tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348239732024-03-14T02:19:58.137-07:00Intagliod Up in BlueThe radio played
Maria wept
Maria wept
the radio playeda-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.comBlogger694125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-54769751447036768982015-01-24T15:32:00.004-08:002015-01-24T15:32:56.100-08:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY KEITH REHM & Has it Been SO Long? It has been. Too long. I loved this little thinking place. So much of my days were spent thinking aloud to a quiet room in many the quiet season.<br />
<br />
The seasons are louder lately. In most ways. But I am in a house full of voices and sometimes they make it harder to call out the old me, sitting in a second story window, typing her stories and poems and wondering if she would always be solo.<br />
<br />
She is not. She is happy and happiness is always troubled, complicated with the double-bodied woes that the days bat at us all.<br />
<br />
But not today, today is my friend's birthday. He is off on big adventures and I hope the whole night sky is his cake and what when he makes a wish, one of those candle-stars blows out.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday Dear Friend and Many, Many More.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-50248376209244525272013-04-03T10:34:00.000-07:002013-04-03T15:45:25.836-07:00The Glass Frogs BeginIt's here! National Poetry Month where I feel not only justified in saturating us in poem and talk of poem, but compelled! I am participating here on Intagliod and over at Sweetly Disturbed: there I will post in a single post/single day manner. As tradition dictates here at Intagliod, I will keep extending the poem in a single post so that I might see how it is running its rivery way down the page. Likely, by month's end, at some point, I'll hide the post, should the poem seem strong enough to try to find a home in print.<br />
<br />
I have visited Robert Brewer's blog, Poetic Asides in order to receive my first day's prompt which deals with new arrivals and have written a little prosaic start to my:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thirty Days of Looking at the Glass Frog</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 0em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Coming into the light, a body</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 0em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">to grow no larger than an almond,</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">with nothing to hide. Clear-</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">bellied, the miraculous factory </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">that runs them always visible, </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Their translucence against</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">a green leaf's a vanishing act.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today: April, no fool's gold</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">to this sunshine, we're all </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">about arrival. The scientist </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">who fell in love the species:</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hyalinobatrachium valerioi </span></em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="color: #363636;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">named his daughter Valerie</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5e5e5e; line-height: 26.38888931274414px;">
<span style="color: #363636;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">in their honor. </span></span></div>
<br />
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2. </div>
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What It must be to filter light, </div>
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feel the trail it follows inside,</div>
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like intuition only warmer, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the knowing a glowing </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
such a little form </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but standing, window </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the side, a lantern</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a teaspoon of starlight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
how nightfall must fall </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
soft as cinder, the day </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
coating as slowly as dust</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
gathered on a piano. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slowly, slowly the body </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
opens, a thorn’s puncture</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
here, the water glass tumbles</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a clear tooth opens</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a scarlet throat in the sole</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of the foot, or a possum </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
halfway across a highway</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
scripted now in elaborate entrails. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are drawn and repelled </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
by what spells us out in organed-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
particulars, taking the view in</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a little at a time. The glass frog</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
belies such patience, giving us </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what we want, never want </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from what we love: to see </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the musicbox-machinery </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that runs those wistful singings.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
<br />a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-4970848465018212342013-04-01T18:19:00.003-07:002013-04-01T18:21:02.367-07:00To End the Day in ElegyMy mom's closest friend's son died yesterday. He was only two years older than I am and I grew up with him. That was a long time ago, but not long enough to be telling him goodbye, or his mother how wrong it is and how very sorry that I am or to feel that sinking feeling again when someone who was living so well and trying so hard to be good to his body is gone. It's never a fair thing, but sometimes it's more stupid than other times. Goodbye George Klonizos and to you Rita, godmother, second Mom, I can only send love and prayers from Ohio to too-too far Utah. And these borrowed words:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white;">
