Prayerishthing

(Qur’an - 2:286 - al baqarah)

Allah! We will err and forget,

Damn us not

Jesus! We cannot take what came before,

again

Vishnu! We are not strong,
let our problems echo this

erase our misdeeds, forgive all and
take mercy-you protect us all

help us stand for truth

Buddy

an online recipe
weiss


the knife works the skin of the fruit breaking the surface. t paring knife peels the peel with an attempt to maintain a full spiral. that never happens but it’s worth trying. i am awkward in my holding of the apple unsure of which hand to hold knife, which to hold the apple. an honey crisp that had been picked with love in michigan. mom and dad picked my bag of apples and held them in the fridge until my return. as the blade peels back the skin, pieces of the white flesh are removed. less that will go into the bowl more apples i will have to peel the more practice. but i don’t mind for breakfast at tiffany’s plays on the tv and i hope to someday be kissed in the rain. the peeled boats are waiting in the large glass mixing bowl to be coated with cinnamon and brown sugar. i value bowls over plates give me a bowl any day there is comfort there. i add more apples than the recipe calls for perhaps it is to balance the amount of butter that must cover the fresh pure fruit but will brown beautifully in the oven perhaps it is because i still must find something to do with the bag of apples left in the fridge. i have to remember to check the crisp often because the oven here bakes faster, darker than the one at home cookies have been casualties though still delightful.

rewriting/restructuring of Prayer of Dew

Dew, precious dew, unto Thy land forlorn
Dew, precious dew, the good year’s crown, we wait
Dew, precious dew, let fall upon the land
Dew, precious dew, to make the mountains sweet
Dew, precious dew, our granaries to fill
Dew, precious dew, that we our harvests reap

Our God and God of our fathers, Beloved God

Give Thy chosen city safe foundation in dew
Thy chosen city, now so desolate, into a gleaming crown may be transmuted by dew
The faithful of Thy vineyard be rewarded with dew
So we may sing Thy praises, softly falling as dew
And make us as a richly-watered garden with dew
We who look to Thee to give the earth her greenness with dew

Pour out blessings
To strengthen us with ample wine and corn
That earth in pride and glory may be fruited
From heaven’s treasury be this accorded
The savor of Thy excellent recalling
And guard our fatted flocks and herds from leanness
Uplift us at Thy will


Behold our people follows Thee like sheep
And looks to Thee to give the earth her greenness
With dew

Our God and God of our fathers, Beloved God
Uplift us at Thy will
With dew

two short ditties

In this poem I'm going to prove X, Y and Z,
but first a digression, non sequiteur, oblivion
George Bush.
I hope I have proved my thesis and get an A and a
briefcase with the secret codes.
*********
Silent Meditation:
It's so nice to not think about
anything, oh wait.

beauty:

your love speaks like a
back-alley beauty pageant
of aborted fetuses-
lined up in near perfect rows

just for me

Walls

You build these walls

to keep others out

to hide behind

to feel safe

I tare them down

trying to percolate inside

see what’s really underneath it all

what I see from the outside is cold

as the chill on a winters night

Do those walls hide the frost covering your heart?

Or is it just the cover to something exquisite?

No,

your tough core makes you unemotional

but inside is beautiful

tears ripple softly down my pale cheek

the inside is that of all my dreams

welcoming and comforting

soft like a snowflake

warm as a steamy cup of tea

with a welcome mat and home sweet home

this is where I belong;

next to you curled up on the couch

So we rebuild together

brick by brick

frame by frame

to make it work

to let me in

Tribal

Shall I compare thee to an October day when it’s ninety fucking degrees?
I would call it an Indian Summer if it didn’t piss off the Navajos
for everything we did to them, maybe they are entitled
to get all uppity in our faces and demand to be treated as equal
but that probably won’t happen to me because I’ve never met a Native American
in spite of that, I sympathize for the Trail of Tears but not General Custer
but the rain dance stereotype might come in handy during a drought
and the Land O’ Lakes girl is kinda cute in that two-beers sort of way

IDK

Don't know where the heck i'm going
what the hell i'm going
don't know that the heck i'm doing
what the hell i'm doing
where the hell i'm doing

i speak too much
expose too great
admire so little
stare so intensely
divulge immediately

An attempt at circumcised poetry

The CollectALMIGHTY God, who madest thy blessed Son to be circumcised, and obedient to the law for man; Grant us the true circumcision of the Spirit; that, our hearts, and all our members, being mortified from all worldly and carnal lusts, we may in all things obey thy blessed will; through time same thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. Oh Mighty dog who made tables on to to be circumscribed and a bed in it to be laid for man. Granite the true circumcision of the wine that our hearts and all our members being fortified from all worldy and carnavores, woman all things ebay, tables swill troughtime some season Jesus Christ or lerdyman. Oh mighty penis, let us circumcise you, and eat your foreskin, let your scrotum hand down like a sack of potatoes. Let us have a pissing contest for the lord, let us walk naked with penis in hand circumcised to the bone, singing hohoho, and hu. Let us get down with Jesus and drink his blood and eat his flesh and his eyeballs. Let us slurp his fluids down like rain, like mist, like fog, let us devour his entrails, swim in his endless lake of blood, the one and only Jesus. Let us drink goblet after goblet till we are drunker than hussies at a bat mitzvah. Let us sit quietly in the cunt of god, drinking our wine, praying for eyesight. Let us dream of wetness, and blood, bone flesh, and hair, skin, teeth, nerves, and stuff. Oh day.

War Song

War Song

Tristan Tzara

bird bogeymen have pushed through these fields
where bronze furrows

what do you have in the stables?
listen to the horn of the woodspeople

Mother,
grass has dried my soul
and I fear

--that you lie here and here you will burn

The wind of autumn
we make to the frontiers,

we no longer sign
the cross near a church

Our loves
if they were able to transform themselves
to fountain water, the shadow of walnut trees
we could stay

Mama,
my cries are like the octave

this road will last
so we hurry there

and if sore, if our knees are sore
I will be elsewhere

The wind sinks a nail into our eyes
our pupils are grenades
Here troupes halt at noon

and scatter like a stream into a marsh
the earth scorched like homelessness
she does not quench our thirst, yet, smells like warm bread

over our camp

she makes carcasses to worm water
and provides drink to increase a population

our grief our sadness windblown
she grounds it to cereal

old yellow poplar raised by a trench
open your stomach review the entrails

there is a blonde young
innkeeper from Hirsoveni
how many hours do we have before again?

I slept with the misery of drill bits
I revealed myself in a pool of hymns

I cry at the bottom
I am not death—

class writing exercise

pediatricians fire a canister of tear gas into a group of preschool children while there’s a jungle gym quietly at play

there are bodies of swings that pump their legs to fly for the apples in the umbrella tree rot on spot the sage grass grows in sparse

baby blue jays in their cribs take a nap for a long while for what’s meant to fix is asphyxiating what’s meant to cure stains

the roots of the bench lay low through the shrubbery like how owl hoots on the trunk silent and undaunting

meanwhile kiddies get back to hopscotch come into the slides and monkey bars where they hang their heads and tear their spleens

it if weren’t for the kingdom which surrounds them they’d never know what became of those squirrels or cherries

above the dark stars there are toothless smiles and tag your its while the family of ants take cover in their sand hill

there is a maple leaf there in a birchwood’s eye that peels at the hands of a mother

bees in their hives are slaves to the business of honey ask them if it’s so sweet they buzz about the bunnies having babies out of their faces

the treatment it never meant to hurt the dirt dries and crumbles in pudgy hands he tastes it but it never tells him the answer

perhaps the tears hit them so long ago but the antelope have just now started to take notice

A Translation

Hunter of her quality all fallen heroines
Her clock’s ticks call this revolution
Unfriendly foes
Do I swear
Shall I find
Growing
Grown
Here does she hide under skin deep
All too often hue landscapes fall
Lost in them living here
Stomp thy soul
Die forever
Walk unto
True minds forget
Or unaware
Standing on curses
In them will go blind
I’ll go on marching
All ours instead
For it’s I
Who unaware
Night of
Under stars will I hang
Clusters on broaden horizons
Broaden them
In fresher hung skies

Prayer Translation/Re-structure

Original

Glosa a lo divino
-San Juan de la Cruz

Sin arrimo y con arrimo,
sin luz y a oscuras viviendo,
todo me voy consumiendo.

