hotel science VI
an expert team of botanists
discovered today
that plastic plants are unaffected
by the change in seasons.
hotel science VII
1% of all guests
leave cell phone chargers behind.
there are no satisfactory hypotheses
to explain this strange behavior.
hotel science IIX
the trajectory of a wet pool towel,
when thrown into a basket,
is determined by the guests' desire
to throw it into a basket
or leave it on a chair for someone else
to throw into a basket.
hotel science IX
the height of 4 $1 bills
when stacked on top of one another
is greater than the height
of the slot on the snack machine
where $1 bills are typically accepted.
we learn, when placing 4 $1 bills
on top of one another
and then proceed to feed them
to the slot on the snack machine,
that this is indeed a fact.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
on Marie Howe
here is the best eleven dollars and ninety five cents i have ever spent.
The Good Thief is a mere 52 pages of poetry, yet the most breath taking, stunning... i am in love with you marie howe.
there is a sore on my back
from where i lent into the counter;
reading your words doubled my weight
i could not stand, but listen.
my inner voice turned into something
under a trance and swaying to yours.
really, i hurt myself and i didn't feel it happening.
marie is a magnificent and powerful woman--my new role model. i want to grow up to be as much a poet as she.
i had the opportunity to read almost every poem out loud, in full range of my voice. i fear though, my own voice is lacking the nuance and grace of marie's intention. she's that good.
The Good Thief is a mere 52 pages of poetry, yet the most breath taking, stunning... i am in love with you marie howe.
there is a sore on my back
from where i lent into the counter;
reading your words doubled my weight
i could not stand, but listen.
my inner voice turned into something
under a trance and swaying to yours.
really, i hurt myself and i didn't feel it happening.
marie is a magnificent and powerful woman--my new role model. i want to grow up to be as much a poet as she.
i had the opportunity to read almost every poem out loud, in full range of my voice. i fear though, my own voice is lacking the nuance and grace of marie's intention. she's that good.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
and i the poet
someone called me "the brightest star"
first thing this morning, first thing at 10:30
someone told me "i love you" and "that's good"
when i called him at the office where he works
someone offered me an apartment
a few doors down from his, so i'd be nearer
and throughout, the sun put on a stunning glow
and the bog lay still with the red leaves of winter
blanketing in the seeds of next fall's growth
and i the poet, starting sentences with and
am warm inside my house, with a goldfish as company.
first thing this morning, first thing at 10:30
someone told me "i love you" and "that's good"
when i called him at the office where he works
someone offered me an apartment
a few doors down from his, so i'd be nearer
and throughout, the sun put on a stunning glow
and the bog lay still with the red leaves of winter
and i the poet, starting sentences with and
am warm inside my house, with a goldfish as company.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
i miss atticus
atticus, which now goes by the boring name amherst books, is the one place in amherst i miss the most. no, i never spent very much time there really, but it's where i attended some of my memorable readings. it's where i would go to find that collection of poems that no one else had. it's where they keep matthew rohrer's three collections IN STOCK!! it was the only place on the planet that sold kobo ade's the woman in the dunes. and the old fellows that ran the place seemed to know every book ever printed (which is awesome). i know that if i went in there today i would be able to find something by mina loy, anything. but, alas, atticus (i won't stop calling it that, by the way) is a 3 hour drive away from my home on cape cod. instead i am given this book-mall of mass-produced bribble brabble blahdom borders. i love borders for a lot of reasons (one being that i can't not love a book store, no matter how awful, it's a built in fault of my processor chip); they have really nice hot cocoa, an allegiance with jelly belly, and stupidly comfy sofas strewn all about. there are, too, though, reasons for which i loath the place. in comparison to the poetry section at wee little atticus, borders is severely lacking. atticus has got about 5 feet more shelf space of just poetry (never mind theory or poetics) than borders, and borders dedicates some of its small poetry space to some of the worst looking anthologies i've ever come across; meanwhile, not one copy of postmodern can be found. what i did find at borders tonight though (i had a spiffy gift card) was marie howe's the good thief and a collection of george oppen's poems (sadly though, there are only two poems from discrete series (fortunately not two of the ones i already have copies of), but i suppose the intro by robert creeley will make up for that)). i also picked up dave barry does japan and talk to the hand by lynne truss (who is brilliant and funny). now i just have to finish my first dr who novel so that i can crack some more binding (i don't, actually, crack the bindings of my books, it's just an expression). had i had a $50 gift card to atticus i would have come home with mina loy and some kawabata (can you believe that the only kawabata novel they had was snow country?!? the one i already have!!!). be grateful what you have right? *sigh*
Sunday, January 15, 2006
the hotel science series
hotel science I
this morning we tested how many sips
it takes a girl
to drink a large mug of tea
with milk and too much sugar
the results have revealed
that the answer is fibonacci*.
hotel science II
the rate at which the volume of a lobby increases
is directly related to the number of guests
and indirectly related to the age of the guests.
we exclude the occasional pool party
from our findings.
hotel science III
the accidental spillage of milk and cheerios
is followed by crying 47.923% of the time.
hotel science IV
today we concluded that 6 out of every 7 adults
upon passing the front desk
will have something to say about the weather.
hotel science V
it takes exactly 138 seconds
for halogen lights above a pool
to reach full brightness.
* all you need to know about fibonacci can be found here.
_____________________________________
it's 8:32am, i'm at work. can you tell i'm bored?
this morning we tested how many sips
it takes a girl
to drink a large mug of tea
with milk and too much sugar
the results have revealed
that the answer is fibonacci*.
hotel science II
the rate at which the volume of a lobby increases
is directly related to the number of guests
and indirectly related to the age of the guests.
we exclude the occasional pool party
from our findings.
hotel science III
the accidental spillage of milk and cheerios
is followed by crying 47.923% of the time.
hotel science IV
today we concluded that 6 out of every 7 adults
upon passing the front desk
will have something to say about the weather.
hotel science V
it takes exactly 138 seconds
for halogen lights above a pool
to reach full brightness.
* all you need to know about fibonacci can be found here.
_____________________________________
it's 8:32am, i'm at work. can you tell i'm bored?
Saturday, January 14, 2006
dear salamander
the rain blanketed out the sun this morning,
and the stench of fresh brewed coffee
forced my stomach to churn and curdle.
i let my warm tea escape down the hollow drain,
and left myself without a warmth
for my fingers to wrap around.
i read all of your poems today.
and now i secretly hope that you'll call me
and read them all out loud to me;
but i know you don't know my number,
and i know you don't like phones
at least as much as i don't.
i can't cry at work, but i want to.
i want to stop reading, but i can't.
and i suddenly realize
that all the light in here isn't real.
and i'd forgotten
what it felt like to be hungry.
you force upon me some semblance
of a poetess--something worthy--
when, in truth, i am not really writing poetry anymore.
it's regurgitate fantasy ground to a pulpit
by my girlish will to keep secrets.
i encourage myself to squirm loose
from the embrace of a poet,
but my inner eye sees only
the red salamander.
it's still raining as i rub my temples
with two fingers of each hand
to focus my eyes on my hair,
my visual frame to the world.
i blur the picture for a briefest moment
before the phone rings
and it's not you.
and the stench of fresh brewed coffee
forced my stomach to churn and curdle.
i let my warm tea escape down the hollow drain,
and left myself without a warmth
for my fingers to wrap around.
i read all of your poems today.
and now i secretly hope that you'll call me
and read them all out loud to me;
but i know you don't know my number,
and i know you don't like phones
at least as much as i don't.
i can't cry at work, but i want to.
i want to stop reading, but i can't.
and i suddenly realize
that all the light in here isn't real.
and i'd forgotten
what it felt like to be hungry.
you force upon me some semblance
of a poetess--something worthy--
when, in truth, i am not really writing poetry anymore.
it's regurgitate fantasy ground to a pulpit
by my girlish will to keep secrets.
i encourage myself to squirm loose
from the embrace of a poet,
but my inner eye sees only
the red salamander.
it's still raining as i rub my temples
with two fingers of each hand
to focus my eyes on my hair,
my visual frame to the world.
i blur the picture for a briefest moment
before the phone rings
and it's not you.
Friday, January 13, 2006
mr chris from aelon says:
Your blog must be pretty popular because we always got a fair few visitors linking in from your blog =)
i won't tell chris that it's me who generates all that traffic by using my blog as a favorites list and checking nearly twice a day to see if ryan's written anything. regaurdless, he asked ryan why i'd taken down my button; i told ryan to tell chris that he could make me a button, and lo. there's a new aelon button!
i won't tell chris that it's me who generates all that traffic by using my blog as a favorites list and checking nearly twice a day to see if ryan's written anything. regaurdless, he asked ryan why i'd taken down my button; i told ryan to tell chris that he could make me a button, and lo. there's a new aelon button!
anna andreyevna akhmatova i love you
i forgot, dear anna, how much i adore your poems. (thank you arch for reminding me about her by putting her collection up on that recommended list on your blog.)
below is a mere morsel of this woman's amazing craft (and the beautiful work of translator Lyn Coffin). truly inspirational and beautiful is the beloved anna akhmatova, and devastatingly under appreciated. even i forgot about her. my grandmother of poetry.
The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didin't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife.
1910-1911
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed,
That so many others were you.
1915
THE LAST TOAST
I drink to the house, already destroyed,
And my whole life, too awful to tell,
To the loneliness we together enjoyed,
I drink to you as well,
To the eyes with deadly cold imbued,
To the lips that betrayed me with a lie,
To the world for being cruel and rude,
To God who didn't save us, or try.
1934
THE WILLOW
And a decrepit bunch of trees.
Pushkin
I grew up where all was patterned and silent,
In the cool nursery of the age, itself young;
I didn't like human words, spoken or sung,
But i understood what the wind meant.
I liked burdock and nettles but the will tree,
The silver willow, I liked especially.
It lived gratefully with me till now
And with its weeping branches seemed
To make dreamlessness like something dreamed.
It's hard to believe I outlived it somehow.
There's a stump. And in alien tongues, other willows
_____will
Be saying whatever it is they say
Under our skies, under theirs. I'm completely still.
It's as if my brother had died today.
1940
below is a mere morsel of this woman's amazing craft (and the beautiful work of translator Lyn Coffin). truly inspirational and beautiful is the beloved anna akhmatova, and devastatingly under appreciated. even i forgot about her. my grandmother of poetry.
The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didin't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife.
1910-1911
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed,
That so many others were you.
1915
THE LAST TOAST
I drink to the house, already destroyed,
And my whole life, too awful to tell,
To the loneliness we together enjoyed,
I drink to you as well,
To the eyes with deadly cold imbued,
To the lips that betrayed me with a lie,
To the world for being cruel and rude,
To God who didn't save us, or try.
1934
THE WILLOW
And a decrepit bunch of trees.
Pushkin
I grew up where all was patterned and silent,
In the cool nursery of the age, itself young;
I didn't like human words, spoken or sung,
But i understood what the wind meant.
I liked burdock and nettles but the will tree,
The silver willow, I liked especially.
It lived gratefully with me till now
And with its weeping branches seemed
To make dreamlessness like something dreamed.
It's hard to believe I outlived it somehow.
There's a stump. And in alien tongues, other willows
_____will
Be saying whatever it is they say
Under our skies, under theirs. I'm completely still.
It's as if my brother had died today.
1940
Thursday, January 12, 2006
grrr
i am so sick of news coverage on television. i don't even know where to begin. how about the guy who decides that it's okay to put an image of a mother and her two children walking across a CROSS WALK only to be run over and criticality injured by a reckless driver? never mind that, what about the guy who decides it's okay to show this at 8 o'clock in the morning? kids haven't even gone out to catch the bus yet and they're exposed to this!? this being a video clip worse than anything i've seen in a horror film; worse because it's REAL!! then the news reporter turns around in her cushy swivel chair to cover a stroy about how violent video games are effecting children. hello?
today, which is what spurred me to pull out the soap box, i saw a man steel some cash out of a convenient shop drawer only to be beaten to a pulp by the two men who worked at the shop. yeah, okay, so what katy? so this; the men are shown on the clip as running around the counter with wooden baseball bats.
i'm not going to get into an argument about who was or who wasn't in the right. my point is with the image itself. put a scene like that in a film (something an individual CHOOSES to be exposed to) and it gets an R rating; yet put it on the news at 10 in the morning and everyone's alright with it? where are the critics? where are the monitors? where are the mothers?
yeah, i watch plenty of horror films filled with rotting corpses, people being beat up, tortured, murdered; but, i also watch the making-of documentaries and commentaries and interviews included with all those films (when available on dvd, for example). so yes, i watch plenty of horror films, but i also reaffirm the fact that they are fake, make believe, NOT REAL. i also have the opportunity to choose when and where i watch these images. i do not, under any circumstances, want to be exposed to grotesque images while i'm at work. i do not want to be surprised by a mother and her children being run over when i've just started my day, it's horrific and unfair to the victims to exploit their trauma for a higher viewing figure. i'm absolutely disgusted and furious with the tv news networks. (one in particular, but i dare not mention it because i have a bias to begin with; don't i katie couric?)
all this violence, death and suffering, and these news reporters are content to turn around in their chair, pretend like it never happened, and cover a story about an auction for a 2-headed snake?!? you have got to be kidding me.
from now on, i swear, it's cartoon network or nothing, because at least the violence in cartoons is satirical enough that even children understand that it isn't real.
today, which is what spurred me to pull out the soap box, i saw a man steel some cash out of a convenient shop drawer only to be beaten to a pulp by the two men who worked at the shop. yeah, okay, so what katy? so this; the men are shown on the clip as running around the counter with wooden baseball bats.
i'm not going to get into an argument about who was or who wasn't in the right. my point is with the image itself. put a scene like that in a film (something an individual CHOOSES to be exposed to) and it gets an R rating; yet put it on the news at 10 in the morning and everyone's alright with it? where are the critics? where are the monitors? where are the mothers?
