ringing of the bards #9 a'la Sam Duffy's Stuff

this edition of The Ringing of the Bards is brought to you through the grace and beauty Miss Sam Duffy of Miss Sam Duffy's Stuff and Stuff.

i approached Miss Sam Duffy via email a few weeks back, asking her if she'd give me permission to make her the "thematic centerpiece" for the 9th ringing of the bards. she agreed under my conditions (which i am very very pleased to see, everyone in this week's carnival has abided by, thank you!). as a result, what follows is a magnificent emotional journey by way of some truly fine poetry and the collection of gorgeous drawings, paintings and collages by Miss Sam Duffy that inspired the poets whose work is featured.

the poems, combined with the dramatic visuals provided, are so emotionally motivating and rigorous. as a result, i am not going to weigh the featured works down with introductions, synopsis, opinions or lip service. instead, i am going to stimulate your retina with a selection of the inspirational images that the featured poets have selected to write in response to for this carnival.

(except for one nod to scott glassman of 30 Days: poem for introducing me to Miss Sam Duffy's work in the first place. thank you scott!)

each of the images are arranged with the poet's name and poem's title with hyperlinks directly below. each of the images is loaded as if a button. click on the image here and it will direct you to the post on Miss Sam Duffy's blog where you can then view the larger version of the image.

sarah's darkness
by ozymandiaz of paper tigers

the last flower
by shirley of housemouse

prompted
by bob hazelton of average poet

saloon
by scott glassman of 30 Days: poem

ant hill schematics
by katy of somethingkaty

balloon air
by russell ragsdale of yuckelbel's canon

triptych centerpiece
by russell ragsdale of yuckelbel's canon

who's there?
by russell ragsdale of yuckelbel's canon

angelic
by ashraf of arch.memory

sara the fairy
by our mayor billy of bloggingpoet.com

face in the mirror
by mike of unknowing mind

yes, russell sent me three submissions ^__^ and yes, i included one of my own.

i do hope you enjoyed the poems here as well as the artwork provided to us all by the lovely Miss Sam Duffy. i extend you all the invitation to visit her blog and explore her artwork. i would also like to extend an invitation to all blogging poets who missed out on this particular carnival to write a poem inspired by Miss Sam Duffy's stuff and send me a link so that i can add it onto this carnival's roster. it's a brilliant exercise for a poet to participate in, and the results, as you have seen here, are remarkable.

next week's ringing is brought to you by everyone's favorite squishy-faced kitty avatar with attitude: Ozymandiaz of Paper Tigers!! send your poetry submissions to daniel at ozymandiaz @ danworld . com by friday-ish next week.

just one more time before i go: thank you Miss Sam Duffy!!

and now... goodnight cherubs!

still accepting submissions

email me a link to any poem you've written in the past 2 weeks

and i'll happily include it in this week's ringing.

email and other details here.

ringing #9 goes into production around 4pm.

anything emailed by then will be included!!

search

eighty nine
equals
capital i





this equation is the mathematical
representation of the mass force applied
to a keyboard when sat on by a 3lb orange kitten.

ringing of the bards #9 -coming soon

just a reminder to all you bunny rabits (i mean poets/bloggers), i shall be hosting my 2nd ringing of the bards begining saturday/sunday of this week; this particular ringing comes to you with some guidelines which i have detailed here. 

please email your submissions (link to the poem you'd like included in the festivities) to kaacheson @ yahoo . co . uk by Saturday 3pm EST Daylight Savings.  remember: your post must include a link to the image of inspiration as posted on miss sam duffy's blog!

also, there is no one in line to host next week's ringing!!!  if you'd like to host (it's easy and well worth your while, promise) then please email our Mayor of Poets101.com Billy the Blogging Poet at idleblogs @ yahoo . com.

any questions or you're just bored, please email me!

ringing of the bards - in color

- red, green and blue to be specific -

at this week's rining
as hosted by one naked and ashamed daniel

welcome guests

i judge people based on how neat
or disheveled their key-card envelope is
upon returning it to me
before leaving the hotel.

when i can't write one myself...

i can at least direct you to one worth your while:

seven up

by scott glassman of 30 days: poem

cat trick

fur-line through the threw-way
to the edge of the carpet;
the cat ran the ringer and broom

miss i-need-you

just when you thought she didn't
too

your life-size bed-warmer
your cup of tea with breakfast

kept you up all night
fetching her water, towels
and sympathy in maximum doses





your mrs says thank you

catching up on my electrolytes

we get really ill every now and again to help ourselves remember just how good we normally feel despite moaning and whining to the contrary. at least, getting as ill as i have been the past 24 odd hours has to have some justification to those means. if not, then i demand compensation.

the poetics of puke.
what do you call it?

(i suppose a Warning would be fair play here; those light of stomach would find it in their best interest to pass over this particular post.)

there are so many names for throw-up. throw-up for example. in england, to be sick means to have made sick, that goup which i refer to as vomit is simply called sick. the tangible evidence of the matter of fact. one i never used but always found amusing is "up-chuck". in college the term "spew" took on a whole new level of meaning. there's the coined classic "barf". the term most commonly used in my family was and always will be 'puke'. how wretched does it sound?

last night i puked a lot.

there's a charming sentence, no? charming or not, it's true. more true than any other truth. and i mean a lot.

every hour, between 24 past and 56 past i would wake in a cold fevery sweat and muster up every once of potential energy in my rotting excuse of a body to haul to the toilet just in time to puke all over myself, the toilet bowl and the bathroom floor. i missed a few times; like the first time i got it all over the bed and scared the cat into hiding. it wasn't until about the 6th time i rushed into the bathroom and revoltingly discharged into the toilet bowl that i realized and immediately asked my husband (who i'd woken up every single time i got sick so that he could be the dear that he is and come protect me from panic-attacks and fetch me fresh clothes and water and such; thank you ryan, so much) "why am i puking up green!?" -- in a very feeble, tired, bemused sort of tone.

