1.
Love came to the door one day
demanding to be let in.He folded his arms like a man.
I crossed my legs like a woman.What do you want from me? he asked.
I said, I want you to open your arms.
He said, I want you to open your legs.So we did.
1.
Love came to the door one day
demanding to be let in.He folded his arms like a man.
I crossed my legs like a woman.What do you want from me? he asked.
I said, I want you to open your arms.
He said, I want you to open your legs.So we did.
I've been thinking, again, of you
and others. How something we don't
understand binds this universe
together. That the darkmatter of our brains may be what
makes us who we are. How instinct,
genetics, and experience weave
together in a ropewe may use to climb or tie or hang
ourselves. Or others. How my brother,
finally, released my hand, and died.
This snow will, soon,release itself into air. I am thinking,
again, of hearts: their dumb stamina,
their unseen flaws and missed beats.
That we can test onlythat which we can see. Or that which
leaves a mark, some evidence of its
existence, if only for a nanosecond,
if only on a graph.Are we constructs? Is there a formula
which expresses you, which expresses
me? How our blunt hands hold on.
How they let go.
This one's for Mary. It was written the night before she left a comment, which is one of those synchronicities that are baffling, and wondrous.
This week's prompt was Cam's poetry meme:
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was ...
"Jabberwocky" is a poem (of nonsense verse) written by Lewis Carroll, and found as a part of his novel Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871). It is generally considered to be one of the greatest nonsense poems written in the English language.
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and …
I don't remember being forced to memorize any poems.
I do remember being encouraged to memorize Bible verses, which no doubt contributed to my love for the rythms of language. It would have been the King James Version of the Bible.
I did memorize Jabberwocky, above, and didn't have to look that up before I typed it.
3. I read/don’t read poetry because …
I read poetry because it keeps me alive, awake, paying attention. It reminds me who I am; who I am not; who I want to be.
4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is …
I have a lot of favorite poems, I think; too many to list here. That one up there is certainly still one of them. I tend to respond to questions like this by thinking about a poet the questioners might like, and directing them there.
I have too many favorite poets, too.
My favorite just now is Jack Gilbert, because that's who I am reading.
5. I write/don’t write poetry, but …
I write poems, but don't actually expect anyone to read them. I'm surprised when they do, and even more surprised when they like them.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature …
... in that poems seem much more personal to me; they elicit my own emotion in a more sudden, intense way; seemingly bypassing my rational, thinking self.
7. I find poetry …
... in surprising places. Under stones and pepples. In the river. On my dinner plate. In the newspaper; on a neighbor's roof. On the side of a bus. In the trucks changing gears on the bridge.
8. The last time I heard poetry …
I listen to poetry a fair amount, online and on the radio (Garrison Keillor) -- but the last time (InRealLife) I heard a good poet, who is a good reader, do a reading was several years ago, when Pattiann Rogers was here. Now, there's a poet who brings you out of your chair. She's also a great teacher.
I've noticed that many poets are not the best readers of their work. Perhaps it's because so many of us are actually introverts. We're meant to be sitting alone by some deeply seductive body of water. Reading someone else's poems.
9. I think poetry is like …
Nothing else. It's closest to music, perhaps; or stories told to children, generation after generation, until they acquire the depth and wisdom and patina of great age, and become something new again.
I feel that I want to say something more about this. I've been involved in several discussions elsewhere about poetry as craft; poetry as talent; poetry as personal expression; poetry as spiritual practice. I think, for the practicioner, it can be any or all of these things.
But to make a poem, a good poem, that is a skillful thing. Just as making a table, or a house, or a concerto, is a skillful thing. Anyone can take some boards and a hammer and some nails and make a doghouse -- but if they haven't learned, if they haven't studied doghouses, or wood, or carpentry, or tools -- then that doghouse is likely to fall down. Now matter how 'talented' they may be with spatial imagination.
I am often surprised to meet people who want to write poetry -- but never read poems. Or people who want to be a writer -- but never write -- or read -- anything other than tabloids. They are eager to talk about tools -- which computer, which software, which expensive fountain pen, which leather-bound journal (and I can talk about all this, myself, quite happily) -- but ...
If you want to write (not be a writer; not be a poet) -- this is what you need: paper; a pen or pencil; the determination to make time and pay attention; and lots of books. Library books are fine. Second-hand books are fine. Just be sure they are good books, of the sort you would like to write -- and then read them. Read some more of them. Read them again.
Read some books about writing by writers you admire. Try out their suggestions. Write, write, write some more. Remember that growth requires compost: write shit. Write some more shit. Let it ferment awhile, while you write some more.
Do that for a long time. Find out who you are. Write some more.
Now you have begun.
Have I forgotten anything?
[Please come by and Introduce Yourself!]
in Holidailies, Poetry, Poetry Thursday, Writing | Permalink | Comments (2)
This week's prompt was If these walls could talk:
This house speaks.
Floorboards groan,
walls crack like
lightening bolts.Windows insist
Wash me! Snow-
melt drips, drips,
from the eves.Paintings proclaim
blue, green, gold;
they announce
Alaska, New Mexico,Pennsylvania. Listen,
you can hear wings:
parakeets, iron angels,
carved wood goddessesfrom Thailand and Bali.
Icarus. New Guineau.
This glass whispers
Czechoslovakia.A flowered bowl blooms
China. Beads cry Africa!
That sheepskin says: home,
here, mountain, Montana.
This week's prompt was to attend a reading, which I planned to do (of sorts) but the car wouldn't start. Water in the gas line.
So instead, let's deconstruct yesterday's Snapshot Poem, shall we?