yeah, i watch plenty of horror films filled with rotting corpses, people being beat up, tortured, murdered; but, i also watch the making-of documentaries and commentaries and interviews included with all those films (when available on dvd, for example). so yes, i watch plenty of horror films, but i also reaffirm the fact that they are fake, make believe, NOT REAL. i also have the opportunity to choose when and where i watch these images. i do not, under any circumstances, want to be exposed to grotesque images while i'm at work. i do not want to be surprised by a mother and her children being run over when i've just started my day, it's horrific and unfair to the victims to exploit their trauma for a higher viewing figure. i'm absolutely disgusted and furious with the tv news networks. (one in particular, but i dare not mention it because i have a bias to begin with; don't i katie couric?)
all this violence, death and suffering, and these news reporters are content to turn around in their chair, pretend like it never happened, and cover a story about an auction for a 2-headed snake?!? you have got to be kidding me.
from now on, i swear, it's cartoon network or nothing, because at least the violence in cartoons is satirical enough that even children understand that it isn't real.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
and then i wrote this poem
i thought about throwing it out,
folded neatly and wrapped
in a bow of apathy.
but no. of course not.
this sentimental female,
a disfigurement of a poet.
a thing; something;
_____with a mild mind
_____two arms and too much.
folded neatly and wrapped
in a bow of apathy.
but no. of course not.
this sentimental female,
a disfigurement of a poet.
a thing; something;
_____with a mild mind
_____two arms and too much.
feigning genius w/ drew
new feature folks... am going to link to someone else's blog of poetry when i can't think of anything to write myself. i just ran into drew on the crit poet forum and found my way to his blogspot where the first post (currently) is a lovely little series of poems about poetry. enjoy.
the many faces of poetry by andrew williams
the many faces of poetry by andrew williams
Saturday, January 07, 2006
without your sex
the only glow is from the monitor
as i carelessly pick at my toe nails,
my legs tangled in your office chair.
i am trying to write a poem about you.
trying to express, in mere words,
the masculine sensitivity i can smell
just before you lean in to kiss me.
a stubborn shiver leaves the word
on the precipice of my fingers.
i reach to write, abandoning my toes
when you swoop. the scent of your breath
and the soft pink of your lips take me
as you perch just below my left ear.
spin the chair around and the word is gone...
no others will taste you, your kiss;
but my poetry doesn't sell without your sex.
as i carelessly pick at my toe nails,
my legs tangled in your office chair.
i am trying to write a poem about you.
trying to express, in mere words,
the masculine sensitivity i can smell
just before you lean in to kiss me.
a stubborn shiver leaves the word
on the precipice of my fingers.
i reach to write, abandoning my toes
when you swoop. the scent of your breath
and the soft pink of your lips take me
as you perch just below my left ear.
spin the chair around and the word is gone...
no others will taste you, your kiss;
but my poetry doesn't sell without your sex.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
wrap
i ran the wrap around you;
the sheet with a knot.
i tore the sole of your shoe
by running on the ice
you forbid me from.
and it was me who called
at three o'clock sunday morning
just to test you, to see
if you'd answer and you did,
but you couldn't stay on.
================================
am, at the moment, focused on recovering myself out from the swamp of poems posted while i was away from the crit poet. thanks reid for the welcoming return (ever a beacon). as for my own poetry... i'm all about chit chat at the moment, aren't i? above is proof that i'm currently crap at the poetic form itself, though i've been endulging in poetic theory and grumblings about life along side the arch (which will soon be available on po'et'ship.
will attempt some more poetrite tonight, will post the results tomorrow, wish me luck...
p.s. i bought a car today, holy ef
the sheet with a knot.
i tore the sole of your shoe
by running on the ice
you forbid me from.
and it was me who called
at three o'clock sunday morning
just to test you, to see
if you'd answer and you did,
but you couldn't stay on.
================================
am, at the moment, focused on recovering myself out from the swamp of poems posted while i was away from the crit poet. thanks reid for the welcoming return (ever a beacon). as for my own poetry... i'm all about chit chat at the moment, aren't i? above is proof that i'm currently crap at the poetic form itself, though i've been endulging in poetic theory and grumblings about life along side the arch (which will soon be available on po'et'ship.
will attempt some more poetrite tonight, will post the results tomorrow, wish me luck...
p.s. i bought a car today, holy ef
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
lobSTAR
first thing this morning at work a regular guest (i work at a hotel) asked me if i like lobster. lo, the results...
we actually had to buy a new pot to cook her in (we decided it's a lady because she had all sorts of frilly bits). good for us that we live in the sort of place where the regular super market stocks lobster pots (we're talking a pot that makes a normal-sized pot look like a ladle) year round.
...of course, ryan's first reaction is try to fit the whole thing in his mouth.
i'm not being shy here, it's more that i didn't want to get given a steam bath by a posthomous shell fish.
...and the little boy in him surfaces for some antena wiggling.
we actually had to buy a new pot to cook her in (we decided it's a lady because she had all sorts of frilly bits). good for us that we live in the sort of place where the regular super market stocks lobster pots (we're talking a pot that makes a normal-sized pot look like a ladle) year round.
...of course, ryan's first reaction is try to fit the whole thing in his mouth.
i'm not being shy here, it's more that i didn't want to get given a steam bath by a posthomous shell fish.
...and the little boy in him surfaces for some antena wiggling.
Monday, January 02, 2006
the launch
the wonderful arch.memory and i have been corresponding for a little under a month now via email and have finally begun the pseudo-publication of our e-lationship as poets and compadres on blogger's
PO'ET'SHIP. the start may be slow, but once things pick up i'll endeavor to put up a fancy link.
PO'ET'SHIP. the start may be slow, but once things pick up i'll endeavor to put up a fancy link.
the airplane poems
dear readership (all 3 of you),
here are the poems as they were written in my journal to and from england this past christmas. you may see them again in edited pieces, but for now, consider this poetry sushi -- little raw bits wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice...
#################################
i am the cat
covered in pools
of hot winter sun.
i am stretched
and disjointed
lying on your tax returns.
i am bending,
my tail caressing
the carpet.
i am like a cat
urging the magnified
sun through the window
bounced off the snow
to lick my exposed
fingers, face and belly.
i am alone in a hallway
reading William Hathaway
as you pass
and block the light.
we are Sleeping in Church
we are forgetting
by means of other Poets.
#################################
a different pen
and a different ache
specifically unfriendly
the battle for space
and there's nothing but black outside.
#################################
the smell of pretzles (oh how i loath even the word)
the unkind preasure
swells in my stomach
how many painful hours
left in this wretch of
a bird?
and why can't i write?
the ideas missing
with space, with room.
#################################
how to read frank o'hara:
obey
#################################
trundle forward, my whims,
on the coat of a handsome boy
or the plate of a fine dessert
find yourself bemused with green.
#################################
on an airoplane with frank o'hara i dreamt
about the letter you'd never send and
coloured bottles of water from france.
#################################
i did not drop the letter, and i don't feel
particularly
about it, one way or the other.
#################################
now,
try to compose a poem.
#################################
here are the poems as they were written in my journal to and from england this past christmas. you may see them again in edited pieces, but for now, consider this poetry sushi -- little raw bits wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice...
#################################
i am the cat
covered in pools
of hot winter sun.
i am stretched
and disjointed
lying on your tax returns.
i am bending,
my tail caressing
the carpet.
i am like a cat
urging the magnified
sun through the window
bounced off the snow
to lick my exposed
fingers, face and belly.
i am alone in a hallway
reading William Hathaway
as you pass
and block the light.
we are Sleeping in Church
we are forgetting
by means of other Poets.
#################################
a different pen
and a different ache
specifically unfriendly
the battle for space
and there's nothing but black outside.
#################################
the smell of pretzles (oh how i loath even the word)
the unkind preasure
swells in my stomach
how many painful hours
left in this wretch of
a bird?
and why can't i write?
the ideas missing
with space, with room.
#################################
how to read frank o'hara:
obey
#################################
trundle forward, my whims,
on the coat of a handsome boy
or the plate of a fine dessert
find yourself bemused with green.
#################################
on an airoplane with frank o'hara i dreamt
about the letter you'd never send and
coloured bottles of water from france.
#################################
i did not drop the letter, and i don't feel
particularly
about it, one way or the other.
#################################
now,
try to compose a poem.
#################################
Saturday, December 31, 2005
do do do the funky gibbon
while we were in england over the holiday, ryan and i did our best at staying up late and waking up even later--an ill attempt at remaining on american time?--and one of the consequences of this was watching old performances on "Top of the Pops" (the british american bandstand, i guess). one of the more memorable performances was "The Funky Gibbon" song. this is one of those novelty songs that never caught on. my guess as to why it never caught on is that it's awful. well, aside from the fact that the three men singing the song looked like gibbons themselves, the group had Nothing going for them, the song was too long to be cute, and the dance sucked.
aside from late night tv programming (which, even in glorious england has dramatic faults), the only other not-so-nice thing about our trip was the flight over. ryan was nervous about immigration to the point of being incapable of just about anything beyond hugging and holding my bag when i asked him (it's a very cute sort of pathetic, i'll admit). on top of that i had one of my worst times on a plane.
everything else about the trip--even the longer flight back to the states and the real test of immigration laws--was perfect. i'd venture to say that this was one of my best christmas's to date. i know it was ryan's best, and defiantly his mum's best.
this year was different, it was all about the people. ryan, his sister and her husband, ryan's dad and myself all conspired to surprise ryan's mum with the one thing she really wanted, and the one thing she knew she couldn't have--for her son to show up at her front door on christmas. what a sweet wish to begin with! all's she wanted was her whole family to be together. and what's more, it happened to be ryan's grandad's 80th birthday on boxing day. the opportunity to surprise her and the grandparent's was too great to pass up so ryan and i booked our holiday as soon as possible and had been holding our tongues up until the surprise itself.
we flew into manchester to visit ryan's old stomping grounds, to meet up with a few friends and to make a special pilgrimage to the coveted Pizza Co (great news, they're expanding!!). one of the men that run pizza co actually remembered ryan and asked him why he hadn't been in for such a long time. ryan told him he'd moved to americaland and that, after having a pizza, it was the best pizza he'd had in almost 2 years, which i think really made that man's day, if not year. merry christmas pizza co.
it didn't hurt that kerry and richard (ryan's sister and spouse) live in manchester and were able to pick us up and then later drive us to derby for the christmas surprise.
when we got to derby ryan and i went stealth and hid out of sight until kerry and richard delivered their line about having gotten mum something they couldn't wrap. the instant she saw ryan the tears turned on and she covered her face in disbelief. it was the perfect reaction. she kissed and hugged him and cried and by the time we got inside she had us sat on either side of her holding onto us to make sure we were really there. and then we all got to tell her about all the plans and conspiring that had gone on--that the goose was ryan's request, that we'd had the tickets since august and so on.
grandma reacted the same way the day after when she and grandad arrived. grandad just called me the sneaky one the whole weekend :)
goose is really nice; let that be known. and the real meaning of christmas is dessert... i mean family and dessert. honestly, the reason this christmas was so wonderful was because we were all there together and the presents didn't matter one way or the other (though mum, being a mum ran out as soon as she could and bought ryan and i lots of prezies to unwrap on christmas morning).
there's a lovely few pictures of the whole group of us that ryan's doctoring a bit (richard had his eyes closed for the best picture of everyone else...) which i'll put here once they're ready. i'm also composing a list of things i love about britain (not sure, yet, how long it will be though) and i have a pile of poems that i wrote on the plane and before the journey which i'll type up and display here.
hopefully this new year's celebration will be just as lovely. i'm going to kick everyone's butts at that zombie board game and then run really far away when ryan breaks out the karaoke game...
happy new year everyone
aside from late night tv programming (which, even in glorious england has dramatic faults), the only other not-so-nice thing about our trip was the flight over. ryan was nervous about immigration to the point of being incapable of just about anything beyond hugging and holding my bag when i asked him (it's a very cute sort of pathetic, i'll admit). on top of that i had one of my worst times on a plane.
everything else about the trip--even the longer flight back to the states and the real test of immigration laws--was perfect. i'd venture to say that this was one of my best christmas's to date. i know it was ryan's best, and defiantly his mum's best.
this year was different, it was all about the people. ryan, his sister and her husband, ryan's dad and myself all conspired to surprise ryan's mum with the one thing she really wanted, and the one thing she knew she couldn't have--for her son to show up at her front door on christmas. what a sweet wish to begin with! all's she wanted was her whole family to be together. and what's more, it happened to be ryan's grandad's 80th birthday on boxing day. the opportunity to surprise her and the grandparent's was too great to pass up so ryan and i booked our holiday as soon as possible and had been holding our tongues up until the surprise itself.
we flew into manchester to visit ryan's old stomping grounds, to meet up with a few friends and to make a special pilgrimage to the coveted Pizza Co (great news, they're expanding!!). one of the men that run pizza co actually remembered ryan and asked him why he hadn't been in for such a long time. ryan told him he'd moved to americaland and that, after having a pizza, it was the best pizza he'd had in almost 2 years, which i think really made that man's day, if not year. merry christmas pizza co.
it didn't hurt that kerry and richard (ryan's sister and spouse) live in manchester and were able to pick us up and then later drive us to derby for the christmas surprise.
when we got to derby ryan and i went stealth and hid out of sight until kerry and richard delivered their line about having gotten mum something they couldn't wrap. the instant she saw ryan the tears turned on and she covered her face in disbelief. it was the perfect reaction. she kissed and hugged him and cried and by the time we got inside she had us sat on either side of her holding onto us to make sure we were really there. and then we all got to tell her about all the plans and conspiring that had gone on--that the goose was ryan's request, that we'd had the tickets since august and so on.
