O Mr. Chamberlain,
your cousin Richard is a far better actor
a premature elder statesman
of the Gamecock variety
wishing to meet Piggles
when the ham is on your mirror
soldier of poetry, champion of hybridism
send my regards to your child bride
You’re welcome, Stu:
I’d call you an epigone
but you ape Bukowski
and, well, when Capote
said Kerouac was typing,
Bukowski was drinking
and then puking.
You licked the vomit
from his bare feet,
from between his toes
like a soup strainer,
and called it love.
But—you’re more of a
thick-soup guy, right?
Thursday, October 18, 2007
painting poem so uninspired--comments helpful
But, I want to be a part of your team. I want to help Oprah I want to glorify a thievery of books.
I want to refill ice cubes I want to say phrases like I am on the outside looking in.
I can’t remember what type of Indians wear saris. I can’t remember
the last time
I awoke next to a unicorn.
here is my dowry:
a half-moon of Pacific
ocean, a switchboard
of faces waiting to
be connected—
Response to Lamar Peterson Paiting
Inside the velvet rope
1
a diligent chupacabra exercises his
lidless dark robbed death
sideshow “AMERICANA” dazzles
neglected/maniacal youth like
fickle fleeting concepts of light to a moth
the sky laughs cherubs
unable to grasp the looming
horror behind existence
they all have highly individualized concepts of reality, but the music helps control the fear
translation
Translation of Charles Baudelaire’s L’Homme et la mer
Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âmeDans le déroulement infini de sa lame,Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeurSe distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeurAu bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrablesQue vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!
Man free, always you cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
in the unrolling infinity of its wave,
and your spirit isn’t a gulf less bitter.
You please yourself to plunge within your image;
you embrace it with eyes and arms, and your heart
is separated sometimes from its clean rumor
By the noise of this complaint unconquerable and wild.
You are all the two dark and discreet:
Man, no one has sounded the bottom of your abyss;
O sea, no one knows your wealth intimate,
so much you are jealous to keep your secrets!
And yet there are centuries innumerable
that you battle each other without pity or remorse,
so you like slaughter and death,
O wrestlers eternal, o brothers implacable!
Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âmeDans le déroulement infini de sa lame,Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeurSe distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeurAu bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrablesQue vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!
Man free, always you cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
in the unrolling infinity of its wave,
and your spirit isn’t a gulf less bitter.
You please yourself to plunge within your image;
you embrace it with eyes and arms, and your heart
is separated sometimes from its clean rumor
By the noise of this complaint unconquerable and wild.
You are all the two dark and discreet:
Man, no one has sounded the bottom of your abyss;
O sea, no one knows your wealth intimate,
so much you are jealous to keep your secrets!
And yet there are centuries innumerable
that you battle each other without pity or remorse,
so you like slaughter and death,
O wrestlers eternal, o brothers implacable!
I haven't gone to sleep yet, so for me it's still Wednesday...
So I found this book in the library called Letters to Five Artists in which poet John Wain (not to be confused with the cowboy with a homophonic name) writes letters (poems) to different artists. The artists include two visual artists, a musician, and two poets. Wain's poems vary drastically in style--likely due to his appropriate responses to each individual artist. I like the concept of writing to someone whose work you admire, because in doing so you are collaborating with their art. While he isn't the greatest poet, I think we can benefit from his METHOD of collaboration.
Here's an excerpt from his poem "Moondust" for Victor Neep, painter and metal worker:
old mangles
old gas cookers, limbs
of bicycles that died of old age
rest by the shifting sea, or on the mountain
content and motionless
bathed in that light
content to have arrived:
content to be, what all those wheeling years
they were becoming:
sentinels of time and loneliness,
emblems of all that is unreachable
Because she asks no questions, because her face
Holds light and only light, calm-spreading, free
Of all those interrogatives that hold us
Hot-tempered captives when the sun climbs high:
Because she is a disc of visual silence
Dramatic only in her suddenness
When breaking from the clouds, she throws her silver
On grass, on waves that rake the waves of shingle,
On rock and waterfall and moving sheep
So that all objects cast contented shadows,
Not like the shadows of day, not question marks
Crossing each gesture with a grimace of doubt.
The moon's shadows are of darkness only,
fulfilled, contained, an experience of shape.
She holds our violence in a steady frame
burnished amid pure darkness. At Stonehenge,
the victim died when dawn lit up the sky,
splashing the stone with fire that sang, Destroy.
Here's an excerpt from his poem "Moondust" for Victor Neep, painter and metal worker:
old mangles
old gas cookers, limbs
of bicycles that died of old age
rest by the shifting sea, or on the mountain
content and motionless
bathed in that light
content to have arrived:
content to be, what all those wheeling years
they were becoming:
sentinels of time and loneliness,
emblems of all that is unreachable
Because she asks no questions, because her face
Holds light and only light, calm-spreading, free
Of all those interrogatives that hold us
Hot-tempered captives when the sun climbs high:
Because she is a disc of visual silence
Dramatic only in her suddenness
When breaking from the clouds, she throws her silver
On grass, on waves that rake the waves of shingle,
On rock and waterfall and moving sheep
So that all objects cast contented shadows,
Not like the shadows of day, not question marks
Crossing each gesture with a grimace of doubt.
The moon's shadows are of darkness only,
fulfilled, contained, an experience of shape.
She holds our violence in a steady frame
burnished amid pure darkness. At Stonehenge,
the victim died when dawn lit up the sky,
splashing the stone with fire that sang, Destroy.