you see it in cartoons all the time. the little girl in the Exorsist spews green gutts all over. but how often do people actually throw-up green? ryan quelled my fears by reminding me that the only thing i'd had to eat that day was nightquil gell tablets which happened to be toxic-bright green and the only substance remaining in my disfunctional body. green puke is simply not natural though. it was a first for me. i'm more used to the yellow-brown sort.

not only did the nightquil turn my puke an amusing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles green, it also stung like a mo-fo. went out my nose and everything. i can tell you for fact that nightquil + nose = not nice (with not-nice bonus multiplier as it happened several times last night).

at least i was a normal shade of yellow and death this morning... after speaking with my regular doctor over the phone and her response being "go to the hospital or dial 911" my father-in-law took me to the walk in clinic (which you're supposed to make appoints for now (??), but i was close enough to death that the NP Joan overruled the receptionist and took me in to see the doctor). they juiced me up with a sodium/glucose i.v. solution and gave me some nausea medication (good enough for cancer patients is good enough for me).

am on my second bottle of gatorade (aka electrolyte's) and am feeling a million times better than i was last night. ryan and i are both a bit wrecked from the whole mess of me last night though. as long as my eyes don't pop out my skull like they threatened to do last night at one point, i'll be happy.

the experience wasn't really worth it all, but i guess the green-puke thing is pretty funny in retrospect. comical i should say, not funny. comical.

so what's your favorite colour of puke? or whatever you call it.

ant hill schematics

robot boy
at age four
(and two fifteenths)
designed stackable
condominiums
proportionate
to the average size
of a north american carpenter ant
and sold them
to all the children
in his neighborhood
for 10% profit
on any lemonade sales
through the summer months
of june, july and august.




[inspired by a miss sam duffy original: click the poem's title for direct link to image of inspiration!!]

prospective

[do you ever just feel like writing a poem? the time is there and your fingers grace the keys just so... but there's nothing to write; just a blank, empty space hovering above. i sit, now, waiting for the inspiration to condense around me.]

for listening

ryan found me a website that hosts (he's the bestest, thank you monkee) .wma's called Mega-File. so i've put up the three that i felt happy with. i'll have another go at the fold and international diner tonight after everyone's gone sleepy-byes and the house is quiet. for now, these ought do...

the airplane poems

flee market affair

[so much for un poema]

waiting on

so, have got 3 of the 5 requested poems recorded (and sent them off to didi m; one for use in another episode of the goodnight show). went to odeo to upload them but they don't recognize .wma (!). am now waiting on my I.T.-brain of a husbee to help me with some sort of audio out hullabaloo so that i can record the poems onto odeo's format. once they're hosted then i can make them available to you who would be interested in listening to me read.

the 2 remaining poems (out of the 5 requested for reading) need to be rer-ecorded be they didn't turn out well enough (i had to but on something called advanced boom or something like that to get the microphone to pick up my voice without breathing down the neck of the little mic).

'twill hopefully not be too long now before i get those poems up for you though.

what was and what will be... we think

i won't go into any details in text; just have a look for yourself...







more later, promise ^__^

MiPo much?

my mipo radio bio is up. you can hear me speak a poem and read my silly bio. i will be recording another poem for didi in the next few days, any requests?

what's that ringing i hear?

it's erin of poetic acceptance!

her issue of ringing of the bards is like sampling a really expensive box of chocolates... the kind with gold-leaf foil and really swish names for all the different flavours and real cherries inside the cherry & cream ones.

next week, we get naked.

sym·bi·ote

(for dina)

sister:

share your plate, palet and tea with me
the sweet bread and blackcurrant jam stuck
_____to your finger tips

paint to the brush
_____depth to canvas

sister:

walk slowly by me

let's pretend

(for maya osman)

let's pretend it's december
_____when we were both younger yet.
let's pretend to be friends again -
_____we always wanted to be.
remember when i didn't know you?
_____let's pretend we never still,
then maybe this war will end for me -
_____i can pretend the same for you.
let's pretend the water is cool
_____and the sand doesn't burn our feet.
let's pretend to go on living -
_____because the rest of the world does.







daniel of naked and ashamed wrote this alternate/companion/branched poem also called let's pretend and so i thought you might like to read it if you enjoyed the original piece. daniel's version can be found here.

the bee program

(for ahmad)

there's something in high definition
playing on the megalatron(tm)
which they watch intently,
like children watching cartoons:

we are interested in this, but the cat
is keen on bathing in the breeze
of the artificial cooling unit we pray to
between the months of june and september.

i think of you drinking hot tea
typing on your laptop while i
drink cold tea and write poetry
on my laptop that isn't really mine.

exotic sweets stuck between my teeth
and the scrape on my right leg stings -
the high definition tv show is concerned
with the cormorants and honey bees of africa.

i reread your hand-written letter
admiring the n's and i's and f's
which made me cry again; but i didn't
tell anyone it happened until the day after.

yellow sunshine : the colour of a box

square with a bright green ribbon
on your breakfast table

and a note in orange, like easter

good morning,

the sun's not shining
so i brought it inside.

save me a cinnamon one.

love you!

perfect with jasmin tea

and a bouquet
of yellow lightning bolts

paralysis

unable to will
the body into
movement

unwilling
to move
when we need you to

sitting for hours
trying to decide
what not to do

sleeping instead
of doing
what ought to be done

pieces

I live in the Southern Suburb, but I fled among 18,000 others from the areas being evacuated. Thank God we have a mountain house in a relatively calm area. Many people did not even have that luxury.