grandma reacted the same way the day after when she and grandad arrived. grandad just called me the sneaky one the whole weekend :)
goose is really nice; let that be known. and the real meaning of christmas is dessert... i mean family and dessert. honestly, the reason this christmas was so wonderful was because we were all there together and the presents didn't matter one way or the other (though mum, being a mum ran out as soon as she could and bought ryan and i lots of prezies to unwrap on christmas morning).
there's a lovely few pictures of the whole group of us that ryan's doctoring a bit (richard had his eyes closed for the best picture of everyone else...) which i'll put here once they're ready. i'm also composing a list of things i love about britain (not sure, yet, how long it will be though) and i have a pile of poems that i wrote on the plane and before the journey which i'll type up and display here.
hopefully this new year's celebration will be just as lovely. i'm going to kick everyone's butts at that zombie board game and then run really far away when ryan breaks out the karaoke game...
happy new year everyone
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
english crimbo
so i spent christmas in england (couldn't explicitly post that prior to leaving because heaven forbid ryan's mum reading my blog and finding out, thus, spoiling her uber christmas surprise) and while i was there i managed to take a few pictures of my favorite building in the universe, the lovely and well loved Victoria Baths. i've written a poem about this particular building (Tower and Gentleman) which was previously posted on this blog. here are those pics anyway...
i'll post more about my trip as well as the bits of poetry i wrote on the airplane there and back soon... at the moment though... *eyes half open* i'm let jaggeding
i'll post more about my trip as well as the bits of poetry i wrote on the airplane there and back soon... at the moment though... *eyes half open* i'm let jaggeding
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
holiday
.jpg)
clockwise starting from the top left is Ryan (my boyo), myself, rachel, bunny and finally adam.
we got together because rachel has been in belfast for the past 4 or so months. there ought to have been more of us there but communication between so many people on such short notice doesn't always result in mass gatherings. it was easier when we all lived in the same house. anyway, it was a lovely night, just hanging out, talking about gay bars, how bunny now lives with a stripper and watching adam use a wine-bottle opener to destroy innocent grapes.
---------------------------------------------------------
it's the holy-days ladies and fine gentlemen,
so my blog is dormant for a week or so.
but i promise poems and joy will return.
the very merry best to you all (those fine few who visit),
xoxo
Monday, December 19, 2005
remember me not
.
remember me not
for where the color seeps through
but for the black that surrounds us
for the photographer's tongue
and the poet's lense
.
originally posted here
also see
remember me not
for where the color seeps through
but for the black that surrounds us
for the photographer's tongue
and the poet's lense
.
originally posted here
also see
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
bead
my fingers smell after you
as we, the rejected few,
declare a dramatic love affair.
my hair grows longer
as your face grows thinner
and we are lost in eyes
deeply set in on some truth,
some sound or some food.
with no resolution,
we are resolved to this string
of whispers in the dark
on some unholy marriage bed.
as we, the rejected few,
declare a dramatic love affair.
my hair grows longer
as your face grows thinner
and we are lost in eyes
deeply set in on some truth,
some sound or some food.
with no resolution,
we are resolved to this string
of whispers in the dark
on some unholy marriage bed.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
an ode to frank o'hara
she's the woman you want, Frank O’Hara,
between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning.
she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod
was just a scared Benjamin Franklin.
then she'll listen when you tell her
that the poet she should be concerned with
is not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.
she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer
as she stands there naked and smiling.
you'll want to touch her as she moves,
she's soft and young.
she's soft but fueled.
she's dedicated to you.
she's the kind of lady you'll want
to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering.
she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.
trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother.
she'll help cook and clean
without intruding on family traditions.
you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa
so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.
she might get upset when you tell her
you slept with another man
but she's still in love with you after all.
she'll sleep in your bed, in your house,
whether you're there or not,
and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.
be kind to her Frank O’Hara,
there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today,
especially in your city of art.
she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,
not without you, she says, and you'll believe her,
and make her stay for the night.
you can lie together, just you O’Hara
and this little minx of knowledge and eye power,
and she'll know just where to touch you—
to make you shiver.
this should be your favorite part,
she'll talk in her sleep,
more so after sex than usual,
and she'll share her secrets with you then.
she'll tell you she trusts you.
that's when you can tell her you know she loves you.
she's the kind of girl you want to love.
tell her that. tell her you want to love her.
that you know all her secrets
and that it's okay to love you for now.
give her a kiss like you've never given before
but don't touch her.
later you'll hug her, hold her,
feel her melt in your dirty arms
covered in the city's charcoal dust
and smeared with pastel.
she's the only girl you want to know,
but you still wish she was a man
so she could be your best friend,
then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.
you'll fall in love with her body
because of the way she touches you with it.
she loves you with it.
don't tell your mother anything about her before,
just bring her there.
she's the kind of lady your mother will love
(she'll wish she was her daughter)
then your mother will ask you while you're alone
if you plan to marry her.
you have your mother's blessings.
don't sleep with her that night
no matter how much her smile turns you on,
wait until your back at your flat,
back between your well-worn sheets.
she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open
so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.
she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy.
if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is.
you know she'd only ever sleep with poets.
the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.
she is your Byzantium;
the kind of woman you should have had.
__________________________________________________________
an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.
between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning.
she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod
was just a scared Benjamin Franklin.
then she'll listen when you tell her
that the poet she should be concerned with
is not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.
she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer
as she stands there naked and smiling.
you'll want to touch her as she moves,
she's soft and young.
she's soft but fueled.
she's dedicated to you.
she's the kind of lady you'll want
to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering.
she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.
trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother.
she'll help cook and clean
without intruding on family traditions.
you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa
so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.
she might get upset when you tell her
you slept with another man
but she's still in love with you after all.
she'll sleep in your bed, in your house,
whether you're there or not,
and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.
be kind to her Frank O’Hara,
there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today,
especially in your city of art.
she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,
not without you, she says, and you'll believe her,
and make her stay for the night.
you can lie together, just you O’Hara
and this little minx of knowledge and eye power,
and she'll know just where to touch you—
to make you shiver.
this should be your favorite part,
she'll talk in her sleep,
more so after sex than usual,
and she'll share her secrets with you then.
she'll tell you she trusts you.
that's when you can tell her you know she loves you.
she's the kind of girl you want to love.
tell her that. tell her you want to love her.
that you know all her secrets
and that it's okay to love you for now.
give her a kiss like you've never given before
but don't touch her.
later you'll hug her, hold her,
feel her melt in your dirty arms
covered in the city's charcoal dust
and smeared with pastel.
she's the only girl you want to know,
but you still wish she was a man
so she could be your best friend,
then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.
you'll fall in love with her body
because of the way she touches you with it.
she loves you with it.
don't tell your mother anything about her before,
just bring her there.
she's the kind of lady your mother will love
(she'll wish she was her daughter)
then your mother will ask you while you're alone
if you plan to marry her.
you have your mother's blessings.
don't sleep with her that night
no matter how much her smile turns you on,
wait until your back at your flat,
back between your well-worn sheets.
she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open
so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.
she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy.
if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is.
you know she'd only ever sleep with poets.
the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.
she is your Byzantium;
the kind of woman you should have had.
__________________________________________________________
an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
stage hand
some romantic sod
in black in blue in love
with being left out
waiting on a couch
for his princess
her orange hair glittering
he imagines her breasts
then he imagines her breath
he checks his own
behind the high.school stage
on left over furniture
their love happens
-------------------------------------
just a little something to keep you warm tonight.
in black in blue in love
with being left out
waiting on a couch
for his princess
her orange hair glittering
he imagines her breasts
then he imagines her breath
he checks his own
behind the high.school stage
on left over furniture
their love happens
-------------------------------------
just a little something to keep you warm tonight.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
always a poet
he is always a poet;
my gentle man—
my R
_____my A
__________my W
one in three deceiving faces
hidden beneath words like a bed spread.
will you seduce me tonight?
i wrote it on a batman napkin
left over from a little boy's birthday party.
do I wait for a reply,
or will you surprise me?
bring me a white petal.ed rose
and wear that scarf i bought last winter?
he is always a poet;
take a seat beside me, will you whisper?
tell me true stories of women and men?
a warm palm against my cold cheek;
the battle between man and wind;
the prize is a tribute, a front row seat,
or an autumn of burning trees
and real mud.
he is always a poet
he comes to me like a moth,
too long at the flame;
in my arms burned, crisp with no voice
left to beat his wings.
my men of song;
always, they are poets
at the podium in front of a woman
and wavering, these gentle men,
these paper dolls with no clothes on.
------------------------------------
thank you dear arch.memory for your recommendation for this title. you're right.
my gentle man—
my R
_____my A
__________my W
one in three deceiving faces
hidden beneath words like a bed spread.
will you seduce me tonight?
i wrote it on a batman napkin
left over from a little boy's birthday party.
do I wait for a reply,
or will you surprise me?
bring me a white petal.ed rose
and wear that scarf i bought last winter?
he is always a poet;
take a seat beside me, will you whisper?
tell me true stories of women and men?
a warm palm against my cold cheek;
the battle between man and wind;
the prize is a tribute, a front row seat,
or an autumn of burning trees
and real mud.
he is always a poet
he comes to me like a moth,
too long at the flame;
in my arms burned, crisp with no voice
left to beat his wings.
my men of song;
always, they are poets
at the podium in front of a woman
and wavering, these gentle men,
these paper dolls with no clothes on.
------------------------------------
thank you dear arch.memory for your recommendation for this title. you're right.
morning child (draft 3)
the pull down at the corner of a bed sheet
hidden behind morning locks, the glass reflection
of your morning beard, and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through your dreams;
and the distinct smell of picture books
filled your heart or some other appendage.
this unfinished heaven; this holy bed spread;
the innocence of a little boy's curiosity;
became her unholy battle field against you
and a million secrets left under the mattress.
hidden behind morning locks, the glass reflection
of your morning beard, and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through your dreams;
and the distinct smell of picture books
filled your heart or some other appendage.
this unfinished heaven; this holy bed spread;
the innocence of a little boy's curiosity;
became her unholy battle field against you
and a million secrets left under the mattress.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
morning child + revision =
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye;
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desecration of his bed of innocents,
of exploration and of a million secrets,
revealed her as a break from morning rituals.
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye;
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desecration of his bed of innocents,
of exploration and of a million secrets,
revealed her as a break from morning rituals.
Friday, December 02, 2005
revision
as in some cases, revisions can suck the life out of a piece... my heart hurts with every tiny addition and subtraction...
morning child is in ruins...
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desicration of this bed of innocents,
of exploration and a million secrets
left him ...
and i haven't got the propper energy to help it.
you see, i've been trying on some suggestions from the critical poetry forum (a fantastic place with the most beautifully honest and sensitive peers). unfortunatly for morning child, i considered it a finished piece, so when the news came to me that it was everything but, and that the grammar got in the way of people enjoying it... uhge.
i love the way the original sounds, it's beautiful to hear and taste, it's abstract and meaningful... but, maybe i'm wrong.
i'll keep it updated here. hopefully something magnificant will grow out of it.
blah with revision on this... blah blah blah
(okay, i could be tired is all)
morning child is in ruins...
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desicration of this bed of innocents,
of exploration and a million secrets
left him ...
and i haven't got the propper energy to help it.
you see, i've been trying on some suggestions from the critical poetry forum (a fantastic place with the most beautifully honest and sensitive peers). unfortunatly for morning child, i considered it a finished piece, so when the news came to me that it was everything but, and that the grammar got in the way of people enjoying it... uhge.
i love the way the original sounds, it's beautiful to hear and taste, it's abstract and meaningful... but, maybe i'm wrong.
i'll keep it updated here. hopefully something magnificant will grow out of it.
blah with revision on this... blah blah blah
(okay, i could be tired is all)
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
morning child II
sitting on your living room sofa,
she's drinking the orange juice
that your mother gave her.
innocence radiates from her skin
but you can't help yourself
imagining her naked and wanting.
she makes space for you
and pets your fierce morning stubble
moving her fingers across your jaw.
"good morning you two,"
an over zealous mother's call
"breakfast will be ready in five!"
enough time for you to swim
through her dreams as she retells
her frivolous midnight adventures.
she's drinking the orange juice
that your mother gave her.
innocence radiates from her skin
but you can't help yourself
imagining her naked and wanting.
she makes space for you
and pets your fierce morning stubble
moving her fingers across your jaw.
"good morning you two,"
an over zealous mother's call
"breakfast will be ready in five!"
enough time for you to swim
through her dreams as she retells
her frivolous midnight adventures.
eggs
my life is not a poetic one
aside from the fact
that i made scrambled eggs for breakfast
and ate alone;
my husband already out the door.
the kitchen is a disaster,
i pushed plates to make room
to crack the eggs and beat them;
had to clear the stove of old pans
and pots
with pasta sauce stuck to the sides
before i could heat a pan enough
to introduce the eggs.
it'll probably be days
still
before we wash the dishes.
aside from the fact
that i made scrambled eggs for breakfast
and ate alone;
my husband already out the door.
the kitchen is a disaster,
i pushed plates to make room
to crack the eggs and beat them;
had to clear the stove of old pans
and pots
with pasta sauce stuck to the sides
before i could heat a pan enough
to introduce the eggs.
it'll probably be days
still
before we wash the dishes.
i don't know where this one ends
or even where it begins for that matter... but here's what i've got so far. not sure if it's really worth revising, not sure if it's really worth showing, but maybe the publicity will encourage to morph on its own.
He thought it was smart to drink coffee in new york
That’s why he did it, and he thought she liked him.
He’d ask her for it in code, because he thought she knew
All the names of all the different kinds of foam.
A quick trick of light and the scent of hazelnut
Tipped her off to the stains on his shirt.
