a multiple part poem... And this part probably should have been written on Thursday... Oh well]
What we did not know we
never knew but in fragments hidden within the deep rivers
that thread our bones together into what
we have always called human.
What we did not see was the emptiness
between our feet and the pavement, that awful
emptiness between so much, shivering
the supports of the world until shaking they
in their splinters tell us what we did
not see. What we cannot believe we can
put off into the decades until our
like every other mass bodies fling off the atoms one by one
leaving us not, not at all. Yet, far beneath
the blinking heartbeat of the moment's
wholeness is another pulse of a man who was a son of men
who knew that far beneath the blinking heartbeat
is inscribed the signature of divinity, a man
who could not believe in the flinging off of atoms
one by one leaving us not, but in leaving us not yet,
leaving us broken glass waiting to be melted
and blown into the shapes we were meant to inhabit.
And yet he heard too the heartbeat,
two heartbeats. And yet he heard too
the pain, and the glory. He heard too the high
evolution of our being.
And how clearly we could not.
What we did not know we
never knew but in fragments hidden within the deep rivers
that thread our bones together into what
we have always called human.
What we did not see was the emptiness
between our feet and the pavement, that awful
emptiness between so much, shivering
the supports of the world until shaking they
in their splinters tell us what we did
not see. What we cannot believe we can
put off into the decades until our
like every other mass bodies fling off the atoms one by one
leaving us not, not at all. Yet, far beneath
the blinking heartbeat of the moment's
wholeness is another pulse of a man who was a son of men
who knew that far beneath the blinking heartbeat
is inscribed the signature of divinity, a man
who could not believe in the flinging off of atoms
one by one leaving us not, but in leaving us not yet,
leaving us broken glass waiting to be melted
and blown into the shapes we were meant to inhabit.
And yet he heard too the heartbeat,
two heartbeats. And yet he heard too
the pain, and the glory. He heard too the high
evolution of our being.
And how clearly we could not.
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