Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Billy Collins Writes a Poem
I could have sworn I saw him sitting there,
sitting calmly in his white writing lair.
Books neatly arranged, pens and paper too,
shushed words once rousted awaiting their debut.
He fingers a button on his sweater,
reminding him of a childhood winter.
Remembering, yes, he was turning ten.
On a snowy trail, he found a brown wren.
His hands, amnions, inside his blue vest,
hoping it would feel like a mother’s nest,
he ran the way home in his sturdy shoes,
the brown wren eupneic, in repose.
He looks out the window listening to Mingus,
picks up his pen and starts his first sentence.
It’s not about the wren or turning ten.
He’s writing about his mother again.
Seeing her now in her black wool crepe dress
giving his father a relinquished caress.
While sitting in his cherished paisley chair,
the son looking on, the silent steward.
It was then he realized how he was bound
to writing about her eyes tightly wound.
The dangling gray glance she gave him when
he proudly showed her the brown winter wren.
If he could not make her happy, then who?
Writing about this for years now to hew
a cenotaph of a son’s love at ten
to make up for the love of lesser men.
Debra McLaughlin
sitting calmly in his white writing lair.
Books neatly arranged, pens and paper too,
shushed words once rousted awaiting their debut.
He fingers a button on his sweater,
reminding him of a childhood winter.
Remembering, yes, he was turning ten.
On a snowy trail, he found a brown wren.
His hands, amnions, inside his blue vest,
hoping it would feel like a mother’s nest,
he ran the way home in his sturdy shoes,
the brown wren eupneic, in repose.
He looks out the window listening to Mingus,
picks up his pen and starts his first sentence.
It’s not about the wren or turning ten.
He’s writing about his mother again.
Seeing her now in her black wool crepe dress
giving his father a relinquished caress.
While sitting in his cherished paisley chair,
the son looking on, the silent steward.
It was then he realized how he was bound
to writing about her eyes tightly wound.
The dangling gray glance she gave him when
he proudly showed her the brown winter wren.
If he could not make her happy, then who?
Writing about this for years now to hew
a cenotaph of a son’s love at ten
to make up for the love of lesser men.
Debra McLaughlin
Poetry Night at the Elementary School (or How to Write a Poem)
My mother said,
"curious facts
stop mirrors."
Pupils consider,
"what is the job
of a rose?"
Aphids fold paper air planes
masticate spitwads,
consume brown and stolid
tables,
bite by tiny
bite.
Andrea Seek
"curious facts
stop mirrors."
Pupils consider,
"what is the job
of a rose?"
Aphids fold paper air planes
masticate spitwads,
consume brown and stolid
tables,
bite by tiny
bite.
Andrea Seek
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Your Catfish Friend
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."
-- Richard Brautigan
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."
-- Richard Brautigan
Monday, November 21, 2005
What Would Freud Say?
Wasn't on purpose that I drilled
through my finger or the nurse
laughed. She apologized
three times and gave me a shot
of something that was a lusher
apology. The person
who drove me home
said my smile was a smeared
totem that followed
his body that night as it arced
over a cliff in a dream.
He's always flying
in his dreams and lands
on cruise ships or hovers
over Atlanta with an erection.
He put me to bed and the drugs
wore off and I woke
to cannibals at my extremities.
I woke with a sense
of what nails in the palms
might do to a spirit
temporarily confined to flesh.
That too was an accident
if you believe Judas
merely wanted to be loved.
To be loved by God,
Urban the 8th
had heads cut off
that were inadequately
bowed by dogma. To be loved
by Blondie, Dagwood
gets nothing right
except the hallucinogenic
architecture of sandwiches.
He would have drilled
through a finger too
while making a case for books
on home repair and health.
Drilling through my finger's
not the dumbest thing
I've done. Second place
was approaching
a frozen gas-cap with lighter
in hand while thinking
heat melts ice and not
explosion kills asshole. First
place was passing
through a bedroom door
and removing silk that did not
belong to my wife.
Making a bookcase is not
the extent of my apology.