The collar met his hair where his hear was too long
And she did what she could to avoid staring.
When he finally met with the coffee counter
He’d forgotten exactly what it was
That he was after in the first place
Until he saw the girl he thought liked him
So he slouched like, he thought, a lion would
[and an everlasting ...]
He thought it was smart to drink coffee in new york
That’s why he did it, and he thought she liked him.
He’d ask her for it in code, because he thought she knew
All the names of all the different kinds of foam.
A quick trick of light and the scent of hazelnut
Tipped her off to the stains on his shirt.
The collar met his hair where his hear was too long
And she did what she could to avoid staring.
When he finally met with the coffee counter
He’d forgotten exactly what it was
That he was after in the first place
Until he saw the girl he thought liked him
So he slouched like, he thought, a lion would
[and an everlasting ...]
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
doll
struggle this fantasy forward
bringing boys out of works,
out of home, out of love and
out of something spectacular
to use them like dolls on a platform
designed through improvability,
provincial stitching and strategies
languished in disguise like girls.
she licks ice cream from a spoon
reminding you of cats and tails and
other things you're use to.
you wish her closer and stop
one foot in the air in a dance
until metaphors become you;
until you persuade her green
and her eyes to follow the steps.
bringing boys out of works,
out of home, out of love and
out of something spectacular
to use them like dolls on a platform
designed through improvability,
provincial stitching and strategies
languished in disguise like girls.
she licks ice cream from a spoon
reminding you of cats and tails and
other things you're use to.
you wish her closer and stop
one foot in the air in a dance
until metaphors become you;
until you persuade her green
and her eyes to follow the steps.
Monday, November 21, 2005
k0w
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\//\///-/323 /-/3 ]13].
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Thursday, November 17, 2005
tower and gentleman
here is a symbol in which
many wistful helpless wishes
howl past themselves.
this watch tower, well loved
by the righteous few, where the dedicated
let no brick crumble
pillar supported, and signatured
by wire frames: at its center
a beam of light has punctured.
i think her is your motto
to write in golden leaf;
not the stone, not the glue
but this; this light resonance; this deep patience;
this thick neglect joined with
a gracious ignorance.
life with calm death; the gentleman’s
strict hat and walk
divorced from the construction
and the candor of time,
which decay cannot withhold
nor preservation make holy.
_______________________________________
Robinson Jeffers'
Rock and Hawk
Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.
This grey rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the seawind
Lets no tree grow,
Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.
I think, here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,
But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Disinterestedness;
Life with calm death; the falcon’s
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive
Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.
many wistful helpless wishes
howl past themselves.
this watch tower, well loved
by the righteous few, where the dedicated
let no brick crumble
pillar supported, and signatured
by wire frames: at its center
a beam of light has punctured.
i think her is your motto
to write in golden leaf;
not the stone, not the glue
but this; this light resonance; this deep patience;
this thick neglect joined with
a gracious ignorance.
life with calm death; the gentleman’s
strict hat and walk
divorced from the construction
and the candor of time,
which decay cannot withhold
nor preservation make holy.
_______________________________________
Robinson Jeffers'
Rock and Hawk
Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.
This grey rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the seawind
Lets no tree grow,
Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.
I think, here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,
But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Disinterestedness;
Life with calm death; the falcon’s
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive
Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
experiment 4
Joy to hear his hero spoken of this way,
Of trachytic rock that is separate from the mountainous system,
Used in a tone of genuine pity.
Rays of sunlight awakened us—
Nature has proceeded geometrically and worked in the human manner:
Examined and analyzed the problem,
Yes.
Three days:
Our starting point—the two peaks—couldn’t be seen
The unpleasant fact was that we could have little hope of finding a spring
Hamburg
Enough
Correspond to these Icelandic characters—
Equations
Never before seen—such a basalt structure as this.
Through the next day we walked beneath the endless series of arches,
Even looking up,
Rubbing his hands together
Only a huge skullcap of snow; no
Food
Tendency must not have reassured the professor
Holstein,
Else
Eventually produce the sentence:
A Sunday,
Rumbling carts,
Transitional character became more clearly marked;
His pockets and his traveling bag.
Of trachytic rock that is separate from the mountainous system,
Used in a tone of genuine pity.
Rays of sunlight awakened us—
Nature has proceeded geometrically and worked in the human manner:
Examined and analyzed the problem,
Yes.
Three days:
Our starting point—the two peaks—couldn’t be seen
The unpleasant fact was that we could have little hope of finding a spring
Hamburg
Enough
Correspond to these Icelandic characters—
Equations
Never before seen—such a basalt structure as this.
Through the next day we walked beneath the endless series of arches,
Even looking up,
Rubbing his hands together
Only a huge skullcap of snow; no
Food
Tendency must not have reassured the professor
Holstein,
Else
Eventually produce the sentence:
A Sunday,
Rumbling carts,
Transitional character became more clearly marked;
His pockets and his traveling bag.
poetry waves
for me--and hopefully i'm not the only one--poetry comes in waves. lately it would seem my robotic muses only make monthly visits. even then, it isn't until i call upon them by resigning myself to sit and write. perhaps they hear the arrangment of key and mouse clicks it takes to open word on my computer or they know the sound my note book binding makes as it's opening. they're not here now even though i'm calling them. hopefully they don't think i'm writing well without them. Hello, Muses! This isn't poetry, you can still come for a visit! The tea is on!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Saturday, November 05, 2005
morning child
the pull down at the corner of a bed sheet
hidden behind baby blue and a glass reflection
of your morning beard to the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned to unfairly complicated
her moves across your childhood carpet
and the distinct smell of picture books
turned her into a muse of pleasurable guilt.
the trim of an unpainted heaven reveals her
as a wicked truth amongst comforting lies
and a break from exposure to ritual brushings
leaving way for a finer comb to clean with.
________________________________________
if only every poem came as naturally as this -katy
hidden behind baby blue and a glass reflection
of your morning beard to the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned to unfairly complicated
her moves across your childhood carpet
and the distinct smell of picture books
turned her into a muse of pleasurable guilt.
the trim of an unpainted heaven reveals her
as a wicked truth amongst comforting lies
and a break from exposure to ritual brushings
leaving way for a finer comb to clean with.
________________________________________
if only every poem came as naturally as this -katy
Thursday, November 03, 2005
robots don't make good valentines
robot: would you be my, what is it called? would you be my...
girl: valentine?
robot: like chocolate, yes, but...
girl: you have to promise not to eat me.
robot: pudding.
girl: pudding?
robot: yes, pudding, my chocolate pudding valentine. i have heart for you.
girl: how romantic. do you mean to say you love me?
robot: i cannot.
girl: even more romantic.
robot: pudding please, i cannont say such a thing. we have only known each other for 84, 230 minutes.
girl: your counting?
robot: this relationship is getting too hot, perhaps we should call it quits.
girl: it's getting too what?
robot: i think we should start seeing other people.
girl: erm, okay.
robot: will you still be my pudding?
girl: ...
girl: valentine?
robot: like chocolate, yes, but...
girl: you have to promise not to eat me.
robot: pudding.
girl: pudding?
robot: yes, pudding, my chocolate pudding valentine. i have heart for you.
girl: how romantic. do you mean to say you love me?
robot: i cannot.
girl: even more romantic.
robot: pudding please, i cannont say such a thing. we have only known each other for 84, 230 minutes.
girl: your counting?
robot: this relationship is getting too hot, perhaps we should call it quits.
girl: it's getting too what?
robot: i think we should start seeing other people.
girl: erm, okay.
robot: will you still be my pudding?
girl: ...
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
i heart lynne truss
two thousand and thirty long
the life span of a semicolon
founded in a fancy dress
the debutaunt twirls her hair
to the end of a sentance.
the life span of a semicolon
founded in a fancy dress
the debutaunt twirls her hair
to the end of a sentance.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
hallowe'en
one day late, right?
one trick o' treater last night, a very polite little pumpkin boy with a hankering for lollies. one jack o'lantern with a bat visage. one creepy lovecraft story and one poem:
the pumpkin princess
Pick a pumpkin from the patch little girl
Your pig-tale braids and pink-framed spectacles
Accent the awkward freckle on your button nose
Choose a round one, a big one, a pumpkin that you can’t carry
But try to anyway, get wet dirt on your snow-blue coat
Hold it on your lap for the whole ride home
In your head, name this pumpkin something sweet
Like Christian, Sebastian or Saint Orange of Pumpkin Land
Then protest violently when your dad offers to cut off his head
You can see his face already; you don’t need to carve it in
Watch him carefully to learn if he moves
Be especially aware during the night time
Sneak out of your bed and out of the house, to see him sit on the porch
He is like an angel in the moonlight
You know he’s someone important, a King or a Magician
If only you knew how to make him into a person instead of a pumpkin
So that you could become his fairytale princess
and lots of cup cakes...
one trick o' treater last night, a very polite little pumpkin boy with a hankering for lollies. one jack o'lantern with a bat visage. one creepy lovecraft story and one poem:
the pumpkin princess
Pick a pumpkin from the patch little girl
Your pig-tale braids and pink-framed spectacles
Accent the awkward freckle on your button nose
Choose a round one, a big one, a pumpkin that you can’t carry
But try to anyway, get wet dirt on your snow-blue coat
Hold it on your lap for the whole ride home
In your head, name this pumpkin something sweet
Like Christian, Sebastian or Saint Orange of Pumpkin Land
Then protest violently when your dad offers to cut off his head
You can see his face already; you don’t need to carve it in
Watch him carefully to learn if he moves
Be especially aware during the night time
Sneak out of your bed and out of the house, to see him sit on the porch
He is like an angel in the moonlight
You know he’s someone important, a King or a Magician
If only you knew how to make him into a person instead of a pumpkin
So that you could become his fairytale princess
and lots of cup cakes...
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
bogged
there's a beautiful cranberry bog behind our house here. i took a kabillion photos as soon as i got home and saw the man peddling around on his hover craft churning all the berries to the surface. having spent my life on cape cod, i've never actually been witness to the churning part of bogging--i'd always assumed that as soon as they flooded the bogs the berries just popped up.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
bite size poetry snacks
been writing mostly in my new journal/book/thingy; so we're left with all of these 2 to 8 line minature poems, perfect for snacking. here are the ones i find particularly tastey...
---------------------------------------------------
a.
tell yourself, you're supposed to feel like this.
everyone else does,
some must feel it more.
i tell myself,
i'm supposed to feel like this.
i know others do, some even more so.
---------------------------------------------------
b.
my love poem to him
like all the others
begins with a metaphor
and ends with a promise.
---------------------------------------------------
c.
my dearest robotic companion;
where have you hidden the extension cord?
and why can't i get the iron to steam?
the lawn needs mowing,
but the engine oil has gone missing.
can you help me? or are you too busy
building a girlfriend like in that movie we saw?
---------------------------------------------------
d.
he has a distate for silicon
and you can't blame him;
not after what silicon did,
not after such a falling out.
i don't know the details,
only that she's quite slippery
(always has been, you know)
---------------------------------------------------
e.
i lost the ring in my sleep
but lost more in my dream
only to find him sitll there
when i woke.
---------------------------------------------------
f.
do you know where
we keep
the rolls of deductive reasoning?
---------------------------------------------------
g.
third confirmation
with that crane
and that place.
---------------------------------------------------
next time on something katy you'll get to read two poems, the first called "leaves in my sandwich" and the second called "robots don't make good valentines". also in the works, the scrabble results poem (a poem constructed of words formed by an intense game of scrabble on the internet).
[see, by telling you what's coming up, it's like i'm promising you (and therefore myself) that these poems will be edited and posted.]
---------------------------------------------------
a.
tell yourself, you're supposed to feel like this.
everyone else does,
some must feel it more.
i tell myself,
i'm supposed to feel like this.
i know others do, some even more so.
---------------------------------------------------
b.
my love poem to him
like all the others
begins with a metaphor
and ends with a promise.
---------------------------------------------------
c.
my dearest robotic companion;
where have you hidden the extension cord?
and why can't i get the iron to steam?
the lawn needs mowing,
but the engine oil has gone missing.
can you help me? or are you too busy
building a girlfriend like in that movie we saw?
---------------------------------------------------
d.
he has a distate for silicon
and you can't blame him;
not after what silicon did,
not after such a falling out.
i don't know the details,
only that she's quite slippery
(always has been, you know)
---------------------------------------------------
e.
i lost the ring in my sleep
but lost more in my dream
only to find him sitll there
when i woke.
---------------------------------------------------
f.
do you know where
we keep
the rolls of deductive reasoning?
---------------------------------------------------
g.
third confirmation
with that crane
and that place.
---------------------------------------------------
next time on something katy you'll get to read two poems, the first called "leaves in my sandwich" and the second called "robots don't make good valentines". also in the works, the scrabble results poem (a poem constructed of words formed by an intense game of scrabble on the internet).
[see, by telling you what's coming up, it's like i'm promising you (and therefore myself) that these poems will be edited and posted.]
number 38
i made the list!
what else is there to say? my humble little blog is on the same list as ron silliman and the spamming poet... all thanks to one person's project to collect 100 blogging poets in 100 days.
i can't wait to see what else shows up on the list, maybe my friend arch.memory, whose poetry is an ever growing sorce of inspiration, or perhaps the virtual itch.
my blog is no better than theirs, perhaps i merely caught someone's attention, perhaps my blog is bloggerific and i didn't even know. maybe it was because for a few days there, it was pink (we fixed that), who knows...
anyway, i'm really glad and really proud and really tired and really pleased to be able to share the list with all (click on the post title). i'll be spending time checking out each and every one of the other listed blogs, in the hopes that others may do the same.