Mi alma está desasdida
de toda cosa criada,
y sobre sí levantada,
y en una sabrosa vida,
sólo en su Dios arrimada.
Por eso ya se dirá
la cosa que más estimo,
que mi alma se ve ya
sin arrimo y con arrimo.

Y aunque tinieblas padezco
en esta vida mortal,
no es tan crecido mi mal;
porque, si de luz carezco,
tengo vida celestial;
porque el amor de tal vida,
cuando más ciego va siendo,
que tiene al alma rendida,
sin luz y a oscuras vivindo.

Hace tal obra el amor,
después que le conocí,
que, si hay bien o mal en mí,
todo lo hace de un sabor,
y al alma transforma en sí;
y así, en su llama sabrosa,
la cual en mí estoy sintiendo,
apriesa, sin quedar cosa,
todo me voy consumiendo.


Translation/Re-structure

Gloss of the Magnificent
-Jamie Brown

Greater love repairing inside
as He draws me close,
a simple human of virtue and sin,
blended together,
made new in Him;
His compassionate hand,
gently enfolds my soul,
completely immersed,
I am fully absorbed.

Impaired by darkness
in a temporary life,
my affliction has no power,
though I crave illumination,
my spirit is perpetual;
dwelling everlasting in my soul
with continual love for such circumstance,
when his eyes are clouded,
depleted radiance inside this blackout.

My soul locked in confinement
from breath of life,
arching above its own existence,
in sublime esprit
with my Father alone.
Thus, the treasures of my heart
let them be:
my soul perceives this humble decree
both for and against me.

With loyalty and without,
depleted radiance inside this blackout,
I am fully absorbed.

the word:

"It came home to me that God was loving, in a terribly unsentimental and profound way."
-Malcom Boyd

Okay here's my weekly poem too:


A woman ends her life
under an L train,
but before she jumps
she looks at you and smiles.
Now you’re the wreck.

but everyone carries
with him several last glances—
and those glances’ last glances—
collections compounded since
the first last look.

So the only way to live forever
is to walk
with your eyes to the sidewalk.

what’s best for a man is a woman
foolish to say she couldn’t be worse for him too
she, who is his life’s one gift
she, who is his life’s greatest rift

it is the woman, who illuminates the halo
it is the woman, who fingers the pitchfork
eyes of the sky honest serene
eyes of hades honest but mean

she gives us her breast, her blood
she cuts us her wrath, her malice
praise her brave facing with the world
condemn her snide tactics come unfurled

she’s a doubter she’s a lover
she’s a fighter she’s a mother
it is the woman, in the end
who grows our grays and kills us
and it is the woman, in the end
who we wake for, who we live for

-translation of Rimas humanas, CXCI
por Lope de Vega

Es la mujer del hombre lo más bueno,
y locura decir que lo más malo,
su vida suele ser y su regalo,
su muerte suele ser y su veneno.

Cielo a los ojos cándido y sereno,
que muchas veces al infierno igualo,
por raro al mundo su valor seńalo
por falso al hombre su rigor condeno.

Ella nos da su sangre, ella nos cría,
no ha hecho el cielo cosa más ingrata;
es un ángel, y a veces una arpía.

Quiere, aborrece, trata bien, maltrata,
y es la mujer, al fin, como sangría,
que a veces da salud y a veces mata.

litany for peace - kikuyu - people of Kenya (Translated version, translated into Italian, then French, then Dutch, then back to English, and then broken up and phonetically messed with)

Ye of celebrity
I, Ngai...
Peace is with us
That it says that elsewhere
wisdom can
and with
even voice to speak.
Peace is with us
That he says that the country can
tranquility
Peace is with us
And people can increase
continue
Peace is with us
That it says
that people
and the mass
and the harsh
never prosper and they are of
the sickness
rather
Peace is with us.
That it says
that the fields
can be fruitful a lot of and
the grounds can remain
fertile
Peace is with us.

The grounds never exaggerated of government,
of peace, of never, the taxes of acquiescence,
with mud, Peace is with us, their witness accent and each sick word are never accompanied in the bunch, in the verdant bunch.

Ye of celebrity I, Ngai... Peace is with us.

A Prayer to Put an End to Hope and Fear

From untruth lead us to Truth
From darkness lead us to Light
From death lead us to Immortality
Peace Peace Peace

Hold thy shield over us, protect us all

Cast aside our encumbrances,
as the leaves of a lotus fall into the
autumnal water, exempt from attachments

Hold thy shield over us, protect us all

In the skin at the tips of our fingers
we see the trail of the wind

Hold thy shield over us, protect us all

How wonderful are the lights that you created

Weekly Poem

The Wounded Soldier

Open your eyes to a new world
unbearable pain throbbing through out yr body
blink compulsively
adjusting to the bright lighting
Moans on both sides
“fucking cut it off, stop the pain!”
Screams across—throughout—the entire room
A flashback
As you duck in the trench
the roaring sound of a plane overhead

down comes food—the initial thought

landing it blows
body parts splash onto your body
as you are thrown like a ragdoll
lying helplessly
the world goes dark
a face appears above you blocking the
god

awful lights
a touch to your cheek
releasing the throbs momentarily

“You survived, you’re gonna make it,”

and with that

the lights over head
don’t bother you anymore

the throbbing goes

the screams and moans quiet
this is a new world

Oh, wounded soldier, you are a hero.

weekly translation

Storm & Calm

through the clouds came the calm light of the red sun

its lovely face disappeared for a moment

playing hide and seek being swallowed

by a most horrible darkness

the darkness brings a friend

the stormy wind roars angrily

fury bursting—intensifying

the mountains shimmy and shake from the

thundering alarm

and the road above is lit up as a

candle and blown out immediately by

the lightning

the blackness broke—dissolving into

water—and the clear day happily

gazing on the once lit up road

I question:

“who knows if a similar change is in store for my fortunes”

Jangling

by Matthew Rohrer and Joshua Beckman Money cannot find me. I try to be reasonable but money is horridly banal. Money, blow and blow is what I think about you. Street urchins make more than me. Water tastes funny without cups. How far will I go? Jingle jingle jingle. Despite holes that compromise living rooms, friends visit. Money money and more holes to look into. You are dangerously close to falling. The money said nothing. The neighbors called up to us, "Your whole system sounds cockeyed!" They suck the life from each other and we pay the bill. Money always whispers, "You pathetic humans don't know my true name." I know my own name. It is something exaggeratedly French. This poem struck me because it touched the topic of money. I don't often see poems about money and this one was interesting because it seems like it talks of how money is in control. I view the world as being controlled by money.

quote of the day

"I am here, and there is nothing to say."––Cage

skilk milk

yo, check it

Visit http://epc.buffalo.edu/features/poetryplastique/poetryplastiqueF.html

Somethin’ Sacrilegious In That Dang Ol’ Tao

I. The Way (of Larry’s Apartment)

The Larry that can be known is not Larry.
The substance of the World is only a name for Larry.
Larry is all that exists and may exist;
Larry’s apartment is only a map of what exists and may exist.
One experiences without Self to sense his bachelor pad,
And experiences with Self to understand the apartment.
The two experiences are the same within Larry;
They are distinct only within the apartment.
Neither experience conveys Larry
which is infinitely greater and more subtle than his pad.

IV. Larry is Limitless

Larry’s apartment is a limitless vessel;
Used by the self, it is not filled by the world;
It cannot be cut, knotted, dimmed or stilled;
Its depths are hidden, ubiquitous and eternal;
I don't know where this two bedroom/one bathroom comes from;
It comes before nature.