Jamie Brown & Rachel Weiss Insulting Each Other
Rachel Weiss
did you want a prize for such perfection?
always arriving to class first
again again and oh my gawd AGAIN
such time could be spent buying a flattering blouse
no wait! you'd rather wear that fugly old t-shirt
A woman’s hand is a model of beauty and grace, to be kept soft and
jeweled. This your hands will never be for they possess nails bitten to
the quick,
ragged edges at fingertips.
You are what you eat, or so goes the popular adage. Your make-up is one of
junk, chips and pizza.
A disregard for appearance is evident in a disregard for the clothes you wear
and wear and wear.
and where is your regard?
wrapped around your wrist?
ticking a vain rhythm
stare at that effing clock one more effing time
and i'll tear that effing Fossil from your effing wrist and return it to the effing store
your wastefulness makes me twitch
you write scribble scratch re-write JUST WRITE
by the time you make that teeny tiny decision, the earth will have no trees
all chopped down for delicious gum
and the gum is gone too
SAD
my deprived children shall never experience shade or a piece gum
because Rachel Weiss chewed it ALL gone
It is important for one to have respect. Respect for people and respect for things.
You have neither, sketching in class.
Here you make the authority voice sound far away and destroy materials and waste ink (or lead).
A mind like yours cannot be contained and kept focused long enough to hear a person out.
Children are led down a hall with their hands behind their backs. As a child I assume you could not complete this task. Causing distractions and disruptions, you move and fidget the entire length of class. And what good does it do you?
did you want a prize for such perfection?
always arriving to class first
again again and oh my gawd AGAIN
such time could be spent buying a flattering blouse
no wait! you'd rather wear that fugly old t-shirt
A woman’s hand is a model of beauty and grace, to be kept soft and
jeweled. This your hands will never be for they possess nails bitten to
the quick,
ragged edges at fingertips.
You are what you eat, or so goes the popular adage. Your make-up is one of
junk, chips and pizza.
A disregard for appearance is evident in a disregard for the clothes you wear
and wear and wear.
and where is your regard?
wrapped around your wrist?
ticking a vain rhythm
stare at that effing clock one more effing time
and i'll tear that effing Fossil from your effing wrist and return it to the effing store
your wastefulness makes me twitch
you write scribble scratch re-write JUST WRITE
by the time you make that teeny tiny decision, the earth will have no trees
all chopped down for delicious gum
and the gum is gone too
SAD
my deprived children shall never experience shade or a piece gum
because Rachel Weiss chewed it ALL gone
It is important for one to have respect. Respect for people and respect for things.
You have neither, sketching in class.
Here you make the authority voice sound far away and destroy materials and waste ink (or lead).
A mind like yours cannot be contained and kept focused long enough to hear a person out.
Children are led down a hall with their hands behind their backs. As a child I assume you could not complete this task. Causing distractions and disruptions, you move and fidget the entire length of class. And what good does it do you?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Sea Shells in White (Extant Collabo.)
ocean waves crest
tumble into foam . . .
a shorebird stares
sea shells in white enthroned
beckon the traveler
gift necklace
and matching earrings
first dance
fond memories . . .
lady-in-waiting
she wraps her sweater
tighter to her body
Hunter's moon
the fawn cries out
the wind responds
crimson leaves
in the chilly air
a young man frowns
resolutions
Christmas cactus about to bloom
anxious children
with sleepy eyes
stolen kisses under prickly boughs
tryst on Whistler Mountain
hard-packed snow trails
an ivory blanket
covers the mountain
downhill racer's paradise
shadow-chasing
night skiers
another frost
pots on the porch
with flattened runners
brightly adorned barbless hook
the passing steelhead
`foot-loose
and fancy-free'
shopping spree
freckled face & pony-tails
. . . top shelf out of reach
overhanging
forsythia --
golden stars
risen Saviour ...
bells, rejoicing
by Francine Porad and Arthur Ramos
This collaboration was done in 1993. I just really enjoyed how this poem flowed. A lot of the words they used were nice and flowed together nicely.
The Leiden Hymns (My Version)
God of creation, creator of all
drops the chains off of those who suffer
and needs no tool to heal those who languish with disease
He is the knowledgeable God
God of all knowing
my vision becomes transparent
after what seemed like an everlasting fog
he opens his true nature to me
God to whom I am a child
to whom we are all a child
and as a mother who loves her children
you love and have loved yours
Your loving kindness seeps through
like the sweat of my pores
you are forgiving and have mercy on me
in the times when darkness reveals itself
and when I fall into the pits of darkness
Your ears are more perked then the thorns
you hear my thoughts to the highest volume
our cries are never left unheard
our cries are never left unanswered
your presence is felt immediately in times of woe
Your wings expand across the earth
a symbol of your protection to us whom you love
Powerless becomes forces against you
when we call your name
When fear comes to swallow our minds
you shut its mouth instantly at the thought of your might
Rescuer, Provider, Savior is what you are nothing less
For you are a God of mercy with intentions to only heal
You are good to those who acknowledge you
those who raise their voices out to the heavens
who praise your mighty works
When embraced by the human heart
a feeling of abundance flows
nothing else is needed
You are an advocate to everything good and pure
for you are pure and can only accept what is good
God who is right and can never truly be seen as
wrong.
The prayer poem that was due last week. Im guessing I should have posted it. This is my version of the Egyptian Leiden Hymn poem.