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">The Comet</span></b><br />
<i></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">I re-named the comet but nothing stuck. What do I know of bone-<br />deep lonely, of the beautiful freeze, of running a circuit through the<br />stars until all landmarks are my own staring eyes: of families<br />in general, what do I know? Say I'm young. Say I am the aftertaste<br />of all my parents' grief, a childhood spent in the downwind<br />of chicken blood, recurring dreams of being left behind—my mother<br />kneeling by the VCR to watch a video of her lost daughter—<br />and this is Hell: believing you can be a lens and meet your<br />loved ones' eyes beyond the screen, smacking your pain against glass<br />like a doomed swallow The half-life of loss is forever.There is hope<br />we don't get over. When my son began to die, I did not record<br />his voice, but let him simmer, speechless, in my memory, while I tried<br />to gain the faith to think we'd meet again. I held his fist against my lips,<br />I closed my teeth around the juncture of his throat and chest, I said<br /><i>you'll be the fire of the sun, and I will circle you until you draw me close,<br />until our nearness breaks me into pieces and you burn me whole</i>.<br />I would have ripped his heart out and consumed it if I'd thought<br />that it would choke me: I would have been the eternal mouth.<br />Say I'm young. Say the speeding rock of my body is as bright<br />as any resurrection, and I have time to shake before I hit the earth.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">Copyright © 2012 Emma Törzs All rights reserved<br />from <i><a href="http://indianareview.org/" target="_blank">Indiana Review</a></i> </span></div>
a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-64548245150054545522013-02-18T20:37:00.003-08:002013-02-18T20:42:35.319-08:00If not before April, then Aprilto write about Glass Tree Frogs, to finish the poem for Gladys and the one for the raccoon and for Malinda Markham :-( This will be my April shower of poeming, I like the way I did the National Poetry Month daily poetry last time and I think that this glass frogs thing has those kind of legs to it. (No web-toed pun intended.) So here I am, checking in with you, my quieter blog, my somewhere-self and promising this kind of writing here and soon.<br />
<br />
Tonight in Ohio, the night is being whipped about like a ragdoll and the baritone windchimes that came with our home give the wind a low-sexy voice. The bed is piled with quilt and cat. I am tired and cold enough to look forward to pulling the covers over my arms and turning into and away from that dervishing winter night.<br />
<br />
For now, I await a midnight and send it along, time-zone by time-zone, to each of you.<br />
<br />
I will tack a little Malinda Markham post-it note to a passing cloud:<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="background-color: white;">The child on the stoop knows what wrong is because it grows</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">In the body and turns into birds that enter </span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">The outside world and flap their powdery wings</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">About her face until she can barely</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Speak. No wonder she drops things a lot</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">No wonder the chloroform and slick. No wonder</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">The flowers learn to grow backwards into the earth </span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">Because it’s safer there and pounding</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">And fuck the colors are good</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Coda:</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">I call it gin because I need / a metallic word and my city rings / with drowned and terrible hooves / which pound until I fear they will enter / The outside world but friend they never do / The children are playing with teeth / They have learned to speak like anyone else / At night, at night / They chatter like parrots with no beaks / I go to work and parse everything dry </span></i><br />
<br />
Malinda Markhama-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-76674068257985110702013-01-30T08:39:00.000-08:002013-01-30T08:39:35.098-08:00January, Dear JanuaryIt's been a while since a real update here at Intagliod: blog named after the unbelievably joyous arrival of my first book.<br />
<br />
In that time, this has been a place to go with quiet wishes, various sadnesses, celebrations, pretty finds to share in word and image and companionship of the imaginary kind. If anyone was reading along, I'd no way of knowing, but I could imagine someone was and it was companionship to me when I moved to new cities and new selves and had no friends for a time or really, no friends close-by. Here was a place to hang my hope-hat, my poncho of longings. Here was a magical wardrobe to crawl through and build my own globe: mosaiced with the loveliest writing or prettiest thing I saw that day, a stockpot of sensory-finds and sundry emotions and friendship, if only my own, to talk me through some super-dark days.<br />
<br />
Then I met A Someone and that Someone has made life feel even richer, but has filled it too, with a little house in the country, our crew of kitties and frogs and garden and deer, raccoons, possum, birds demanding their feeders stay filled, Christmas trees that stay alive by being planted in the yard, a yard that remembers what we give and an us that stays in one place long enough to reap what we sow. It was a busier breathing I began and I love it, but it keeps me often, from returning here.<br />
<br />
