Q & A results

a special thanks to everyone who sent me questions and answers for this project:

michelle
jess
bryan
mom
rowan
keith
santosh
weta
drook
and
danielle

as it turns out, i didn't use everything single question and answer (and a spare few of them have been slightly doctored, but i didn't think you'd mind); though, i did use a lot of them. now, without any further muttering and yappy, i give you a what some might call a poem what other's might call a list; but both schools agree, it is all rather enjoyable.



what are three ways to fall down?
they are all the ways we get to the store.

what is cold to an eskimo?
it is love.

what are butterflies?
they are canned food donors seeking revenge.

what is the meaning of life?
it is splendid for the turkeys!

what are those mirrors doing there?
they are burning down.

what is her favorite ice cream today?
it is going to implode if we leave it alone.

what is the secret of soy and how do i master it?
it is filled with candy.

what are computers going to be like in the year 2100?
they are not going to get the message.

what is the answer?
it is part pekinese, part great dane.

what are those earrings doing in your car?
they are going to shoot the canary.

what is is?
it is what you do when you come home late at night.

what are you burying them for?
they are trying to make rope from gizzards.

what is the tapestry hanging just left of your mother?
it is made of people.

what is my shadow?
it is not really there.

what is the big deal with chthulhu anyway?
the purpose of his existence is to endure.

what are those holes for?
they are my stars and they burn.

what are we going to tell the piggies now?
they are unforgiving when it comes to the sea.

what is a dog for?
it is important when avoiding dodge ball.

what is the square route of fuzzy divided by yen and then multiplied by that bee's knee?
it is exactly like a bendy straw.

what are you pajamas doing on my sofa?
they are stinky.

what are the last things you see when you die?
they are all that remains from the all-consuming fire.

what is falling from the sky?
it is a simple flick of the wrist.

what is your worst fault?
it is the door behind the door.

what is with the price of eggs?
it is the window that is always open?

what are the magic words?
they are irony in a bottle.

what are yyour shoes for?
they are the things that make it work.

what is the motto of the mini eggs appreciation society?
it is what happens because of cows.

what, precisely, is the function of a man's nipple?
it is meant to be a mystery and in point of fact, not actually your business anyway.

what is the meaning of your wit-less expression?
it is, ya that's it, just is.

what are you parents going to say?
they are the finest nipples i have ever ignored.

what is love?
it is a bad attempt at mining minerals.

what are the fish doing in my pants?
they are unable to understand.

what is the gift you gave?
it is forever.

what are revolving eyes?
they are an entirely repulsive race of legumes not well-liked by the natives of the only area they grow, utah.

what is the leeward side?
it is the thing that oinks!

what are imaginary numbers?
they are what you get for being good.

what is it with the scarf on a snowman's neck; if he's cold shouldn't he be given a jacket as well?
it is quixotic.

what is the sound i hear under the covers at night?
it is moving things to a less crowded place.

what are the little black dots all over my car?
they are a very special way of making you feel good.

what is the color of an angry moon?
it is brainless and confusing.

what is at the end of this hallway?
it is a snow drop that alighted gently on my face, knowing the fate that my warmth would bring.

what are they doing in sheffield?
they are a musical group known for their whirls and twirls.

what is pain in the surrounding?
it is a tangerine-colored sweater-set, but only when purchased in new orleans at marti gras.

what are the dolphins planning?
they are full of themselves.

what are my toes doing?
they are running, running, running, running...

what is a rapscallion?
it is deliciously sordid.

what is the light taking up room?
is it called the green flower.

what are the sounds of all the words at once?
they are the keys to the fridge.

what is the big empty circle doing here?
it is much bigger than your ambition.

what is a hot heart?
it is time we did something about this.

what is the endpoint of a whalesong?
it is an ecumenical question.

what is inside that beautiful house?
it is the last thing you'd ever do.

what is with soap these days?
it is silly but necessary.

what are dreams for?
they are 3D-tastic.

what is the color of greenishpink?
it is a punishment for shoplifting in kazakhstan.

what is that thing and why is it bristling?
it is made of tuna.

what is your objective?
it isn't the floor that counts, it is the fall.

what are purple and bouncy?
they are mine, my demons, mine!!

the bay-state agenda

orientation towards the atlantic recovered coast
erratically misplaced glacial wash off
(aka all the rocks in your back yard)
we're better than you because we pay higher taxes
on everything; standard automobile insurance

even our trash is most expensive, more closet millionaires
per capita and we're dunkies' country with one krispy
and no cream but for the milk in our hard serve
who gave birth to the chaos of ben&jerry's,
the new food pyramid and cars run on flax seed oil

a university on every corner releases 'wicked cool'
to the notoriously bad drivers bred by conditions
designed by herds of witty cows licking oyster shells
the hills have their own seasons, but you
haven't seen this much excitement since your bar mitzvah

and the cape disguises it's hokey dozen behind
property you only dream about, the bog is red
the cove is green and your wallet is empty
before you step out of your car because the price of ketchup
has an 80% increase as soon as the daffodils bloom




-----
is not exactly a tribut to massachusetts.

samples

i know, anyone can do this and call it poetry... but then again, everyone can read it and appreciate it. i'm not boasting or proclaiming any profundity or superiority here. take it at face.

sample 4

refrigerators never lie:
carrots are better when they're cold.

sample 5

there's nothing to do but agree
talk about the daffodils
and swallow your hot tea turned cold
the milk lasting on your teeth

sample 6

i am getting better at lying
i am getting worse at believing

the stay awake

do i portray myself as another cup
of leaves steeped in temperate water
milked but with half the sugar
or write another poem about it?

judging by the viscosity of my stomach
i choose both.

just another something

just another something morning
writing poetry on white ceramic mugs
with his mother's pinkest lipstick

the cup empties onto his front
circuits buzz and hum and steam up
in his lap like a forest fire

he tries to cry but the voice box
is the first to go this time



he decides he should learn to cry
about things that don't break him

he cries when he leaves the repair shop,
says he'll miss eddy the repair guy
too much to stand it in the end

he cries until they take him back
because he's overclocked his battery



he gives up crying,

but perfects the art of sulking.

dirty laundry money

rummaging through her coach knock-off
searching for the kit;
a tube of strawberry lip gloss,
drosophila and lonely sequin
beside her g-string footwear -

and i watched this from the bathroom stall
beside her -

pushing aside the dirty laundry money
she made waiting tables

the voting has begun!! (& other news)

to cast your vote for poet laureate of the blogsphere, visit here. our friend ashraf is way in the lead at the moment; the man who thought he was finished with poetry >_<

go cast your votes, my darling poet friends, and be responsible for the someone who represents you.

and in other news, i dreamt all night that i was protecting ryan from nightmares about silent hill (we just saw the movie, which was !!!). you see, i wasn't even brave enough to have my own nightmares, i displaced them on my husband.

also, i have recieved about 10 replies to the q&a's already, so will probably put together the list wednesday or not long after that. how very exciting, no?

and lastly, time for katy to geek out... new dr who tonight!{*^$►&*@*&*░#^&#^δ%^@%%%%^&!!!!!

gloss

a set of full lips
and my somewhatdefined cheek bones
will never be or do
enough to show
just how much love it takes

Questions & Answers

bla bla bla commemorating national poetry month bla bla bla

dear friends (poets and non), i have been scratching my head the past few days as to what would be a good poetry-like project in which everyone could get involved with, would have fun contributing to and be proud to have been a part of based on the quality of the final project.

i resorted to the trusty experiments list care of UPenn (inspired by the glorious and magnific bernadette mayer) and have found this:

#23 Collaborative Surrealist Language Event (I) (for two or more people): One person writes down a question without showing it to anyone else; simultaneously, another person writes down an answer; poem is formed by a series of these questions and answers. Alternate form: One question: multiple answers; vice versa. For example: "What is the pink elephant? The reason why it is so cold this week.// Is the door locked? / I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion." (Cf: Robert Desnos's ":Language Events.")

i have participated in this exercise/experiment with other groups in the past and have not yet been let down by the result. overall, it is a simple game with fabulous results (how’s that for a sale’s pitch).

how i recommend we, as a group, approach this project is simple, here it goes…

step 1: write a series of questions starting with “what is”/”what are” (between 5 and 10 questions would be ideal)
step 2: write a series of answers starting with “it is”/”they are” (again, 5 to 10 of these)
-please note, these questions and answers should be as random as you can manage. do not answer your own questions. be enigmatic and lop sided.
step 3: email to me katy acheson
step 4: wait
step 5: laugh and be amazed

what i intend to do is compile the questions and answers at random, then pick out some of the better random combinations and post them. everyone who sends me questions and answers will be credited as a contributor to the final product whether your questions are used or not.

i will compile the final product once i feel i have received enough questions and answers. i expect i should get at least 50 of each before calling a close to the fun for you. and remember, email them to me (this one no one else sees them, makes it all the more random and exciting!)

now, ask me something!

p.s.

I FINISHED ME&MY KATAMARI!!!!

2 years

at times i feel i should let this be poetry and poetry only. other times i feel as though the people that read this blog are friends and are just as interested in what's going on in my head as they are in reading my poetry. i'm feeling the latter today and am feeling like a wordy post is needed right now (for my sake more than yours).

first and foremost, today is ryan and my two year wedding anniversary. last night we celebrated by going out to plymouth where we had a lovely little walk around, got some english goodies at an import store and had a nice mexican dinner. it was a perfect date.

actually, it's been a perfect two years ^_^

i'm not sure what we'll do today, but one thing is for certain, we will not be having cake. reason being: the dining room still smells like cake from the dalek cupcakes we (my little bro, friend danielle, michelle & johnny, ryan and i) made on easter. which was all in celebration of the new season of dr who airing in england.

dr who is fabulous, no, fantastic. david tennant is proving an entirely different and wonderful doctor with some unmistakably colin baker esque characteristics (such as raising his voice, going a wee bit over-the-top on all accounts, as well as his smug 'i'm the doctor, i heel people' parade of glee and joy at the end of the first adventure of the season... all that, and he knows how to drive the TARDIS quiet well, we think).

i won't get into too much more on dr who as i'm sure far too many of you have NO IDEA what i'm talking about (read: no idea how effing cool it is to be a dr who geek).

what i will go on about is poetry. now that's something you can all get into, right? (that is, i suppose, if you've made it this far into reading this long winded and unnecessary post of mine). saturday and sunday i wrote a total of 9 poems. granted, they were short... but that's still a lot of poems. there isn't much to say about them, really, that isn't already apparent in the poetry itself. one thing i do want to make clear though, is not to expect that all the time. no, i know you wouldn't. however, i have come to enjoy writing my poem-a-day and have come, in some way, to expect myself to write at least one poem each day.

i took yesterday off. i spent the day, instead, doing my job. yeah. i actually kept myself busy enough the entire 8 hours at work as to not warrant getting bored or anxious enough to set myself up for writing a poem.

i might take today off too, on account of having written this massive post as well as having a few other tasks to do. oh yeah, and IT'S MY WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

a last note: poetry month is into its second half now. i've got some catching up on my sumission mission, i know, but am more concerned with getting everyone together for a group project, what do you think? i will arrange a mass emial and post within the week to get everyone involved with something fun and exciting.

until then, thank you for reading through all my wittering.

rebuttal

where i find myself is
slowly walking past
apparitions
over red carpeted bridges

the mask i wear is
wearing me more
formal function than
the surface of the koi pond
reveals

before i lean at the sun
we recognize the trembling reunion
of our fingertips
around daffodil stems who
do not fear them

resurection day

a yerning for basic erosion
or my nails should be longer
to pick the scabs off your cheek

i am not okay today

because there is no state of rest here;
no time for my wounded knuckle to heal

hotel rendition of easter sermon

gather in the pool, followers of faith
let the fruit loops dissolve under your tongue
and listen closely as i lecture you on hotel etiquette

the woman stole my pen. i watched it unfold. she eyed it, clicked it closed and dropped it in her purse. i said nothing; just watched in awe as she zipped her bag shut and walked out the door. she was professionally absent minded.

happy _______ easter

i am okay today

ignoring the holiday i
send people to the wrong establishment.
the blood on my knuckle
is a homage to the box of light bulbs behind the counter
and you.

silhouette

attention
_______set against me
are the words like butter
pouring fat deposits over
violated corn kernels

we suck to the point of
there is no where left
but right in the way
of the mirror escaping

rotting as though we
were figurative language
and this a love song
for a mysterious voice

double

let me break your milky skin
& rush your breakfast coffee/muffin combo

this is me, your favorite
_____haveaniceday

with sugar on top

[...go mindless for a day]

let me go mindless for a day
cartoons in pink and blue
why i insist on putting two dominos
in my tea

when there is milk involved

computer simulate my drowning
at the age of xena

then grace me with my final wish

we all want our favorite poets
molded into action figures
with removable clothes

let me play barbie again
use my imagination for greater lessers
pieces of mind and paint my toes


-----
was inspired by bryan and my cup of luke warm tea. i would highly recommend you go have a gander at some of bryan's work. have been reading his NOO collection.

oh, and the fact of the matter is: i don't care about your weather.

out of order

feeling plastic
eroding at joints

circuit broken spatula
palm carrying eggs
locked in styrofoam crates

opening trigger - a face
wrapped in paper

gold leafed

my thermostat is broken
the button is stuck

happy sequence -

growing more complicated


please standby for further instructions
a poem by robot girl

fruit spore

a grapefruit
& spoon will tango

so
the juices squirt in onlookers' eyes
from a table away

we look on, glaring over mocha

then robot boy will ask
if i were a duck what would i see
when i look up at the moon?

we had been discussing
the human ability to see faces
in rock formations
& colonies of pink mold spores

cracked

the remaining eleven residents of centralia PA are a bit ...


but what an amazing, and as ryan put it "prophetic", story: the fire that burned for 100 years.

tingles, doesn't it?

the complexities of being wife

i give names to each full basket of dirty laundry

_____of all that is blue

_____greenwich monster of brownin

_____lusty pants collected

i speak to an imaginary tv crew
while i dice four potatoes
imagining how rachel ray would do it

loving the sound of dried garlic in a glass bottle
rattling, trying to escape

i leave useless flyers in the mailbox
i leave it something to read
__________i consider this a generous gesture

i loose my breathe around the bog
then lie in the yard with my legs stretched skyward
for children in a passing bus to laugh about

i forget about the laundry until the last minute

but i have no problem with cleansing the bathrooms

touch my omlet

michael craig wants you to touch his omlet

so why don't you?

michael craig's short collection of poems is the second float in the bear parade and will only take you 15 minutes to read; perhaps even less time to fall in love with.


here is my michael craig source poem:

stolen from, inspired by, etc
michael craig was at a barbecue.
i want him relaxed fit. and wrinkle free.
michael craig spat lightly all over me.
i think i can eat him.
master chang opened the door to his cottage--
it was michael craig.
you can leave it to him to describe your world.
i could not stop this insane michael craig.

creeture feet-

[left]
discomforted she lies with time
________and again
spreading her heal into the crux
___of his back
her ball jointed gentle disposition
________is a stomach ache away
from spoiling.