::

Where I am you can hear and see the bombings on the Southern Suburb, but not so loudly that it scares you, and so with binoculars you can survey where the missiles are going with relative accuracy.

::

I know that every night we sleep under the surveillance of Israeli planes. At night and at day, they take pictures of Lebanon from these planes. I know that they know what they do, everything.

http://www.smh.com.au/news/World/Israel-using-chemical-weapons-doctors/2006/07/27/1153816285823.html

http://www.expatica.com/source/site_article.asp?subchannel_id=24&story_id=31715&name=Belgian+doctor%3A+Israel+using+chemical+weapons

http://news.aol.co.uk/article.adp?id=20060716094809990001

http://globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=viewArticle&code=20060723&articleId=2800

-ikhtak katy

issue 3

the onion union issue 3
featuring yours truly,
as well as the divine mandolina dora

*click on the onion*

...poem coming soon...

ringing: episode 6: cybernia

this week's ringing of the bards is brought cybernetic-ly to you care of bob, the not so average average poet! trek with bob through deserts, forests and over oceans as he visits new nooks of "cybernia" and bumps into a few familiar faces along the way ^__^

thanks for the trip, bob!

p.s. bob gets a special gold star for posting his ringing early saturday morning. record time, folks. record time.

apple kiss

the wrestle
and me to the ground

when arms
from where shattered glass

for reaching
the right were the wrong

since catching
with new and phrasing

then taking
with care at the rebound

your lips
with dew do search mine out

flee market affair

the mildewed bottoms of folding tables
sagged with humidity and his figure shown
through the t shirt he wore.

i stepped on his toes by accident
on purpose and my sorry was served
with an unmistakable i'm not sorry.

slowly, but without hesitation he moved passed
nodded and smiled and excused himself.
without saying a word; rejected me.

watching the entire episode
from your lent-back flee market chair
and nurturing a smile...

did you just fall in love with me?
a flirt with venom (as if joking)

i think so. want a sno cone?

max does kitchen remodeling (episode one)

ryan and i have been putting cabinets together for our kitchen remodeling - due to take full swing in about a week and half. max has been very helpful throughout. he chews on the screws to make sure they're in tight and surveys our productivity. here, he is inspecting the final product.




... and this is how max reacts when one of our cabinets fails any of his rigorous tests; the face of disapproval (or is he imitating a pinata?).

the ringing

bob, everyone's favorite not-so-average average poet, is in need of your submissions. poets of all shapes and sizes should send a link to a recent poem they would like highlighted to bobhazelton (AT) hotmail.com asap.

meanwhile

robot boy learns to tie his shoes
while calculating the ratio of
rational : to : the HEF

human. emotion. factor.

returner

the trees,

like soldiers,
bank the green river
as she silks through their roots.

$9.80

we took the kitten to the produce department
of the local grocery store to weigh him

in one of those aluminum fruit baskets
with scales hanging over head

if he were made of grapes
he'd have cost us nine dollars and eighty cents

he's worth much more than that though,
especially because he's not made of grapes.

the ringing of the bards V

*click the image to view this week's ringing*

this week we are all but puppets at the hands of a masteress of the play, cecilia. each poem is presented and preserved in a tribute poem, as an act in her dramatization.

thank you so much, cecilia my dear, for carrying the bards this week and for the most remarkable presentation!

heat

i smoldered, left you cold.

dedicated to the history of our blue duvet
and the air conditioning unit in the window;

we bought them both from sears,
one year at a time.
like over-due wedding gifts.

._____._____._____.

yesterday i struggled to depart;
the warmth of your back - against my breasts
magnetically - held me to you.

though i could not stay to watch you breathing.
in the cold chill of the window unit
my bare skin prickled and quaked.

as much as i wanted to -

the heat seeped out.

tired

of waiting, wondering
and waking up each morning
to another poet

hoping it's not too late.

i wish today could have been
too late.





call to arms, a poetic stance


my dear friends, unfortunately the people of lebanon continue to suffer under the rain of destruction and violence. therefore, and i am sorry to say, it is not too late to show your support to our dear friend ashraf - whose family are trapped in lebanon still. i would like to thank all of you who have already given your words to the favor of ashraf. we can never have too many poems, too many poets, or too many friends.

dinner at glenn's tonight!

celebrating each other's company and the beauty of words; glenn sits us all around the proverbial table for some tasty treats.

pot luck, of course.

special thanks, crunchy one, for hosting this week and for letting me say grace.

cheers ;)

with mrs waddle or the sea urchin

i stood in the puddle for eight hours
contumplating the past tense of Fat Trout*,

letting ice cream melt between my fingers
while watching the rafters heal themselves.

we chit chattered in fake laughters
about the ac in the hotel lobby;

how it wasn't working for all of six days.
she thought about putting her head

in the ice maker for temporary relief.
i told her snap dragons are my favorite flowers.

*Fat Trout Trailer Park of Deer Medow; Fire Walk With Me. Google it.

an ode to dangerous thoughts

call to arms

word order

you can call me old fashioned,
but
i'd like an eagle on the back of my quarter.

{(read me)}

.trick.tick.trick.tock.

{(out loud)}

nosebleeds over the smell of coffee on a hot
saturday morning. the 9am alarmer.

bringing up the fastest;
on peaches and bananas
churned butter and fresh milk

or the stomach of curdled waves and grain

all the way from the americas.

*__*___*_____*______*

)pacing yourself(
for the unacceptable;

relax, child. don't run unless told so.