(some poems to come in the next post)
-katy
what else is there to say? my humble little blog is on the same list as ron silliman and the spamming poet... all thanks to one person's project to collect 100 blogging poets in 100 days.
i can't wait to see what else shows up on the list, maybe my friend arch.memory, whose poetry is an ever growing sorce of inspiration, or perhaps the virtual itch.
my blog is no better than theirs, perhaps i merely caught someone's attention, perhaps my blog is bloggerific and i didn't even know. maybe it was because for a few days there, it was pink (we fixed that), who knows...
anyway, i'm really glad and really proud and really tired and really pleased to be able to share the list with all (click on the post title). i'll be spending time checking out each and every one of the other listed blogs, in the hopes that others may do the same.
(some poems to come in the next post)
-katy
the profundity
log;
no one know how to describe the date, nor time,
since our species has departed its land and its oceans.
our planet, once overwhelmed by us, is now recovering.
the process of growing back the smallest details... its what we wait for...
the first pearl means we can begin to migrate back, in phases.
until that anticipated moment, that discovery,
we wait abandoned and loitering in orbits around moons and unnamed rocks.
disbanded and all to blame for our separation and solitude.
-astronaut
p.s. missing polly
no one know how to describe the date, nor time,
since our species has departed its land and its oceans.
our planet, once overwhelmed by us, is now recovering.
the process of growing back the smallest details... its what we wait for...
the first pearl means we can begin to migrate back, in phases.
until that anticipated moment, that discovery,
we wait abandoned and loitering in orbits around moons and unnamed rocks.
disbanded and all to blame for our separation and solitude.
-astronaut
p.s. missing polly
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
putting on perspective lenses
To make a point about gas prices… in 1866 oil cost approximately $31 per gallon… I don’t even want to think about how much per litre in pounds that works out to.
"In his book ''History of the American Whale Fishery,'' Alexander Starbuck notes- http://www.capecodonline.com/special/rightwhales/day1_whaleuses.htm
that sperm oil peaked at $2.55 per gallon in 1866, more than twice the price of
oil from other whales. Adjusted for 139 years of inflation, that's almost $31
per gallon in 2005 dollars. "
Granted it was no where near the same kind of oil, oil nonetheless. Perspective is pivotal in considering every day life and our tumultuous world. I don’t think we have it anywhere as near difficult as the Victorians must have. I don’t where a corset (also a product of whale hunting) and I don’t pay over $300 at the pump every time I fill up my car.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
handyman
handyman magazine--
which we recieve periodically
only due to the fact that
the previous inhabitants
of this particular address
happened to have call
for such a guiding light--
suggestes storing
all your handyman magazines
in cereal boxes cut
at aesthetic angles,
so i put ryan's fangorias
in a fruitloops box.
which we recieve periodically
only due to the fact that
the previous inhabitants
of this particular address
happened to have call
for such a guiding light--
suggestes storing
all your handyman magazines
in cereal boxes cut
at aesthetic angles,
so i put ryan's fangorias
in a fruitloops box.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
bits and parts of
been writing just like what it sounds like... incompletes, pieces of poems, nothing worth noting in fact.
lines like "how is it the weatherman smiles on a day like this one?" and "history is being written by the channel 7 news and 9" "when they smile and say 'it sort of makes you want to cry' / when they giggle like children and say 'your ..." end of that one not done yet, see, incoplete pieces.
but felt i should share those pieces anyway.
i'm struggling, again, with a nation-wide crisis, but this time there's no enemy so we blame ourselves and each other. civilization vs nature, nature comes out on top every time, no matter how stubborn civilization can be. our nature comes back to us and we open ourselves to those who need us. and i'm stuggling to juxtapose myself against the reality of my country; wondering, does it define me in any way?
lines like "how is it the weatherman smiles on a day like this one?" and "history is being written by the channel 7 news and 9" "when they smile and say 'it sort of makes you want to cry' / when they giggle like children and say 'your ..." end of that one not done yet, see, incoplete pieces.
but felt i should share those pieces anyway.
i'm struggling, again, with a nation-wide crisis, but this time there's no enemy so we blame ourselves and each other. civilization vs nature, nature comes out on top every time, no matter how stubborn civilization can be. our nature comes back to us and we open ourselves to those who need us. and i'm stuggling to juxtapose myself against the reality of my country; wondering, does it define me in any way?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
blisttered
let me know which version you prefer, i know the variables are small, but it's the smallest details that make poetry what it is...
version 1:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
version 2:
in a blisster of affection she gave herself
without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot
to lie with him until it passed.
version 3:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and by the foot
to lie with him until it passed.
version 4:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then amidst the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
version 5;
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
and in a storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
---- or the elements you like best of each bit... in the comments, write me out the version you like best... this will be fun
version 1:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
version 2:
in a blisster of affection she gave herself
without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot
to lie with him until it passed.
version 3:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then in the storm, he took her
by the hand and by the foot
to lie with him until it passed.
version 4:
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
then amidst the storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
version 5;
in a blisster of affection
she gave herself without shield or shuffle.
and in a storm, he took her
by the hand and foot to lie with him
until it passed.
---- or the elements you like best of each bit... in the comments, write me out the version you like best... this will be fun
Thursday, August 11, 2005
poet's drought
the poet's drought of a mind
trickles like dried earth down a dune slope;
the humidity threatening to condense
but never following through.
unlike rain through paper relieving the tension
that holds the world together,
this landscape crackles into inhumane patterns.
trickles like dried earth down a dune slope;
the humidity threatening to condense
but never following through.
unlike rain through paper relieving the tension
that holds the world together,
this landscape crackles into inhumane patterns.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
the laundry matt princess
the laundry matt princess
works at folding sheets
into patterns and shapes
worthy of a king's linen closet.
works at folding sheets
into patterns and shapes
worthy of a king's linen closet.
Friday, July 08, 2005
not writing poetry is not easy
but i've got too much life fluttering around me all day that by the end of it i'm blasted with all this muck of words in swivels and swooshes. i can't make sense of it.
on top of life happening, my grandfather spent over 8 hours in intense surgery yesterday having cancer taken out of his cheek tissue. luckily they didn't have to remove any of the cheek bone.
and i go back to twin peaks in a few weeks, i'm jonesing for big fat ancient trees, blackberries and the most beautiful body of water the world ever let flow.
though i have one idea in my mind for a poem, as long as it gets is this...
a plump of rain fell on the robot's metal eyelid and he blinked
perhaps it'll grow
perhaps it'll stay just how it is
on top of life happening, my grandfather spent over 8 hours in intense surgery yesterday having cancer taken out of his cheek tissue. luckily they didn't have to remove any of the cheek bone.
and i go back to twin peaks in a few weeks, i'm jonesing for big fat ancient trees, blackberries and the most beautiful body of water the world ever let flow.
though i have one idea in my mind for a poem, as long as it gets is this...
a plump of rain fell on the robot's metal eyelid and he blinked
perhaps it'll grow
perhaps it'll stay just how it is
Thursday, June 30, 2005
violin
as if a love had long been lost,
passion flickers under her breath.
she never played the violin for him,
he never asked her to,
and the regret surfaces.
now she remembers playing;
her fingers delicate on the strings,
fine and quick to the note.
the bridge collapses and strings snap
until the fade completes.
she thinks of picking it up again.
passion flickers under her breath.
she never played the violin for him,
he never asked her to,
and the regret surfaces.
now she remembers playing;
her fingers delicate on the strings,
fine and quick to the note.
the bridge collapses and strings snap
until the fade completes.
she thinks of picking it up again.
goodmorning capt'n
when i was a youngster one of my fav. cereals was always capt'n crunch. not just because 'you and the capt'n make it happen' but because i had and still have a ritual for eating a bowl of crunch berries.
first i eat out all the little yellow bits (they're oddly enough, my favorite part). when capt'n crunch with crunch berries was first brought out the crunch berries were all red round balls of goodness. i would, after eating all the yellow, eat all the red crunch berries three at a time. three red circles in my spoon wading in a pool of lightly tinted pink milk. if there was an exact multiple of three in the bowl i won. i didn't win anything in particular, just the self awarness and pride that i could pour a bowl of cereal in perfect threes.
when capt'n crunch got more complicated so did the rules for eating the crunch berries. they introduces blue crunch berries and the rule for eating three berries at time was piggybacked by the rule that out of the three crunch berries, they could not all three be the same color. so i'd have to eat two blue and one red or visa versa. if i was left with all red or all blue then i didn't do a very good job on guessing the proportions of blue to red.
yet again the crunch berries morph. they added purple and called it mixed berry. there were green and red berries in the shapes of santa hats and trees for christmas capt'n crunch, and today capt'n crunch is out of control.
now when you got to pick out some capt'n crunch with crunch berries you get stuck with this oddly unnatural trick. instead of a pinkish purple unaccounted for effect of your morning breakfast cereal milk turing a pink or light purple because of the dye in the crunch berries, now they prurposfully impliment a dying agent (edible of course) that turns your milk blue... yeah blue. yet, there are no blue pieces. there are green, purple and even red pieces in the cereal, but none blue.
it's a change enough not to have standard round berries, these ones are in the shape of characters from a kids cartoon i've never watched (which means it mustn't be very good, because i watch all the best while i'm at work).
the crunch was fabulous, and the blue milked bowl of cereal this morning served a three day craving. i even followed the rules of the ritual (though i'm out of practice, i ended up with two remaining red peices). but blue? call me old fashioned, but i'd take the pink milk over the blue any day.
here's a happy link with a historic list of mostly unsucessful crunchy endevours... http://www.lavasurfer.com/cereal-quakeroats.html
cheburashka
went to an eels gig last night (absolute tops). my second sight of eels, but ryan's first. i saw them on tour with shootinanananany a year and a half ago, much different stylee and vibe witch was ace.
anyhow, this blog of a post isn't about the concert so much as what went on before it... at the somerville theartre in davis square they showed a reel before the gig, an opening act i suppose you could call it... and what else should they play but a stop motion, antique children's show... from Russia.
i'd heard about Cheburashka (which is pronounces chip oo rashka) from my russian-born girlfriends, dina and bunny and their click of russian party-going amigos from the brookline area. from what i did know about Cheburashka was that you sing a song about him as a toast when you're seriously far gone on the vodka river of love. a particularly unique american mate of mine, Keith, the inderterminant and ever hair colour changing, was and is a huge fan of singing Chepurashka with a glass of something or other to support his intonation.
Keith spent some exciting time in japan where he was, unavoidable, a big smash. could part of the reason for his success in japane be because he knew all the words to the Chepurashka song?
what i learned from the stop motion flick was that the Chepurashka is actually an adorable little monkey/bear hybrid of a creature who's fond of oranges and making friends with carocodilles (sound it out) named Gena (gee na).
and of course... because he's little and strange and fuzzy, the japanese *love* Chepurashka. check out the title link.
i should not have been surprised.
all in all an educational evening in bean town and a happy internet breakfast.
anyhow, this blog of a post isn't about the concert so much as what went on before it... at the somerville theartre in davis square they showed a reel before the gig, an opening act i suppose you could call it... and what else should they play but a stop motion, antique children's show... from Russia.
i'd heard about Cheburashka (which is pronounces chip oo rashka) from my russian-born girlfriends, dina and bunny and their click of russian party-going amigos from the brookline area. from what i did know about Cheburashka was that you sing a song about him as a toast when you're seriously far gone on the vodka river of love. a particularly unique american mate of mine, Keith, the inderterminant and ever hair colour changing, was and is a huge fan of singing Chepurashka with a glass of something or other to support his intonation.
Keith spent some exciting time in japan where he was, unavoidable, a big smash. could part of the reason for his success in japane be because he knew all the words to the Chepurashka song?
what i learned from the stop motion flick was that the Chepurashka is actually an adorable little monkey/bear hybrid of a creature who's fond of oranges and making friends with carocodilles (sound it out) named Gena (gee na).
and of course... because he's little and strange and fuzzy, the japanese *love* Chepurashka. check out the title link.
i should not have been surprised.
all in all an educational evening in bean town and a happy internet breakfast.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
two moon stroll
my two moon stroll
started in a mobile home
hussed and fussed it's way
down to a motor bike
and some sharp gloves.
the american highway
saw me two moons
one in the sky
and another attached
to a black pole, backlight
with the words "Burger King".
started in a mobile home
hussed and fussed it's way
down to a motor bike
and some sharp gloves.
the american highway
saw me two moons
one in the sky
and another attached
to a black pole, backlight
with the words "Burger King".
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Jet Lag Poetry
take your poem on trip around the world using babel as your literary guide and this is what you may find happens, under the fatigue of travel, your meaning is muddled and words are lost, or in some cases, duplicated beyond recognition.
JET LAG POETRY
Original:
my hair is in shards
and the wax trees are dripping over themselves
suffocating the green lawn.
Shirley Bassey sing your heart out
he'll never hear you, no matter how long the party
or regal the host.
Thru Italy:
my hats are in shards
and the trees of the wax are dripping over
if same that suffocaring the bassey green of shirley
of the Prato sing your heart outside
that it will not never feel them,
it does not import as it wishes the party or regal the host.
or regal the host.
Thru Greece:
my hats are in the shards
and trees of candle are sta'zontas if the same thing that suffocaring
the bassey green of shirley Prato
tragoydi'ste your abroad of hearts
that them will not feel never,
this imports since wishes the contracting part or vasjloprepi's
the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.
Thru Japan:
As for my hat there is a fragment,
the wood of the candle the green of bassey
of tragoydi'ste of Prato of suffocaring your shirley,
asks this to central foreign country which sta'zontas under any condition is not felt
and ever since it is the same thing which imports the household head of part
or vasjloprepi which tightens.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.
Thru Russia:
As for my helmet there will be part,
the wood of the candles the green color bassey
tragoydi'ste Prato suffocaring your shirley,
ask this to central zarubezhnya of the country
they are not felt which sta'zontas under any condition
and ever since will be the same thing it imports
the head of the household of part or vasjloprepi it involves.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.