Mylka & Buddy's Flyting Poem Collabo.
Your very presence is like a rusty needle sliding slowly under my thumbnail
while one look upon your bloodcurdling face causes my heart to bleed vermins
fitting that should equate your heart with a rat
thoughts of you that walk across my mind calamitously cracks each nerve
nerves-impusles-feelings, I wasn't aware such things dwelled in dirt
myself, dirt? but it is such an apt understatement for your crippling inertness
Speak not of things you do not and cannot understand, child.
children hold more competence in their crayon tips than you in the entirety of your anatomy
perhaps I should find a coloring book, it has to be more engaging than you
while you are at it, find a substance sufficient to dilute your mephitic aroma
It’s your pollution that consumes me, bitter and biting to the last
Teeth nashing?devil screaming?pain howling?oh,im sorry, you were talking
--not to you, that much at least we can agree is done
when I came upon you, earth’s most repulsive creation, you longed to speak
--and now we are through, you to me, are a dead nothingness
yet you will live on as a faux bandit in heels, unsure of your own nebulous existenceextant collaborative project
Here is another place to find some more collaborative work of Lynn Hejinian and Emilie Clark. It is really interesting to look at the collaborations between art and poetry in light of our upcoming project.
people.mills.edu/jspahr/chain/clarkhejinian.pdf
people.mills.edu/jspahr/chain/clarkhejinian.pdf
flyting with Christephen
Christina, you pop-culture drunk Mary Poppins,
batting your eyes at wealth and beauty
your legs spread under invisible neon lights––
please close your robot-Revlon lips
and silence your dumbed-down sickening musical.
Stephen, you sub-culture slut Edward Scissorhands,
rolling your eyes at malls and meat-eaters
covered in cat hair and flea-market kitsch––
your life is the ambient noise of trains and growling stomachs
droning on amateur college radio.
Maybe you should drop out of poetry class and, for once,
become competent at something––
like writing girly cursive cliffs notes
to your yawn of an autobiography, saturated
with Nutra-Sweet jingles and after-school-special dilettante rambling.
I should. So you can write this poem to and from your idiotic self
and perpetuate your self-obsessed monologue of imagined importance.
Congratulations! Even your insults are sub-par; at least you’re consistent!
Maybe you could rehearse them in your spastic, overdramatic voice
in your messy-ass room with a closet-full of overpriced sweatshop clothes
and six unread books, you unending afterthought of self-involved contradictions.
It took you eighteen minutes to come up with that? You could do better,
you unending wreck of Indians in a glass head, acid tripping,
kung-fu gripping electromagnetic brainwave frequencies,
chattering cavities and phantom track marks.
Yeah, eighteen minutes is a long time. Sorry,
I kept getting distracted by your predictable board-game
of regurgitated Anglo-Saxon beauty myth––
you juvenile derivative fairy tale on legs.
Maybe you should reapply eyeliner; trace over
your big vacant monochromatic stare on your
faux animé-doll-eyes reflected in the aftermarket mirror
of your German ancestry,
you neon-pink bundle of mermaid insecurity.
And you, my malnourished Prince Charming
in need of a shave and a decent night’s sleep,
pacing the corridors, contemplating a toaster in the moat—
try getting dressed with the lights on, for once.
I hope you find in me
something you lack in yourself,
that you add it to your inventory of projection slides
in your show for the oblivious masses.
Is that directed at me, or your father?—
You should really discuss these issues with a therapist,
you knotted twine-ball of unresolved infantile neurosis.
Nice pre-packaged line that failed to deliver,
you rapid boiling pot of self-admiration.
You probably fuck to your own goddamned music
and recite your own poetry as you come.
batting your eyes at wealth and beauty
your legs spread under invisible neon lights––
please close your robot-Revlon lips
and silence your dumbed-down sickening musical.
Stephen, you sub-culture slut Edward Scissorhands,
rolling your eyes at malls and meat-eaters
covered in cat hair and flea-market kitsch––
your life is the ambient noise of trains and growling stomachs
droning on amateur college radio.
Maybe you should drop out of poetry class and, for once,
become competent at something––
like writing girly cursive cliffs notes
to your yawn of an autobiography, saturated
with Nutra-Sweet jingles and after-school-special dilettante rambling.
I should. So you can write this poem to and from your idiotic self
and perpetuate your self-obsessed monologue of imagined importance.
Congratulations! Even your insults are sub-par; at least you’re consistent!
Maybe you could rehearse them in your spastic, overdramatic voice
in your messy-ass room with a closet-full of overpriced sweatshop clothes
and six unread books, you unending afterthought of self-involved contradictions.
It took you eighteen minutes to come up with that? You could do better,
you unending wreck of Indians in a glass head, acid tripping,
kung-fu gripping electromagnetic brainwave frequencies,
chattering cavities and phantom track marks.
Yeah, eighteen minutes is a long time. Sorry,
I kept getting distracted by your predictable board-game
of regurgitated Anglo-Saxon beauty myth––
you juvenile derivative fairy tale on legs.
Maybe you should reapply eyeliner; trace over
your big vacant monochromatic stare on your
faux animé-doll-eyes reflected in the aftermarket mirror
of your German ancestry,
you neon-pink bundle of mermaid insecurity.
And you, my malnourished Prince Charming
in need of a shave and a decent night’s sleep,
pacing the corridors, contemplating a toaster in the moat—
try getting dressed with the lights on, for once.