[right]
gluing blue gems to every hello
her magic fingers stitch heart strings
________to fabricated
rolling in props and squibs

bad mana chic

as if i don't owe her enough thanks for my beautiful lucy-avatar [ah, and never mind the fact that i've totally ripped off her signature smiley ^_^], michelle has gone and flattered me to no end by attributing her regained appreciation for poetry to me and mine.

i would like to be able to, right now, write michelle a little dedication poem; however, am feeling rather restless at the moment (like i told a. 'spring is getting under my skin' and alls i want to do is 'go outside'). so, will have to do one of my public promises here. an iou with at least 3 witnesses.

four poems

my thunder fists:

this man was birthed by fire

a woman from water that falls from dark clouds
is it together that

they storm through


reject:

spider woman stole

and raised four corn children

under the purple canyon


our resolve, our journey:

ended at the foot of the red fox
an empty turtle shell
and the heart of a buffalo beating
in our naked hands


drums:

the hurt of a loon on clean water
echoing through our footsteps

the bear leaves no fish for us

on the shore is bird and fox
they linger together

the fox knows fire
the bird knows water

we are hungry

but we are not foolish

title to a perfect poem

am prone to forgetting
brilliant lines of poetry
when the phone rings.

poetry sampler

was not able to concentrate enough today to write one cohesive poem out of the three parts that appear below. i was trying, but have had no luck. therefore, i present to you, katy's special poetry sampler:


I
in a bodiless act of faltered
the phone rang discrete as a subway track
through your backyard.

II
my ear hurts, she said.
this rampage of an angel effect
is wearing your socks again.

III
my low nickel lined stomach
swallowed your security pills
for a raven view of your innards

on april 8th i...

i wrote a poem on piloteye

saw v for vendetta. think i will let it inspire me. tomorrow.

and in other news. brian posted two poems on the boarding house (would link it, but there's a button in need of some fondling).

what's Norther, then?

is it prince george / fort st john b.c. like it says on page three?

perhaps that's part. but from what i've just experienced Norther is a new kind of canadian hit. something leonard cohen could be proud of, for sure.

i was going to do a blown out review--which i may still do later--but i've decided that for the moment a plug will be jsut as effective. i have only read the journal once through (though i have read many of the poems on the contributors' blogs); therefore, don't feel like i've allowed the material to really seep in. i will say, though that it is a beautiful little e-jounral and am proud to boast about it here on my humble corner of the blogsphere.



so kiddies, to get your copy of the first ever edition of Norther please email either rob or hardy and request your copy.

medusa*

my lips meditate over the rim of a cup
brimming with hot tea milk and sugar compounds

my solitude is in the voices
leaking through the unfinished ceiling

my heart is deep in his cheek
and my barrier is an invisible telephone line

my medicine is ill itself
with stomach aches and a sore throat

my medusa is winning me over
who will carry me on his back

when i am made of stone





*see sister poem at arch.memory

am needing your help

Octopus Magazine are accepting manuscript submissions. they're looking for 16-32 pages of poetry (which i totally have). the problem lies not in whether or not i have enough poems to put together a chapbook, the issues is with which ones... do i go for the domestics side of my poetry, the happy little wife; or do i unleash the poetess?

you'll have to excuse me for not hyper-linking everything here. but those of you who do read my blog (anyone who recognizes at least half of the titles listed below), which list do you think would work better in an octopus chapbook? which group of poems have i got a better chance of selling?

note: these lists of poems are not in the order which i would arrange the poems in a chapbook.

domestic bliss
the puzzle bird
not a sex poem
the undoing
husband & wife (as edited by brian)
the hotel science series (as selected by brian)
room service
domestic bliss
pneumonia boy
the imaginary me
and i the poet
dear salamander
and then i wrote this poem
[i am the cat]
eggs
the laundry matt princes
[not writing poetry is not easy] (as in an introduction, perhaps)
what do you get for the fish who has everything?

or

poetess complex (am not sure i would actually call it this, though)
he & she
a different
[i know you]
foul
fish into six [prose form]
halogen (as edited by brian)
playgrounds' romance
blasphemed (not sure about this one to be honest)
[my heavy eyelids shut the light out]
this is february
the giver
you thought as though
angels do (another one i'm not really sure about)
nice to meet you
graces (edited version)
without your sex
stage hand
doll
the act of being fruit

almost all these poems are available on this blog. the few edited by brian are not here in the form in which they would be submitted but they are here.

so, what says you? or should i not bother with a chapbook and go back to my one-poem-at-a-time submission spree? if you like a particular group of poems are there any you would add or take out? let me know, even if i don't end up submitting, at least i'll have an idea for a collection brewing!

he & she then

he eases towards
she speaks softly
they share
they want each other
in
and everyone knows
they want us to know
but it won't happen here
and no way for it to
then
he

it was perfect.

i love it (when you say my name)

a genuine - good morning katy
___hello sweetie
_____hello dearie
_______hello katy
_________hey katy
___________ikhteh

i love you too, katy
___my katy

katy did.
katy will.
katy has.

katy, have i ever told you...

this is for katy

katy says
___thank you

a different

my poem about oranges is this time:



i was trained, like all americans,
to eat oranges the right way;
two hands and a stack of napkins.

but mine come with predetermined
thumb nail prints in the peel.

and i
i break the case of each slice

squeeze the pulp with teeth
trained to break the flesh on men's backs.

thinner skin and half moon slices;
frank, give me your finger and suck.

broomtookhandlebra

temporary wife complete with doll avatar
at your doorstep; 8am with broom took & handle
her with your bare hands for a cup of something hot
or cut stems in pink socks and green all stars
fraught with an accident waiting to happen
lucky pinch of salt, for good luck after all
the robins have been fed cake and dried wheat meal

dinner is at 7

gloss

conducive when wet, a window shop dummy
modeled after me cup for cup, fold for fold,

she is wearing my lip gloss too.
but mine are fat from kisses.

_______________________________we linger at the brink
of cotton sheets dyed purple to thank the arabian genius
who invented it.

before he kisses the cut i let a canadian
slice my ring finger open with his poetry.

easily distracted by glossy finishes, we sift
our eagerness into powder, sprinkle it on

lightly. with raspberries and mint twigs as garnish.

your butter is sweeter then.

On Birds for Example (a chapbook by Jess Mynes)

I was going to start this with a disclaimer about how I’m not really qualified to do a chapbook review. Then I started drafting, started thinking and came to the conclusion that when it comes to poetry, the qualifications are hazy at best and should be altogether ignored in this instance. The reason I am doing a public review of Jess Mynes’ chapbook (available through Carve Press) is because a: I told Jess I would elaborate on my response to the chapbook in one form or another, b: I like Jess as an individual and c: I really dig the chapbook.

I found out about Birds for Example on Ron Silliman’s blog where “Orange” had been posted in full. I loved the poem and decided to splurge on the $5 chapbook. Now I have a confession: Birds for Example is the first chapbook I’ve ever bought and read. I honestly had no idea that there was such a huge market in chapbooks. So, thank you Mr. Silliman and thank you Jess both for opening me up to the idea after all my unintentional avoidance.

Upon receiving my copy of Birds for Example I had no idea who or what “Jess” was—old, young, boy, girl, liberal, academic, conservative, alien. All that I knew about Jess was that Jess was a poet. With this blissful ignorance as to who my speaker was, I prepared myself to sit down and learn. Upon finishing the lovely little book, I still had no idea who or what Jess was other than a damn fine poet.

I still wasn’t even sure of Jess’s gender. This feat was absolutely astounding to me. Anyone reading my poetry is, I’m sure, to figure out how much of a girl I am within a few poems. How could it be that a poet could so magnificently elude gender? To some advantage, the name “Jess” doesn’t give much away, does it? The only real clue is that the chapbook is dedicated to a one “Sarah”.