I wanted to sum up the newnesses though. The kitties that grew old and died within a span of a few short months. The man who helped me grieve and bury them. The decision to foster a trio of orphan kittens and to fail at one of those fosters, thus bringing us our little tuxedo cat to keep our one year old Cricket company. Then Clementine, because like me she'd waited too long for a keeping-place. The house revitalized with three kitties again, no one yet two. The stampedes that fill our days. The joy of it all. The frog rescues every spring, the little pond that grows the tadpole to pollywog and pollywog to frog and tree frog. Their perfectly articulated miniature selves. The herb garden, tire planters that I took from an abandoned house just as they were to be hauled away. A sixties trend to cut truck tires into floral planters and paint them bright colors and the way that I took that old project, labored over by other older hands and slapped on a new coat of paint, planted some mums at its core and made the house a little more our own with their colorful welcome at the driveway's end. And beyond that driveway, south, south, south from here, my adored sister has given us a niece and a nephew that fill me with more love than I thought possible. Life is good just now and as I know just how tentative our "just nows" are, i want to track that here, share that you, whoever you are, if only really me again at another time when I need to remember how good it all got again after it had at times, been so bad. <br />
<br />
The ring. At long last and my first. A Someone became The Someone and before this year ends, I will be married. There is so much celebrating to be done and I am savoring it all. And now the next books: a chapbook called Aloha Vaudeville Doll that will be published by Dancing Girl Press in summer of this year and finally, my collection of poems: The Rub, won a prize and will be out in early 2014 by Elixir Press. I can hardly believe it all. <br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">Building of Unseen Cats</span></b>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">
When I woke up, it was the middle of the night and<br />
my building was on fire. The hallway was not filled<br />
with smoke, and then quickly it was. I rescued a few<br />
older men from their bathtubs, a few babies from<br />
their cribs. Outside, the air was filled with hair.<br />
Everyone but me was holding a plastic cage with a<br />
cat in it. We weren't supposed to have cats in my<br />
building, but there they all were, an invisible nation<br />
suddenly uncurtained into a blinding and brutal<br />
world. Everyone looked at me with a face that said<br />
<i>let's never speak o f this</i>. Let's not look directly at what<br />
is meant to be loved in secret. Let's, for example,<br />
imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever<br />
spilling toward us, that our screaming building is<br />
something worth escaping.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">Zachary Schmoburg </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times;">
</span>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-12001118170831958282013-01-29T19:26:00.000-08:002013-01-29T19:31:09.851-08:00The Next Big Thing SeriesThanks to <a href="http://amandaauchter.wordpress.com/">Amanda Auchte</a>r for tagging me. Watch soon for responses from: <a href="http://www.lbojengles.blogspot.com/">Lesley Jenike</a>, <a href="http://cynthiaarrieuking.blogspot.com/">Cynthia Arrieu-King</a> and <a href="http://kelceyparker.com/">Kelcey Ervick Parker. </a><br />
<br />
Here is the interview:<br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What is the working title of the book?</span> <b>The Rub</b><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Where did the idea come from for the book?</span> A combination of borrowed voices, re-imagined fairytales, a couple of Ophelias, a handful of Pinocchios, some lost and founds, some finds and losses, and what is swapped for "the real."<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What genre does your book fall under?</span> Poetry. <br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline ! important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.6667px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What a question to send one to dreaming. Colin Farrell as the unruly beloved, Rachel Weisz, just because she's Rachel Weisz. Tina Fey as Ophelia. Pee Wee Herman as Hamlet. Daniel Craig as Pinocchio.</span><br />
<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?</span><br />
<br />
<i>Throw the map out the window, Darling, there's more everything ahead. </i><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?</span> There are so many versions of this book over time. Some version is a dozen years old, another, six months. I swapped poems in and out, changed order, changed my mind, the sheets, hairdressers, and all the while, like most books, it was in a state of continual revision. There is not just one first draft of this book. Other manuscripts grew from this, stole from it and gave back or into it.<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Who or what inspired you to write this book?</span><br />
All sorts of scenes, cities, loves and bad choices. Everything I wanted to keep or discard, the poems are always a way to try to remember and try to purge or forget. Mostly they have their own worlds and memories and I just try to listen in on those.<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?</span><br />
It's a pretty eclectic gathering of poems. I try to imagine everything from "where secret animals might graze" to "other animals" the ones that didn't make it to the ark or this version of the world, to a jive-talkin' Ophelia.<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.66666603088379px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline ! important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.6667px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">My book won the 13th Annual Editor's Prize at Elixir Press and will be published in 2014.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline ! important; float: none; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 22.6667px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">It is neither agency-represented nor self-published. </span>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-81598744615007620022013-01-25T07:30:00.000-08:002013-01-30T07:34:29.280-08:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY KEITH REHM!If all day yesterday I had not been putting January 23 on my documents, then perhaps today when I went to write a check at my vet's office, I would not have had to gasp and say, "I missed a friend's birthday."<br />
<br />
But I did and so I remedy that this morning.<br />
<br />
HAPPY JANUARY 24th DAY OF YOUR BIRTH, FRIEND.<br />
<br />
It's been a good year here and I hope that same can be said for yours. I hope beyond that, for joy and happiness each day of this next year.<br />