I hope you find in me
something you lack in yourself,
that you add it to your inventory of projection slides
in your show for the oblivious masses.
Is that directed at me, or your father?—
You should really discuss these issues with a therapist,
you knotted twine-ball of unresolved infantile neurosis.
Nice pre-packaged line that failed to deliver,
you rapid boiling pot of self-admiration.
You probably fuck to your own goddamned music
and recite your own poetry as you come.
Safe Sandwiches
there is a subway
in Hammond, IN
that is
set up like a currency exchange
yell
mustard, mayo, lettuce, tomatoes
through that small slit of hole
motion a fist as if you were shaking pepper
for your mac and cheese at nightfill
and the shaky spices too please
yeah, the spices
continuing with the hand motion
they keep tuna hostage
until you pay up
slip the money thru the metal cup
let the change rattle resonant
in exchange,
out comes the six inch
thru the mini revolving door
a portal (of sorts)
take your wheat bread and bolt
wondering throughout
if the divider is bulletproof
in Hammond, IN
that is
set up like a currency exchange
yell
mustard, mayo, lettuce, tomatoes
through that small slit of hole
motion a fist as if you were shaking pepper
for your mac and cheese at nightfill
and the shaky spices too please
yeah, the spices
continuing with the hand motion
they keep tuna hostage
until you pay up
slip the money thru the metal cup
let the change rattle resonant
in exchange,
out comes the six inch
thru the mini revolving door
a portal (of sorts)
take your wheat bread and bolt
wondering throughout
if the divider is bulletproof
Fallen Hero
And God saw everything that he made, and behold, it was very good?
not a bird
not a plane
just a mortal descending
bruising the dirt
superman QUIT
hung his cape up with the rest
thirsty veins lust the needle
hands append to metal arms
and liquor lips shine from leftover crumpled cash
no shoes no shirt no service
love n’ service for naked poverty?
NO
just sex n’ service for sleazy strippers
tap that
serviced oh so good and hard
and superman just stands there crying in an open landfill
not a bird
not a plane
just a mortal descending
bruising the dirt
superman QUIT
hung his cape up with the rest
thirsty veins lust the needle
hands append to metal arms
and liquor lips shine from leftover crumpled cash
no shoes no shirt no service
love n’ service for naked poverty?
NO
just sex n’ service for sleazy strippers
tap that
serviced oh so good and hard
and superman just stands there crying in an open landfill
Charles Reznikoff’s Lost Work, "Victory Auto Wreckers"
I approached my car
and the door fell off–
a husky baritone bellows,
“That old car might be worth money”
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand
“for a quote”
Everything turns blue
and an address appears:
“Victory will tow
no matter what condition your car is in,”
seven days a week–
and there might be cash on the spot,
the voice gives us the option
of fixing up the car with used parts,
An image of an automobile graveyard
ten acres, the voice claims –
starters, transmissions, batteries
“-for all types of cars”
blue again
seven-ten East Green in Bensonville,
"-near O’Hare"
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand.
and the door fell off–
a husky baritone bellows,
“That old car might be worth money”
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand
“for a quote”
Everything turns blue
and an address appears:
“Victory will tow
no matter what condition your car is in,”
seven days a week–
and there might be cash on the spot,
the voice gives us the option
of fixing up the car with used parts,
An image of an automobile graveyard
ten acres, the voice claims –
starters, transmissions, batteries
“-for all types of cars”
blue again
seven-ten East Green in Bensonville,
"-near O’Hare"
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand.
eXTANT cOLLABORATIVE
Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold
A Cut-up Collage of Printed Phrases
May 4-5, 1991
Unwind to the music
self priming pump
opens us up
brain rescue throw rope
without damaging fine hand washables
12 volt
pajamas for men
latest fashion
wet suit rentals
make mom proud by saving whales
tides
for the diver
baked chicken breast
pay-per-view
so you don't spear your spouse
Jerry can fix it!
all year long...like she is
oversized
rollover construction
so your feet stay dry and comfortable
Chemical Mace
brain tuner experiences
instant canopy
inflatable gorilla
four feet big
double breasted knit suit
growing concern nursery
dining out
watermelon
light. lighter. lightest.
jungle quality
stainless steel lawn
next to the skin
never have to empty
moving hats
skin and bones
bushwacking
women's jeans
some guys get all the breaks
processed to remove the "itch"
rosewood handles
secret pleasure
in blissful privacy
sunglasses
tummy and ease your aching back
releasing sex
...and folds compactly into
its own handy pouch
mix butterflies and bugs in
panties constructed without elastic legs
paradise store?
woodcutter's child within
terrain so new
I want to see my money go up in smoke!
beneath the tent volcanoes erupt
keep your mate in the dark
dragons sleeping
so you want to fly
swim laps to music, so you don't drown of boredom
if you deserve breakfast in bed let them know
blues in oils
united artists
at the pond
a prePONDerance of
time through hairspray and zinc
magnetic tool holder
keep your Roman arc
very deeply
long reach lighter hands free head lamp
splash sprinkle and snow-proof
more new moon
scratch remover
eliminates the blind spot
the primary layer for women
lifetime screwdrivers
tick the spider jumps
new thrills for pretty woman
sleeping with the enemy
"Holy War"
queen's trainer atop the sport of kings
it's raining
lizard earrings
bell born
spring sea fever
yellow silk
meeting with a rare
black oak
space maze
lightning
hand-formed guide
Extant Collaborative Project
A book entitled "A Couple of Ways of Doing Something" has photographs by well-known photographer Chuck Close and accompanying poems by New York School poet Bob Holman.