I tracked Jess’s blog down via Carve. It wasn’t until visiting fewer & further that I learned the true nature of this elusive “Jess”. As it turns out, he is a friendly bald guy living in western mass, working as a librarian. Okay, so I’ve spoilt the experience for anyone else who didn’t know who or what “Jess” was and was thinking they might indulge in the chapbook (which you should anyway). It’s not an experience I think many people would have had, nor one that I think many people will have, and not just in reading Jess’s chapbook, but in reading any collection of poetry.

The experience of reading poetry and negating, not just the poet, but gender altogether, was something remarkably refreshing for me. I was left alone with the words and the words were amazing. Having had read Frank O’Hara and Marie Howe just prior to my exposure to Jess made the whole experience of unknowing that much more dynamic. Both O’Hara and Howe are poets motivated by sex (not exclusively), whereas Jess’s poetry seems to be driven by observation and admiration.

While his works are playful in tone and energy, there is a maturity about the content of Birds for Example which lingers just above the sex-line. The relationships are built in and do not warrant further exploring—it feels, to me, as though these characters have been living here for a very long time. You’d think, though, that such a characteristic in poetry might cause it to feel stagnate or stale. However, Jess manages the antiquity of his characters by placing them in a myriad of historical particulars such as in “no fly zone” where we are exposed to allusions to grandiose “port arrivals”—picture sailors in white caps rushing off a battle cruiser at a New York port in 1918—migrant workers, and has-been cowboy icons in dulled-down uniforms or playing Mexicans in made-for-TV-movies.

One might be wondering now, as I had wondered, if Jess was avoiding the matter of sex altogether. As Mr. Silliman has not-long-past brought to the proverbial table, there seems to be a lack of sexuality in academic poetry written by straight men. I can’t say either way what Jess’s sexual orientation is, and I wouldn’t go about trying to guess. It does seem, though, that there may be some suppression at work in his poetry.

The opening poem, “in West Virginia, in 1938”, is a fine example of everything Jess isn’t saying:

“O cherry tomato
kiss me full on the small of my back
____And all the quivers
of summers renew”

Whereas I may have written similar lines as similes, Jess has created an extended metaphor in which a tomato replaces a potential lover to the projected voice of the narrator/poet.

Fortunately, having had the rare opportunity to read the collection without any awareness as to who was speaking to me, such moments as the one above presented themselves to me not as suppressed love making but as genuine moments of care that supersede the need for male and female parts to be present at the moment of impact. I don’t think, within the reality of the collection, that Jess was trying to hide anything. Instead, I have come to understand and appreciate Birds for Example as a collection of moments in poetry worth aspiration.

[i know you]

resting your hand on my leg
just above the knee
as we sit in traffic
i know you
want to comfort me but don't
know exactly how to
yet

the subject shifts to
which game should you trade
in

your hand tightens around
my leg as i start to cry

leaning down you try
to catch my line of sight
with yours
i want to kiss you but don't
know exactly how to
yet

ode to a little blue skutter named bob

in order to read
"ode to ... bob"
please hover your mouse over each picture
(left to right)

defect in

he did not understand
why the birds did not sing
or why the sun rose later.

he did not understand
if the hands on the clock
read 8, then why
were they all acting
as if it were 7?

he did not understand.

his insides told him the time
but the birds were late.

he had learned the truth
that the birds are never wrong.

this contradiction worried him.

could he be wrong?
or was it the birds?
what defect was this?

a defect in time, perhaps?
he accepted this.

he was correct,
the birds were correct,
but time was all askew.

he let the birds wake him
for the rest of his warranty.

it does not have a title.

the purple coat with a scarf
says hello, i am looking for coffee

her and he are best friends
this time of day. but what she
doesn't know about coffee...

... has got nothing to do with me.

[[eerrgg i had another something something going on in my head. it wasn't just about that woman, there was something... lost. those stupid people had to come interrupt me, didn't they? and just to make me talk lots about stuff they won't remember. my throat hurts, see this lump in my cheek, it's a cough drop. my throat hurts, so go away. i do not want to talk (to you). grrr and on top of that i lost the other half of the poem.]]

i'm not joking

*GO*

*SEE*

*SLITHER*

A PC Held Together by One Screw

my boyo wrote a poem ^_^ he's so stinkin' cute sometimes...

You'd think a PC held together by one screw,
would fall to pieces if you took it out.
When really what matters most,
is how the PC feels about it.

billy needs you!

"I wish I could get more poets to contribute to the effort as that would give me more chances to get more of us into the public spotlight." -Billy

know someone with a blog that hasn't made billy's list? do you have a blog that hasn't been listed yet?

i know that probably all of my current readership has made billy's list of blogging poets, but if every one of you tells a friend or shares a freind's blog with billy or me then the sphere will grow and grow and we will all be happy!!

so if you do know someone, either drop billy a line or leave a comment here and your voice shall be heard (by at least two ^_^)

[you are such a vivid dreamer, he said]

i usually tell brian my dreams.

he turns my words into poetry
like a magician turns a handkerchief
into a fuzzy white bunny or a pigeon.

today i told wahdoun my dream

about how i was diagnosed with "slight hiv"
only to be told by my huzbee that
if i had hiv then wouldn't he also have it?

he assured me that my hiv was in no way
related to the devastation of aids
and that what i had was completely curable.

you are such a vivid dreamer, he said.

fruitful

do i impress you, darling?

my haunches are firm and muscular
with all the practice
of holding my breasts alert

for your eyes and fingers delighted.

i can name drop too, this futon
sleeps us both on a warm night
in the middle of april or more.

we can slurp the orange juices
from each other's lips like bees.

the fine sugar of a fruit is rich.

can i have a bite of yours
if i promise to give you mine
or would that be asking too much
of a man with your... stature?

you can learn to impress me too.

write me poems about birds
about trailer parks and rivers,
or rest your ear against my heart
through layers of cotton and lace
and spend the night pretending

to be in love with me.

why do we love you?

why do we love you, katamari?

dear readership,

we have been playing we love katamari a lot recently (on account of the mega-vision recently aquired) and it has made us stupid. we cannot write poetry any more. we can only sing "na na na na na na na". we have a sore throat because of all this singing.

it is our hope that we might be saved by frank o'hara, but we are not sure if that is a realistic hope. frank, will you save us?

na na na na,

the plural of katy

wednesday

i scratched my eyelids open
the sun pounding in through the window
like melting night
on the doorsteps of a mausoleum.

... read the rest

bering beringaling

hi clive

hi katy

how are you?

alright and you?

am taking a walk at the mo. stepping over empty forty bottles, going past blue fire hydrants. you know, getting sand in my shoes.

peach

peach?

yeah, you know... as in, peachy kean...

peach.

peach.

clive...

yeah?

i don't think so.

mission: submission

april is "national poetry month" among other things (such as "kite month"). in order to celebrate, i will be submitting a poem from somethingkaty (and one from piloteye) to varying journals and zines everyday (if possible).

as i do so, i will update this post which the button labelled "submission" will direct you to throughout my pilgrimage through the tumultuous world of publication.

day 1: ? to fence (it's not really the sort of thing i can do from work, what with not having all my documents to hand. i am thinking about the hotel science series as edited and selected by brian. what do you think?)

FROM: Fence
TO: katy acheson
April 2nd 2006 at 4:35
MESSAGE: Your submission was received successfully.
...
writer: katy acheson
title(s): the hotel science series (in 10 parts)
type: poetry

day 2: the giver, husband and wife (as edited by brian (thank you brian)), & the puzzle bird submitted to FRAME which jess mynes kindly brought to my attention upon my asking his advice as to where might be some nice zines to submit some of my work to. thank you jess.
yay for hyperlinks!

day 3: i am going to diagram. i mean, i am going to submit to diagram. i am not a very good visual artist. and because they are in search of the oddities of digital media, i will be sending them binary for breakfast, robots don't make good valentines (which brian reckons i ought call "feb 14th 2079"... did i get the year right, brian?), and i was going to send them something else but i can't remember what now (i have a little list at home, don't worry).

at home now... have sent diagram my email which included triangulus philus and nice to meet you as well as the two poems listed above.

