Encore une fois
November 30, 2011

As some of my readers might recall, I wrote about Poetry by Emily Dickinson a while ago, and as it turns out, another one of my poems has been posted on the site.  The concept of the PBED blog is that poetry tweets with the hashtag #poetrybyemilydickinson can be gathered by other poets who creatively remix them into a longer poem which is then posted on the blog.  I have done this twice so far, and it has been very fun and artistically rewarding!  My second remix is below, and you can read it on the PBED blog here.

Star-crossed

A snake’s breast is filled with Pluto’s milk.
I am filled with stars in love.
Star lovers drinking snake milk,
so many cosmic kisses,
so many cold-blooded celestial embraces.

My dad is miserable, and
I am filled with savage flute music.
Wild lovers leaving their parents,
so many drunken gropings,
so many acidic vomit kisses.

I want to make tiny clones of you
and swallow them like pills
each morning before work.
You are a pain killer.
You are numbing.
I didn’t leave when you
proposed we brand each other.

Lift me up,
boost me,
jack my swag,
100%.
I’m ready.

[ORIGINAL TEXT by: AhaBartleby, lindzegee, ohgodohgod, R3pr0bus, Mickeyswartz, youngmatthew.]

 

 

Advertisements

Gail Sheehy found poem
August 20, 2011

In addition to writing poetry this summer, I have been doing independent ethics research.  This research has confirmed some things for me: 1. I do not want to do research for a living; 2. Ethical frameworks that are provided by religious beliefs, family values, and the communities in which we find ourselves can be at times constricting but without them, we have nothing to live by; and 3. Poetry is a much more interesting way of communicating philosophical ideas than most scholarly texts.

Case in point: a passage from Gail Sheehy’s 1970’s book, Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life.  I’m not reading this particular book, but in the piece I’m currently reading, Charles Taylor’s The Ethics of Authenticity, a section of Sheehy’s work is quoted.  The following is a found poem (or a poetically-configured quote of a quote in a book that is a quote of a radio broadcast, if you will):

You can’t take everything with you
when you leave on the midlife journey.
You are moving away.
Away from institutional claims
and other people’s agenda.
Away from external valuations,
away from accreditations.
You are moving out of roles.
You are moving into the self.
I give everyone a gift for the send-off.
It is a tent.
A tent for tentativeness.
The gift of portable roots,
there, the opportunity to emerge
reborn, authentic, unique,
loving ourselves, embracing others;
the delights of self-discovery are always available.
The capacity to love remains.

experimental found poem
June 5, 2011

Comedians drew beyond the melody of the distances’ dance to the gallows

Library Card

Side One:

PT5834.F32S6 1936
Clephane, Irene, tr.
Fabricius, Johan Wigmore, 1899-
The son of Marietta, by Johan Fabricius; translated from the Dutch by Irene Clephane and David     Hallett.  Boston, Little, Brown, and company, 1936.
ix, 813 p. illus. 22cm.
Title within ornamental border.
Translation of “Komedianten trokken voorbij”, “Melodie der verten” and “De dans om de galg” originally published separately in the Netherlands.
Clephane, Irene, tr.    II. Hallett, David, joint tr.    III. Title.
36-711
Library of Congress   PZ3.F115So
Copy 2
Copyright A 91135   [38k3]   839.3135

Side Two:

Dominick LaCapra
Saul Friedlander

Closeness of Rapoport allowed him to remember the realness of the people.  And their heroism in responding to the Dire despair that he himself knew.  instead of falling prey to the later feeling that Holocaust rep is impossible and therefor abstract rep is ok + necessary.

D804.3.H66 2003

[emphasis added]

poetic dialogue
June 5, 2011

The poem below is my expansion of the poem I found yesterday (which you can read in my previous blog post).  I tried to incorporate as much of the original found poem as I could.

Findings

barefoot bluegrass tumbleweed
swirl the smoke of your soul
that drifts on wind that sounds like waterfalls
you who are curling up because
you are rolling better that way
with arms and legs tucked in
sunburned sighing tumbleweed
with the grass poking through
the spaces between toes
and tickling away the woes of never
staying in one way of living
here you are chasing
echoed women whispering from the past
who drift on wind that sounds like springtime
sweetly singing tumbleweed
playing people like music
and fiddles with strings to sing
out every vibrating strand of
the her the life the footsteps
you follow without telling
tumbleweed
you sleep with your hips and lips
against the ground because
love is earthly
you have found