This book is kind of weird/interesting because the photographs are all of Close's group of artist friends, some of whom are very well known names.
It' s a provocative idea for a book, one that seems a little snobbish(?) to me, but it also makes me want to read it and look at it, which is a good sign.
We have this book at Milner if you wanted to check it out. (Well, not now you can't, because I have it.)
Cheers to art and poetry!
This book is kind of weird/interesting because the photographs are all of Close's group of artist friends, some of whom are very well known names.
It' s a provocative idea for a book, one that seems a little snobbish(?) to me, but it also makes me want to read it and look at it, which is a good sign.
We have this book at Milner if you wanted to check it out. (Well, not now you can't, because I have it.)
Cheers to art and poetry!
An Attempt to Insult
Standing here, in planet normal I scream above; How’s the weather, Giant?
Obviously originality is a key concept of your personality, in all honesty it is the same as down there.
The rain clouds are forming above, Giant, will you let me know when to pull out my umbrella?Sure, Will you reach mine for me, I just dropped it and you’re closer to the ground.
While I’m picking it up I notice your clown…I mean Cowboy boots, where’s the ho-down at?
You can go ask one of your rap stars, they seem to know where to find “da hoes.”
Of course my rap stars know where “da hoes” at, that’s why they avoid country bar mechanical bull riding nights.
That’s good, it’s better for business if they do their “riding” elsewhere.At least they’re discrete when they “ride” things, you cowgirls are all the same; horses bulls, pigs, anything and everything you find someway to lasso & ride.
Oh yes, mini skirts revealing a lil’ bit of ass along with some stiletto’s is always discrete. Walk those Manolo Blahnik’s back to the street corner to continue with those “discrete” actions.
I’ll go to the corners & hitch a ride in a pick-up truck with hay, animals, and all the other country saps they pick up on the way, so we can hang out sometime.
I’d love to hangout with you, although an honest day’s work and all that fresh air may not agree with you.
If you call shoveling up animal shit & feeding them hay an honest days work, I think I’ll pass.It's about the same shoveling some slop to customers at a resaurant and cleaning up after they leave. But hey, at least they leave a $3 tip.
Obviously originality is a key concept of your personality, in all honesty it is the same as down there.
The rain clouds are forming above, Giant, will you let me know when to pull out my umbrella?Sure, Will you reach mine for me, I just dropped it and you’re closer to the ground.
While I’m picking it up I notice your clown…I mean Cowboy boots, where’s the ho-down at?
You can go ask one of your rap stars, they seem to know where to find “da hoes.”
Of course my rap stars know where “da hoes” at, that’s why they avoid country bar mechanical bull riding nights.
That’s good, it’s better for business if they do their “riding” elsewhere.At least they’re discrete when they “ride” things, you cowgirls are all the same; horses bulls, pigs, anything and everything you find someway to lasso & ride.
Oh yes, mini skirts revealing a lil’ bit of ass along with some stiletto’s is always discrete. Walk those Manolo Blahnik’s back to the street corner to continue with those “discrete” actions.
I’ll go to the corners & hitch a ride in a pick-up truck with hay, animals, and all the other country saps they pick up on the way, so we can hang out sometime.
I’d love to hangout with you, although an honest day’s work and all that fresh air may not agree with you.
If you call shoveling up animal shit & feeding them hay an honest days work, I think I’ll pass.It's about the same shoveling some slop to customers at a resaurant and cleaning up after they leave. But hey, at least they leave a $3 tip.
Collaborative Project Extant
Forche, Carolyn. Ed. Against Forgetting:Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness. New York: Norton, 1993.
If you liked the Reznikoff book, this one will give you a taste of more poetry born of horrific realities. What is interesting about this anthology is that it crosses the spectrum from the genocide in Turkish Armenia to the more recent student uprising in China during the 1980s. Most of the poems are translations and are as true as can be. I think there is a better translation of Paul Celan's Death Fugue by John Feltstiner. The first stanza is as follows:
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
a man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair
Marguerite
He writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
He whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us strike up and play for the dance
If you liked the Reznikoff book, this one will give you a taste of more poetry born of horrific realities. What is interesting about this anthology is that it crosses the spectrum from the genocide in Turkish Armenia to the more recent student uprising in China during the 1980s. Most of the poems are translations and are as true as can be. I think there is a better translation of Paul Celan's Death Fugue by John Feltstiner. The first stanza is as follows:
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
a man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair
Marguerite
He writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
He whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us strike up and play for the dance
my painting orgasm
squint
The universe is
expanding and accelerating
at a rate faster than it takes
for an empire state building
to fall away
from a penny.
Gravity is gravy
with it
in it.
Evolution is not rocket science
God may have created the universe
but if s/he/it did, he was jacking off
on James Dobson
while spanking him
simultaneously.
My cat called me a liberal
and meowed at me while I
lay in the bathtub. She was
afraid I would get sucked down
into the wormhole and
disintegrate thus
losing her companion
forever
or maybe she just wanted some food.
Sometimes stars shine so dimly
you can barely see them
until you die.
My mother told me I was one of those stars
but she didn't tell me I was so far away.
The universe is
expanding and accelerating
at a rate faster than it takes
for an empire state building
to fall away
from a penny.