<br />
<br />
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a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-89265706331688184782012-06-10T22:27:00.002-07:002012-06-10T22:31:47.811-07:00So late it's earlyand I've an urge to type with dirt-clotted fingernails. The day was a big snake sighting. Something dark with yellowish zig-zagging, a water snake, maybe. I couldn't be sure. I was all about getting the rusted-out wheelbarrow from the woods, all about the planting of the vegetable garden and so flip-flopped out to the little forest beyond our yard. I had the wheelbarrow in hand when the coiled thing, tongue flicking, body poised for trouble, came into my vision. A foot away and with many feet of self to spring out to me. I screamed like a girl and ran straight down the road. I called the mister over as he was eager to see the snake and alas, and of course, it was gone. But I got my wheelbarrow and tomorrow I plant the tomatoes and peppers--patient things they've been, waiting for a long-time home.<br />
<br />
We planted the Kim-gifted yuccas. They were put through a lot of waiting too, and by the time they got into the ground there was no telling if they were bound for thriving. I hope they make it. The blossoms are amazing: big white bells like lilies of the valley on super-steroids. <br />
<br />
The froglets this year were early and adorable. The tadpoles are seeming to do well and the mystery tadpoles are still significantly larger and have yet to give me a way to tell just who they will be.<br />
<br />
The delphinium is blooming a color of purple that seems impossible to believe in, but there it is: all spriggy and deep, deep. I warned you that the content me was likely boring, but she is happy, Gang and tomorrow morning will be here soon. Tomorrow afternoon means setting up my roof garden plant, floral sculpture thing. I can't wait. Now, I guess, as it is pushing two a.m., I should sleep.<br />
<br />
Here's a poem by a favorite poet and one that I fortunate to hear read recently:<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">
Poem for Jenny</span></h3>
<blockquote style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Larkspur and delphinium, wild and tame</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">transcriptions of the same essential idiom</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">(as lullaby, corralled, is requiem,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">a sigh, bound and gagged, a lyric poem).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Earth's trying to remake herself with stars,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">her own inky domain of skyey colors.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">She wants everything. It won't be hers.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Her starry flowers, heedless of safeguards,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">will launch their blue and purple rockets heavenwards</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and leave her to her dusty browns and reds,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">her brief sky shattered, just as words —</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">the good ones, anyway — will quit this page</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">before I ever pay this garden homage</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">or name the pain I'm trying to assuage.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Nonetheless, these clusters <i>are</i> in flower</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">if only for an instant, as they were</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">a year ago, when Jenny (this poem's for her),</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">knowing how I love them, put them here</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">to make the way around my house less bitter.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">My next-door neighbor, she'd watched things shatter</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and so came by to plant and tend and water</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and whatever else it is that gardeners do.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">And I remember catching a dim glimpse, as if through</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">an impossible tunnel — <i>what's all that blue?</i> —</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and thinking, as one thinks of something wholly out of view,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">how lovely it would be to lay my eyes on them,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">though they were there, waiting, each time I came home:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">larkspur out the back, out front delphinium</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">(the cultivated version for the public eye,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">its wild incarnation just for me . . . )</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and once or twice I did suspect that beauty</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and kindliness had aimed themselves my way</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">but each was such a difficult abstraction,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">at best unverifiable, uncertain,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">a meteor I wasn't sure I'd seen.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">I, who'd been so lucky up to then,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">was utterly astonished by what pain —</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">in its purest form — can make out of a person.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">It was (such things exist) a brutal season</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">and one that's not entirely departed</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">though time has passed; flowers, twice, have sprouted.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">The earth will be, twice over, broken-hearted,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">which means, at least, according to King David,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">in his most unnerving psalm, closer to God.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Me? I'd leave some distance if I could</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">though it would be untrue to say no good</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">has come from any of this. See? out my window</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">the earth again has sheathed herself in indigo;</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">this may be the time she makes it through:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">her sapphire daggers, bursting their scabbards,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">carve frantic constellations: elfin songbirds</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">vehement with blue and purple chords;</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">earth's reaching for her heavens, I for words</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">or any chink of rapture I can claim.</span><br />