It seemed fine when I first posted it, but then ... a little help from PoetryEtc and others, and a reconsideration. Here's the text:
i wish i could hold
your heart in my handsopen it
like a chrysanthemum
Hmmm.
i wish i could hold
your heart in my handsopen it
as a chrysanthemum opens?
Just a reminder to myself: the poem must have some internal, and even real-world, logic to it. Metaphor is fine, but it needs to make sense.
Poetry Thursday had a really great prompt this week, but I don't have the time or energy it deserves just now. I did do my usual snapshot poem yesterday, and I'm going to send you to a current, ongoing conversation at The Well with poet and novelist Mary Mackey:
Mary Mackey is the author of four previous collections of poetry and eleven novels. Some of her works have been published by small literary presses; some have made The New York Times bestseller list. The poems in her new collection, "Breaking the Fever" (Marsh Hawk Press; www.marshhawkpress.org) have been praised by poets Wendell Berry, Jane Hirshfield, Dennis Nurkse, Marge Piercy, and Al Young for their beauty, precision, originality, and extraordinary range. Sometimes lyrical and mystical, sometimes autobiographical, sometimes fierce, and at times even shocking, Mackey's crisp-edged perceptions are, as Hirshfield has noted: "set down with a sensuous, compassionate, utterly unflinching eye."
Non-members are welcome: Join us, or email questions and conversational contributions to the Inkwell.vue hosts. This is a great discussion so far, which is the standard at The Well. If, after hanging out there a bit, you would like to explore The Well further, drop me a note.
[Today - including the middle of last night: 2274 words. So far: 39,506 words.]
in NaBloPoMo '06, Poetry, Poetry Thursday, Poets | Permalink | Comments (0)
This week's prompt was: take a snapshot of poetry. I did my usual snapshot poem yesterday, but I also found this:
This is just what I pictured, when I named this blog: the ephemeral nature of poetry, of writing -- of everything, actually. We work, and write, and post -- and no matter how long it lasts, that lasting is brief. We catch a moment, and it's gone in a moment.
I didn't check the dictionary defintions before choosing, but it works even better than I had imagined:
Of course, I've been thinking about writing a lot lately, with NaNoWriMo pushing me to my expository limits. Yesterday, facing a blank wall, I realized I could read the next chapter of the book:
If you still don't know what your characters are doing in your book, Week Two is the point when you should panic.
Hee hee.
Just kidding.
Having a shaky, hazy, or problematic plot heading into Week Two is absolutely fine, and is a predicament common to many month-long novelists. . .
So, I feel better. Still lost, but better.
[Tuesday: 1371 words. Yesterday: 781 words. So far: 22854 words.] I know you folks must be getting bored with this, but I kept losing track -- so this is for me, not you.
Wave via The Generator Blog.
This week's prompt was: Share a favorite line of poetry.
There is far too much to choose from for this assignment -- so I'm going to cheat, just a bit, and send you elsewhere -- by linking these lines from Joyce Kilmer's famous poem:
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree . . .
I did do a poem yesterday, but am still feeling not-poetic today. Luckily, a poetry post fell into my mailbox:
From RebeccaRose at Tribe:
Southwest Montana Writers! Get this! A local genuis has decided to create a paper-towel dispenser that puts out poetry. It is currently displayed at the Emerson Cultural Center in Bozeman but might be moved outdoors or downtown, weather permitting. The idea is: when someone walks by, they take one and they get a special poem , perhaps YOURS!
All items have author's name printed, must fit on an 8x11 page, and must be quality work. Send submissions to: poetrydispenser AT gmail DOT com, NO attachments and sorry, beloved writers across the country, this is for locals only. Thanks! Let yourself be Heard!
I would love to see this idea spread across the country.
At least to Northwest Montana.
in Poetry Thursday | Permalink | Comments (0)
This week's prompt is: Spend some time with the poetry you avoid.
This became a somewhat circular exercise for me. I read the prompt on
Monday, then set it aside. Wednesday is the day I write my snapshot
poem for PoetryEtc -- and I didn't want to do it.
I didn't want to do anything, but I especially did not want to write. So I did: tidy the livingroom; cook a meal; watch the television. Finally, I decided to just go with the resistance, and write about it. The result
did qualify as a snapshot, so I sent it off to PoetryEtc. After some
internal debate, I posted it here -- but it didn't really seem to be a
poem, so I decided not to link it to Poetry Thursday.
Then I looked at the prompt again: avoid.
I decided that maybe this did qualify, and linked it. And, my goodness.
Probably the most comments I've ever had in such a short time. Even a poem from Mary -- perhaps this will inspire a new poem dance?
Resistance
is a big, dark, powerful thing. Even today, I am feeling stubborn about
doing this post, pushing for every word. My mind is on politics (I put
myself to sleep last night thinking up sarcastic political slogans) and
interior design -- when I'm in this kind of mood, I entertain myself
with mindless Home & Garden television. Perhaps these diversions will lead to blog posts, when my resistance subsides.
In the meantime -- is there poetry I avoid?
Not really. I'm willing to give most anything a try. I'm not a fan of Language Poetry,
though. I've been - justifiably - accused of 'living in my head', but
poetry is for me an emotional, even physical, thing, and Language
Poetry is too abstract for me. I might enjoy it, intellectually, in the
moment -- but after reading or hearing it, there is nothing left.
Nothing sticks with me -- no images, no ideas, no feelings.
Still, I'm always interested in what can be done with words.
Unless I'm trying to do it.
While feeling resistant.
in Poetry Thursday | Permalink | Comments (2)
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