))the outcome((
for predeterminancy

.the.trick.at.last.

[i got given a copy of the bible today]

i got given a copy of the bible today -
the new testament (as a special gift)

________________ small and bound in plastic
carved to look like leather.

the men asked me which colour
_______ should we put in each of the 75 hotel rooms,

but they didn't have enough green.

they're coming back on thursday.

ummi

for khayyeh ashraf, khayyeh ahmad, ikhteh maya, ummi and father. for the osman family. my heart goes out to you more now than usual.

we wrap our concerns -
final and fleeting -

in knit blankets and promises
_____of another strike

*

you wrapped your burns
in scented lotions and gauss

allowing for medication
to cure the heartache

*

is the city of your youth
in need of new scars?

broken _____ cloaked
in a putrid layer of ash

*

letting my eyes sting
from the threat of tears

shed in empathy
_____and memory

of what's hidden beneath the wax
that hangs on your dining room wall

*

*

*

*

help his cause

max is three months old today

...and has been acting extra cute. here are a some of max's odder moments in the past few days... (the ones i caught on camera anyway)

the fold

i'm only going half way
on this one
__________bible-belt romance

feed me into your covered-bridge fairy tales
and cracked pavement affairs

show me the patch
of sugar coated grass

your kindergarten sweetheart
in a daisy-white dress

show me your obsession
with astronauts and stars

because where we come from
this isn't how it goes

anymore

the pomp

dedicated to we and sunday evenings

we ate english pancakes
with granulated sugar

and extracted lemon juice
from a plastic lemon-shaped bottle

on fine china,
with the good silver

sitting just beyond
the blaze of the fire

watching the belly of the swamp
rise and fall

in the wake
of passing canoes.

i want to go back to sleep.

happy sunday everyone.

happy super birthday day michelle

and grandma curran too!

*yawn*

i really want to go back to bed.

hiatus

i've taken the week off posting here by recommendation of a dear friend. though i have been writing, and i have been so doing in a journal (my first form of composition, before blogger). it is only now beginning to prove fruitful after a week of lulling and moaning to myself about how summer sucks the luster out of my poems. it probably, in the end, has nothing whatsoever to do with the season; i need someone to blame though, don't i? >__<

i have been fleeting in mood; to put it poetically. not like anyone really cares what state of mind nor mood i might be in, this is my blog and, therefore, my rules--as i like to remind myself every once in a while.

to describe myself better, i would like to turn you over to the unspeakably wonderifous cecilia. her poem see me triggered a recognition in me, one that i've been on the way to making, but needed this extra sparkle to in the end.

so, thank you ashraf and thank you cecilia. you sweet little cherubs, you.

last call

if you want to join this week's party, send ashraf your poetry submissions for the carnival!!

archmemory @ yahoo . com

welcome, dear guests, to

[week two]

during the past week i have accepted poetry submissions from some of my favorite blogging poets. though i did not set any guidelines for the content of the poetry, i have taken the liberty of dressing this week's Ringing in a carnival/circus outfit (i hope you're ready for a bit of reading!!). for those of you interested in my experience in hosting the poetry carnival, a complimentary post to this one has been posted on po'et'ship. for those of you who are itching to get to the poetry...

our first bard is the beautiful shirley allard of housemouse. shirley, the painted woman and gifted make-up artist (keep her away from the clowns), brings her stirring poem, embracing the storm, to the big top. extra special thanks go out to shirley for her contribution to this carnival and all to follow; beyond her poetry, shirley has also designed the logo that graces the top of this carnival post!

the cotton candy stand poetess, cecilia , asked me to bend the rules a tad for her and i could refuse? the depth of silent mark is matched only by that of her other work on clear candy daily. so the poem is a bit older (only by a few months) but lines like
"growing tongues tasting the wind
feel like the knife scraping soft butter"
never get old.

you've made it past the brush of madame shirley and the sticky fingers of our darling cecilia, now it's time to meet the master.

the ring master, that is... and what would a carnival be without the booming lungs and dramatic nature of its ring master? ashraf (known to many as arch.memory) fits the bill for ring master to a proverbial T. to prove just how loud he can be, he bears all in his poem hunger. you wanted drama? you wanted a show? you wanted the finest poetry the blogsphere has to offer? you've just found your gold mine. ashraf knows, but i should tell you all too, i'm too good a friend to him to ever let his ego get such a feeding without meaning every word with the utmost sincerity.

our next featured poet is a very special member of the blogging poets' community. in fact, many of us agree that billy should represent poets101.com as Mayor:

and who better to welcome his fellow townsfolk to the festivities than our dear mayor? none, i say!! ah, he's got a fine welcome in store for you too; a sweet story of childhood antics as retold to him by his dear mother. she told it to be true is a true story of billy, the helpful little hopeful picking tomatoes for his mom. *aww* and before i go too far without saying it...

