February 2012
7 posts
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Song in my heart by Diane Seuss
If there’s pee on the seat it’s my pee, battery’s dead I killed it, canary at the bottom of the cage I bury it, like God tromping the sky in his undershirt carrying his brass spittoon, raging and sobbing in his Hush Puppy house slippers with the backs broke down, no Mrs. God to make him reasonable as he gets out the straight razor to slice the hair off his face, using the Black Sea as a mirror...
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No Matter What Happens, The Important Part Is What...
you. you are. you are trying. you are trying to remember. you are trying to remember something. you are trying to remember something & it is not here & you are trying to remedy that. you have got one foot out of the door, but you only noticed because you felt it swing tight. you — YOU, me i am talking to me, you, & if you have made it to this point, keep going....
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Signs for Travelers
[Jean Follain imitation poem assignment] Travelers from great spaces: when you see the ducks hung, inverted dry & bronze, like the gaggles of sun-hags on Miami Beach, the roast pig split among steel trays flagging steam through a peek in the window glass & when moreover you see near a cart vending pickled jellyfish a beggar weaving bamboo strips into conic wicker pea-shooters &...
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On Hearing Of Szymborska, Passing
News came over after the telephone it rang & so I picked it up & my sister told it to me: Wislawa Szymborska died to day. at 88 & I thought: Oh, impossible she is too young to die. Too young. Like a child pocket sleuth setting perimeter around gravel by the swing sets & like the universe is as young or as old as the moment it collapses. Wislawa Szymborska is dead & no one is...
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January 2012
37 posts
10 tags
The
allegory of today is the fashion of yesterday. The canvas’s face no longer requires a hieroglyphic. The poem is as useless as the precious hand-bag’s name. The quest for ultimate truth is held in the upstairs parlor on Tuesday nights. The woman tying ropes of linen by the window will ask: Can I get you something? & you will say: Yes, the ultimate truth. & they will...
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apraxiccranium asked: Thought you should know I'm always excited to read what you do when it comes through my feed.
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Everything Is Relative,
I said. But you did not agree. You said, There has got to be at least something out there that is, sure. But, the rest? I asked. The rest is fixed, you said. So, what’s the thing, then, I said, What’s the thing that IS relative? I think it is the truth, you said, or the Truth, you continued, or some thing. I see, I said. But I did not. Relativity has exactly...
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When Etta sings
those second two notes as the song opens & that Sunday Kind Of Love settles in.
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To accompany this previous post, which is a...
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There is a piece of Debussy
on my iTunes I’ve got no title for & it starts with two fingers like toes dabbling a glass sheet that’s really a pond when it gets moving — like all of Debussy — & if I explain it might anyone name it for me? It is as exotic as the pentatonic, but not so Chinese nor so French nor the blues & at 0:53 on the recording you can hear how Debussy could have elevated...
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Clash of the Titan's, y'all. Make yr side of it... →
Stop SOPA/PIPA
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Here's how it goes
for the living: Steady yr dive as you make it. Don’t stop thinking. Know we’ll only collect so many, if all you’ve to offer are the shells. Whatever it is get started. Too little time to focus on what you don’t remember. The issues are heavy, but so’s the atmosphere & so’re the muscles in yr neck if you hold them that way. What happens when things collide? Say anything. In looking up the...
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Opera singers are, like, the weight-lifters of...
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Sad Dictionary by Richard Siken
Llamas dot the hills. White rugs on a green rug. You never had an iPod, so you can’t imagine how
much better it is now. We have been to the Moon and made him our doormat. Painkiller of the night,
he still shines, though we have blackened his eye by punching it closed. Perhaps his forehead shines.
Spain is better, too: yellow flowers, useless flowers, a...
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“How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.”
– —Sylvia Plath
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“It is a queer thing that so few reviewers seem to realize that one writes poetry...”
– —Wallace Stevens to Thomas McGreevy, 1953
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"Get up! Cross checks off
the check-lists!” says the whip but, O how I do love its sting.
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My ancestors don't like me anymore because I eat...
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December 2011
36 posts
Free Online Class from Yale on Modern Poetry
pilgrimsoulinme:
Yale has its entire Modern Poetry course, taught by Langdon Hammer, here. I can’t afford to go back to school, so I thought this was a great structured alternative. Happy studying all!
http://oyc.yale.edu/english/introduction-to-theory-of-literature/content/class-sessions
There’s also an entire course on literary theory. It’s just as valuable and intriguing for writers....
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Agape
No, my dear — it was at the back of the throat before some thing elastic- ated — classic case as it was some swallow wasn’t it?
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