Dear Katy,

Thanks for your submission to DIAGRAM. Sorry to say that after much discussion and close reading we have decided against the work. We get a lot of high quality submissions and can only take on the few that really hit us just right.

Best,
Tom Fleischmann
Assistant Poetry Editor

day 4: submitted an ode to frank o'hara to pedestal magazine.

Dear Katy: Thank you for submitting your work to The Pedestal Magazine. We enjoyed reading it but regret that we cannot use it at this time. We wish you the best of luck in placing your work elsewhere and sincerely hope that you will submit other writing to us in the future.
Best,
The Editors The Pedestal Magazine
http://www.thepedestalmagazine.com/

day 5: i found this outstanding little journal by complete accident this morning and have just now sent them two poems. the journal is NOO and the poems i set them are room service and not a sex poem. on this one, i actually do hope they take either of the poems, because i really dig the journal.

am taking this as a "sorry, maybe next time"

Hi Katy,

I sent this message April 19th, but I just read your blog and it seems you never got it. My apologies for the mix up. No slight intended. I think the email got lost somehow?

Thank you for submitting these poems. Unfortunately, they're not quite the right fit for NOÖ. But I really like your style, especially in "Room Service." I would love to read more work from you, so if you have any more pieces available, please consider sending them along.

My apologies for passing, and thank you again!

Best,
Mike

P.S. And many thanks for your kind comments about NOÖ, and for posting comments on the site! We adore comments. If there were a way to make a salad out of comments, we would find it. Maybe with some walnuts too.

day 6: sent international diner (from piloteye) to Xcp

Katy Acheson,
Thanks for sending your poem to Xcp: Streetnotes. I really like it. We are going to push back the deadline untill sometime in late July, and publish the Summer issue in August. I will keep your submission on file and get back to you later this Summer.

David
--

David Michalski
Xcp: Streetnotes
http://www.xcp.bfn.org

am not sure what to make of this, in all honesty. though, i am wanting to think of it as a positive sign. the "i really like it" part is what makes me think the poem might make the cut, but one can never be sure.

day 7: Octopus Magazine are accepting manuscript submissions. they're looking for 16-32 pages of poetry (which i totally have). now i just have to decide if i have the balls to do it and whether i ought to go for the wifey or poetess angle. you know, domestic bliss verses foul. dunno. think i'll whip out an entirely seperate post about it, eh?

day 8: something will go to #andwerve but i haven't decided as to exactly what. they want first dibs and no simultaneous submissions... and something challenging... gonna have to think about this one...

... decided on [you are such a vivid dreamer] and [we have]

and gave them this as my bio:

22. married. capecod. hasafriendinphilly. afriendinlakecharles. abrother. asister. amother. afather. apetgoldfish. writespoetry. iswaitingtohearbackfromumassdartmouth. ishopingtoattendgraduateschoolthere. graduatedfromumassamherstmay2005. beenwritinglotsofpoetry. likesskittles. andfrankohara.

This is Jose Deerborn, associate editor for andwerve.
I am writing to you to inform you, regretfully, that your work was not chosen for our May issue. The reasons for not choosing work for our journal are many and are often, as I think in your case, unrelated to the quality of the work submitted. Sometimes we have too much of one kind of aesthetic; sometimes we simply have too much poetry; sometime we are looking for more balance. Thus, you must not be discouraged by this and must continue in your writerly pursuits with resumed confidence and strength. Best of luck in your future efforts, and feel free to submit more work to our journal if you feel it belongs in the upcoming issues. Thank you for your submission.
Jose Deerborn, Poetry Editor, andwerve

day 9: ink(&)ashes are asking for 3 to 5 poems, so am handing over to them graces domestic bliss and this is february.

day 10: wicked alice poetry journal gets broomtookhandlebra and angels do

day 11: am diggin' the style, look & sound of stirring. will be sending them safe the house of ashraf and and then i wrote this poem

Thank you for your submission to Stirring.

Unfortunately we have chosen other works for this issue.

Since we run a small publication, only a tiny portion of work sent to us is accepted, and many fine pieces end up returned merely because of our sizable submissions.

We appreciate your interest in Stirring.

day 12: kennesaw review have sent four poems to the glut and those poems are: hotel sciense XIX hotel science XXII room service and international diner. i have quite a few poems on the subject matter of food...

day 13: am a day ahead of myself (as an attempt not to fall sorely behind during the up-coming holiday weekend; guests will be over for dr who wonderment). so tomorrow, i have submitted three poems (the puzzle bird
before the rain and foul) to typomag 7. i dig the mag, but am not sure that i'm their stylee. they don't have very much in the way of narative poetry... we shall see though.

Dear Katy,
Greetings.
I thank you for sending your work our way, but we have decided to pass this time around. We wish you the best and thank you again for thinking of us.
yrs,
TYPO eds.

day 14: the editor at a.pos.tro.phe has just been sent the act of being fruit and poetry sampler

Hi Katy,

Your poem "the act of being fruit" is being published in the May/June 2006 issue. Please send a short biography to go along with your poem. Thanks.

Saty Patrabansh

day 15: will send fish into six and the house of ashraf to quick fiction on account of them looking for quick fiction

... i had a feeling this might happen. in reality, it's day 19. which means i should have to submit 4 days worth to be on top of things. instead, i am going to go on a little detour here. it isn't as if anyone is actually keeping up with my submissions anyway, so i can do whatever i want. like i told ryan, too, i just don't feel like and this isn't a job; therefore, if i don't feel like doing it, i don't have to. it is in no way vital to anyone well being that i submit something every day. i am sure i will splurge some evening and get them all done... but that evening is not now.

instead, today, i have played video games, been out to lunch, to the dentist, found out i have negative dollars in the bank, am doing laundry (looking like a total of 4 loads to do today, boys), and generally tidied the house up. once this post is finished i intend on cracking open David Barry Does Japan for a laugh.

the past few days i have pretty much been away from my blog. have been doing a few wordy posts, but have been taking a little break from the poetry scene. haven't even read any poetry in the past few days. i guess everyone needs a break now and again. especially a one who over doses on writing poetry.

so, until i feel like write another poem, and submitting some of those poems to journals and ezines that will more than likely turn them down, i am going to read mindless books. i have a few dr who novels to read, plenty of philip k dick and this david barry fella too keep me attentive until i get my gusto back.

day 16:

day 17: modern review even though i don't think is a particularly loving place for my sort of poetry...

may 8th: the editor of h_ngm_n is being sent an email which will include the following poems: wednesday
he & she then
drums:
safe
silk
spring confessional
and hit parade

Sorry to take so long with these. I really like SPRING CONFESSIONAL and WEDNESDAY & I hope you'll consider sending me those two, with maybe 4 or 5 others, as a new submission as soon as you get a chance...just so I can get a fresh look at things.
Best,
Nate Pritts


and have emailed mark from cy gist press about his spaceship. am not sure that he's still looking for submissions. will hopefully hear back soon.
[update on the spaceship project: not taking any more submissions, but mark's put me on his mailing list for future projects ^_^ ]

may 23: outside voices (they are looking for me)
have just sent them
the origami astronaut
experiment 51
... .-- .- .-.. .-.. --- .-- / ... --- -. --. /
kow
and
promises; promises



may 30th: yeah, i waited until the last minute to submit our poems dear, but at least i got it done. i hope you don't mind, i had to forge your signature. well, ryan did it, so that the signatures would look different.

ashraf and i are sending dear salamander and geography lessons to this competition.

june 16th: will be submitting 5 poems to the onion union (further updates later)

ponytail jerk
the long way
[stretched and penniless]
[let us compare were we're from
and hit parade
have all been submitted to the onion union. special thanks go out to melanie and marcus of the onion union for seeking me out and for commenting on my work.