Gravity is gravy
with it
in it.
Evolution is not rocket science
God may have created the universe
but if s/he/it did, he was jacking off
on James Dobson
while spanking him
simultaneously.
My cat called me a liberal
and meowed at me while I
lay in the bathtub. She was
afraid I would get sucked down
into the wormhole and
disintegrate thus
losing her companion
forever
or maybe she just wanted some food.
Sometimes stars shine so dimly
you can barely see them
until you die.
My mother told me I was one of those stars
but she didn't tell me I was so far away.
Alissa and Andy Epistolate
1
Alissa,
You are a carbuncle on the pedestal of the gods, your hairtangles the roots of Medusa's oblongota grippingly and trips the wires of heart valves in bus stop motherheads eternal. You caused the nuclear war that destroyed Venus, and then you unleashed devastation on Earth. And you smell like grandma's ricottacheese at a Mets game.
Love,
Andy
2
Andy,
You are a jack o lantern on Christmas night - a nice thought,but out of place. You are a lice nit invading the hair shaft of a five year old that picks his nose and plays tag with a bayonet all the while itching his precious infested locks. Plus, you're a Mets fan.
And you probably voted for Bush.
Love,
Alissa
3
Amissa Venereal,
ow, that hurt. How did you know that I picked my nose, have liceand voted for Bush? You've been spying on me!!!!!! While I am naked and urinating all over your bed?... And I bet you've been eating Raw Garlic and unsweetened Baking Chocolate while doing it. Not only that, but you also have a birthmark the size of Russia on your left eyelid. Did you know I could turn you in for being a spy? On top of that, you like Oasis,and you mistake Patti Smith for Patti Hearst. You caused the Big Bang toreverse upon itself.
Love,
Andy
4
Oh yeah? You munch on Pomeranian puppies and newborn bunnies for breakfast and wash it down with ladybugs you mix in the blender. Your brain is just a pimple and it popped whiteyellow puss all inside that cranium. The millisecond you eye your surroundings with no one, you bring your foot to your chapped lips and savor toenails for dessert. And I didn't want to be the one to say it, but you smell like the Easter egg on top of the ceiling fan my sister didn't find till Independence Day. And your socks don't match.
kindly,
alissa
5
Agreed, after making love to your sister, your would-have, could-havebeen nephew was left on the ceiling fan. That being said, making love tohens has never been my forte. As for you, you drove me to drink... after30 years of sobriety. THen you drove me to another 12 step meeting tocomplain about you. When I say the Lord's Prayer, I say, "and forgive us ourAlissas, as we forgive those who Alissa against us..." I saw youspreadin' the red at homecoming. I know you've been fantasizing about ReggieRedbird... Come on now... what is this poultry fetish you have?
with feathers,
Andy
6
Maybe if you didn't brush your teeth with tree branches, or dance like dolly parton with her boobs caught fire, or smile like a drunken monster strung out from scaring children, I wouldn't have sinned you to the bottle.Wow, thirty years, huh? That makes you 50, right? You've been driving women to insanity with your fastidious ways long before I was in driver's ed. And by the way, the alleged relationship you mentioned regarding Reggie and tis true, at least he knows the simple difference between a hen and a cock: clearly where you are lacking.
fondly,
alissa
7
AV,
What does my gender have anything to do with it? I believe you are sexist... just because I don't have a cock, a big reggie redbird rooster roasting on a spit, basted in honey and fennel, ready to wash down with mounds of oats and goblets of ale, doesn't mean I have no feelings? What does this say about your humanity? I think you have lost it. You are hitler. You are eva braun hitler... you are eva braun hitler presley. You are Elvis. My how you've decomposed!
8
Your bank thinks you're a prostitute from that boyish charm and dollar bill deposits. I think you are a communist; you are fidel on his deathbed with a liver rotting, don't you dare go to Miami. Your beard is wilting into a million fallen coarse hairs on the floor that you make your slaves sweep up. You are a poodle, a skank, an egghead, a masshole and you're such a dumb blonde. Just because you're a sissy and a shoobie doesn't mean I'm a sexist who loves your banana hat. And as the Lakota chief said last night in the dim firestand, and I quote, "Andy Hall is quite the near woman" and proceeded to describe your face as similar to squirrel poop.
love,
alissa
9
AV,
You have messed up this assignment. GG will be furious with you. He might even choose to become a fundamentalist Christian thanks to you, but not only that... ISU will have to close down. And you will be used as an example for adolescents contemplating suicide. They will see what you've done and realize they don't have it so bad and opt to live. I guess you can do something right by accident and you are a fjnord. Wait. I forgot you're "special" we were told to give you room and training pants. You were breastfed till age 12 by your father... your mother looked at you and died. Your father went to hell to retrieve her and she wouldn't come. She was making out with Mephistopheles. Alissa Veenstra, forgive me for being so insensitive to someone as misfortunate as you. You couldn't help it. Even Barbie looked at you and said "that girl needs to gain some weight." BTW, I know you "love" me.
Andy
10
Little andy,
Barbie happens to be a friend of mine, her middle name is Millicent and she told me last year your valentine was the cockroach that lives below your floorboard and sings you to dream at night. Your lungs are like the third floor of Stevenson. Bozo called, he wants his wig back for the final grand march. GG told me the Poetry for Dummies book was written for you. And I heard from your father that you wash your body with coffee and mud from the Amazon and rinse it off with dragon spit. I saw you yesterday in the quad, you were jumping in a pile of leaves and wildly yelling “Oh Persephone, come to planet Earth to claim me!” So forgive me for not saying hello Andy, but the voices in your head told me not to. That reminds me, I bumped into your doctor the other day and he told me about your personality disorder. I just want to say, it was a pleasure collaborating with each and every one of you.