{ H A P P Y . B I R T H D A Y . B I L L Y ! }

cake and ice cream all around, but first we need to meet and greet all the other poets in this weeks carnival. what? you thought that was it! ha!! we've barely made it in the front door yet...

the following two poets are vying for your attention with their gorgeous, sizzling and tantalizing poems. welcome to the kissing booth, boys and girls!!

for the fellas, the glowing poetess mandolina dora of wet poems, has puckered up with her poem shudder. if the title doesn't clue you in... well, maybe i should let mandolina explain herself?

and for the ladies, is hardy f of torn labels. hardy, and i have told him this several times, is the best erotic male poet i've ever read. the poem chosen for feature here is a narrative/prose poem called 11:47. this is a quintessential hardy f poem in that before you even finish reading the piece, you will no doubt empathize with at least one of the characters and be itching uncontrollably for more. don't worry, there's lots more where that came from ;)

now that we've got you all hot and bothered, let's rearrange things with scott. maybe the right word is scramble... either way, track marks is bound to get your knickers in a twist. every good festival needs a sculptor, right? be it ice, clay, marble or your mind, scott's collection of poems on 30 Days: poem will keep you reeling!

you've had your face painted by shirley, shared some sweets with cecilia, been greeted by the tipped top hat of ashraf, handed a ripe tomato by billy, had your way with mandolina and hardy, been all sorts of spun around by scott and now it's time for the show!!

first up is resident cowboy and sushi chef brian boutwell of the boarding house. when he's not throwing knives for the carnival, brian writes austere prose poems and short, staccato works like to lorna. simple in form and vernacular, this poem might take you only a minute or two to read, but will leave you in a dusting of thought and imprint upon you a distinct southern flair.

on the other side of the ring, dodging brian's knives, is the talented poet and stilts-acrobat erin of poetic acceptance. keeping her balance all the while, erin delivers a gorgeous reading (yes, AUDIO!) of her entry to the bards, below morning's edge. the rhythm and intonation delivered by erin's reading of her piece is sure to make this poem an instant hit with all who hear it!

hearts go out to bob of average poet (an anything but average poet in all respects) - having been warned against sever flooding, he's decided to stick it out. would calling him the aqua-man be inappropriate? i'll go no further. his poem was inspired by the tsunami that crashed ashore just after christmas this past year. this is the flood watch.

rising above the flood plains is a lightening bug. or is that travis j morgan of zen moon flying the trapeze? japanese in tradition and aesthetic, t.j.'s acrobatics are bound to astound. the gymnast of poetry, and one of the few modern poets who pulls of a regular ababcdcd rhyme scheme with candor and charm, i am proud to present travis as a member of the carnival this week!

our spotlight turns to the center ring where mike of an unknowing mind will thrill with tales of those long lost beasts of the new world; a reader of minds, whisperer of fortunes, predictor future events and a provocative story teller, let us follow mike into the dorms and dare not to look back.

all the way from khazakhstan (i'm totally not joking) is russell. russell is without a doubt the finest human cannon ball (or was that yuckelbel's cannon?) this carnival's ever seen. and with each flight through the stratosphere of the big top, russell waves hello to all who dare dream the impossible. like he said, "It doesn’t hurt so bad..."

go - no don't, that's his name. go, or gobuick, is a herbivorous chicken geek* from the appropriately titled geek poet. while he only dines on the green stuff, his dedication to the art form is beyond comparison. ah, so dedicated in fact that we have two poems from go. yep. two. yep... i couldn't decide (yep, am a bit indecisive at times). from the pit then, is summertime & the line.
[note: have only just 'met' go; therefore, would like to thank him for agreeing to be give the role of probably the ickiest carnival gig in history, and all the while, he's a veggie! thanks go! i owe you.]

and last be most defiantly not least is the affectionate and ever-so-clever glenn of crunchy weta. we don't ask why he's crunchy, it just goes without saying. or, maybe he's got us all under his spell. he is, after all the world's greatest hypnotist! (without a doubt!) he'll tame your senses; do not doubt him.

i would like to thank all 15 of the poets who contributed to this week's carnival. though it took many hours to compile, compose and adjust, i have had the absolute best time reading and rereading the poems sent to my attention and giving you all silly circus jobs! thanks too, to all who have read and who continue to support poets of all shapes and sizes throughout the galaxy.

[[addition 7/3/06 7:30am] randall gray of tanata sent me an email which i recieved this morning. in it was a gift of unspeakable value...

FOR KATY AND BILLY (CARNIES)
People (the stuffy ones) say poetry's dead
Irrelevant nonsense, ego-fed
But where else than a poem is one to find
Transcendent rhythm for the mind
That speaks of secrets, odd and dark
And frees the soul's creative spark
And leads me clicking down a hall,
So I feel as if I've been to a carnival?

...and what better way to end a carnival about poetry than with a poem? hmmn?

super uber special thanks to Randall for the lovely gift, and for being so sweet about it too!]

NEXT WEEK'S CARNIVAL is at Ashraf's house ^_^
send a recent poem from your blog to ashraf
(please include a hyper-link to the poem)

and now, a word from our sponsors.
this week's poetry carnival has been brought to you by:

&

also brought to you by Poets101.com

*A performer at a carnival (Colin Swanson) who swallows various live animals and bugs. Sometimes this extends to biting off the heads of chickens. The Geek would usually perform in a "geek pit". This sense of the word dates back to the 1920s, and possibly comes from the 16th century word geck, originally of Middle Saxon origin. In English the precursor word "geck" or "gecke" was used by Shakespeare: "Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd, kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, and made the most notorious geck and gull That e'er invention play'd on?" (Twelfth Night, V.i). The word also thought to appear in Cymbeline (wordorigins.org).
-wikipedia.org

happy birthday billy!!!!!

coming soon

The Ringing of the Bards #2 is under construction and there's still room for a few more poems; if you want to squeeze into the clown car just send your submissions to kaacheson @ yahoo.co.uk (but make it snappy folks!!)

above photo taken from the Oceania Ragnarok Online community area

on pilot eye

it's been a long while since i posted anything on piloteye, but am dedicating my poetic-self to it today. i have plans for accepting submissions for this project, but not yet. i have to develop some poetics statement first, let people know what the project actually is, but in the meantime, have a look at what's bubbling.