<i><span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Delphinium. Larkspur. Larkspur. Delphinium.</span></i><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Let me claim you as you climb and climb.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://www.cstone.net/~poems/yalerosh.htm"><span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Jacqueline Osherow</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.yale.edu/yalereview/"><i><span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">The Yale Review</span></i></a><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">Volume 93, Number 2</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d; color: yellow;">April 2005 </span></blockquote>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-81390406452428913672012-04-02T05:05:00.027-07:002012-04-23T20:29:21.980-07:00A.R.(and for Steph Rogers, too)<br />
<br />
1.<br />
Planted the columbines<br />
in an Aprilful afternoon<br />
It's been a hard year <br />
for dying. Last week<br />
my friend said: <span style="font-style: italic;">My my my. <br />She set a standard <br />for how we think <br />of ourselves, didn't she. <br />Women poets, that is.</span><br />
<br />
2.<br />
Didn't intend to April <br />
planted instead the annuals.<br />
Then she willed me out <br />
to the perennial squaredance,<br />
and I spun the poems around<br />
to return.<br />
<br />
3.<br />
Not sorry but would, <br />
with a gift for burning,<br />
recall last fall, when someone<br />
said: we've finished our various<br />
augusts and started in<br />
with the embers. <br />
<br />
4. <br />
They can't leave completely,<br />
one hundred percent <br />
of what some ever spoke<br />
aloud, recorded somehow.<br />
One hundred percent <br />
of what she ever spoke<br />
allowed more, megaphoned:<br />
like a begonia flashing <br />
scarlet so many stories up.<br />
<br />
5.<br />
Taking-April warmed early,<br />
the May Pond shimmered<br />
elsewhere, and the first vixen<br />
of the season remains in her red<br />
shadow, but from here on, I share<br />
the notion of fox with her, <br />
looking up always from the silvery<br />
bend in the road of 1965,<br />
and her with the photograph taken <br />
in Alabama that echoed<br />
a road ahead, neither then-wife<br />
nor she, nor she-fox nor I<br />
could have known what was mirrored here<br />
central Ohio, where the woods hold<br />
too, a tree hoop-skirted with deadly vine<br />
where women meet and together pull the heavy<br />
ivory needle through. A tree considers time<br />
only barely--but when she died, <br />
somewhere inside itself, <br />
a trunk gained another ring.<br />
A ligneous Saturn, an earthy myth.<br />
<br />
6.<br />
Hidden. A glossary absent our classification<br />
we wander then, undefined nameless, <br />
spelling ourselves out to the palms <br />
of our own hands. Might she marvel<br />
to find us, written in our own hand,<br />
hidden in our own hides, thriving.<br />
The other world muffled now, harmless<br />
and the body of us, a sea beginning <br />
nowhere, everywhere.<br />
7.<br />
An ocean's origins confound us,<br />
the sybaritics of each day<br />
undress our wounds, say <br />
what we must about passing<br />
us by, or on and among these years, imagine,<br />
a woman's meaning to another woman,<br />
magnifies: sisters in the distance, <br />
the braided language spoken <br />
in long walks, into bathroom mirrors<br />
where we speak to the eyes <br />
reflected off the glass, or browsing<br />
where we speak as we file through<br />
clothing racks and we know to pause<br />
when the hangers pause, to stop mid<br />
philosophical musing and suggest<br />
how well that color harmonizes with our flesh.<br />
<br />
8.<br />
Sometimes she rejects sunlight,<br />
opens to the flourishing fields<br />
the refusal of umbrellas, caped <br />
in rain, the frosted windows<br />
embroidered with cold thread.<br />
A least once the sun rejects <br />
her and together we're unforgetful,<br />
the train tracks of our bones <br />
parallel, the destinations varied.<br />
<br />
9.<br />
Inside us, the marshaling yards<br />
grow shady, connections we <br />
might have made fall into night's<br />
long fall and we tarry, separate<br />
malingerers. We spill ahead <br />
into a steely nowhere. <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Certain words occur:<br />enemy, oven, sorrow, enough<br />to let me know<br />she's a woman of my time.</span><br />
<br />
10.<br />
To be a forest escaping, a tree <br />
broken-out of the greenhouse,<br />
a fractured satellite hooked <br />
by a fork of branch, unrooted<br />
we travel, half-dead and dragging<br />
our arteries against <br />
the blood-soaked earth aswirl. Hush, <br />
the moon is a head full of whispers,<br />
listen: the voices are hers.<br />
<br />
11. <br />
Dear season of loss,<br />
deer season antler-stabbed<br />
and velvety. A ghostly appetite <br />
eats at us, the assertions <br />
of the tentative haunters<br />
wash through the woods<br />
but to the untrained eye,<br />
it looks like moss. <br />
The fawn-colored earth,<br />
buries us in doe-silence.<br />
<br />
12.<br />
Something told, something true,<br />
something sorrowed, something <br />
grew in the telling, like a fish<br />
or a mountain. At such elevation<br />
first the air is blue then it is bluer,<br />
first we are something then we <br />
are the sum of things.<br />
<br />
13.<br />
A summary, luckless we meander<br />
visitors to our own states, our bodies<br />
under siege, our mouths weary<br />
from explanation. What seemed <br />
like a shared-wisdom about us, <br />
some days falling <br />
between the suspicious<br />
and the superstitious. <br />
<br />
14.<br />
Doom-e-rang. <br />
Each doomed day passes<br />