Thanks Katy,

Marcus here. I think your work is great. The two standard tests are
(1) absense of cliche and (2) concreteness of language. Bang on on
both counts. So, let's agree to publish "the long way" for the August
issue. I hope you'll consider sending work again.

And thanks for your patience; I'm sad to say it's taken a month to get
this e-mail out. While some publications keep an artist's work upwards
of six months before giving her a reply, Mel and I try not to be like
that. Because that's just mean.

Marcus McCann
editor, the onion union

june 21: an ode to frank o'hara has been posted on bloggingpoet.com, thank you billy!

june 24: the ringing of the bards #1 - as hosted by billy the blogging poet (mayor of poets101.com). my series of poems titled the sleeping woman was included in the first festival. am hosting begining july 1st and am uber excited ^_^

june 29: Didi M of The Goodnight Show has asked me to record and submit three for the show. this is a first; the recording thing i mean. am looking forward to hearing how it turns out. brian will be on the friday show (june 30th); do check it out.

4th of july special of the Goodnight Show - featuring ME!

august 14th UPDATE: justheard back from nate at h_ngm_n who wants to include the puzzle bird and wednesday in either the november issue or the march '07 issue of the 'zine. am uber happy about this ^___^ thanks nate!!!

august 28: marlow of in our own words and i had a conversation via email this morning after he invited me to submit some work to his up-coming volume of the anthology. the description and submission guidelines, however, suggest that only poets born between 1960 and 1982 are elegable for submission. hence, the question arouse:

Marlow,
I was born in 1983. Does that mean I have to wait for the next generation's collection? Or do you still want me?
Best,
Katy

Katy, thanks for getting back. 1983? That's just too close to leave you out. Look forward to receiving and reading some texts from you. Have a great Saturday. Marlow


september 10: just sent what happened, flee market affair, $9.80 and the fold to in our own voices per request of Marlow. ^__^




October 1st: sending 3 poems to elimae today... they will be: what happened, the monarch of fall and soap

sent. and now we wait.

.DENIED. it wasn't what they were looking for. so... onto the next.

october 27th
to 42opus: tongue & cheek, the point, the monarch of fall, the idiot box, soap and ponytail jerk*


day 20: eleven bulls

day 21: ravenna

day 22: shampoo poetry

day 23: zeek (am in love with the name of this journal)

day 24: dusie

day 25: half drunk muse

day 26: petty coat relaxer

day 27: the tiny journal

day 28: no tell motel

more journals here

pretending saturday

i want to pretend like i wrote this poem, but that wouldn't be fair to miss denielle who did write it.

sigh.

mandrill & saw

to no fault of the wood
was it formed and fitted
in such an ill manner.

to no fault of the pipe
was it manufactured from
plastic and warped
from years of no support.

to no fault of mine
was the phone left unanswered
and the floor left covered
in sawdust and splinters.


post # 174

from 3 to 26

right... so, ryan had a TARDIS shaped cake when he was 3, and he requested a repeat this year for his 26th birthday.

therefore, (because he's spoilt) kerry (his sis) and i made him one today (along with some little green-on-the-inside alien cup cakes). it turned out quite well i think...

and here's a pic of the birthday boyo looking really happy and sweet beside his lit cake...

and lastly but not leastly, we cut it up...

VIDEO LINKAGE

behind door number eight

a new poem at pilot eye

the puzzle bird

how many birds
would fit inside
this coffee thermos

if each bird
folded its wings
just so?

... read the rest

person(al(l)) poem

folded like a clam
tucked in all the corners
the bed spread stuck to you
like an enchanted lover.

you don't remember me
loosening the bedding
and sliding in beside you
my frighteningly cold hands
thawing under your hot breath
and my toes curling
around yours for warmth.

by morning i'd stolen
three corners of the quilt
from your side of the bed;
my unconscious ploy
to get you to cuddle me closer
by chasing the blanket
to my side of the dipping mattress.

you saw it here first

title and signatures by jane hammond

1.
PANCAKE (II)
sizzle, sizzle,   flip,
sizzle, sizzle,
flop onto my plate,
into my belly by way of fork
and assisted by butter knife.
passed by player twelve and forty-seven.
the field is ceramic and white
with puddles of syrup.

the last bite is always soggy.
[signed by “Long-Haired Avatar”]

2.
BACON
three sultry strips of bacon,
the pig fat fried off left extra crispy
   how i like it—
   a one night stand
in Amsterdam
[signed by “Love You in the Morning”]

3.
CHOCOLATE
one very wonderful chocolate doughnut
glazed with a sugar compound
and carefully aged→for 38 minutes←on my window sill
cold and soft with a crispy sugary shell
chocolate doughnut, I love you
you love me, I eat you
and you do not love me anymore
[signed by “Freezer Burn”]

*alternate version appears below

4.
PIZZA
pizza can so be a breakfast food if it's cold!  don't
fool me, don't battle me.  i'll eat what i want, he
ain't got no butta!  i saw a sign on a bus that told
me the best thing for breakfast is a nicotine patch.
i do not believe this.  i believe that pizza is a much
wiser choice.  i am composing this, i am composing
this on mary's computer, i should ask mary if she'd
ever eat pizza for breakfast..."only cold pizza for
breakfast" i am so good.
[signed by “The Hagiography of This Moment”]

5.
PEAS
do
not
eat
peas
they are       evil
they are not good for dinner
or dessert
they are not dessert
and they are not breakfast
they are only  evil
do
not
eat
them
ever!
[signed by “The Peace Plan”]

6.
DINA
i picked a daffodil
and gave it to Dina.
she ate it.
i don't know how nutritious a yellow
flower really is  but i wouldn't think
to eat one for breakfast
though  it was evening when she ate it,
so i guess it’s not the same.
[signed by “The Friendly Sea”]

7.
NOT ORANGE JUICE
spunky orange drink a citrusy blend   of citrus fruits
enhances with vitamins  A, C, D, and E
for your ever growing mind  child.
A cartoon drink in a slipper glass.
Refill, half-full, with a little
extra fun on the top…  the stuff  that  stays   on  your lips.
[signed by “Confessions of a Fop”]

8.
[ODE TO] WAFFLE OFF
when them nasty waffles start gettin' to ya
spray'em with some waffle off
then they'll start keelin' over right before yer very eyes
one or two might land in a sticky puddle
of vermont made maple syrup
that's been carried south by the clouds and wind
then some soulless squirrels with forks
of all different shapes and size
some two pronged, some three or four pronged
and they'll start munchin' on the nasty waffles
that you got dead with yer waffle off

[available in convenient pocket sized cans
as well as family sized and standard sized cans]
[signed by “A Parliament of Refrigerator Magnets”]

9.
CHEERIOS
one bowl of cheerios
laced with fine white—sunk to the bottom—
grains
of sugar.
finely harvested
O's of grains
loitering in a plastic bowl
sopping up 2% milk
98% un-milk
and swallowed whole by a giant.
[signed by “Man Overboard”]

10.
FORK
there once was a fork from the Malookas [though you'll have
to ask rohrer about that place, i've never been myself] that
glowed like a dog's collar.  i ate with it once, what a
wonderful date, we had breakfast together, the fork and i.
the thing was, however, that the fork became extremely
offended when i picked up another fork to eat my eggs, and
so i had to use only a spoon.  the fork hardly ate a thing.
the breakfast was great [thanks for the free refills of
decaffeinated coffee].  after the meal the fork and i went
back to my place.  nothing happened.  the fork just kept
on glowing; never took it off.
[signed by “Long Black German Heels and Back Areas”]