“love” always,
alissa
Alissa,
You are a carbuncle on the pedestal of the gods, your hairtangles the roots of Medusa's oblongota grippingly and trips the wires of heart valves in bus stop motherheads eternal. You caused the nuclear war that destroyed Venus, and then you unleashed devastation on Earth. And you smell like grandma's ricottacheese at a Mets game.
Love,
Andy
2
Andy,
You are a jack o lantern on Christmas night - a nice thought,but out of place. You are a lice nit invading the hair shaft of a five year old that picks his nose and plays tag with a bayonet all the while itching his precious infested locks. Plus, you're a Mets fan.
And you probably voted for Bush.
Love,
Alissa
3
Amissa Venereal,
ow, that hurt. How did you know that I picked my nose, have liceand voted for Bush? You've been spying on me!!!!!! While I am naked and urinating all over your bed?... And I bet you've been eating Raw Garlic and unsweetened Baking Chocolate while doing it. Not only that, but you also have a birthmark the size of Russia on your left eyelid. Did you know I could turn you in for being a spy? On top of that, you like Oasis,and you mistake Patti Smith for Patti Hearst. You caused the Big Bang toreverse upon itself.
Love,
Andy
4
Oh yeah? You munch on Pomeranian puppies and newborn bunnies for breakfast and wash it down with ladybugs you mix in the blender. Your brain is just a pimple and it popped whiteyellow puss all inside that cranium. The millisecond you eye your surroundings with no one, you bring your foot to your chapped lips and savor toenails for dessert. And I didn't want to be the one to say it, but you smell like the Easter egg on top of the ceiling fan my sister didn't find till Independence Day. And your socks don't match.
kindly,
alissa
5
Agreed, after making love to your sister, your would-have, could-havebeen nephew was left on the ceiling fan. That being said, making love tohens has never been my forte. As for you, you drove me to drink... after30 years of sobriety. THen you drove me to another 12 step meeting tocomplain about you. When I say the Lord's Prayer, I say, "and forgive us ourAlissas, as we forgive those who Alissa against us..." I saw youspreadin' the red at homecoming. I know you've been fantasizing about ReggieRedbird... Come on now... what is this poultry fetish you have?
with feathers,
Andy
6
Maybe if you didn't brush your teeth with tree branches, or dance like dolly parton with her boobs caught fire, or smile like a drunken monster strung out from scaring children, I wouldn't have sinned you to the bottle.Wow, thirty years, huh? That makes you 50, right? You've been driving women to insanity with your fastidious ways long before I was in driver's ed. And by the way, the alleged relationship you mentioned regarding Reggie and tis true, at least he knows the simple difference between a hen and a cock: clearly where you are lacking.
fondly,
alissa
7
AV,
What does my gender have anything to do with it? I believe you are sexist... just because I don't have a cock, a big reggie redbird rooster roasting on a spit, basted in honey and fennel, ready to wash down with mounds of oats and goblets of ale, doesn't mean I have no feelings? What does this say about your humanity? I think you have lost it. You are hitler. You are eva braun hitler... you are eva braun hitler presley. You are Elvis. My how you've decomposed!
8
Your bank thinks you're a prostitute from that boyish charm and dollar bill deposits. I think you are a communist; you are fidel on his deathbed with a liver rotting, don't you dare go to Miami. Your beard is wilting into a million fallen coarse hairs on the floor that you make your slaves sweep up. You are a poodle, a skank, an egghead, a masshole and you're such a dumb blonde. Just because you're a sissy and a shoobie doesn't mean I'm a sexist who loves your banana hat. And as the Lakota chief said last night in the dim firestand, and I quote, "Andy Hall is quite the near woman" and proceeded to describe your face as similar to squirrel poop.
love,
alissa
9
AV,
You have messed up this assignment. GG will be furious with you. He might even choose to become a fundamentalist Christian thanks to you, but not only that... ISU will have to close down. And you will be used as an example for adolescents contemplating suicide. They will see what you've done and realize they don't have it so bad and opt to live. I guess you can do something right by accident and you are a fjnord. Wait. I forgot you're "special" we were told to give you room and training pants. You were breastfed till age 12 by your father... your mother looked at you and died. Your father went to hell to retrieve her and she wouldn't come. She was making out with Mephistopheles. Alissa Veenstra, forgive me for being so insensitive to someone as misfortunate as you. You couldn't help it. Even Barbie looked at you and said "that girl needs to gain some weight." BTW, I know you "love" me.
Andy
10
Little andy,
Barbie happens to be a friend of mine, her middle name is Millicent and she told me last year your valentine was the cockroach that lives below your floorboard and sings you to dream at night. Your lungs are like the third floor of Stevenson. Bozo called, he wants his wig back for the final grand march. GG told me the Poetry for Dummies book was written for you. And I heard from your father that you wash your body with coffee and mud from the Amazon and rinse it off with dragon spit. I saw you yesterday in the quad, you were jumping in a pile of leaves and wildly yelling “Oh Persephone, come to planet Earth to claim me!” So forgive me for not saying hello Andy, but the voices in your head told me not to. That reminds me, I bumped into your doctor the other day and he told me about your personality disorder. I just want to say, it was a pleasure collaborating with each and every one of you.