and makes way for another.<br />
I drink Mayan cocoa<br />
and watch for seams <br />
in the calendar: a centennial,<br />
a millenium is best, a belief <br />
that if this doomsday doesn't end us, <br />
the next one will. It's worse than that:<br />
our doom is singular, a chorus <br />
singing all day, all days unharmonious<br />
and out of tune. Ask her, she's out there now:<br />
all ether, all song.<br />
<br />
15.<br />
She thought the dress would mend<br />
itself, slash and strap, buttonholes,<br />
so much frayed and faded,<br />
even the balloon print,<br />
vaguely deflated.<br />
<br />
16.<br />
To brook no passage, <br />
the mixed-up dialogue<br />
when we crossed <br />
the Mad River. Never <br />
without comment, <br />
jest, sorrow, lent<br />
things, borrowed.<br />
<br />
17.<br />
The foxes live in the sky <br />
blue house, abandoned <br />
now for years.<br />
The windows filled with seashells,<br />
porcelain horses, the souvenirs<br />
of where the living travel.<br />
Mementos of the mortal<br />
outdated fragments, keys<br />
to unlock no-memory<br />
only clutter for the kids <br />
to take away, But year after<br />
year, they fail. <br />
In the sci-fi version: the vixen<br />
shades us. the magic of an enchanted<br />
forest ghosty, the mysterious ripples<br />
on the reservoir only her soles<br />
bridging the banks, arriving with mercury-silvery<br />
footprints, staining the shores with rolling light.<br />
<br />
18.<br />
And what of the longer-dead?<br />
Homes we place our ears against<br />
and listen for the sound of the sea.<br />
The detritus of the late <br />
creatures, the waves they weathered.<br />
All that they left behind, patient and wild:<br />
even their chalky coffins are fans <br />
and coiled-infinities.<br />
Some hours: the delicate balance<br />
of preparing blowfish. Each recipe,<br />
a warning, each bite, a dare.<br />
<br />
19.<br />
Holiday<br />
<br />
<br />
20.<br />
Let's dredge the pond of your muteness<br />
where drowned things live again.<br />
<br />
21.<br />
<i>No one has imagined us, we want to live like trees</i><br />
Instead, we're under the microscope, flying under<br />
the radar, above the treeline, below the water table,<br />
prepositions of an ailing grammar, but breathing,<br />
breathing greeting the moon and more than stone.<br />
<br />
<br />
22.<br />
The judicious sky suggested both:<br />
measure and betrayal but the severed saplings<br />
the girdled trunks emboldened her to call the ranger.<br />
What can't cry out, cries in any case, a whole<br />
crop of trillium flattened under the wheels,<br />
the whimsical hackings at small, living trees,<br />
made her alone inside.<br />
<br />
23<br />
The morning was a tree fallen<br />
on a red car driven by tourists<br />
from Lao. Or wrapped around<br />
a light pole, or warped against<br />
a building. The morning moved<br />
from one state to the next, your<br />
head on some ever-pillow<br />
<br />
<br />a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-89793859086664569942012-03-26T18:40:00.002-07:002012-03-26T18:42:58.188-07:00Kate Rhoades is the BestWhere I go, you go, Sister. And I'll be back here. I am just loving my homing-blog and writing again with my friend, Kathrine. <br /><br />My mother, Kathrine and you: The Kath/arines/ryns/thrines are good to me.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-81829379814293947352012-03-14T14:08:00.003-07:002012-03-14T14:22:34.888-07:00Blogging-AwayLately, my blogging seems to question the act of blogging, much as my facebook-time wonders at itself: what do I get out of this? Is this a narcissist's passtime? Facebook connects me to people whom I would, in no other way, be able to access or yes, follow. It offers lots of professional and academic updates that I could never otherwise find. And it's fun, in a mindless way. Of myself I require only moderation or the eventual cutting-off from my facebook presence. <br /><br />Blogging is different. One must generate content, have, as they say, a thing to say. I write. It's what I do, what I really am on the radio dial of stations, it is my favorite self. This blog has been besides sounding board, rough draft, place of conversation and imagined listener, also, a comfort, a friend when I went to new places and had not yet made any friends. A place to mark my days when they were sliding by without witness. I don't presume any sort of importance to my thoughts, but as with the bloggers I read, I hope to strike a resonant chord. <br /><br />Resonance: there it is, as in what resonates now, for me and this self, a little down-dial or up-dial from the intagliod-me. My life feels more set. Nothing is set, no artist can believe otherwise, but there are levels of chaos, levels of disorder and there moments, say last, late summer, when one actually feels able to plant bulbs, those versions of next season that say more owner and less renter, those kind of promised crops that suggest not permanence but the hope of a little lingering. <br /><br />I can linger a little now. One big beloved's illness, one beloved near-father-in-law's death, one dear left-behind wife's grief and relocation later, one long, long season of taking, I know better than to suggest anything stays put for long, but that anxiety, that brand of carpe diem and restlessness varies much from the way I talked here in this lovely keeping-place blog, so often and so (six whole years!) long. <br /><br />This isn't a goodbye, it's a bifurcation, not from this road to another, not instead but rather, also. I won't be updating as frequently as I once was, but the house-me, the baking-me, the longtime writing and near-sister friendship of me to the great writer: Kathrine Wright, has a couple of new digs if you're interested in stopping by sometimes:<br /><br />One is the cool<a href="http://cake--tease.blogspot.com/"> baking blog</a> which is blending into the great new wonderblog called <a href="http://www.sweetlydisturbed.com/">Sweetly Disturbed.</a>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-2177621346074569312012-03-05T19:10:00.003-08:002012-03-05T19:21:55.089-08:00For the lovely Dr. Adler, Whose Birthday I Neglected to Blog AboutHe of the Slouching Toward Cincinnati poem cycle, <br />of the black cat, zaftig in her plush pelt, beloved <br />beyond even the bouquet of radishes offered me <br />one long roadtrip to Kent, Ohio where we vowed<br />not to eat them until we called one another and so<br />we did, crunching the rubyness of them into the cell<br />towers of one a.m. or thereabouts. Where a big black<br />horse and a cherry tree were all that we'd need in Philadelphia<br />in the libraries of his discontent, as familiarity might breed <br />as much, in his hometown where everyone knows my name!