11.
PEACH
Precious
Ripe little fruit
Every
Sip
I [the pronoun]
Dig into is
Ecstasy to my
Nervous
Tongue
So ner.
[signed by “Mad Elge”]


12.
BEE TEA
there's a giant bee in my room
he's trying to get out  but he can't find
the little hole he came in from

so i put the last of my tea on the ledge
for my friend [the bee] to drink

he played around the edge of the cup
for a minute or two

but i guess he doesn't really care
for raspberry flavored tea.
[signed by “A Scratched Itch”]

13.
JAM ON
English muffin or toast--
the whole point is the jam.
orange, purple or red?
it all just goops on... sticking
to its bready bed like a dirty baby.
then you eat it! What!?
crunch and slop, slurp and chomp
that's it  [i've seen enough]
[signed by “Irregular Plural”]

14.
TOAST
it’s been done already.
[signed by “The Human Condition Revisited”]

---------------------
*translated by drook

 Un beignet de chocolat très merveilleux
glacé avec un composé de sucre
et soigneusement vieilli »pour trente-huit« minutes
      sur mon sill de fenêtre
froid et doux avec une coquille de sugary
      croustillant,
beignet de chocolat,
je vous aime. Vous m'aimez.
Je vous mange et vous ne m'aimez plus. 

what an ashraf is- a character study

you ask, how was philly?
i say, i didn't know just how good
until i had to leave.


here is an ode or a painting,
hung behind the silver slivers
of an old fashioned science fiction
gown. fitting only for a diva
or a dalida, a goddess, or more.

here is another string of secrets
tied together on a shoe lace
and followed by a friendly cat
down the length of an inspirational corridor.

what an ashraf is- all the secret
hiding places in a car
for mints, gums, glasses, gloves,
tissues, cds, mirrors, fragrances
and special body butters.

what an ashraf is- the effects
of a transformation from christmas pj's
to hair gel and a soft sweater
with contact lenses and leather gloves.

what an ashraf has- if he blushes,
the most beautiful brown eyes
ever given to a boy by his mother
and just enough attitude
to warrant a guilty smile.

what an ashraf has- a collection
of royal blue and gold bottles
of shampoo, conditioner and
shower gel neatly arranged
in the corner of the shower
in the back of the bathroom
with the loose light switch
from too many rough starts
to too many heavy days.

what an ashraf does- offers hot tea
before breakfast and asks how i like
the collection of marie howe poems
i've barely skimmed the surface of.

what an ashraf does- bites his nails
when no one is meant to be watching
then catches me staring and stops.
neither of us smiling, neither needing to.
instead, we comment on the cat.

recommended reading

parallel wordport



my amigo drook[star] has finally hopped on board the blogger-express and has posted three poems of a very drookian nature. drook was there are the start of poemtree, though neither of us knew it. hey, maybe i should post you saw it here first? it's a collection of pieces surrounding the wonders of breakfast. drook was an important influence on that collection and has actually translated one of its parts into french. hah, all the hype, i will definatly have to post it now.

COMING SOON: you saw it here first (with special alternate version of "chocolate" by drook)

hey drook, ever get around to that introduction? >_<

on topic

so i've been away, been to philadelphia, and haven't written a poem in (counting...) 4 whole days *shock* i know! though, i've not always been as productive as i have been the past 5 or so months, so it's by no means earth shattering.

first, let's address philadelphia and kashmir sweaters:
though i'm not in love with the city, i didn't really spend that much time with it. i will go back soon, this i know... that is, i suppose, unless arch really does move to europe, in which case i will be visiting milano or some such exoti-city (making up words is good for your brain).
the museum is very nice. would have liked to spend more time there (but i guess we left some for next time). silly thing: restaurants on a saturday closing at 10, what's that all about? silly thing (in a different way): cats and string. snuffy and i had a good lot of fun up and down and all around arch's apartment with a south park shoe lace. the cat nip helped.
favorite thing: "mou'sif!" this is for arch to understand (and ryan if he reads it) only. second favorite thing: watching a&w try to contemplate the 4th dimension. there are lots of other favorite things but i won't bore you all with them.

now back to poetry, eh? there's a peculiar and interesting thing that happens to me with poetry when i write it lots and when i don't write it at all. i pretty much have two extremes with poetry; either i'm writing prolifically (every day) or i'm never writing (i'll write maybe one crappy poem every month or so, like i usually do in the summer months, as i'm far too busy being). i've thought about this before, but i've never really written about it, and though this is usually a topic fitting for poetship i thought i would splurdge here (again) anyway.

what i think happens is that upon writing a poem every day i am able to focus each poem on an instant within my experience. i am able to take a highlight and manipulate it into a poem. i focus on the poem.

on the other hand, when i am not writing very often, when i do sit down to write i am faced with every instance between the last time and this time.

for some reason i have this urge to turn every insignificant moment into a poem (part of my problem is that i am continuously translating everything i see, hear, taste, etc into words (as if they were the only thing i understood, which is sort of correct, as it is an accepted theory that memory is linked directly to language and comprehension)).

therefore, i think it is beneficial for me to write every day, even if it's crap. it's like a de-congestion process, writing poetry. the downside is that there tend to be a lot of crappy poems when one writes like this. the up side is that those crappy poems are easily disposed of (as the amount of attachment on a poem is partially related to how many poems one has) or at least ignored (by the readers). the other plus side is, that for every bunch of crappy poems, there's a gem that comes through.

there's another major downfall (for me) when it comes to writing less often, and that is that i always try to catch up with myself. this is, of course, impossible, but i try anyway.

below is a clump of words pretending to be a poem. it is an example of my trying to catch up. there is another poem that i am currently working on (which hopefully will not be crap), and i'm sure that there are more bits like this brewing. enjoy!

through a desperate hug
i relinquish my mid-night anxieties
on the haunches of my lover

disturbing his delicate sleep
i'm chanting my thanks and apologies

it was just a dream
he says

snakes on a plane

weekend in review to come shortly, poetry too. in the mean time enjoy a little sampling of the wonder that is "snakes on a plane"


see snakes on a blog for more joy and wonderment.

kookamunga

PHILLY BOUND FOR THE WEEKEND

not a sex poem:

i am shorter with no shoes on
my toes rubbing cotton socks
into the synthetic fibers
of a worn-down carpet;
purple into red.

the heat here is on the "fritz"
or a distant island in the pacific
simply taking holiday
in this, the unforgiving tale
of a sturdy winter.

i need to finish this book
so i can write this letter
but i leave in 15 minutes;
go home, go to bed, go to sleep.

between the layers of slumber
are tangled masses and dreams
of his spirit animal and mine
mingling in a domestic forest
at the hum of a filtered pond

and we, of all the creatures,
ill-suited to one another,
are happy here without the heat.

we have thick socks to keep our feet
warm through the last month of winter.

to my miniature army of lovable poets;

get involved

pucker

we sucked each others bottom lips fat

spilling juices on purple sheets;

our stomachs moaned for greater things

than our tongues were ready to taste

[we have]

we have america under our tongues
between our teeth and tucked
between gums and swollen lips.

we have the sound of poets in an open field
shouting words to one another in friendly battle.

we judge the sun as it struggles to set
behind the white-washed back of a historical hotel
where the concrete is stained by the blood
of a thousand scrapped knees.

we are hungry for softer beds

bigger fields

and more friends we'd like to kiss
behind fences in confidence of secrecy.

to share america without speaking a word
we learn sign language and how to read lips
until the motivation of smell becomes us.

we have cancelled all borders,
but we constructed more fences for hiding behind.

our mouths are open wide with anxiety.