I've also been beaten up
in a bar for saying huevos
rancheros in a way
insulting to the patrons'
ethnicity. I've also lost
my job because lying
face down on the couch
didn't jibe with my employer's
definition of home
office. I wanted her to come
through the door on Sunday
and see the bookcase
she'd asked me to build
for a year and be impressed
that it didn't lean
or wobble even though
I've only leaned and often
wobbled. Now it's half
done but certainly
a better gift with its map
of my unfaithful blood.
Bob Hicok
through my finger or the nurse
laughed. She apologized
three times and gave me a shot
of something that was a lusher
apology. The person
who drove me home
said my smile was a smeared
totem that followed
his body that night as it arced
over a cliff in a dream.
He's always flying
in his dreams and lands
on cruise ships or hovers
over Atlanta with an erection.
He put me to bed and the drugs
wore off and I woke
to cannibals at my extremities.
I woke with a sense
of what nails in the palms
might do to a spirit
temporarily confined to flesh.
That too was an accident
if you believe Judas
merely wanted to be loved.
To be loved by God,
Urban the 8th
had heads cut off
that were inadequately
bowed by dogma. To be loved
by Blondie, Dagwood
gets nothing right
except the hallucinogenic
architecture of sandwiches.
He would have drilled
through a finger too
while making a case for books
on home repair and health.
Drilling through my finger's
not the dumbest thing
I've done. Second place
was approaching
a frozen gas-cap with lighter
in hand while thinking
heat melts ice and not
explosion kills asshole. First
place was passing
through a bedroom door
and removing silk that did not
belong to my wife.
Making a bookcase is not
the extent of my apology.
I've also been beaten up
in a bar for saying huevos
rancheros in a way
insulting to the patrons'
ethnicity. I've also lost
my job because lying
face down on the couch
didn't jibe with my employer's
definition of home
office. I wanted her to come
through the door on Sunday
and see the bookcase
she'd asked me to build
for a year and be impressed
that it didn't lean
or wobble even though
I've only leaned and often
wobbled. Now it's half
done but certainly
a better gift with its map
of my unfaithful blood.
Bob Hicok
Friday, July 29, 2005
Postcard from the Party - Wyn Cooper
You have to be invited, and there's nothing
you can do to be asked. Headlines and bloodlines
don't help. It's a long way from home but I'm
here, the view much better than I'm used to.
How did this happen? Dumb but good luck,
right place and time, the planets aligned.
No contract, no deadline, no risk.
And what did I do to deserve this? Slept with all
the wrong people, gambled too much on friends
of friends with light bulbs over their heads.
Wrote every day no matter what.
you can do to be asked. Headlines and bloodlines
don't help. It's a long way from home but I'm
here, the view much better than I'm used to.
How did this happen? Dumb but good luck,
right place and time, the planets aligned.
No contract, no deadline, no risk.
And what did I do to deserve this? Slept with all
the wrong people, gambled too much on friends
of friends with light bulbs over their heads.
Wrote every day no matter what.
Fun - Wyn Cooper
"All I want is to have a little
fun
Before I die," says the man
next to me
Out of nowhere, apropos of
nothing. He says
His name's William but I'm
sure he's Bill
Or Billy, Mac or Buddy; he's
plain ugly to me,
And I wonder if he's ever had
fun in his life.
We are drinking beer at noon
on Tuesday,
In a bar that faces a giant car
wash.
The good people of the world
are washing their cars
On their lunch hours, hosing
and scrubbing
As best they can in skirts and
suits.
They drive their shiny Datsuns
and Buicks
Back to the phone company,
the record store,
The genetic engineering lab,
but not a single one
Appears to be having fun like
Billy and me.
I like a good beer buzz early
in the day,
And Billy likes to peel the
labels
From his bottles of Bud and
shred them on the bar.
Then he lights every match in
an oversized pack,
Letting each one burn down to
his thick fingers
Before blowing and cursing
them out.
A happy couple enters the bar,
dangerously close
To one another, like this is a
motel,
But they clean up their act
when we give them
A look. One quick beer and
they're out,
Down the road and in the next
state
For all I care, smiling like
idiots.
We cover sports and politics
and once,
When Billy burns his thumb
and lets out a yelp,
The bartender looks up from
his want-ads.
Otherwise the bar is ours, and
the day and the night
And the car wash too, the
matches and Buds
And the clean and dirty cars,
the sun and the moon
And every motel on this
highway. It's ours you hear?