<br />He of the jumping-on-hotel-beds, riding in Costco<br />shopping carts, the convertable top down to most <br />weathers, even in January, especially New Year's Eve<br />where half-frozen but exhilerated-we drove <br />a crisp path into the winter stars where later<br />we'll meet in the fruitstand of our dreams where yes,<br />we dare to eat a peach, and indeed they are always in season.<br />To which I say Hallelujah. Hallelujah.<br /><br />I love my BFF! So happy the world could dream up this little prince <br />and he could be findable. (Though we really should <br />make arrangements in the event of time travel.)a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-45988143717807390222012-01-24T19:15:00.000-08:002012-01-24T19:20:42.493-08:00Happy Birthday Keith Rehm!<span style="font-weight:bold;">Celebration</span><br /><br />Brilliant, this day – a young virtuoso of a day.<br />Morning shadow cut by sharpest scissors,<br />deft hands. And every prodigy of green – <br />whether it's ferns or lichens or needles<br />or impatient points of buds on spindly bushes – <br />greener than ever before. And the way the conifers<br />hold new cones to the light for the blessing,<br />a festive right, and sing the oceanic chant the wind<br />transcribes for them!<br />A day that shines in the cold<br />like a first-prize brass band swinging along<br />the street<br />of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds<br />with the claims of reasonable gloom. <br /><br /><br />Denise Levertova-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-84474918750937022782011-12-31T10:47:00.001-08:002011-12-31T10:55:17.292-08:00How better to go out than in gratitude2011 was hard on my household. My lovely-lovely was diagnosed with renal failure and his father passed away--all in a few months. I had my first set of scary medical test results and then months later, an okay. Still, things took their toll. But the house is warm with life and love and I am here, waiting on the edge of my seat for 2012. No matter what those Mayans think.<br /><br /><br />Because 2011 has been rough on us all, but as Rilke says: Love the questions. Live the questions. <br />To 2012! Love and best wishes,<br />Sophia<br /><br />Six Kinds of Gratitude<br /> <br /> 1<br />I'm someone's small boat,<br />far out at sea,<br />sailing from what has so long sustained me<br />toward what I don't know.<br /><br />My joy is the sound<br />of the water purling around me,<br />but is it my hull<br />or the great ocean moving?<br /> <br /> 2<br />Are those flies I hear, or a trick of the wind,<br />faintly human voices,<br />or a whistle of breath<br />in the nose of my sleeping dog?<br /> <br /> 3<br />Without me there is no confusion.<br />Buddhas see no difference between<br />themselves and others; Angels,<br />between the living and the dead.<br /> <br /> 4<br />At last I've discovered<br />the secret of life:<br />If you don't leave<br />you can't come back.<br /> <br /> 5<br />Deep in the Earth there are pockets of light<br />that did not come from Heaven,<br />and yet they are the light of Heaven<br />deep inside the Earth.<br /> <br /> 6<br />This bird is the birdness of a bird.<br /> <br />—Dan Gerber, A Primer on Parallel Lives<br /><br />And of course, Rainer. Always Rainer.<br /><br /> “Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. <br /><br /> “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions”<br /><br />R.M. Rilke is the man!a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-12590181437146110022011-12-31T08:29:00.000-08:002011-12-31T08:30:36.610-08:00A Tinselly Farewell to December<span style="font-weight:bold;">Holy Ghost</span><br />by Brian Brodeur<br /><br />Next<br /> <br />My mother spreads tinsel snow over the kitchen sills,<br />sets the cedar manger in its place, arranging <br /><br />the hollow plastic magi next to a cradle <br />displaying the baby Jesus missing an arm.<br /><br />The little enameled figure of Mary kneeling<br />embraces something only she can see. Pinned to the banister,<br /><br />our crocheted stockings sag. All afternoon<br />she listens to laundry click in the pantry dryer,<br /><br />packing layers of chocolate cake and home-made cream<br />into Tupperware for the Heath-Bar trifle we love.<br /><br />Light moves across the counter, almost touching her hand, <br />shattering over an open drawer of knives.<br /><br />From "Snapshots 1," Other Latitudes (University of Akron Press, 2008). <br />Used with the author’s permission.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-63867034631319167552011-12-31T07:51:00.001-08:002011-12-31T07:56:21.349-08:00"I should tell them<br />there’s a music for the lost, a song<br />that cannot be stifled, celebrating those who are.<br />It sounds like jangling, scraping,<br />a hacksaw through metal. But still<br />it’s a song, and its dissonance is lovely.<br />It belies the second-hand clothing<br />and the stubbly beards and the stumbling.<br />Through the jeers, the noise of machinery, the silence,<br />an anthem makes itself heard."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">from The Refugee Camp by John Drury<br /></span><br />Whose work I have long-loved. The latest continues to astound. Rarely have I met someone who has such a sense of the arts and their play and his own play with all of that knowledge in his work. But here's the really rare part: he writes it all as a poet would not as someone wooden who knows a lot. (You know the poems I mean, they sound smart but dead.) Drury is a scholar's poet and a poet's scholar. There is someone real inside all of that wisdom who still manages to say it all with warmth and sometimes, whimsy. I took any course that I could from him at the University of Cincinnati and left the classroom bowled-over by how much we learned and how much fun we had learning it.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-49420265069452961342011-12-30T21:22:00.000-08:002011-12-30T21:29:50.935-08:00Lady Alice is Her NameThe mac book. I love it. Cindy-Lou taught me how to grab images and so I have. My desktop is sea of colorful minutia. It thrills to me to look at it all: paper lanterns, New Orleans, my lighthouse, a periwinkle crayon on an old piece of fabric of flocked dark red roses, a vintage taffeta and lace heart-shaped candybox, an amphora with a silhouette on it, oil slicks, spider lilies, Sophia Loren, three icicles, a gloved hand holding three tulips, a ship in a lightbulb, sno cones, tiny, tiny sofas and one photograph snatched from a friend's wall, of pomegranates hanging in front of a stone cherub built into an arc of a crumbling red brick wall. The photograph is shot perfectly from a kind of side angle and so fills the viewer with a kind of inexplicable longing. It is just enough and yet it creates a hunger. I am going to use it when I teach the ekphrasis class to talk about that effect--how writing should do that--ache you a little, make you want more and yet, feel strangely satisfying in that unquenched need. Very sensual. Like pomegranates.