everlasting silhouette

from the rhythm

she fills the hall with
width and all the height
of an aroma near ready

trespassing the lips
the socks through fits
and stripes and you wonder

her hip to swift hip
right gazelling the gave
to have ungiven in

it ends before you
________before you want it

am pretending to be a poet today

treble the mold of a bagel
with your beak

i only write about real life situations

voyage

seashore tribes fed their fires
the masts of shipwrecked clippers
and the skins of their enemies

one

i drove in the opposite direction--
towards the falls, the river with budding rocks--
away from the school. already 20 minutes late leaving
in a van with no doors.

i parked between douglas firs, then sat
watching the rapids settle.

two

we merged on a mountain
with high speed cruisers
from the harbor beyond the crest

three

the fire bleed comfort
as we digressed on the designs
of beer bottle labels
and the young wrestler's signature move.

he fell to the floor
the blue veins of exposure
puncturing through his skin

he died there, by the fire
due to win his first fight
on my birthday.

four

after you'd gone
and i'd cursed your negligence

a father who doesn't know
his own child's name

i realized that the list of dates
you'd written and kept

were all the days
you'd changed his diaper.






[and this, ladies and gentlemen, is proof enough of how un-prepared i am for parenthood. my dreams keep babies in boxes with lists.]

word verification

it's maddenning, those blue ones, the blue squiggley ones...

can anybody tell me what that says? 'cause what i wrote was wrong according to the almighty blog-masters of wonderment.

hotel keys

chronicles of a hotel receptionist: part 1

boy: the basketball game machine... i put a quarter in it and it didn't go.
she: okay, here is another quarter, see if that works. if not, then don't play that game.

25 minutes later

boy: the game with the claw, i put in the dollar and it won't go in and the machine won't make the dollar into quarters any more, can i have some quarters.
she: (hands him 4 quarters and takes the wrinkled dollar bill)

10 minutes later

boy: umm. do you have a ping pong ball?
she: there are two orange ones on the rack near the table, with the paddles
boy: thank you

1 hour later

boy: the soda machine ate my dollar
she: machines get hungry sometimes too you know
boy (looks at she funny) (waits) can i have a dollar?
she: are you going to share you drink with the machine?
boy: no
she: (sighs) here's a dollar.

2 minutes later

boy: it ate it again
she: i told you, it's hungry
boy: it's a soda machine
she: and?
boy: can i have a dollar? again?
she: (hands him another dollar)

p.s. true story, however, it was not the same boy each time, and i didn't time them to know how many minutes between them there was.

weakening

those 9 minutes of snooze
when he holds me
tight like a childhood toy

the soft undersides of his feet
listlessly peeking out
of the dull blue duvet of our bed

and

the gentle stink of his breath
as i kiss him goodbye
just before leaving each morning

relentlessly he succeeds
in breaching my 6am lull



my heart stays in bed with him on sundays





[a bit... well, let's call it a works in progress. it's made up of a few bits i like, but am not sure they work so well together.]

ringing in the first week:

our mayor billy has brought the carnival back to life!

i, my dearest of dear friends ashraf, my fellow wet poetess yasmin, my new best friend shirley and several others are featured in this weeks carnival. how exciting, no?

two points: 1) i am hosting next week's carnival and it's due to be a real hoot, so please, email me (kaacheson[at]yahoo.co.uk) a link or two from your blog so that i can include you and 2) more hosts are needed, so please, email billy and let him know which week you'd like to host! (idleblogs[at]yahoo.com)

the link below will take you to this week's carnival. the reason it looks like it does, is because max is still learning how to type.

000000000-0-0-0-0-0-0

Max plays Ghost Recon on the 360

i guess ryan wasn't doing well enough on his own; max had to jump in and help.

i have

.1
i have been accused
of getting us lost

for the coffee's weakness
& the gum stuck firmly
to the soul of that man's shoe

.2
i have been taunted
by missing pages of newspapers

and ridculed for the company
of a fiveandthreequarters year old

.3
i have been mistaken
for a helping hand

for the magic touch
over common sense
& once for someone's lost daughter

flip flop

i am apologetically round at the shoulders



we spent the afternoon
trying out the backseat
of a car with no backseat

hunting for comfort
on cheap folding chairs
around beach-pit fire places




[flip flop, i think, is an awful name for a poem. but, look, i named it that anyway.]

Billy for Mayor of Poets101.com

why billy?

that should be obvious. there are (excuse me, there will be) 300 blogging poets who owe a fist full of gratitude to billy for having been included in one of his three lists of 100 Blogging Poets in 100 Days (Part II) (Part III). Not to mention all of the guest poets he encourages, he is kid-friendly, he is responsible for Poet of the Week, he takes on the administrative role for the poetry blogging carnival and he is without a doubt the most dedicated to keeping the blogging-poet community together as one (via poets101, his lists, and all around charm).

oh yeah!! and the guy writes poetry on top of all that!!!!!


why mayor?

for one, it sounds nice. official and all that. also, it's got a nice ring to it... Billy, Mayor of Poets101

why poets101.com?

it isn't a city, town, borough or municipal corporation*, but it is a playing field for the ever growing community of blogging poets. so many of them (if not all) encouraged and collected by one Billy the Blogging Poet.

and if all those words (city, town, borough...) have one thing in common, it's that they build up around a collection of people, a community. therefore, let Poets101.com be out make believe city, the town hall, the swing set behind the movie theatre, whatever. it's there and it's ours. and i'm taking it upon myself to make billy the mayor the swing set!

*these are the areas for which a legal mayor has governing rights, you see.

why are you doing this?