V. Larry’s Nature

Larry is not kind;
It treats all things impartially.
Larry’s roommate is not kind either,
And treats all people impartially.
Larry is like a bellows,
Empty, yet never ceasing its supply.
The more it moves, the more it yields;
So the roomie draws upon experience
And cannot be exhausted.

weekly poem

Steering wheel

On the road I explore an old farm
never leaving the car
I pass a hit doe
she is beautiful

the sliding door of the hayloft
hangs on by a hinge
bits of machinery litter the ground
the grass
a line of birds sit on a wire
all in a line, save a few
who have perched further down

a semi sleeps on the side of the highway

the rows of corn are a card catalog

I never tire of passing fields,
farming fields

three semis pull tractors

rachel weiss

extant collaborative project

I came to be familiar with some of Lyn Hejinian's work last semster and really connected with her style. I found some collaboration that she did with an artist named Emilie Clark. They have done I believe two books together and here is a website that includes Hejinian's words and Clark's art. I think it is really interesting.

http://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/archive/online_archive/v1_6_2001/current/new-writing/hejinian-clark.html

Collaboration Research 3

I discovered Charles Rossiter throught the Buffalo Listserv. Rossiter is a widely published, contemporary poet. His most recent work is a 60-page book of collaborative poems entitled, "The Night We Danced with the Raelettes." In this book, Rossiter collaborates with events and occurrences that he either witnessed or took part in during the 1960's. The setting of these events is College Park Maryland.

"The Night We Danced with the Raelettes" was recently released by Foothills Publishing. The book is enjoyable, because it is memorable, touching, funny, and takes readers back to the 60's. Note his use of humor in the poem below.

When Someone Asks Me Who Was First

We still lived in dorms
segregated by sex
but I lived on the first floor
in back
which meant that
once we decided
it was easy
to lift her through the window
walk around
and come in the front door
as if nothing monumental
were about to happen
but it did
right there
in my narrow iron dorm bed
just a wall away
from the distant din
of rowdy dorm guys
without dates
on saturday night.

When someone asks me
who was first
I think of Nanya
and that night
which is not precisely true.
There was someone or two
before her, I'm almost certain.
I forget the details
and the names.

But the night I lifted
Nanya through the window
as if she were
a princess, Lady Guenivere,
Rapunsel-in-Reverse,
and I were Galahad
or Robin Hood
or any stirring figure
out of myth or legend.

That night
she became the first.

Another Translation

ORIGINAL

Desde el umbral de un sueño
-Anthony Machado

Desde el umbral de un sueño
Era la buena voz, la voz querida

—Dime: ¿vendrás conmigo a ver el alma?...
Llegó a mi corazón una caricia.

—Contigo siempre... Y avancé en mi sueño
por una larga, escueta galería,
sintiendo el roce de la veste pura
y el palpitar suave de la mano amiga.




TRANSLATION

At the gate of my vision
-Jamie Brown

At the gate of my vision
Sits a precious voice, valued in tone.

—Beckoning: Will you join me on this journey through soul?...
Lyrical strings entangle my heart.

—Until eternity... I stretch my vision
through a lofty artless corridor
resting in his armor
and gentle pulse of his steadfast hand.

wine and pretension

Someone turned on the 'random play' button that controls the circuit board over my soul; my experiences all come at a rate that follows a song pattern, but there is no continuity from one track to the next, except this: I somehow remember hearing this song before. There is a small rhythm or pause that gives way to a familiar da da daa de da of a ramshackle 1970's inner space song still floating through the waves and flesh, and I am the receiver. I am constantly looking for the pattern, and every time I see it, immediately it is erased by some sun or passing person, and that original pattern now superimposes over the flesh or the bricks of a lover or shoe repair shop--now it is a part of something else, something that is like it, but not it. I accept these in-betweens, and move from one piece to the next, staring into an empty theater where an audience is not, because I have only come to watch myself, after all, I'm just another piece of the pattern. And so on an on I find this to lose it, and lose it to find it; each band, project, lifetime is a pale grasping of the whole that only yields crumbs, and I am a hungry motherfucker.

A homophonic translation

Wonder then where often stand her heart
in debris and off the bow
Lakeside vision
of the watcher
Oh helicopter gusts
Embalm this unsure
Nor knock on his tomb under dirt
Betray unsure Profit
Burst in fire Judas
Have in her unsure cap it all for do drop it
Helicopter gusts
Beware of them
For her heart’s explosion
Of hell its her
All her helicopter gusts
Here lies her very good friend in sick
Hear thunder in the dark (neato!)
Oh hellish brutal
All hellish ties onto
Woe in soul that’s not furious
Would ache all in hearts unsure
And heartache
Inner friend in
Her erratic nerves
Her bleak mirror closest
Oh helipcopter gusts
Die costs explodes here in
Here ends woe
In those nightmares spread in it
Answers the
Verse chosen catcher

translacion miyo

10/2/07
Del Paniaguado Academico de la Argamasilla
in laudem ducineae del [T]oboso

Esta que veis de rostron amondongado
alta de pecho ye ademan brioso
es Dulcinea, reina del Toboso
de quien fue el gran quijote aficionado
Piso por ella el uno y otro lado
de la gran Sierra Negra y el famoso
campo de Montiel, hasta el herboso
llano de Aranjuez, a Pie y cansado.
Culpa de Rocinante. Oh dura estrella!,
Que esta manchega dama, y este invito
andante caballero, en tiernos anos
ella dejo, muriendo, de ser bella;
y el, aunque queda en marmores escrito,
no pudo huir de amor, iras y enganos.

(homophonic translation)

Dulcinea Deluge

a stuck view they roast on among dumbcats
also the peach you adamantly breech also
is dull cinema, rain dealt obvious
they queenfuck all grand cruelty fictions adieu.
piss oh poor Ella el union oh true laid doe
The latent serious knee jerk famous “O”
Camping the mountain, haste of herbs bozo
Land the Iranian Jew, a pie why can sadism
Co pay rockin’ auntie, oh der! It’s strange.
Okay it’s the man change damn, why is it inviting?
An anti-cabalist in tyranny’s anus,
Old deject, married and desireable
Why old uncle Al Qaida in my s’mores is critical?
No pudding here the amoral rays engaged.

MY TRANSLATION

slimness cure

I got nothing to eat!
why not?
I undertook me
to eat nothing more
and it loudly said.
there had me no more
after my hunger asked.

slimness cure

I have nothing to eat!
yeah, why not?
I have been undertaken
nothing more to eat
and it loudly said.
there had me no more
after my hunger ask.

Schlankheitskur

ich hab nichts zu essen bekommen!
ja warum nicht?
ich hab mir vorgenommen
nichts mehr zu essen
und es laut gesagt.
da hat mich keener mehr
nach meinem hunger gefragt.


Ernst Jandl
Alexandrea Davis

Slam (Performance Poetry Collaboration)

Some of you might know about slam, and some of you don't. There are all sorts of things about it... and if you have a few hours, come talk to me about it, or email me about it. If you've seen Def Poetry on HBO, then you've seen a little of what the slam aesthetic is all about.

I've been attending and performing in slams since 2000, and got exposed to it back in 1994 during the Lollapalooza tour when it stopped in Las Vegas.
The National Poetry Slam (tournament/convention) emphasizes collaborative "pieces" that can result in things resembling very short theatrical performance art to acapella doo wop songs.


Check out the following links:

The corporate headquarters
www.poetryslam.com
A blog entry from Jeffrey McDaniel, a wild literary(ish) poet who dabbled in slam.
http://poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2007/06/returning_to_the_national_slam.html
A guy who is known as the great strategist in the slam community, leading 4 teams to championships, and he is a very funny poet too.
www.taylormali.com
Marc Kelly Smith( the founder of the slam "movement" and host of the Uptown Slam at the Greenmill in Chicago.
www.slampoetry.com

An essay about poetry slam from Kurt Heinz (this site also has a lot of resources on poets)
http://www.e-poets.net/library/slam/
Also go to www.youtube.com and type in the search box :slam team poems

Also, I have a few dvds including a documentary called Slam Nation which profiled the NPS in 1996; and a few best-of NPS compilations which includes a lot of team pieces.