“love” always,
alissa
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Collaboration Research 4
Today's collaboration research comes from William Bonilla and Amber V. Moonstone. The two authors chose to collaborate with a painting by Sue Dowe.
William Bonilla was born in New York, New York and is a reitred police officer from the NYPD. His influences include Yates, Poe, Emerson, Homer, and Willie Nelson. Amber V. Moonstone was born in New Britian, Connecticut. She is currently compiling her first book of poetry entitled "Echoes from the Sea" to be published in spring 2008.
I discovered these authors and their work at authorsden.com. I am unsure as to how the authors went about writing this poem; however, I would say it is possible that they collaborated via Internet. Feel free to take a look and see what you think.
Click here
Below, is the painting by Sue Dowe, along with the collaboration poem by William Bonilla and Amber V. Moonstone.
At The Gates Of Ecstasy
William
~*~
I visualize you like a dream
Undreamed
You stare at me sensuously
Eyes interlock
In passionate desires
With the wonderment of love.
First words slowly sail
Through the air
Carried on the wings
Of Pegasus.
Cupid aims a bulls eye
The arrow marked it’s target
Passion stir
Where there was once
A broken heart.
You mended my heart
Nursed my soul
Nourished my passionate desires
At The Gates Of Ecstasy.
Amber
~*~
The Gates await your arrival
like a lover awaits her soldier
The battle has ended
you have surrendered
to my passionate call.
Only seeing black and white
for my passionate manly knight.
You are not in darkness any longer,
My light radiated through your solitude.
Never again shall you dwell in stagnant wonder
Only flying toward me in splendid thunder.
You are no longer lost or alone,
surrender is so sweet a tone.
Words whispered, will never be forgotten
when our passion re-unites there
at the gates of our ecstasy!
William Bonilla was born in New York, New York and is a reitred police officer from the NYPD. His influences include Yates, Poe, Emerson, Homer, and Willie Nelson. Amber V. Moonstone was born in New Britian, Connecticut. She is currently compiling her first book of poetry entitled "Echoes from the Sea" to be published in spring 2008.
I discovered these authors and their work at authorsden.com. I am unsure as to how the authors went about writing this poem; however, I would say it is possible that they collaborated via Internet. Feel free to take a look and see what you think.
Click here
Below, is the painting by Sue Dowe, along with the collaboration poem by William Bonilla and Amber V. Moonstone.
At The Gates Of Ecstasy
William
~*~
I visualize you like a dream
Undreamed
You stare at me sensuously
Eyes interlock
In passionate desires
With the wonderment of love.
First words slowly sail
Through the air
Carried on the wings
Of Pegasus.
Cupid aims a bulls eye
The arrow marked it’s target
Passion stir
Where there was once
A broken heart.
You mended my heart
Nursed my soul
Nourished my passionate desires
At The Gates Of Ecstasy.
Amber
~*~
The Gates await your arrival
like a lover awaits her soldier
The battle has ended
you have surrendered
to my passionate call.
Only seeing black and white
for my passionate manly knight.
You are not in darkness any longer,
My light radiated through your solitude.
Never again shall you dwell in stagnant wonder
Only flying toward me in splendid thunder.
You are no longer lost or alone,
surrender is so sweet a tone.
Words whispered, will never be forgotten
when our passion re-unites there
at the gates of our ecstasy!
Collaborate Poem
throbbing gristle
I'm pro-clam
pro-tuber
O Pro Tubular comet raise your sungod blone.
Poets move away
from genitals. Move toward
the seed that shudders a velocity that
will achieve NADA
(margin release should never be taught to anyone under 60
'cause then they cut you off
& capitalize on every return
suckling with your gray matter)
nada
don't
do it
move beyond that female hat-stink brat
smell sweet cosmos leaning into nothing
as gaseous and deep in camp
and like the smell of children kill
breathing through the swirl of mice
lopez was a wolf his wolverine was stoned
the avocado was an orphan of the Manatee of Glove
the hair of pearlflesh was the rape of Ophelia in bloom
succulent ripple roseflesh lunch
she who gorges gorgeously
will be first in line for organ donation
her name is Cindy Crawford
I think.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Another Lorca Translation
Malagueña
Federico Garcia Lorca
La muerte
entra y sale
de la taberna.
Pasan caballos negros
y gente siniestra
por los hondos caminos
de la guitarra.
Y hay un olor a sal
y a sangre de hembra,
en los nardos febriles
de la marina.
La muerte
entra y sale
y sale y entra
la muerte
de la taberna.
Malagueña
Death
comes and goes
from the tavern
Passing along the deep
paths of the guitar are
midnight horses
and sinister personas
There is the smell
of brine and the blood
of female comrades
in the sickly ferns of the
shipyard
Death
comes and goes
goes and comes
from the tavern
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.
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
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.
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.
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
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
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
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
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.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
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
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
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
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.
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.
Friday, October 5, 2007
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.
-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.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
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.
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.
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 darkness lead us to Light
From death lead us to Immortality
Peace Peace Peace
as the leaves of a lotus fall into the
autumnal water, exempt from attachments
In the skin at the tips of our fingers
we see the trail of the wind
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
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”
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Jangling
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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.
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
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
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.
"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.
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
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.
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
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
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 1, 2007
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 .
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 .
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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
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.
-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.
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
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))
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
“
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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
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.
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