... hey, what's wrong with me?

what can i do?

that's simple, just vote (pole box at the top left corner of the page). show billy you love him with the simple click of a button! or, if you want to be extra supportive and show billy you reeeaaaallly care, copy this button

and place it anywhere on your blog or website. spread the news, the joy, the love and the laughter of billy. if you haven't already: add a link from your site to his and encourage more blogging poets to get involved in building our little community into something with a little bit more fortitude, a few more strands to hold the fabric together.

ADDITION: Polls closed today after sevral months. 91% of voters have elected Billy the Mayor of Poets101.com!!!!

Bringing Back the Carnival

i will be proudly hosting the Ringing of the Bards begining July 1st (Saturday) through July 7th. This week (begining Saturday the 24th of June), Our Mayor Billy will be hosting. Do send him your submissions (a hyperlink to a poem written within the past two weeks) and get yourself some higher viewing figures.

Dread Central (that is my statement, made)

and might i suggest some reading; scott glassman's Hazard Lights

2 exploding dog poems

one:
while walking past
i heard the cloud say:

we vastly recommend
the squarer of signatures

they promised me rain today
but i'm all dried up

how many squares
would you like to buy?

i thought, at least,
that's what i heard.

one(point)two:
Every day dulled.
Never looking up.
Stuck fast in his rut.
Forgetting the sky's surprises.

But Today
when he risks it all
to lift his head high
he is politely offered
the first color of the rainbow.
by scheherazade

one(point)three:
Oh!
I'm sorry Pandora
I cannot marry you
I am humanosexual.
Though my nimbus is stratus
And your cumulo is serious
There can never be anything
Between the two of us.
by Crunchy Weta

two:
i had an idea today
do you want to hear it?

i think i can trust you.

i thought, perhaps,
if you agree

that we should get
a microwave

and put it backstage...

two(point)two:
touched
with a glance
she felt she knew
the thumping
in his chest
the wordless
emotion
flitting across
his mental screen.
by mike

the poems above are exercises in that i had nothing in mind before actually writing them. the goal was to write a poem based on a photo. being an obvious fan of exploding dog and loving the way this particular set of drawings fits in my blog posts, i went hunting, found two i liked (without words) and let the pictures tell me their stories. the poems are by no means brilliant, but i think the first one is fun, almost cute.

i'll post any poems to these two pictures that people send me or compose in the comments of this post. consider it a little challenge ^_^

milk_way

the cat and i sat
on the linoleum floor
of the kitchen
drinking milk
in our various ways

odd days

written only on

the gulls arched their vocal cords
in poor intonation

crabs scuttled, a lost dog
humbled from one door to the other

and along the way a child begged
for affection & strange conditioners

[if you get this poem, give it back to me;
'cause i lost it after the 4th line.]

click on the onion

poet of the week

billy named me poet of the week

this is, of course, an honor. i think though, it might have something to do with my last email to him in which i declared him mayor of the poets101.com community ^_^

thanks again mayor billy, and thanks to roch for making poets101 all better (it was a bit ill for a few days, not aggregating like it ought and that sort) and making the comments feature function!

to become the poet of the week yourself, email me [kaacheson(at)yahoo(dot)co(dot)uk] or billy [idleblogs(at)yahoo(dot)com]

the onion union

the onion union

do check it out. got a friendly email from their (somewhat unofficial) poetry scout this morning. if you're in the mood to submit something to someone, they're currently looking for work to compile their second issue.

CORRECTION: melanie is actually the official scout for the onion union (check out the about the editor page)

second to memory

the resurrection of remember




promise me you'll rain amidst the thunder storms,
beneath the veil of orange
and ash trees; shedding blossoms like wet skin

ponytail jerk*

crisp

the change in positions revealed
our negative ions to the audience
of squirrels and ash tree blossoms

i'm wearing the holes in your socks

& prefer to verb noun phrases
& adjectify each individual flavor

if you pour me into the cream

_•* .
.* *
*• ..
_.*••
__*.
__.•

*my intent in using this word is compound and in need of explanation (in my opinion). today, jerk is most popularly used as a slang term to describe stupid/mean people (typically men). the word also acts as a verb - to jerk around (to manipulate). another definition refers to meat (see: beef jerky). jerk, again, is a term used in marinades (i do believe this is related to the beef jerky kind of jerk). and lastly, the jerk that i mean to utilize here is the same jerk that George Oppen used in his Discrete Series. this jerk is the soda jerk: one who jerks soda out of a soda fountain. George Oppen presented the idea in a provocative and somewhat diminutive fashion; by this time the tradition was teetering out (norman rockwell's america was lost beneath layers of soot and gunk from the booming industrial economy of the country in the 1940's and 50's). today, i intend homage the soda jerker (with an edge of synosism perhaps, but homage nonetheless).

i was inspired to try my hand at *.'sparkli bits'.* by denielle

oh yeah

here is a picture of my cat
that i keep in my purse
at all times, she said.

here is a picture of my car
that i keep in my wallet
at all times, he said.

here is a rubik's cube
that i melted in a toaster
last night, she said.

here is a cheese knife
that i used to carve
a middle finger, he said.

a.m. rescue

bird hung by a white plastic thread
sticky from the gutter

intervened, with our humanity
and aluminum ladders and scissors

it bit and flew, petrified
of all the fingers unfurling feathers


[[this was a compulsory poem; something i didn't want to trust to memory. but memory serves me much better. the poem doesn't do it, isn't good enough. i feel as though, perhaps, i should not have published it. it gives me good reason to discuss though. let's discuss:

poetry as a means of remembering. our memory is connected directly to language, to words. we memorize, we learn what things are called, give them names, remember numbers and dates. i have always felt compelled to write the most emotional moments in my life into poetry. however, as compelled and motivated as i feel, the poem never does justice to the event. this leads me to steer away from the event and use it, instead, as a highlight or resource for the poem's venacular.