Collaborative Project

children's book author and poet Judy Young has published many children's books in collaboration with various illustrators. notably, she collaborates with her husband, professional artist Ross Young. the wife and husband team have published four children's books together.

i am especially interested in Judy Young's work because she combines children's books with poetry, like in her 2006 award winning publication "R is for Rhyme: A Poetry Alphabet".

more information can be obtained about Judy Young and her collaborative works at http://www.judyyoungpoetry.com/index.htm .

colaborative poem with firefly

can one of the people that were aware enough to write down the poem we did in class last time please be so kind as to post it to this blog so we might all be able to play around with it

Benediction

finally did my prayer today just focused on the fence
null to leave my feelings out and pray to commonsense
for as this is not private just breathe within my head
think up all I wish for you keep sighing you instead
dream that for a slighted case you made them capture why
a thousand words and thirty turns hell hath made them shy
please bless this man with sanity the kind that wanders still
please freeze this poet with certainty the kind he never will
above all five ten fingers and strand sprouting from my head
occupy with loving hope gently lift him from his bed
and if those eyes lie to me and chill those words to foam
bill him to a beautiful space where his true love can come home

Homophonic Translation

Al borde del sendero un día nos sentamos
-Anthony Machado

Al borde del sendero un día nos sentamos
Ya nuestra vida es tiempo, y nuestra sola cuita
son has desperantes posturas que tomamos
para aguardar... Más Ella no faltará a la cita.



Ascension begins during seizures unwinding darting nebula spirals
-Jamie Brown

Ascension begins during seizures under darting nebula spirals
Your narcotic vicariously establishes tremor, yelling no such clarity
Severe hyperventilation demands panic questioning tomorrow
Pondering awfully... molecular explanations naked from a lucid collision.

For Jessica

My heart was broken once.
Well, crunched, really.
That’s the sound it made
while it collapsed
and crumbled in around itself.
Some of it blew away
in September’s breeze.

We used to sit
cross-legged and awkward
on the floor in the dim light of my closet
facing each other.
We’d tilt heads
and widen mouths
seal our open lips together
and blow
hard.
This always ended in laughter
until once
when it didn’t.

And if you’ve ever tried to piece
together a fallen, empty beehive—
then you know exactly how I felt.

Spring and Autumn

Original Poem:
Der Frühling und der Herbst
by Gottlieb Konrad Pfeffel

Niemals ist doch der Mensch
mit meinen Gaben zufrieden,
Sagte zum Frühling der Herbst;
dir nur lächelt sein Gruss.
Freund, versetzte der Lenz,
so will es die Sitte hienieden;
Für den Sterblichen ist
Hoffnung mehr als Genuss.



My translation into English:
Spring and Autumn

Never yet has the human
been content with my gifts,
said the Autumn to the Spring.
You are the one he greets with laughter.

Friend,
replied the Spring,
it is their custom.
For mortals, hope
is more than pleasure.



Original German poem translated into French, then into Italian, then into English:

However the man with my gifts
never is not satisfied,
said to the Spring the autumn;
you laugh only its salute.
The friend, has moved Spring,
then wants the habit;
For the dead woman them
is one hope more like advantage

translation poem

Narcissus the Narcissist

The insane love empowers him

the illusion of his reflection within
the clear waving water is a distorted view,

to him: he is a God of Gods
to us: he is a self-righteous ass-hole
seeking the remedy of his self-involved life.

Looking into the pool

unaware of all around

he sees a prodigy in himself

one that sprouts fire

the water cannot quench the thirsty flames
and his fiery eyes are lost in his own
reflection.

His whole life spent deceiving those around him
never true to who he really was
what everyone wanted him to be
at the same time…he never spent a second
loving anyone
but himself
the fire growing brighter
his eyes entangled in his own beauty
FATE caught up to him
turning him into a lily pad
for he fell victim to himself
and
that of his own death ((water))

is
now his life source
to help him grow, flourish
and become beautiful again
all lies within the waves of the water.

Weekly Poem

A Better Tomorrow

Here i am
hands forced over head

my body
i tremble
weep, tears.
He yells “SHUT YOUR TEARS”
He has one
move
my pants.

i couldn’t bare

Wishing
Praying
He entered.
Every
Thrust
He

the last stab

i grabbed

feeling

alone

Sirens

“YOU TELL”

and
“NEXT TIME…”

my head

my heart i felt

a car stopped
his badge
finally felt
i closed my

A

Better
Tomorrow.

translation based on Charles Baudelaire's "Paysage". I ran it through a translator and went back, changing some of the English words into other and translating some of the English back into French.

I want, to chastement compose my eclogues,
To lay near du ciel, like the astrologers,
And, close to the bell-towers to listen by dreaming
Their solemn anthems carried by the wind.
The two hands hold the chin, at the top of my attic,
I will see the workshop which chante and which bavarde;
Pipes, bell-towers, these masts of the city,
And large the skies which makes dream of eternity.

It is soft, through the fogs, to see being born
L’etoile in the azure, the lamp at the window
the rivers of coal to go up to the firmament
And la lune to pour its pale enchantment.
I will see springs, the summers, the autumns;
And when comes L’hiver to monotonous snows,
I will close everywhere doors and shutters
to build in the night my fairy-like palais.
Then I will dream of the bluish horizons, les jardins,
the water jets crying in alabasters,
Of the kisses, of the birds singing evening and morning,
And all that Idylle has of most childish.
The Riot, storming vainly at my pane,
will not make raise my face off my desk; Because I will be plunged in this pleasure to evoke le Printemps with my will,
to draw a sun de mon coeur, and to make
my thoughts extreme, a tepid atmosphere.

Explanation for lyrics below: Clipse are gangsta rappers that rap on the topics of cocaine, crack, and the selling thereof.

Rhyme and Grime

stephen shoup

Lyrics from the Clipse song “We Got it for Cheap”
from the album Hell Hath no Fury

Fear him, as soon as you hear him
Upon my arrival, the dope dealers cheer him
Just like a revival, the verse tends to steer 'em
Through a life in the fast lane, like German engineerum
No serum can cure all the pain I've endured
From crack to rap to back to sellin it pure
For every record I potentially sell in the store
It's like Mecca to the dealer that's sellin it raw
So many deceive ya
I'm on top with the ki's, move over Alicia
I force feed ya the metric scale
Rap's like child's play, my show and tell
Within each verse you see the truth's unveiled
They manufacture proof as they lie to themselves
Puppets on the string like a yoyo
Bouncin like a pogo, they prayin I never go solo

got it for cheap



The song put through a translator from English to French, then the French version back to English:

We obtained for good market

Fear it, as soon as you hear it
on my arrival, the merchants of a doping agent
encourage it like a rebirth, the worms tend to direct the
end of support by a life in the fast lane like
The German engineer no serum can treat all the pain
which I supported
slit to strike it with again
with the pure sellin’ for
each recording
I am sold potentially
in Mecca with the distributor which is sellin’ it
believed thus
much mislead
I am on the top with the cocaine
finished feeding on the force of Alicia
I force the feeding of scale like the play of the child,
metric my exposure and say in each worm that you see the revealed truth
Eye of movement, the dry and hard blow
They manufacture the proof while they lie to themselves of the puppets
On the character string like a Bouncing yoyo
like a pogo, they prayin’
that I never go in solo:
obtained for good market

The Original, The Homophone, and The Translation

A. L’original ("La Voix," by Henri de Regnier)

Je ne veux de personne aupres de ma tristesse
Ni meme ton cher pas et ton visage aime,
Ni ta main indolente et qui d’un doigt caresse
Le ruban paresseux et le livre ferme.

Laissez-moi. Que ma porte aujourd’hui reste close ;
N’ouvrez pas ma fenetre au vent frais du matin ;
Mon cœur est aujourd’hui miserable et morose
Et tout me parait sombre et tout me semble vain.

Ma tristesse me vient de plus loin que moi-meme,
Elle m’est étrangère et ne m’appartient pas,
Et tout homme, qu’il chante ou qu’il rie ou qu’il aime,
A son heure l’entend qui lui parle tout bas,

Et quelque chose alors se remue et s’eveille,
S’agite, se repand et se lamente en lui,
A cette sourde voix qui lui dit a l’orielle
Que la fleur da la vie est cendre dans son fruit.

B. Translation (“The Voice”)

I want nobody near my sadness
Nor same tone expensive not and your face like,
Nor your indolent hand and which of a finger cherishes
The lazy ribbon and the firm book.

Leave me. That my door today remains closed;
Do not open my window with the fresh wind of the morning;
My heart is miserable and morose today
And all appears dark to me and all seems to me vain.