Thru France:
As for my helmet there will be the part,
the wood of the candles the tragoydi' ste green
Prato of bassey of color suffocaring your shirley,
ask this the central zarubezhnya country
which they are not felt which sta' zontas under any condition
and since are the same thing it imports the head of the household of the part
or of the vasjloprepi he implies.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.
One of most interesting aspects of this piece is the transformation in punctuation and the generative repeats.
JET LAG POETRY
Original:
my hair is in shards
and the wax trees are dripping over themselves
suffocating the green lawn.
Shirley Bassey sing your heart out
he'll never hear you, no matter how long the party
or regal the host.
Thru Italy:
my hats are in shards
and the trees of the wax are dripping over
if same that suffocaring the bassey green of shirley
of the Prato sing your heart outside
that it will not never feel them,
it does not import as it wishes the party or regal the host.
or regal the host.
Thru Greece:
my hats are in the shards
and trees of candle are sta'zontas if the same thing that suffocaring
the bassey green of shirley Prato
tragoydi'ste your abroad of hearts
that them will not feel never,
this imports since wishes the contracting part or vasjloprepi's
the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.
Thru Japan:
As for my hat there is a fragment,
the wood of the candle the green of bassey
of tragoydi'ste of Prato of suffocaring your shirley,
asks this to central foreign country which sta'zontas under any condition is not felt
and ever since it is the same thing which imports the household head of part
or vasjloprepi which tightens.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.
Thru Russia:
As for my helmet there will be part,
the wood of the candles the green color bassey
tragoydi'ste Prato suffocaring your shirley,
ask this to central zarubezhnya of the country
they are not felt which sta'zontas under any condition
and ever since will be the same thing it imports
the head of the household of part or vasjloprepi it involves.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.
Thru France:
As for my helmet there will be the part,
the wood of the candles the tragoydi' ste green
Prato of bassey of color suffocaring your shirley,
ask this the central zarubezhnya country
which they are not felt which sta' zontas under any condition
and since are the same thing it imports the head of the household of the part
or of the vasjloprepi he implies.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.
One of most interesting aspects of this piece is the transformation in punctuation and the generative repeats.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
.
.
saviour
hello,
this is not a poem.
this is a post.
there is a difference.
the difference is in this: i did not type this in my word pad, then correct this in my microsoft word. this was composed and uncorrected in the little post box.
this post is about poetry--even though it is not poetry.
this has been done before.
i've been blocked, so today i went for a bike ride. after 2 seconds of biking i realized it's way to bloody hot to bike, so i went up and down some hills then came home (the entire ride lasted, oh, 5 minutes). the bike ride did not inspire me.
i finished up my chores around the house for today and decided to subject my mind to the hum and clank of my electronic type writer (sears model, very cutting edge and all that). between the typewriter and i, we produced two oversized pages of text. the first of the two seems somewhat sucessful. this text will be shared here in due time. it deserves some jestation and some editing before being exposed to the internet--it's young.
i may be tempted, after talking to my ship mate kilgannon, to tranfer some of my recent dreams into poetry; however, i will have to edit out some of the dr who references in order to purify the dreams.
when "the first long page" (the name of the peice i typed today) is revealed, perhaps i'll include a footnote or two for those of you interested in the origins of the poem (because i'm am stupidly eager to do such torturous things to my readers).
in the mean time, my hairy spider friend and i are going to continue our battle of wits and gestures (i'm only winning because i'm 300 times bigger than him).
-katy
this is not a poem.
this is a post.
there is a difference.
the difference is in this: i did not type this in my word pad, then correct this in my microsoft word. this was composed and uncorrected in the little post box.
this post is about poetry--even though it is not poetry.
this has been done before.
i've been blocked, so today i went for a bike ride. after 2 seconds of biking i realized it's way to bloody hot to bike, so i went up and down some hills then came home (the entire ride lasted, oh, 5 minutes). the bike ride did not inspire me.
i finished up my chores around the house for today and decided to subject my mind to the hum and clank of my electronic type writer (sears model, very cutting edge and all that). between the typewriter and i, we produced two oversized pages of text. the first of the two seems somewhat sucessful. this text will be shared here in due time. it deserves some jestation and some editing before being exposed to the internet--it's young.
i may be tempted, after talking to my ship mate kilgannon, to tranfer some of my recent dreams into poetry; however, i will have to edit out some of the dr who references in order to purify the dreams.
when "the first long page" (the name of the peice i typed today) is revealed, perhaps i'll include a footnote or two for those of you interested in the origins of the poem (because i'm am stupidly eager to do such torturous things to my readers).
in the mean time, my hairy spider friend and i are going to continue our battle of wits and gestures (i'm only winning because i'm 300 times bigger than him).
-katy
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Robot Boy Tries
robot boy tries to be punk
a green and black striped wrist band
various colours of dome out of a spray can
even though he knows what he's doing
he draws over his clear reflectors
with crayola markers
neglecting attention
he thinks he wants to want something
but the kids at school don't communicate clearly
frustrated, he finds the meaning
in trying to find the meaning
trying to be punk, he succeeds graciously
but when he gets home
he goes back to his consol
for a game of mario tennis
and drinks oil from a coke can
a green and black striped wrist band
various colours of dome out of a spray can
even though he knows what he's doing
he draws over his clear reflectors
with crayola markers
neglecting attention
he thinks he wants to want something
but the kids at school don't communicate clearly
frustrated, he finds the meaning
in trying to find the meaning
trying to be punk, he succeeds graciously
but when he gets home
he goes back to his consol
for a game of mario tennis
and drinks oil from a coke can
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Ode to Tom Baker's Scarf
dear scarf of tom baker,
you are amazing in all your ridiculousness.
it astounds even the likes of that silly hat romana is wearing!
indeed it does.
love and affection,
me
ps how offended would you be if i used labor methods to reproduce you once, maybe twice...
Sunday, May 29, 2005
the pony tale
first the hair was much in length
then the girl decided it was time
so she asked her mother to cut if all off
which she did, and it was funny
and in the end, everything was good and happy! (yeah pacman!)
then the girl decided it was time
so she asked her mother to cut if all off
which she did, and it was funny
and in the end, everything was good and happy! (yeah pacman!)
The Discovery
**read previous post first**
Previously I explored the difference between prose and poetry through optics, taking cues from Stein and Zukofsky. In Zukofsky’s poetics he not only dealt with the idea of poetry as an optical lens, he also responded to the necessity of labor in poetry. As anyone reading my collection (as it is presented here) should have noticed, there is a reoccurring figure—the robot.
What actually prompted me to finally look up the history of the word *robot* was an episode of Doctor Who (Pyramids of Mars). Tom Baker’s doctor goes back in time to 1911 where/when an ancient evil Egyptian god is using robots wrapped up in mummy costumes and mind control to free himself from his imprisonment. The Doctor points out that the local gentleman from 1911 would not know the word robot. I decided to find out when the word robot was born. As it turns out, the word Robot was not invented until 1921, and not imported into the English language until 1923—of course, the Doctor was right.
What was even more interesting to me than the date of the word’s origins was the root words that have been merged to create the word Robot.
The history of the word reads like this:
Robot is a word that is both a coinage by an individual person and a borrowing. It has been in English since 1923 when the Czech writer Karel Capek's play R.U.R. was translated into English and presented in London and New York. R.U.R., published in 1921, is an abbreviation of Rossum's Universal Robots; robot itself comes from Czech robota, “servitude, forced labor,” from rab, “slave.” The Slavic root behind robota is orb-, from the Indo-European root *orbh-, referring to separation from one's group or passing out of one sphere of ownership into another. This seems to be the sense that binds together its somewhat diverse group of derivatives, which includes Greek orphanos, “orphan,” Latin orbus, “orphaned,” and German Erbe, “inheritance,” in addition to the Slavic word for slave mentioned above. Czech robota is also similar to another German derivative of this root, namely Arbeit, “work” (its Middle High German form arabeit is even more like the Czech word). Arbeit may be descended from a word that meant “slave labor,” and later generalized to just “labor.”
Like Zukofsky, I have incorporated the nature of labor—the robot—and the nature of physics/optics into the proverbial batter of poetry.
I wanted to share this discovery first, before digesting it thoroughly. Perhaps some discussion will prompt me towards some conclusion.
Previously I explored the difference between prose and poetry through optics, taking cues from Stein and Zukofsky. In Zukofsky’s poetics he not only dealt with the idea of poetry as an optical lens, he also responded to the necessity of labor in poetry. As anyone reading my collection (as it is presented here) should have noticed, there is a reoccurring figure—the robot.
What actually prompted me to finally look up the history of the word *robot* was an episode of Doctor Who (Pyramids of Mars). Tom Baker’s doctor goes back in time to 1911 where/when an ancient evil Egyptian god is using robots wrapped up in mummy costumes and mind control to free himself from his imprisonment. The Doctor points out that the local gentleman from 1911 would not know the word robot. I decided to find out when the word robot was born. As it turns out, the word Robot was not invented until 1921, and not imported into the English language until 1923—of course, the Doctor was right.
What was even more interesting to me than the date of the word’s origins was the root words that have been merged to create the word Robot.
The history of the word reads like this:
Robot is a word that is both a coinage by an individual person and a borrowing. It has been in English since 1923 when the Czech writer Karel Capek's play R.U.R. was translated into English and presented in London and New York. R.U.R., published in 1921, is an abbreviation of Rossum's Universal Robots; robot itself comes from Czech robota, “servitude, forced labor,” from rab, “slave.” The Slavic root behind robota is orb-, from the Indo-European root *orbh-, referring to separation from one's group or passing out of one sphere of ownership into another. This seems to be the sense that binds together its somewhat diverse group of derivatives, which includes Greek orphanos, “orphan,” Latin orbus, “orphaned,” and German Erbe, “inheritance,” in addition to the Slavic word for slave mentioned above. Czech robota is also similar to another German derivative of this root, namely Arbeit, “work” (its Middle High German form arabeit is even more like the Czech word). Arbeit may be descended from a word that meant “slave labor,” and later generalized to just “labor.”
Like Zukofsky, I have incorporated the nature of labor—the robot—and the nature of physics/optics into the proverbial batter of poetry.
I wanted to share this discovery first, before digesting it thoroughly. Perhaps some discussion will prompt me towards some conclusion.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
poetics part one
**This is the official introduction to my collection entitled PoemTree. In order to understand what i want/need to reflect on here (building upon a recent discovery), these theories are key (for those interested in following the saga).**
While this collection of poetry evolved into its current form, Professor Jennison and I began to talk about the recurring characters within it. She cleverly led me into questioning why I had written a collection of poems instead of a narrative piece if I felt so strongly about the character development. In order to answer such a mammoth question I had to first decipher the difference between a novel and a collection of poetry.
Making a distinction between the two literary forms was no simple task due to the modern blurring of the genres in the forms of prose poetry, poetic prose and the development or degeneration of the English language. I began by referring to, obsessively, various poets’ work on the matter of defining poetry and giving justification to their work. My hunt for the answer to my ultimate question of ‘what is poetry’ lead me into the laps of Wallace Stevens’ “Adagia” and parts of John Cage’s Themes & Variations in which both notable poets filled pages with aphorisms and little truths about poetry. These postulates, however meaningful they might be, fell short when it came to defining the genre of poetry.
Exploring further I settled on Gertrude Stein’s Composition and Explanation which digests the notion of all reality down to the reality of composition. Where Stein writes, “everything is the same except composition and as the composition is different and always going to be different everything is not the same,” was where I began to realize the differences between narrative and poetry immerges when we study the composition or either form. Holding Gertrude by the hand I moved forward into Louis Zukofsky’s An Objective, an essay which examines the balance between the writer and the reader perspectives, histories and efforts in the art of poetic transactions. Zukofsky’s analogy to poetry as an optical lens which brings “rays from an object to a focus” lit a spark in my mind using the match I had already been handed by Stein’s revelations.
By merging Stein’s concept of difference in composition and Zukofsky’s optical analysis of poetry, I eventually developed my own elaborate analogy with light as it projects through three-dimensional shapes, namely a cube and a prism. The difference between these two shapes is the way they distort light. A cube, which I compare to narrative work, such as novels, does not distort the light shown through it very much if even at all. It does not matter what sort of light you shine on it, the light will always go straight through. The prism—which is analogous to poetry—shows an array of colors separated by the path the light takes through the shape. The end-product, the rainbow, varies in spectrum depending on the light source. The light source is the individual and all of his experiences.
The novel does not rely on the light source for output; whereas the poetry, like the prism, fragments the light to reveal its components. With my analogy in hand I began to realize the importance of audience perspective as a tool for dissecting the two genres. While considering audiences, it became much easier to recognize specific differences between narrative and poetry such as length, layout of time and space, and continuity within the work.
Excluding the epic, quintessential poetry is limited in its length. This brevity allows for blank space between pages where the reader has room to interpret the words resonating in his mind. Instead of doing the work of a narrative, such as detailed descriptions of time and space, the poem relies on the work of allusions to a particular reality and the reader’s ability to fill in the blanks. Because, too, the novel is longer in length it must sustain the reader’s imagination, causing them to forget the reality of whatever sofa they sit on or whatever train they are riding. The novelist does not want the reader’s imagination to wander off between chapters. On the contrary there is the poem, which encourages wondering and does not provide a solid cube of thought. Instead, poetry hands the reader a prism with which to view the world though at that instant. A poet wants the reader to remember that article he read in the paper this morning and imaging what it would be like if, say, the article were written by an unsuccessful astronaut, or a depressed, tin robot.