does this happen to anyone else? something so awesome that you can't write about it? only around it?

maybe i'm the only one.

on the other hand, i could write prose and prose and prose on the same topic; it just doesn't contain within poetic form. today, we found a bird hung from the second story gutter from a string. it's feathered fellow chirping wildly for help; i just don't think it was expecting a guy in his early 50's with a cig hanging out of his lips to turn up on an aluminum ladder. the bird that could flew away. the other bird had no choice but to be held, carried down and prodded. marty held the bird and i followed the plastic thread to the loop formed around the bird's neck. rita got the scissors and we were able to free the bird (who at that point had already bit marty's finger). the chickadee fled for the cover of a bush.

what a horrifying sight. to see a bird swinging from a string from the top of a building. it was as if it had been hung. that was the traumatizing part for me. the image. and the instant human reaction to personify the birds.

we saved it though. am i'm grateful for that. the poem, however, does nothing to disperse any feeling or even provoke thought. it doesn't even
sound nice.]]

Norther II

i haven't had a chance to read all of the second installment of Norther, but judging from what i have settled my eyes upon, it promises to please the senses.



perhaps a proper review is in order, as i neglected to follow through on my last offer to review the first issue of the magazine. in the mean time, get your own copy of Norther: email rob or hardy. it's instant, free, and quality.

previous norther entry on somethingkaty.

the sleeping woman

the sleeping woman I

the humble din of bedside glamour
never reaching its epoch

finer trophies struggle
past her sleeping form

while she, modern in her position
sleeps soundly

dreaming their nightmares
for them



the sleeping woman II

he sits, waiting and watching
her figure rise and fall;
her left nipple sailing on each breath
like a buoy
over vast oceans of supple flesh.

collected at the knee
he admires the form she keeps;
modern and rigorous.
each crevasse a cavern
embodied by lust and by need.

his need. he can't remember
her name or which hotel
they'd stumbled into.

the only memory he retained
was that of an animal
knowing her and remembering how,
but his mind foregoes the why;
and listens intently
to the air as it parts her pursed lips.

the sleeping woman III

stranger creatures have been taken
to the reaches of stranger worlds;

to brink on ages and grape’d
by seductions of stranger intention.

but a stranger he, until last night;
the man that took her all.

ring ring

new phones don't ring
they buzz-squeal
___and dance

get me one of these
new flippin
____phones

my ear is doing
__all the rininging
these days

buy a phone by phone
for six easy payments

of your dignity
and a digit every cycle

BE IN MY NETWORK


[could be that i'm in a rare mood; happily birding]

wet poems

have just joined a collective of poetesses on wet poems. there's a feature on poetisphere as well as on billy's list. go have a peek.

the what of thing (and all the some)

(somewhat) about distance

a poem by scott glassman

hello fish

"it's like plugging in a toaster"
-voice over on an electric lawn mower ad

1.
on a freshly stained deck
rain fell and swarmed in

quarter sized puddles
with pupils of pollen

2.
we watched as the birds shook
the rain from their beaks

and searched the muddy grass
for those more unfortunate than ourselves

3.
wrapped in a king's blanket we're attentive
to the bubble of the fish tank just audible

over the pelting of rain drops
and squawking of wet crows on the lawn

yuichan

i just had a conversation with Yuichan, the Socratic Zen Conversationalist.

ask her what her favorite color is, then ask her why. she'll be your friend.

found her via T.J.'s portfolio of websites he's designed and developed. am impressed, without a doubt. mr morgan, j00 got skillz.

tarmac

the scent of one thousand dead catipillars
torment their ungrateful black wings.

it's saturday morning and we should be sleeping
to the sound of rain on the pavement

outside our treacherous window
that overlooks the future of lawnmowers.

the equalizers demand chaos for company
or the hum of an air conditioner in june,

but we are damned to wrestle with serenity
and the small orange shadow chasing it's tail.

saturday morning rain

you put too much sugar in my tea
as a matter of seduction

the holes in our socks went unnoticed
for the remainder of the course

by then, your fur against mine,
we'd turned the clocks back by an hour

the saturday morning rain
pelting the picture window

all in time with the ticking and sighs
or your phone started to ring

This is a test post from Word 2007

es, that is in the future, but sometimes the future is now, and I’m showing Katy some of the great features Word 2007 is going to bring, including, unsurprisingly, the ability to write your blog posts directly in word, and upload them in one or two quick clicks.

the we could

we could think horrible thoughts together
tucked under the covers of a stranger's bed

touching parts in the dark, underestimating
the lure of breaking points and bending rules

our tangled feet in adjective rigmaroles
for all the world to wake up to on sunday

through stained glass window pains
in arch ways worthy of divinations and rituals

spear-wielding cherubs in new formula pampers
ring our wrists in a game they call 'rose garden'

and your right ear starts bleeding
from two of my eight teeth marks

yasmin rising

a siren of a poetess
emerges from the depths

beyond the mighty ocean
of men and boys

stirring above them
and their clever poetics

we have been discovered
now we discover her

ryan had a dream and...

...in the dream, another black and white cat was messing with Max and you chased him outside into the garden. You thought you saw another cat hiding in the bushes and pulled it out and it was a baby bear, and you got really scared because mommy bears get you when you mess with the baby bear, and there was this old lady and this child hid under a blanket afraid of the baby bear too, so you led them off home.

katy: can i put your dream on my blog?

ryan: Of course you may.

i only wish i could take responsibility for this little masterpiece. i suppose, at least, i was inspiration ^_^