My sadness is near me yet far from my body,
It feels foreign and does not belong to me,
And any man, whom it sings or which it laughs or that it likes,
At its hour which hears it speak to him softly,

And something then is stirred up and waked up,
Be agitated, spreads themselves and deplores in him,
With this deaf person voice who says to him in one ear
That the flower of the life is ash in its fruit.


C. The Homophone (“Voix vs. Voice”)

I want nobody aping my treaty
Needed to share an aimed vision
No indolent hand can caress me
Ruben’s parasail is living firm.

I’m lazy. Portable yesterday rests close;
Never passed my window to vent on the mat;
I concur that yesterday was miserable and morose
I tout my parrot as he resembles vanity.

The tryst of my large loin is out-of-body,
She is foreign, yet apparently close,
The man will chant, maybe or maybe not,
A son’s hour intends to tout the parlor,

Something chose to review my eye,
Agitated, he reprimands and laments the day,
A set of swords’ voice heard in my ear
That the flour lives in sin with the fruit.

Mustache Ride

I'de like to dive into your beard,
or take you for a mustache ride,
to feel your fur
between my thighs
would be
so sensual
and
Oh' so nice.

Wartime Victim Makes Heartfelt Plea For Redress

Her daily routine when she gets up
is to stand before a mirror
"… and smile.

When I see the woman in the mirror
smiling, I say, 'Hey Yong-Soo, let's be joyful
today. Let's make today a joyful day.'”

At 78,
she is among the youngest
she feels added responsibility

Taken to China and Taiwan with a group of teenage girls,
Lee was and
with electrical cords when she fought back.
Serving an average of five soldiers a day

When the war was over
she returned
told no one
It wasn't until 1992.

In April, on the day of the 121 Coalition's protest
it looks like it might rain.

Even as proponents are pushing Congress

a Japanese group consisting of a dozen parliamentarians
scores of politicians, nationalist intellectuals and historians
urges the House to retract

based on "wrong information" and contradicts "historical fact."
Carefully walking to the podium
Yong-Soo Lee, a former sex slave

for the Japanese Imperial Army in World War II
faced American church leaders
at Wilshire Presbyterian Church.
She bows deeply

Lee is a woman
with a mission.

New Translation

La calle en sombra
-Anthony Machado

La calle en sombra. Ocultan los altos caserones
el sol que muere; hay ecos de luz en los balcones.

¿No ves, en el encanto del mirador florido,
el óvalo rosado de un rostro conocido?

La imagen, tras el vidrio de equívoco reflejo,
surge o se apaga como daguerrotipo viejo.

Suena en la calle sólo el ruido de tu paso;
se extinguen lentamente los ecos del ocaso.

¡Oh, angustia! Pesa y duele el corazón... ¿Es ella?
No puede ser... Camina... En el azul la estrella.



haunted boulevard
-Jamie Brown

a haunted boulevard
                lofty dwellings swallow
the perishing sun
                balconies enfold
a rippling radiance


poisoned with curse in the baroque window
and the rosy expression of a memorable figure


a profile blurred within opaque glass
exposed and covered like sex crimes in church


i hear your footprints beating the boulevard
                                                        penetrating deafening silence
twilight ripples slowly evaporate


suffering!         my soul wears ebony         i see HER?!
        hallucination
            wake up
                in the fog a streetlamp

Translation continued

English to English translation (Samuel Putnam's version)
Amadis of Gaul To Don Quixote De La Mancha

Thou who didst imitate my own sad life
so full of loneliness and love's disdain
as on the Poor Rock I endured my pain-
My days once joyful now with sorrow rife,
To pay love's penance was my constant strife-
Thou knowest the taste of tears; for thee most vain
Were silver, tin, or copper plate; thou wert fain
To make of the earth thy table and chatelaine
But rest assured, thou livest eternally,
Or as long as blond Apollo in that fourth sphere
Doth guide on their heavenly course his fiery steeds.
Thy fame and valor shall unsullied be,
Thy fatherland remain without a peer,
And peerless the chronicler of thy brave deeds.


The Sweet Life

You who followed my own sad path
so full of loneliness and love worn
as on the poor rock, I felt the scorn.
My days once joyous, now all sullen.
This punishment, my constant strain.
You know the taste of tears, you too wanted,
like money, you were content
to make the world a feast of concubines,
but certainly, you can live forever,
or as Apollo looks down on all his works
guiding with his ministrations all breath,
your fame and courage shall go unblemished;
your homeland, you remain without equal,
and even more so, the ones who follow you.

********************

Note: this is a not a literal translation, rather it is
an attempt to update the language from the 1600s
to my 20th century mindset. If it were 21st century,
then I would put it in text message speak: N+so da 1s hu (r) so stalking u.
Now that would be weird

tattoo project "skin"

Hey friends

This is a collaborative project that I heard about through a friend of mine a few years ago. She is a part of the project. Her word is "don't." Shelly Jackson asks people to tattoo one word of the story on their body--once this happens they receive a copy of the manuscript but are not allowed to share it with anyone. This is the one aspect of the project that confuses me. I don't really know her rationale behind this.

But, this project is so interesting because Jackson is combating discourses of the "writer"--who the writer (s) is/are, how is a piece invented, is writing tangible, etc. Also, this project is a community--these people belong to a piece and have "proof" of this. She messes with the concept of performance art and literature.

FAQ on Skin project
http://ineradicablestain.com/skin-faqs.html

NPR story
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4078910

Something random for the poets

I wasn't quite sure where to post this, so I thought I'd post it here. Quite funny, really:

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2007/9/12smith.html

hi lovelies.

Here's the link to the SS photographs that Gabe told us about in class, if you haven't checked them out already. Pretty interesting stuff in there...it's amazing these people can smile. Maybe we could practice our ekphrastic poetry...

http://www.ushmm.org/research/collections/highlights/auschwitz/auschwitz_album/

p.s. check your e-mail, I sent out my prayer poem if anyone wants to read it.

speaking of fish

the man tried to make a brick wall out of fish
it would've been easier to use bricks
or to make a fish wall out of his fish
but it would take a very dry mortar to keep the fish in place
and
most likely the fish would die
i suppose he could put in a water feature
flowing water down the wall
and patiently the man could
feed each fish by hand
possibly corn from a can
or the man could give worms to the fish
but i can't think that he would
it would take a lot of worms to feed a wall
big enough to cast a shadow over his hammock


this was my open writing for tonight

medicine makes me fuzzy

The can should be a can't

Just because I am sick doesn't mean I can contribute

**collaged from the Electronic Poetry Listserve

WHAT ARE THESE FISH I DON’T KNOW FISH PLEASE HELP ME!

Please help me, what are these fish?
Large schools gathered tightly
in the Providence River,
Rhode Island. About 18" in length.

I can only guess invasive species,
maybe ocean-hungry spawning but
I DON'T KNOW FISH.

As soon as I saw them
the word "menhaden" came to mind
...I don't remember ever encountering this word
so I looked it up...
thank you Angel Heurtebise for the transmission...
what a lovely word....

If thin, smelt
or alewives.
If chubby, shad.

I believe the fish may be herring
which are found in the Providence River.
Herring have a black spot behind their gills,
as do those in your photos.

herring! yummy!
you remind me of the Norwegian B&B breakfast table!

In Newfoundland
there is a little feller called a Caplin.
resembles a Smelt

prayer of protection

Gaia, please protect my special male friend Michael Boobie Joseph Mukavetz from lactose who currently works at Country Insurance who interviewed with Clarion Hotels who wants to be a high school mathematics teacher.

Gaia, please protect Michael, father of Nataliewood a calico kitty who plays fetch, father of Duncan, a black lab/collie mix who recently passed away, Duncan, Michael’s best friend since he was eight, smeller of crotches and lover of scrambled eggs.

Gaia, please protect Michael, lover of mathematics, movies, and my vagina, writer of lyrics, reader of noir novels by Raymond Chandler from lime disease, killer bees, and bar fights.

Gaia, please protect Michael, who enjoys eating dolmas, Future father to a daughter Olivia Novella or Gaia or future father to a son: Coltrane or Gaius. Or future father to 70, 000 dvds and four abroad adventures from unkind faces, head colds, heat exhaustion, and corporate nonsense.