I have given you a pair of prism-eyed spectacles to wear while you read about rivers and the lives of trees—what do they look like now? If I had chosen to present these characters in a narrative you would have been told about the astronaut’s failure explicitly and how that reminds us all of a worthless king amidst his revolting subjects, or I could have described to you the ebb and flow of the green river, how the rays of sun make it look alive in the morning, like a translucent serpent with feminine features—a modern Eve.
Instead, what have I done? I have alluded to the astronaut’s failure, the robot’s despair and the love of a fox. I have give the reader sips and tastes of the meal instead of the layout of the dining table or the chef’s favorite receipts. I have provided that path for the light to follow in order to escape the opposite side as a rainbow.
What the sips and tastes do in poetry is to allow events in time to occur all at once on the page. The poet never says explicitly that this event occurs before this one. To keep his audience from getting lost the novelist must provide such a timeline. In poetry, however, if everything were happening at once the human mind would become overwhelmed with this incomprehensible truth; therefore, the reader must be able to time-line the events as he deems fit.
Yet, it is impossible, as the poet, to avoid imposing a filter of my own personal experiences on my readers. Even if poetry could be dispensed in fortune cookies or plastic Easter eggs then the way in which the reader opened and read the poems would still be subject to an imposition made by chance and probability and other mathematics. Therefore, it is impossible to avoid some form of interference or bias through the delivery of the poetry. Thankfully however, even though I have done part of the work by arranging the poems in a book-format, there are still instances of overlapping in time which can be arranged in whatever order the reader’s own experiences allow. In its ideal form, poetry would be displayed as a mural is; overwhelming the reader until he can make out the finer details. In this form it can be assumed that the possibilities for variations on the work’s time-line would be as ranging as the individuals’ experiences― innumerable—and no intervention on the poet’s behalf.
The poet has less difficulty presenting an unbiased spatial layout for the collection. Because, ideally, there is no set timeline, there must be no definite landscape. This lack of landscape is yet another function which sets the collection of poetry apart from the novel. Everyone knows, for example, that Narnia can be found by walking through a specific wardrobe, but who could draw a map of Hardy’s imaginary Wessex? Even if several individuals, let’s say, could draw a convincing map of Wessex, each map would most likely be contradictory, or at lest varying, from the next. Instead, and for the same reasons as with time, the land is disorganized and disfigured until the reader draws a mental map of the world. We know there is a river and an ocean, but do they meet? How much time does it take to travel from one point to the other?
As the poet I have some control over the space, as with time, because I am responsible for creating all the elements that are expected to fit in the space. However, this space building only works if all the elements—the river, the trees, the rotting city—are meant to exist in the same space. Therefore, there is yet another level of variation when we begin to address the issue of continuity and community of poetic collections. Perhaps not all events and places exist in the same imaginary universe.
Every person exposed to the collection of poetry may come away with their own distinct reality, including a timeline and landscape which is different from one person to the next. By contrast each person who reads a novel would be more likely to agree on specific details involving time and space. In poetry, the decision to place one event after another and this item beside the other is ultimately in the hands of the reader. Each personal experience determines the interpretation of the work. The light each reader holds the prism up to determines the rays which leak out the other side.
While there are all of these differences between the narrative and poetic genres of literature, there are unavoidable similarities. Poetic, sometimes even flowery, language is often times found in novels. There are instances of ambiguity of events in some novels. There are even, as this collection of poems demonstrates, poets who build their work around the growth of characters.
The decision to represent my ideas to an audience of poetry readers as opposed to novel readers was, in part, to justifiably demand a certain level of work to be done on the reader’s part; similar to how Zukofsky demands his readers to partake in a set amount of labor while reading his or any other poetry. If I am going to spend a year creating and organizing, then I want the reader to spend a similar length of time understanding and deciphering. I have left the appropriate blank spaces on each page and given the reader specific cues to follow.
My reasoning behind allowing these pockets for readers’ thoughts comes from Stein’s Composition as Explanation; more specifically, from the concept that work “is what is seen when it seems to be being seen,” in other words, the work differs as a result of who reads it and when. This open space and allusive time-scale gives my readers some of the creative power while they read through the collection. I want everyone to create their own timeline, their own landscape, their own story based on the pieces I have lent to in this collection.
While this collection of poetry evolved into its current form, Professor Jennison and I began to talk about the recurring characters within it. She cleverly led me into questioning why I had written a collection of poems instead of a narrative piece if I felt so strongly about the character development. In order to answer such a mammoth question I had to first decipher the difference between a novel and a collection of poetry.
Making a distinction between the two literary forms was no simple task due to the modern blurring of the genres in the forms of prose poetry, poetic prose and the development or degeneration of the English language. I began by referring to, obsessively, various poets’ work on the matter of defining poetry and giving justification to their work. My hunt for the answer to my ultimate question of ‘what is poetry’ lead me into the laps of Wallace Stevens’ “Adagia” and parts of John Cage’s Themes & Variations in which both notable poets filled pages with aphorisms and little truths about poetry. These postulates, however meaningful they might be, fell short when it came to defining the genre of poetry.
Exploring further I settled on Gertrude Stein’s Composition and Explanation which digests the notion of all reality down to the reality of composition. Where Stein writes, “everything is the same except composition and as the composition is different and always going to be different everything is not the same,” was where I began to realize the differences between narrative and poetry immerges when we study the composition or either form. Holding Gertrude by the hand I moved forward into Louis Zukofsky’s An Objective, an essay which examines the balance between the writer and the reader perspectives, histories and efforts in the art of poetic transactions. Zukofsky’s analogy to poetry as an optical lens which brings “rays from an object to a focus” lit a spark in my mind using the match I had already been handed by Stein’s revelations.
By merging Stein’s concept of difference in composition and Zukofsky’s optical analysis of poetry, I eventually developed my own elaborate analogy with light as it projects through three-dimensional shapes, namely a cube and a prism. The difference between these two shapes is the way they distort light. A cube, which I compare to narrative work, such as novels, does not distort the light shown through it very much if even at all. It does not matter what sort of light you shine on it, the light will always go straight through. The prism—which is analogous to poetry—shows an array of colors separated by the path the light takes through the shape. The end-product, the rainbow, varies in spectrum depending on the light source. The light source is the individual and all of his experiences.
The novel does not rely on the light source for output; whereas the poetry, like the prism, fragments the light to reveal its components. With my analogy in hand I began to realize the importance of audience perspective as a tool for dissecting the two genres. While considering audiences, it became much easier to recognize specific differences between narrative and poetry such as length, layout of time and space, and continuity within the work.
Excluding the epic, quintessential poetry is limited in its length. This brevity allows for blank space between pages where the reader has room to interpret the words resonating in his mind. Instead of doing the work of a narrative, such as detailed descriptions of time and space, the poem relies on the work of allusions to a particular reality and the reader’s ability to fill in the blanks. Because, too, the novel is longer in length it must sustain the reader’s imagination, causing them to forget the reality of whatever sofa they sit on or whatever train they are riding. The novelist does not want the reader’s imagination to wander off between chapters. On the contrary there is the poem, which encourages wondering and does not provide a solid cube of thought. Instead, poetry hands the reader a prism with which to view the world though at that instant. A poet wants the reader to remember that article he read in the paper this morning and imaging what it would be like if, say, the article were written by an unsuccessful astronaut, or a depressed, tin robot.
I have given you a pair of prism-eyed spectacles to wear while you read about rivers and the lives of trees—what do they look like now? If I had chosen to present these characters in a narrative you would have been told about the astronaut’s failure explicitly and how that reminds us all of a worthless king amidst his revolting subjects, or I could have described to you the ebb and flow of the green river, how the rays of sun make it look alive in the morning, like a translucent serpent with feminine features—a modern Eve.
Instead, what have I done? I have alluded to the astronaut’s failure, the robot’s despair and the love of a fox. I have give the reader sips and tastes of the meal instead of the layout of the dining table or the chef’s favorite receipts. I have provided that path for the light to follow in order to escape the opposite side as a rainbow.
What the sips and tastes do in poetry is to allow events in time to occur all at once on the page. The poet never says explicitly that this event occurs before this one. To keep his audience from getting lost the novelist must provide such a timeline. In poetry, however, if everything were happening at once the human mind would become overwhelmed with this incomprehensible truth; therefore, the reader must be able to time-line the events as he deems fit.
Yet, it is impossible, as the poet, to avoid imposing a filter of my own personal experiences on my readers. Even if poetry could be dispensed in fortune cookies or plastic Easter eggs then the way in which the reader opened and read the poems would still be subject to an imposition made by chance and probability and other mathematics. Therefore, it is impossible to avoid some form of interference or bias through the delivery of the poetry. Thankfully however, even though I have done part of the work by arranging the poems in a book-format, there are still instances of overlapping in time which can be arranged in whatever order the reader’s own experiences allow. In its ideal form, poetry would be displayed as a mural is; overwhelming the reader until he can make out the finer details. In this form it can be assumed that the possibilities for variations on the work’s time-line would be as ranging as the individuals’ experiences― innumerable—and no intervention on the poet’s behalf.
The poet has less difficulty presenting an unbiased spatial layout for the collection. Because, ideally, there is no set timeline, there must be no definite landscape. This lack of landscape is yet another function which sets the collection of poetry apart from the novel. Everyone knows, for example, that Narnia can be found by walking through a specific wardrobe, but who could draw a map of Hardy’s imaginary Wessex? Even if several individuals, let’s say, could draw a convincing map of Wessex, each map would most likely be contradictory, or at lest varying, from the next. Instead, and for the same reasons as with time, the land is disorganized and disfigured until the reader draws a mental map of the world. We know there is a river and an ocean, but do they meet? How much time does it take to travel from one point to the other?
As the poet I have some control over the space, as with time, because I am responsible for creating all the elements that are expected to fit in the space. However, this space building only works if all the elements—the river, the trees, the rotting city—are meant to exist in the same space. Therefore, there is yet another level of variation when we begin to address the issue of continuity and community of poetic collections. Perhaps not all events and places exist in the same imaginary universe.
Every person exposed to the collection of poetry may come away with their own distinct reality, including a timeline and landscape which is different from one person to the next. By contrast each person who reads a novel would be more likely to agree on specific details involving time and space. In poetry, the decision to place one event after another and this item beside the other is ultimately in the hands of the reader. Each personal experience determines the interpretation of the work. The light each reader holds the prism up to determines the rays which leak out the other side.
While there are all of these differences between the narrative and poetic genres of literature, there are unavoidable similarities. Poetic, sometimes even flowery, language is often times found in novels. There are instances of ambiguity of events in some novels. There are even, as this collection of poems demonstrates, poets who build their work around the growth of characters.
The decision to represent my ideas to an audience of poetry readers as opposed to novel readers was, in part, to justifiably demand a certain level of work to be done on the reader’s part; similar to how Zukofsky demands his readers to partake in a set amount of labor while reading his or any other poetry. If I am going to spend a year creating and organizing, then I want the reader to spend a similar length of time understanding and deciphering. I have left the appropriate blank spaces on each page and given the reader specific cues to follow.
My reasoning behind allowing these pockets for readers’ thoughts comes from Stein’s Composition as Explanation; more specifically, from the concept that work “is what is seen when it seems to be being seen,” in other words, the work differs as a result of who reads it and when. This open space and allusive time-scale gives my readers some of the creative power while they read through the collection. I want everyone to create their own timeline, their own landscape, their own story based on the pieces I have lent to in this collection.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
pic
i'm a posting junky today, try and stop me
here's a picture i came across today, adam to my right and andrea to my left
at a lovely little indian restaurant in amherst center. they put coconut in my tikka masala by request (like it'd be any good without coconut), bless them.
here's a picture i came across today, adam to my right and andrea to my left
at a lovely little indian restaurant in amherst center. they put coconut in my tikka masala by request (like it'd be any good without coconut), bless them.
having way too much fun with this
just look what it's done to my profile alone... wow. i love the internet. love it.
hellenization, named's katherine. i havana a husky, a golf andrew a brainards newsman nurses of flowery bulge in my kits. thief blockhouses thighs is forestalled my poem, to encamps me to concealing wrinkled quartets poe posterity-grafton (afund amherst), andalusian whore knot, i mayflower just blubber outward oncology in a whimsical...
oh yeah... the thingy itself is http://www.crummy.com/software/eater/
hellenization, named's katherine. i havana a husky, a golf andrew a brainards newsman nurses of flowery bulge in my kits. thief blockhouses thighs is forestalled my poem, to encamps me to concealing wrinkled quartets poe posterity-grafton (afund amherst), andalusian whore knot, i mayflower just blubber outward oncology in a whimsical...
oh yeah... the thingy itself is http://www.crummy.com/software/eater/
experiment 51
[Pick 20 words, either a word list you generate yourself or from source texts. Write three different poems using only these words.]
the list:
antithesis
sentient
wicked
flagrant
upon
green
astronaut
inn-keeper
stride
pint
tangible
sticking
forward
antique
tribal
futon
Lloyd
retractable
helmet
slugged
poem 1: most wanted
Lloyd, inn-keeper--
astronaut antithesis stride--
slugged wicked tangible pint helmet futon
sticking flagrant tribal retractable
forward antique upon sentient green
poem 2: message will self distruct in...
Astronaut,
Sentient stride upon retractable futon. Sticking green pint forward. Slugged antique tribal flagrant. Helmet antithesis tangible.
Wicked Inn-keeper,
Lloyd
poem 3: the headlines
sentient astronaut slugged tribal inn-keeper.
green flagrant sticking Lloyd futon upon antique pint.
retractable helment!
forward stride; wicked tangible antithesis.
the list:
antithesis
sentient
wicked
flagrant
upon
green
astronaut
inn-keeper
stride
pint
tangible
sticking
forward
antique
tribal
futon
Lloyd
retractable
helmet
slugged
poem 1: most wanted
Lloyd, inn-keeper--
astronaut antithesis stride--
slugged wicked tangible pint helmet futon
sticking flagrant tribal retractable
forward antique upon sentient green
poem 2: message will self distruct in...