And we've got plans, so relax
and let us in -
All we want is to have a little
fun.
Copyright © 1987 Wyn Cooper
fun
Before I die," says the man
next to me
Out of nowhere, apropos of
nothing. He says
His name's William but I'm
sure he's Bill
Or Billy, Mac or Buddy; he's
plain ugly to me,
And I wonder if he's ever had
fun in his life.
We are drinking beer at noon
on Tuesday,
In a bar that faces a giant car
wash.
The good people of the world
are washing their cars
On their lunch hours, hosing
and scrubbing
As best they can in skirts and
suits.
They drive their shiny Datsuns
and Buicks
Back to the phone company,
the record store,
The genetic engineering lab,
but not a single one
Appears to be having fun like
Billy and me.
I like a good beer buzz early
in the day,
And Billy likes to peel the
labels
From his bottles of Bud and
shred them on the bar.
Then he lights every match in
an oversized pack,
Letting each one burn down to
his thick fingers
Before blowing and cursing
them out.
A happy couple enters the bar,
dangerously close
To one another, like this is a
motel,
But they clean up their act
when we give them
A look. One quick beer and
they're out,
Down the road and in the next
state
For all I care, smiling like
idiots.
We cover sports and politics
and once,
When Billy burns his thumb
and lets out a yelp,
The bartender looks up from
his want-ads.
Otherwise the bar is ours, and
the day and the night
And the car wash too, the
matches and Buds
And the clean and dirty cars,
the sun and the moon
And every motel on this
highway. It's ours you hear?
And we've got plans, so relax
and let us in -
All we want is to have a little
fun.
Copyright © 1987 Wyn Cooper
Monday, May 23, 2005
The Art of Disappearing - Naomi Shihab Nye
When they say Don't I know you? say no.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply. If they say we should get together.
say why? It's not that you don't love them any more.
You're trying to remember something too important to forget.
Trees.
The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do
with your time.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply. If they say we should get together.
say why? It's not that you don't love them any more.
You're trying to remember something too important to forget.
Trees.
The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do
with your time.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Danse Russe - William Carlos Williams
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
This is Just to Say - William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
The Red Wheelbarrow - William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
The Way a Crow by Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree.
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And save some part
Of a day I had rued.
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree.
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And save some part
Of a day I had rued.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
The Pasture - Robert Frost
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long. - You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue
I sha'n't be gone long. - You come too.
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long. - You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue
I sha'n't be gone long. - You come too.
Rainer Maria Rilke - a quote
Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that needs our love.
February Penseroso by Kosta Demos
Hard to leave bed, waking to snow
again.
Another season seems improbable when slathered
by this inexhaustible brush of gray
accompanied by the percussion of arthritic tree limbs
in the wind, or viewing yesterday's hope
- a lone bluet on the hillside
hard by my porch that fingered bravely through the slush
at noon, only to wither and curl like a lover
rebuffed by an unkind word at dusk.
Still, there persist hints of a warmer state
unswathed of wool and snot and endless variants
of cabbage. To whit: my daughter, unrestrained,
racing naked, heedless
through the frigid parlour, chortling
at the very notion of clothes, to raise high her hands
to the dawn, a universal letter Y, insistent
as new grass clutching for the sun.
Get This by Jan Heller Levi
I did not get this from any book...
I got this on trust and betrayal, I got this on trust
I got this on trust funds
on loan
with interest
I got this from inhale inhale inhale
exhale exhale exhale
I did not get this from blood, blood
means nothing, I did not get this from nature
or nurture...
I got this from mind that muscles
outmuscles heart...
I did not get this from any book come into my library
said the spider to the fly
open any book
it will tell you that I did not get this from it
even if I burn it I will have this
even if I burn it
even if I burn.
I got this on trust and betrayal, I got this on trust
I got this on trust funds
on loan
with interest
I got this from inhale inhale inhale
exhale exhale exhale
I did not get this from blood, blood
means nothing, I did not get this from nature
or nurture...
I got this from mind that muscles
outmuscles heart...
I did not get this from any book come into my library
said the spider to the fly
open any book
it will tell you that I did not get this from it
even if I burn it I will have this
even if I burn it
even if I burn.
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