Gaia, please protect my confidante Michael Underpants Joseph Mukavetz who is from Madison Heights Michigan who grew up on 28752 Tawas Court and before that in a two bedroom apartment with his mother on John R street below thirteen mile but above twelve mile in Madison Heights who also lived in an apartment with his father in Berkeley and now lives in Madison Heights across from Meijer from the war on terror.

Gaia, please protect Michael Joseph Mukavetz who currently lives in Normal, Il 61761 at 4 Larry Court Apt 6 on Summit who lives in a townhouse under a tree of unknown origin that inhabits sparrows and other brown birds and cicadas who used to kayake with his father on Kensington Lake at Kensington Park located in Milford from car crashes and twisted ankles.

Gaia, please protect Michael he who takes my boots off Joseph Mukavetz from kitty hairs, changes in seasons, and chili.

Gaia, please protect this man who loves his sister, Destiny, formerly Dusty, mother of two, Ethan and Alec from root canals because we can’t afford to pay for them.

Gaia, please restore the ability for Michael Joseph Mukavetz, licker of areolas, to eat assorted dairy products, chili, spicy meat, and other nutrients that give him indigestion or how he calls it kickback who loves his mother, Pamela, a loving woman and his father, Michael, a quiet man, teller of bad jokes.

A prayer

A prayer

Abba, You are good.
You hold us in your hands.
Abba, You are good.
Hold my mother, Patricia in Your hands.
Hold Patricia Lynn Weiss in Your hands. The one born Patricia Lynn McMullen.
Hold her in Your hands.

Abba, You are good.
You watch over our comings and goings.
Abba, You are good.
Watch over Patricia’s comings and goings.
Watch over her comings and goings in the 1988 Toyota Camry. The one with the unconfinable hood and the smelly cat back seats. Watch over her comings and goings in the 1988 Toyota Camry that she drives to work. To work with children in the element
ary school where my sister and I spent some of our happiest years.
Watch over her comings and goings in the 1988 Toyota Camry that she drives as she returns home to 312 Birch Drive in Wheaton, Illinois.
Watch over her coming and goings.

Abba, You are good.
You heal the suffering.
Abba, You are good.
Heal Patricia.
Heal her from this sickness, this cancer, this heartslaying that has touched her and hurt her. Safeguard her from future illness and disease.
Heal her heartbreak on the passing of our family dog, Target who lived with us for thirt
een years.
Heal her suffering.

Abba, You are good.
You grow beauty.
Abba, You are good.
Grow Patricia in her love of your beauty. She works your ground and plants flora and fauna. Grow her gardens. She loves your trees that grow along the DuPage and Fox Rivers, the stones on the beaches of Lake Michigan and Herrick Lake. Keep her from overlooking the wonders you have created.
Grow her.

Abba, You are good.
You protect those for whom we care.
Abba, You are good.
Protect Patricia. Protect her family in the town where she was born and raised. Protect those in Massena, New York. She loves horses. Where she was Patricia Lynn McMullen. Protect her from homelongingness. Protect her husband, my father, who led her to Wheaton, Illinois. Where she became Patricia Lynn Weiss. Protect their love and marriage. Protect their home. My home. Where maples and oaks and crabapples grow. Protect their trees. Their limbgrowths. Protect from lovelack and joylack.

Keep her from, want, pain, hunger, despair, loneliness, temptation. Keep her.

Abba, You are good.
I raise the name of Patricia Lynn Weiss, born Patricia Lynn McMullen, to you.
Abba, You are good.

extant collaborative work

Jangling
by Matthew Rohrer and Joshua Beckman
Money cannot find me.
I try to be reasonable but money is horridly banal.
Money, blow and blow is what I think about you.
Street urchins make more than me.
Water tastes funny without cups.
How far will I go?
Jingle jingle jingle.
Despite holes that compromise living rooms, friends visit.
Money money and more holes to look into.
You are dangerously close to falling.
The money said nothing.
The neighbors called up to us, "Your whole system sounds cockeyed!"
They suck the life from each other and we pay the bill.
Money always whispers,
"You pathetic humans don't know my true name."
I know my own name.
It is something exaggeratedly French.

das erste Mal

I gave a German a hug,
and an S.S. a kiss on both cheeks,
first the left followed by the right -
it was an evil
that had not yet been forgiven
and was covered by a smile
it was as real to me then
as it is now.

I laughed with him,
smiled with him,
ate sweet ripe pitted cheeries in his kitchen,
and said sweet things like Gute Appetite
and at New Years said ein gutes neues Jahr.

In the sitting room there was a picture,
he in his uniform and more of
other times at war.
I looked at this and looked away
smiled and met his face.

In Sommer
he tended his garten
and spoke in a dilaect
only known to him and his region
and not yet to me.

In Amerika jetzt,
a cold chill fills my heart,
a naive time passed -
when I thought all
the word was good.

Extant Collob. Project

An one: In the most recent issue of the online journal Tarpaulin Sky, legitimate ekphrasis--appears to--occurs. Poets such as Laird Hunt respond to striking images by artist Nancy Kiefer (Sutherland). Managing editor Julianna Spallholz describes her first viewing of Kiefer's work:

This was the first time I had seen Nancy's work, and I was immediately moved, shocked, saddened, offended, humored by, and grateful for her bold color, her thick black lines, the unapologetic closeness of the subjects of her portraits. Her subjects feel vulnerable, exposed, while the hand that paints them feels like a carrier of sensitive, sensual, unyielding authority.

The writers/poets, then, concoct scenarios to accompany, explain, argue with the images. Interestingly, these narrations all seem to take the form of prose. Their prompting images were created on Japanese paper, the characteristcs of which, according to Kiefer, account for the sketch/adumbration feel of her creations:

Japanese paper appears delicate, but it is strong because of its long fibers. I love it because it has this translucent flimsiness that sort of defies its truer self. The idea of painting pictures on such paper interests me even more so because the ink moves across this paper as if it were bleeding. I think of this work as napkins—images quickly painted, something to wipe your mouth with after you’ve been too polite, or maybe even for coughing up odd nightmares.

Enjoy ye now.

prayer

she’s laked howsome
nor the singed
nor crouch more for you
talking an enclosure
not need threepenny for entry
kissedwindclean the twinkles’ll live for ya
nether told ya
but gether yourself nor i’ll quivering strong enough to
lay those of yours flat as
you’re still
as your as i wondered how you’d be
drop this inspiration to make
itself
live ya more around what
you’ve talked not about
but along the woundness
you’ve accrued purposefully now
have you not for founding why
i’m noticed too more
in this head i’m not give
enough in ya
i’m not stilling the ‘roundwaves
i should like i said
as i ought
your breathness
this ridden song hung me now
it’s yours
me to ring you weller
to round you weller
to nose you into the skys
for you to walk so rather nice
i not as i
but as you thought clearest
in the sped-pillowed twinkled halfness
you’ll stay sounder there
than flying how i might
have read it to last
myself well
in the rising force you’ve spent
as much as i have and you’ll restrinse
into the deadening link weathers
and past them as

Octogenarian Fugue

Grandma shit her pants again
I guess I’m not that surprised
slowing physically
slowing mentally
(it’s not Alzheimer’s, so don’t even assume)

She gave the best presents
birthday, Christmas, whatever
A good ear for listening
and always quite affectionate

She was the babysitter
while my parents attempted to make miniature replacements for me
she put up with grandpa’s bullshit for 53 years
like she had two babies to keep an eye on

Her patience was remarkable
abuse, emotional but seldom physical
the ramblings of an old creep
that I have no pleasant memories for

Now she sits on the couch
watching TV by the half-hour
and remembering almost nothing

She’s still feisty
but far from self-dependent
like a second childhood

Prayer of Protection

Dear: God above all gods we’ve made

i walk to You with a petition of heart
summoning every ounce of Your spiritual being
on a conquest for protection
encompass the luv i love