Astronaut,
Sentient stride upon retractable futon. Sticking green pint forward. Slugged antique tribal flagrant. Helmet antithesis tangible.
Wicked Inn-keeper,
Lloyd
poem 3: the headlines
sentient astronaut slugged tribal inn-keeper.
green flagrant sticking Lloyd futon upon antique pint.
retractable helment!
forward stride; wicked tangible antithesis.
a cartoon epidemic
ryan: tony the tiger died
katy: he's a cartoon
ryan: is that inspirational?
katy: cartoon's can't die
ryan: yes. but his voice was supplied by a man.
katy: oh
ryan: who died just this week.
katy: the man died
katy: that's sad
katy: heeeeee's greeat!
ryan: also
katy: i bet he'd like that
katy: if i said that to him
ryan: the guy who did fred flintstone's voice also died.
katy: well, at his funeral
katy: what?
katy: is there a cartoon epidemic?
ryan: atom ant died too.
yeah, so there is (an epidemic i mean), and this is what ryan tells me to inspire me to write poems...
katy: he's a cartoon
ryan: is that inspirational?
katy: cartoon's can't die
ryan: yes. but his voice was supplied by a man.
katy: oh
ryan: who died just this week.
katy: the man died
katy: that's sad
katy: heeeeee's greeat!
ryan: also
katy: i bet he'd like that
katy: if i said that to him
ryan: the guy who did fred flintstone's voice also died.
katy: well, at his funeral
katy: what?
katy: is there a cartoon epidemic?
ryan: atom ant died too.
yeah, so there is (an epidemic i mean), and this is what ryan tells me to inspire me to write poems...
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
binary for breakfast
01101001 01110100 00100111 01110011 00100000 01110010 01100001 01101001 01101110 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100111 01110011 00100000 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100001 01111001 00001101 00001010 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01100010 01101111 01101111 01101011 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110011 01100011 01100001 01110010 01111001 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110010 01101001 01100101 01110011 00001101 00001010 01100001 01110100 00100000 00111000 00100000 01101111 00100111 01100011 01101100 01101111 01100011 01101011 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110010 01101110 01101001 01101110 01100111 00001101 00001010 01110111 01100001 01101001 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110011 01101011 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110111 01101111 01110101 01101110 01100100 00001101 00001010 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01110101 01101101 01100010 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01101100
this is actually a new poem (as opposed to the previously posted ones which have all gone through a gauntlet of revision and rewriting.
enjoy!
this is actually a new poem (as opposed to the previously posted ones which have all gone through a gauntlet of revision and rewriting.
enjoy!
Saturday, May 21, 2005
First Step's Legend
1. beyond tanked walls;
above the water's surface;
we live where they cannot.
understand the importance of our perspective;
we have this much more
and the ability to take more,
to learn to swim.
do you want to learn how to swim?
i can teach you.
don't be afraid;
i can help you.
we have the gift of technology.
here is a lifejacket for you to wear,
so that you can float above the waves;
above and below the stars in the sea and the sky.
and if you're still scared,
i'll hold you (up) the entire time.
i promise i won't let you down.
i promise i won't let you drown.
2. once your limbs become tools
you don't need the orange vest anymore.
learn to kick and kill and eat with your hands;
learn the ways of the ocean's tide and grow into her ebb and flow.
3. we have conquered the trees, you have conquered the tides
and the fish and the weeds,
but what dwells above us?
have we yet to know?
my son,
now that you have learnt to swim, take it upon your self to grow wings;
learn to be an astronaut and take the first steps.
here is a vest to hold you up;
to help you learn new traits;
your body, to become a new tool.
hold your breath again, like when you learned to swim;
feel the sway and swagger of the waves;
she is a mightier ocean than any, this sky,
and her stars are brighter.
above the water's surface;
we live where they cannot.
understand the importance of our perspective;
we have this much more
and the ability to take more,
to learn to swim.
do you want to learn how to swim?
i can teach you.
don't be afraid;
i can help you.
we have the gift of technology.
here is a lifejacket for you to wear,
so that you can float above the waves;
above and below the stars in the sea and the sky.
and if you're still scared,
i'll hold you (up) the entire time.
i promise i won't let you down.
i promise i won't let you drown.
2. once your limbs become tools
you don't need the orange vest anymore.
learn to kick and kill and eat with your hands;
learn the ways of the ocean's tide and grow into her ebb and flow.
3. we have conquered the trees, you have conquered the tides
and the fish and the weeds,
but what dwells above us?
have we yet to know?
my son,
now that you have learnt to swim, take it upon your self to grow wings;
learn to be an astronaut and take the first steps.
here is a vest to hold you up;
to help you learn new traits;
your body, to become a new tool.
hold your breath again, like when you learned to swim;
feel the sway and swagger of the waves;
she is a mightier ocean than any, this sky,
and her stars are brighter.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Toothbrush Fancy
Polly, do you want this toothbrush?
I don't talk in my sleep anymore.
I still have all the same nightmares...
and dreams...
but I’ve learned to make them quieter.
I have a blue one just like it.
The dentist gave me two, i don't know why,
and I was too afraid to ask.
so, do you? if you don't, i think that's okay.
Just say so.
Of course, you know i didn't mean anything by it,
of course.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
A Green Coincidence
My husband and I had gone to Washington state, to the Snoqualmie Valley, for a Twin Peaks festival in late July. We stayed on the Snoqualmie River in a humble campground in a humble town at the bottom of a not-so-humble mountain. As usual I was inspired by the nature around me; the blackberries were ripe for eating off the bush, the river was unforgiving in her temperature even in mid-summer and green with algae and minerals from the mountain’s eroded edges. I began to write in my notebook, describing the green river as a spirit, a life-giver and a woman of magnificent beauty and power. The Green River Woman was born then. I left Snoqualmie with a new character, and new poem to write, though the words never gelled into that perfect poem. Perhaps, still, it is one of those poems that will take me a lifetime to write.
I struggled, daily, with giving life or justice to the words describing the river and her magnificence. I looked to Louise Erdrich’s strong native language for clues. Instead I started writing poems about rocks in little girls’ pockets, pretending they were ancestors instead of rocks:
I am swimming with you,
A pocket full of stones,
Up the river, towards her source.
Still, I was unable to address the issue of the river herself.
Ultimatly, for help I looked to fellow novice poets on Zoetrope.com—an online poetry/fiction community designed to constructively aid other poets and writers. It was through Zoetrope I received an innocent message that created a new nebula in the universe of my poetry. Something about a green river killer… Something I had to investigate immediately.
As it turned out there was a man nicknamed The Green River Killer who, during the span of 16 years (from 1982-1998), kidnapped, raped and killed 48 young, female prostitutes. Here is where the chills began to run, relentlessly down my spine. The local people of Snoqualmie call their river The Green River. This is not surprising as the river was and is, truly, the most magnificent green. But I learned that this Green River Killer hid the bodies of these young women in the river by filling their clothes with rocks. “A pocket full of stones” must mean that girl, this “I”, is not swimming at all.
Without knowing, I had delved into a legacy of murder and mystery novels. I had tapped into some higher conscious, perhaps. That river, that Green River Woman, had she reached to me for understanding, for truth, for discovery? I’ll have to ask her when I go back in a few months. To reach deep into her ice-cold flow, to the rich green and the unforgiving soil beneath her, to feel what I felt before but this time knowing what it means.
I struggled, daily, with giving life or justice to the words describing the river and her magnificence. I looked to Louise Erdrich’s strong native language for clues. Instead I started writing poems about rocks in little girls’ pockets, pretending they were ancestors instead of rocks:
I am swimming with you,
A pocket full of stones,
Up the river, towards her source.
Still, I was unable to address the issue of the river herself.
Ultimatly, for help I looked to fellow novice poets on Zoetrope.com—an online poetry/fiction community designed to constructively aid other poets and writers. It was through Zoetrope I received an innocent message that created a new nebula in the universe of my poetry. Something about a green river killer… Something I had to investigate immediately.
As it turned out there was a man nicknamed The Green River Killer who, during the span of 16 years (from 1982-1998), kidnapped, raped and killed 48 young, female prostitutes. Here is where the chills began to run, relentlessly down my spine. The local people of Snoqualmie call their river The Green River. This is not surprising as the river was and is, truly, the most magnificent green. But I learned that this Green River Killer hid the bodies of these young women in the river by filling their clothes with rocks. “A pocket full of stones” must mean that girl, this “I”, is not swimming at all.
Without knowing, I had delved into a legacy of murder and mystery novels. I had tapped into some higher conscious, perhaps. That river, that Green River Woman, had she reached to me for understanding, for truth, for discovery? I’ll have to ask her when I go back in a few months. To reach deep into her ice-cold flow, to the rich green and the unforgiving soil beneath her, to feel what I felt before but this time knowing what it means.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Green River Girl
simple girl sits by the river
her fingertips trying to touch
the bottom without getting wet
she is swimming with you,
green river women,
towards the bridge
below the service of men
where your favors to them,
those boys who brought you
to the edge of this green river,
fell short of breath by force
then a pocket full of stones;
their grandmothers
and their grandfathers.
she feels these reflections
floating past each finger
while some sun
tints the river green
her fingertips trying to touch
the bottom without getting wet
she is swimming with you,
green river women,
towards the bridge
below the service of men
where your favors to them,
those boys who brought you
to the edge of this green river,
fell short of breath by force
then a pocket full of stones;
their grandmothers
and their grandfathers.
she feels these reflections
floating past each finger
while some sun
tints the river green
Thursday, May 12, 2005
the best two fortunes ever
last night a few of my friends treated me to a lovely sushi dinner. there i recived a fortune cookie with the following fortune: "Happiness always acconpanies with you."
in one of my friend's cookies, he got this fortune: "You will take a chance in something in near future."
revel in their brilliance, friends.
in one of my friend's cookies, he got this fortune: "You will take a chance in something in near future."
revel in their brilliance, friends.
Friday, May 06, 2005
... .-- .- .-.. .-.. --- .-- / ... --- -. --. /
.-- .... .. .-.. . / - .... . / .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. / ... --- ..- .-. ... /
.- / .-. --- -... --- - / .. -- .. - .- - . ... / - .... . / ... --- -. --. /
--- ..-. / . ..- .-. --- .--. . .- -. / ... .-- .- .-.. .-.. --- .-- ... /
see http://scphillips.com/morse/trans.html
.- / .-. --- -... --- - / .. -- .. - .- - . ... / - .... . / ... --- -. --. /
--- ..-. / . ..- .-. --- .--. . .- -. / ... .-- .- .-.. .-.. --- .-- ... /
see http://scphillips.com/morse/trans.html
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Set Up
too thin the red-bound book
unfolded in his hands
shaking white with blue anticipation
but a voice of the bravest mirage
echoing the pauses
in a juggle of um’s and ah’s
the irregularity of reality is revealed
in a little girl’s dream kitchen
she hesitates first
to turn her back to the dark avatar
the second, to walk away
so she turns her head
one last time, for the first time
to see her reflection in his green-river eyes
a mix of admiration, thanks, and regret
shelves rise, fall and grow back
but through them they catch each other again
through a veil of thick, black, Indian-girl hair
and a coalition of light waves and sound fibers
this is how the dream ends:
with a paralyzing stare
into cold, hollow, ice-blue--
all the vividness of shivering--eyes
hidden behind curtains of locked extensions
straightened with fatigue and grease
the look: desperate
in it she feels him sing his apology
had he only known her sooner
they could have been something
instead, "see what i'm into?"--
the only spoken, his voice choking
as he applies the chain to air and throat
unfolded in his hands
shaking white with blue anticipation
but a voice of the bravest mirage
echoing the pauses
in a juggle of um’s and ah’s
the irregularity of reality is revealed
in a little girl’s dream kitchen
she hesitates first
to turn her back to the dark avatar
the second, to walk away
so she turns her head
one last time, for the first time
to see her reflection in his green-river eyes
a mix of admiration, thanks, and regret
shelves rise, fall and grow back
but through them they catch each other again
through a veil of thick, black, Indian-girl hair
and a coalition of light waves and sound fibers
this is how the dream ends:
with a paralyzing stare
into cold, hollow, ice-blue--
all the vividness of shivering--eyes
hidden behind curtains of locked extensions
straightened with fatigue and grease
the look: desperate
in it she feels him sing his apology
had he only known her sooner
they could have been something
instead, "see what i'm into?"--
the only spoken, his voice choking
as he applies the chain to air and throat
The Dishes
What I am thinking about
On this beautiful summer morning
Is how I haven’t washed the dishes yet;
How I’ve left them there
Scattered around the sink for yet another day.
By now it doesn’t matter—
What’s stuck to them can’t get any more stuck on.
On this beautiful summer morning
Is how I haven’t washed the dishes yet;
How I’ve left them there
Scattered around the sink for yet another day.
By now it doesn’t matter—
What’s stuck to them can’t get any more stuck on.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Robot Crow
this is no place for the rooster
so a robot demands
to the rebellion of cows
and their mischievous offspring
after all, what would the bull
and the flock of hens
have to think and say
about such a scandal?
but what concern
does a robot have
with barn-yard gossips?
asked a busty brown cow
perhaps the obsessive compulsion
of wires, triggers, switches and gears
to keep ideal order inside a fence
or is he a messenger from the chicken coop?
so a robot demands
to the rebellion of cows
and their mischievous offspring
after all, what would the bull
and the flock of hens
have to think and say
about such a scandal?
but what concern
does a robot have
with barn-yard gossips?
asked a busty brown cow
perhaps the obsessive compulsion
of wires, triggers, switches and gears
to keep ideal order inside a fence
or is he a messenger from the chicken coop?
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