we have cursed the rising moon at dusk
for exposing our sloppy tongues
to the field of war-warn poets
and the wanting shells of men.

we have the taste of resolve on our fingers.

we have given ourselves up to the obedience
of a playground in the dark by choosing one
of one thousand beautiful creatures to sleep with.

we are but buffalo in a world of dairy cows

For most newspapers and magazines, poetry has become a literary commodity intended less to be read than to be noted with approval. Most editors run poems and poetry reviews the way a prosperous Montana rancher might keep a few buffalo around—not to eat the endangered creatures but to display them for tradition's sake.

from: http://www.danagioia.net/essays/ecpm.htm

enriko revealed this article to the subtle eye via brian's blog, here.

if you have a few spare minutes, it's easily read and rather insightful (a digestible poetics). otherwise, enjoy the above quote.

before the rain (2 poets 4 parts)

before the rain by katy

bent and struggling
a saw drove into the flesh
of a dying tree.

we watched as the clouds flooded the sky with thick, grey vengeance and four brown hawks cried for the tree as it bellowed against the strain of it's own weight.

the first drops of rain
fell in tune with the cries
of four hawks

and the last breath
of a dying pine.



before the rain by brian

bent and struggling
a saw drove
into a dry pine.

we watched the clouds flood the sky with grey-thick
vengeance, four brown hawks cried for the tree as it
bellowed against the strain of it's weight.

the first drops of rain
fell with the cries
of the hawks

and the last breath
of the pine.


[[like i told brian "it's amazing, the same words, venacular and all, can be so easily and yet so slightly disfigured and turned into someone else". and isn't it just?]]


after the rain (on piloteye) by katy

after the rain by brian

we watched four hawks
drying wings on top
a near-by barn

the lower take

     so, have you chosen
you chose not to
          have me tonight

will you not have me?
     and my poems for you__
          they are relentless and
          they are tireless like me.

trick me if you won't
          fill me don't lose me
          my void is aching
          like heat

the source of your lips
     begets my breath.
     i am only a child (to you)__
          i am only for you
          trecherous
     your teen aged virgin__
     with pretty hair
          and sensitive breasts.

we have stopped

the creae of my thumb
          split under you
          bleeding
now__will you not take me?

like my poetry,
     filling space

i am like my poetry
     vulnarable and filling space.
     i am growing like a dark secret
          amongst technology
          and dust__
i too am filtered.

the lower

i fall under you
     again, again, again,
          please, now yes, now

now we have a semblance
          of peace
          (finally)

please, tell me
     i love you.


*



*

the undoing

we suffered the darker silences of winter
only for a wood pecker to morning us too early.

the parliament of red breasted robins congregated
on the snow-tempered blades of our front lawn

lobbying for stale bread, insects and rain
to draw the worms from their buried chambers.

tomorrow will be spring and we'll pitch the tent
for airing. brushing away spiders' nests and

the vicious mildews that form inside zipper tracks.
beyond the wire-fence an equestrian strode by

the scent of the horse and honey bees flirted
with our senses from across the cranberry bog.

we made love on the edges of every surface
where neighbors could neither hear nor see

but under the stars of our blossoming march
we trickle into the light of an open arena.




*

promises; promises:

i

one mountain           under
                              river beds and pebbles

crease the man's spine
     with the grace of an

                                   un-polished
                              fingernail



ii

she pierces                with fat
                              tongue
the rhythm of
his potency                before

          a promise is broken




*

feeling canadian(s)

i asked hardy if he'd come over to do my dishes not realizing exactly what i was asking for...

... fore this is what canadians do after the dishes

foul

we bent into the shovels
the mud and jerked the
heel of the truck with our
sparrow-lined footwear.

fantasies talk lines and
bolt us to the closet hangers.

i sucked the open spouts
of japanese tea pots for you.
you sang to me and let me
paint dragons on your back.

we've made love in stranger
ways than this when we were
teenagers; full and ripe with
triumph and soft growing bodies.

tonight we watched the air
between us filter like a bad
cigarette across glossed lips
and buried our mixtures
beneath the sand in the desert.

the poetess' dilema

(a poem by brian)

The Poetess' Dilema

Dishes.

zio's pancake party pictures

there were only two pictures of me (looking a bit too serious in the second one, well, in comparison. actually, i look hypnotized--no idea when that happened.)

one

two


a nice photo of dina and jonah together

d&j

and for the full roll... go here

human telephone

i could hear your voice speaking
        through your fingers.

you kept both pointers in my ears
        as i brushed my teeth.

our leonard cohen moment
        and you didn't even realize.

our bodies tangled like rice noodles
        under the blue quilt.

you asked me, what are you doing?
        and i replied, being in love with you.

poets101.com

billy's at it again... still... would you expect anything less? something about rss and communities. basically, adding your blog to the feed means everytime you update your blog, poets101.com updates their feed. another means for blogging poets to find one another.

oh, and congrats jesse you made the list!

[[addition: happy birthday!!
a whole bunch of you kiddies got added to billy's second list of blogging poets. i'm so proud!]]

fish into six

[adjustment: b & b have persuaded me into admitting that the prose-form of this poem is better than the form-form of this poem, so skip to the good bits.]

i dreamt that my goldfish gave birth
to four red fish and two white fish.
they shared the ten gallon tank
and swam laps around each other.

i was being accepted. you persuaded me
to take a hotel shower with you before
the dinner reception. you forgot your socks
when you stepped in under the rainfall
of hot water, you were distracted i guess.

we passed the tank full of fish on our way
to the hall where i will be given a token
of some refined sort; where we'd eat carrots
dressed as flowers and rare deli meats
folded like beach towels over wasa bread
and finish with sips of sparkling drinks
that stain even the straightest teeth.

in the dream we speak like poets to each other.
you mention rainbows and it brings up history.
we tried dancing to a slower song,
but your feet fell too clumsily onto mine.

i was given a statuette of a young woman
holding a pen and book in gold leaf.
you carried her up to your hotel room,
passed the tank filled with baby fish,
and set her down on the vanity,
facing her own reflection.

you apologized to my toes for
your terrible dancing before climbing
into the orchestrated hotel bed.
then you tried to explain to me
just how impossible it is
for one fish to give birth to six.


or

i dreamt that my goldfish gave birth to four red fish and two white fish. they shared the ten gallon tank and swam laps around each other. i was being accepted. you persuaded me to take a hotel shower with you before the dinner reception. you forgot your socks when you stepped in under the rainfall of hot water, you were distracted i guess. we passed the tank full of fish on our way to the hall where i will be given a token of some refined sort; where we'll eat carrots dressed as flowers and rare deli meats folded like beach towels over wasa bread and finish with sips of sparkling drinks that stain even the straightest teeth. in the dream we speak like poets to each other. you mention rainbows and it brings up history. we tried dancing to a slower song, but your feet fell too clumsily onto mine. i was given a statuette of a young woman holding a pen and book in gold leaf. you carried her up to your hotel room, passed the tank filled with baby fish, and set her down on the vanity, facing her own reflection. you apologized to my toes for your terrible dancing before climbing into the orchestrated hotel bed. then you tried to explain to me just how impossible it is for one fish to give birth to six.

[[notes: brian sent me an email (just like he said) and this is what was in it (see above-prose poem formatting for fish into six. honestly, i had thought about putting it into a prose form. why didn't i then? not sure. to be honest, i'm torn with this piece. the rhythm is carried through into the prose form (it doesn't lose anything). does it gain anything though? does the stanza-format hold any leverage over the prose? other than the "oh it's a poem" reaction of first looking at it? i guess i have been doing my share of ranting lately and didn't want this piece to get swashed into the bucket with my rants and poetic endeavored. i will leave it up to you, the individual, which you prefer. the story is the same, it sounds the same, but what does it do for eyes?]]