Joshua Jeffrey Reed
      permanent bolingbrook
      local-current normal
      is that normal? what is normal?
      please make it normal

onward
Joshua Jeffrey Reed i pray for
scatter Your armor among oak and spruce swallow the little mackinaw
christen the depths of evergreen lake adorn every ringly ripple in sweetsickle security
with me with family with dog dazzie
cover the spirit of this teacher friend luver of life
graphics on a mortal quest for immortal design the printer has the answer
God, You know what my words mean
i’d swim across the filthy fecal-infested trenches of the illinois
only to get to him
i love Joshua Jeffrey Reed can You love him as i beyond some figment
of psychoerotical imagination?

hold him in Your hand
may he never feel tragical suffering
drowning in michigan car accidents in the blue Honda Civic
savage sickness cracking of bones
deep wounds may he never encounter a fraction or hairlike hint of emotional anguish
furthermore
no witchified physical anguish of being under the knife...
anesthesia awareness that’s what it’s called right? i guess you would know since well... You are God
duh
then there’s disasters of natural earthly being
no rattling earthquakes please
and please God please God keep the fire tame
prevent searing of flesh
and oh by the way don’t forget the simplistic pains of human reality
growing up
growing old
allow my luv to age in grace

there that’s it
mental halt to the spewing of my inner ponderances
now take them away
i don’t want to think
i said i don’t want to think
i’ll block such darkness
i love HIM i love YOU i love HIM he loves YOU i love HIM he loves ME i love HIM you love ME i love HIM you love HIM i love HIM

amen.

Protection

shoup


Prayer of Benediction

Clara May Kaufman
Clara May Kaufman
Clair M Shoup
Mother of two children
Clair, smell of washed linens––
kind, lonely, not enough money
well-read and so naïve
supported me through powders and cages
and embarrassed and hurt and
calls me in the evening
to tell me what’s on PBS
especially if it’s about musicians
or history of Asian countries

Clair Clara Clara May Kaufman
Clair, by the Illinois River
who lives on a horse ranch
where they kill chickens
and swim in chlorine-filled pools
across from an appliance store
Clair
who hated every girlfriend I ever had
¬––and your blue couch
that is ugly but not
as ugly as the Illinois River
with its dirty bored Midwestern current
that doesn’t reflect the sunlight

I pray to you,
Ever-present-pulse of awareness
that manifests in human suffering
and makes patterns dance on my eyelids
and is like an orgasm echoing
through space for all eternity,
rushing into moments
and galaxies
slowed only by its own ridiculous speed
and distracted only by its own brilliant colors
that got caught in human form
for an average life span
billions
and billions of times
to make nuclear bombs
and cupcakes
and dig up dinosaur bones––
as if we were not those bones
and stars that make the bones
and crickets
of bone star dinosaur
and play accordion and dance around fires
until we get sucked back
into the one-breath
that is not outside us, but of us
and
may She protect you
when you drive to tutor disadvantaged grade-school children––

may the ever present pulse of awareness,
that shape shifting denim demon,
protect over your silver Hyundai
and keep it from running into the guardrails surrounding Kickapoo Creek
where some drunk guy died
floating on a makeshift raft

may the ever present
Clara May
help
you stick to that diet
that you haven’t followed for fifteen years
since dad left you behind
in a pickup truck weighted down with tools and microwave and clothes
who you hate
because he knew you
and didn’t accept all of you, all of you
the parts he couldn’t use
became the focal point
Clara May
may she guide your writing
which you left behind in college
because you didn’t think you were good enough
but really
you were just overwhelmed with the universe
and knew
that mirrors would only show more mirrors
but
you could have been the best
and now
you read my chapbooks
but I only make the in-betweens that hint at larger forms
that we only graze across
Clara May, who instilled a sense of resignation
into my macaroni-grin cartoon always dreaming five year old self
and
made me think the whole world
would wait
Clara May
like you, in rapt attention
to my earliest little melodies
with a cheap guitar and bullshit teen-angst lyrics
trying so hard
to sound like I wasn’t trying

Clara May, may the ever-present pulse
take the last vestiges
of the carcinogens
that claimed your glands and hair
and will to live from you
I love you so much
please don’t die
we are little genes
in spiritual hallucinatory mind-light
and you are so good
to your children
and grandchildren

the Christ and god that you so explain
is the best choice
via Kirekegaard
––if that can be the little moment that sustains
then I’ll pray:

Jesus Christ Dinosaur Star Bone
please give Clara May Kaufman
your servant and child and
who was the ‘you’
of your father, of we
to the peoples
that made your love
for our dirty little flesh race
so completely
beautiful and unfounded
but that is perfect
like sorrow
like the smell of fabric softener
Yes, oh yes
Oh, dinosaur Allah star Gautama Krishna teddy bear smelling salt Moses grand surreal
designer
of tress and nervous systems and DNA and drumbeats and cantaloupes
please
let her samsara end
and rejoin before the entry point
makes another fleshy mirror
to deposit its image into
to live by a shitty Midwestern river
and divorce an engineer
and be a receptacle
to fear of really seeing you
without your clothes on
Clara, Clara May
may you be protected
from:
--the sound of rattlesnakes
--nothingness without music to accompany it
--the bats that flew in the cabin in Wisconsin in 1992
--breast cancer
--black holes, in all their forms
--nuclear bombs
--mass media
--foods high in saturated fat
--the 1980’s, in general
--silence that isn’t chosen

Clara May Kaufman
of Gainesville Missouri
which you ran from and the black holes of your stepfather
then Herman, then Columbia, and Peoria where you dropped me
into a shiny little hospital
where they removed some skin
and gave me my father’s name
who appreciated our art only as an expression of mental illness
Clara May

protect her,
Dinosaur Star Bone
and Nexus too––
the mean gray cat I convinced you to take
and only lets you pet her with your feet and hates children
please
in your infinite nothingness
let the years pass
without fueling the undercurrent
of neurotic hyperawareness
that is the of you
that is she
keep it from exploding and being more
than a hint of darkness in the whites of her eyes
protect and inspire your child
who is a woman of suns
and is the hole of the universe you decided
in your infinite nothingdom
to inhabit
and call Clara May Kaufman
shmalg
finsuin
leemontra
Staform
c’est une possibilite
la mere

The Hollywood beefcake
of your unending eternal run-on-sentence
of salsa dancing and empire building
––thank you for nothing, everything
you silly little schoolgirl of sorrow
version 3.0
in your names
I pray, La Dee Da.

Tarde Tranquila, casi

By: Anthony Machado

Tarde tranquila, casi
con placidez de alma,
para ser joven, para haberlo sido
cuando Dios quiso, para
tener algunas alegrías . . . lejos,
y poder dulcemente

Translated to English By: Willis Barnstone

Tranquil afternoon almost
with placidity of soul,to be young, to have been so
when God will it, to
have had some joys . . . far away,
and to be able tenderly to recall them

I collaborated with Machado by substituting several of the words in his poem with antonyms. I then translated it back to Spanish. My results are below. Enjoy!

Frenzied nightfall, certainly
with roughness of soul,
to be old, to become so
when the world allows it, to
have such nighmares . . . close by
and to be able frightfull to recall them

Tarde frenética, ciertamente
con aspereza de alma
para ser viejo, para hacerse
cuando el mundo lo permite, para
tener tales pesadillas . . . cerca de,
y poder terriblemente recordarlas

Exquisite Candidate

I can promise you this: food in the White House
will change! No more granola, only fried eggs
flipped the way we like them. And ham ham ham!
Americans need ham! Nothing airy like debate for me!
Pigs will become the new symbol of glee,
displacing smiley faces and "Have A Nice Day."
Car bumpers are my billboards, billboards my movie screens.
Nothing I can say can be used against me.
My life flashes in front of my face daily.
Here's a snapshot of me as a baby. Then
marrying. My kids drink all their milk which helps the dairy industry.
A vote for me is not only a pat on the back for America!
A vote for me, my fellow Americans, is a vote for everyone like me!
If I were the type who made promises
I'd probably begin by saying: America,
relax! Buy big cars and tease your hair
as high as the Empire State Building.
Inch by inch, we're buying the world's sorrow.
Yeah, the world's sorrow, that's it!
The other side will have a lot to say about pork
but don't believe it! Their graphs are sloppy coloring books.
We're just fine—look at the way
everyone wants to speak English and live here!
Whatever you think of borders,
I am the only candidate to canoe over Niagara Falls
and live to photograph the Canadian side.
I'm the only Julliard graduate—
I will exhale beauty all across this great land
of pork rinds and gas stations and scientists working for cures,
of satellite dishes over Sparky's Bar & Grill, the ease
of breakfast in the mornings, quiet peace of sleep at night.

by Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton
another collabb poem by these two

Collaboration Research 2

I have chosen to study the late Robert Creeley, an American poet and author of more than 60 books. Creeley collaborated with artforms such as music and paintings. This included many works by Italian painter, Francesco Clemente. Creeley allowed the visual art to move him in his writing. Creeley's strongest poems are those stimulated by the visual art.

Some of Creeley's collaborations with Clemente can be found in the book Life and Death. The poem listed below is an excerpt from a poem entitled "Inside My Head." It is comprised of six short poems: "Inside My Head," "The Tools," "The Swan," "The Rose," "The Skull," and "The Star." I have chosen to post the first excerpt, "Inside my head." I discovered Creely's work at Poetryfoundation.org.

For the complete version of "Inside My Head," click the following link:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171578

For more on Robert Creeley, click the following link:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=1509




Inside My Head
-excerpt-

Inside my head a common room,
a common place, a common tune,
a common wealth, a common doom

inside my head. I close my eyes.
The horses run. Vast are the skies,
and blue my passing thoughts’ surprise

inside my head. What is this space
here found to be, what is this place
if only me? Inside my head, whose face?

Ode to Daddy, CRH, 1932-eternity

Claudius Maximus, manager of
the Winters' Wildcats, born in Brady,
the Heart of Texas, 1932, Depression USA
he who had Polio as a child, born of
poor Texans descended from the Mayflower,
John Jefferson the electric handyman
who looked liked John Wayne,
who kept Brady going in the days when dust flew over the world.

Oh Claudius, you sojourner, you nearsighted, devourer
of books, Sci Fi fantasy warlord, inhaler of Hemingway,
You who created Muzzy, you who listened
to the Louisiana Hayride in college, and sat behind
Willie Nelson at the Grand Old Opry, while they jammed.
You who laughed in the face of the Dean at UT
as you wouldn't sign the form declaring
that you were not a member of the Four Starred
Mothers of America etc. etc.
You who cooked tortillas on a burner
with Raul Cardenas, you who were drafted and sent
to Germany to drink beer and take pictures of castles
while doppelgangers died in Korea.
You who tricked the general into admitting that soldiers were dying in Vietnam.
You who worked on newspapers, and magazines and shook
hands, took pictures, traveled the world.
You who wrote novels and plucked
apricots off a dying tree.
You who drove the Orange Turtle, the Astrovan,
the Camper Van, the passport.
You who watched with broken heart: the Longhorns,
the Celtics, the Bills, who walked Nicholas
Buffington the third, and Popsie, spun Vox
jox, and poems that rhymed, who trounced through
New York, Troy, Brockport, New Orleans, San Diego,
Enid, Austin, LA, Las Vegas...

Claudius Ray Maximus, maker of lay ups,
fixer of chairs, watcher of big screen TV sets,
player of Tetris, enemy of telephones every
where, recovering alcoholic, oldtimer, diabetic,
redhead, redneck, red faced writer of novels,
teacher, He who threatened his mother in-
law that he would name his first born son
Radio City Music, He who got threatened
with Korea after intimidating his drill sergeant.
Lover of radio, survivor of the 60s, pusher
of Bill Monroe's bus from the mud at Newport.
Guy who knew Pappilardi, guy who knew Montague,
guy who made love to the radio, guy who wrote for Billboard,
started Radio Report, Radio Forum, West Coast Writer's Conspiracy,
and gave tours of the YMCA. Claude Ray Hall, father of 3 sons,
one a lawyer, one a poet, one an addict turned drug counselor.
The father who wouldn't give up and told us all to come home
if we got in trouble. Daddy who sang bass, Daddy who said that
there were so many hippies on the field that you couldn't see the grass,
who used to lift me up with one hand, who drank beer, and tasted of beer,
then ate ice cream and corn chips and sat in his underwear watching Bird
get his ass kicked by Magic. You always rooted for the wrong team!

I once stood between you and the beer at Trader Joes, begging you not to drink.
I once sat scared as we swerved the hills above L.A., a tiny spin away from oblivion.
I once told you not to worry, that you will make it to the other side.
And as you go there, I wish you well.
I wish you to go gently,
softly,
beautiful,
like a snowflake.
May the higher power absorb you.
May the force of the earth not throw you off,
May the Republicans not shoot you.
I once dreamt you were thrown up against the wall,
and we are always being thrown up against the wall,
such is the nature of revolutions.
Oh dad! May the next dimension be large enough for you,
May there be beings of understanding and love, or something resembling it.
May the lightning storms not scare you but invigorate you.
May your next father be loving, and not wield a belt in anger.
May alcohol just be a pleasant buzz and not a poison.
May your enemies become your friends.
May the orange turtle stop breaking down every ten minutes.
May your mg run wild on the PCH.
May there be plenty of clams under the rocks of San Felipe.
May the Turtle not breakdown near La Ventana.
May the Good Lord throw you a can of diet orange.
May it not explode.
May there be something new and interesting on TV at all times.
Good luck.
May the passing be pain free, or at least, let it be mind blowing like watching a great movie that changes your life, or at least changes two hours of it.
May all the nurses that take care of you till then be sweet, happy, liberal, or at least willing to listen to you.
May the weather always be interesting.
May the Weather Channel always be soothing.
May you always go camping, and have the stars to look up at and talk to.
May they listen, and echo your song.

question...

Is there a way for me to make a private entry (as in...only the members of this particular blog can see it)? Basically I want to post my prayer but only want you guys (classmates) to see it. Anybody know if/how this is possible?

A prayer for my unborn child

God Almighty, protect my unborn child Parker Elizabeth Zimmerman-_______
although she is unborn, unconceived, and may not appear for years to come
protect her being, her soul, her heart, her mind, her body, her life, her.
Protect her from heart ache, may she never feel the pain of a broken heart,
Protect her from global warming, may she live to be 100 and healthy,
Protect her from terrorists, may they never attack or harm her loved ones,
Protect her from the pain and grief of death, let her accept the loss of loved ones
and grow from it,
Protect her from war, hate, and hostile environments, may she overlook them
and see only the good in people,
Protect her from the devil, may he never tempt her or make her question life,
Protect her from rapists, may they never hold her down in the dead of night,
Protect her from abuse, may she only find love and happiness,
Protect her from back stabbing friends, may she have the power to overlook
the bad & only find the good friends,
Protect her from drugs, may she never try or become addicted to any harmful substance,
Protect her from liars, may her heart never be fooled,

And Protect her from depression, may she be able to bounce back from anything life
hands her.

God Almighty, look after Parker Elizabeth Zimmerman-_______,
who comes from me, her future mother, caregiver, best friend, life source,
who comes from a loving family, warm, appreciative, welcoming,
who currently resides in heaven, with you, waiting to come down to me.

Watch Parker Elizabeth Zimmerman-_______
as she grows, and flourishes.
Watch her as she meets friends, boyfriends, best friends, cousins, relatives.
Watch her go through life, working for a living, becoming a student,
becoming inde pendent.
Watch her play with animals, petting softly those she comes across.
Watch her dance, or play sports, watch her read, or write.

Watch her find her talents, find herself, find a meaning.
Watch her in between the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean, and if she travels,
watch her over there, too.
By Lake Michigan and Salt Creek River,

By the willow trees of Wood Dale,

in which she may sit under on a summers day.

By the streets and the cars, the buses and trains, the airplanes and boats

that may take her to and from, around life.

God Almighty, Eta Truse fourte grangevu lorax flample
forever may she be protected
Eta Truse fourte grangevu lorax flample
forever may she be protected.

With her

in your heart

byyoursideforeverholdhernear
With her
in your thoughts
byyoursideforeverholdhernear.

God All
Mighty, Protect my unborn Parker Elizabeth Zimmerman ______.

For if she is to be born,
I will be blessed….
And when I am blessed,
she will be born.

Amen.