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-62538201582605935342011-12-29T18:46:00.000-08:002011-12-29T19:27:56.529-08:00Tiny Furniture & Au Lait Lotion & a Blow-Out<a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/05/graphic-content-really-tiny-furniture/"></a><br /><a href="http://reverseshot.com/article/tiny_furniture">Watching</a> the <a href="http://curbed.com/archives/2011/01/06/positively-the-most-adorable-midcentury-furniture-on-record.php">first, </a>wearing the <a href="http://mayanka.com/largeimage/ScottishFineSoapsAuLaitExtraNourishingBodyButter88ozpjarmdL.jpg">latter</a> (I love the way it smells) and counting my blessings that M wasn't hurt during the<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1260&bih=807&tbm=isch&tbnid=63q6Bhh1dm0-ZM:&imgrefurl=http://www.aa1car.com/library/tire_monitors.htm&docid=Mz2h5KVdkjOktM&imgurl=http://www.aa1car.com/library/tire_blowout.jpg&w=401&h=301&ei=Ii39Tp_rF6Tb0QH0hbmpCw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=448&sig=110205151060020735909&page=1&tbnh=134&tbnw=174&start=0&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:0&tx=79&ty=60"> third</a>. Far left lane and a total blow-out and it was night. Just finished writing a poem that does not love the halogen light but that very light helped save the day. <br /><br />Not a wholly productive day but not terrible. Favorite lines so far: "I once saw him sitting on a crate of onions reading Osterling." Then, later:<br />"Poems are basically like dreams, something everyone likes to tell other people about but no one likes to hear if it's not their own. Which is why poetry is a failure of an intellectual community."<br />"It's not too poemy, which I like."<br /><br />This film is making me miss my dangly earrings days. Tomorrow I will wear dangly earrings. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Earring</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">by Ales Steger translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry January 2009</span><br />The whole time he tells you what to do.<br />His voice is chocolate candy filled with hysteria.<br />He is a loving blackmailer. An owl blind in one eye.<br />It is enough that he sees half the world to command the other half.<br />He gladly inspects himself in the mirror, but goes crazy if you praise him<br />Before another. He is not your property. He is not your adornment.<br />Only when you dance and when you make love with him, he coos.<br />Then cages open. Then he is the white message bearer of the gods.<br />Gradually you detach him more often, hide him in a box, misplace him.<br />But his bite at the lobe still whispers to you.<br />As if Eros holds you with invisible filigree pliers<br />And solders words of guilt and the silence of betrayal into your ear.<br />A copy of a stone from Sisyphus’s mountain is set inside it.<br />You roll hope uphill. And you roll downhill drunk, despondent and alone.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-55030671062072710832011-12-29T06:16:00.000-08:002011-12-29T06:33:44.812-08:00Poem Disguised as What I Should be Reading Right NowWhich is how to plan my courses (two of which are very new and exciting, but lots of new and exciting work and prep. too). And how to paint my wall called Toasted Marshmallow or French Vanilla, I forget which paint swatch I chose and how to prep the wall that will be Malted and do you notice a little bakery lust in my selection of off-whites? For the record, the accent wall is Mourning Dove, so let it not be said that I am focused on the lyrical, the melancholy, the simple carbs. Oh, wait...<br /><br />I am wishing I were more here, less facebook. Here feels like the right ruminations about writing. There feels like self-billboardizing. I don't like it, and yet, I look. It's a clever way to pretend to friend and unfriend and it lacks the sense of consequence and courage, (like reality television). In fact, like reality t.v., it actually numbs one from feeling the sense of consequence. Thoughtlessness abounds and rarely does one stop to contemplate the actual emotional ramifications of things said and done. Here, I assume it's me alone plus maybe just a few of those wandering googlebot things that move eyeless (I first wrote "love eyeless" hmmm....) and gathering but never really gathering. (The instructional designer boyfriend assures me that such things watch the blog, too.) So here is like a way to type out what I think I am thinking and thus, cleanse the palate or rough draft out the next thing I need to say on the more official pages of my life. About those.<br />So New Years' resolutions are silly. They don't last. But a habit takes twenty-one days to form, so my reading tells me, so why not these twenty-one. Like starting today. I want to work on things in a more balanced fashion. My schedule allows whole days where I can paint and another day where I can sort clothes, if a deadline is coming up, I write like a fiend to finish something. Good writers, writers with good habits, work a set of hours a day at a writing project, then a set schedule for class planning, housework, etc. I read an interview with Donald Hall once and he said he advanced each of the many, many, many writing and journalism assignments a little bit with time meted out so that he might make his various deadlines. They are various and many and he always does. Plus he's said to be a damn fine teacher, as well. Even after Jane died, Hall continued to write and send his work out (I worked on a literary magazine at the time and we received a strange elegy that was later picked up by, I think, TriQuarterly.) Anyway, proof, that not even grief, much less that flitty, meandering mind of one Intagliosa, could keep a good writer from getting his good writing accomplished. With that, I leave you to a wonderful poem that was sent along to me by a kind woman who found the audio of my "Lucy" poem some years back and had always wanted the text. I was sent her note and when I responded, telling her how happy it made me that my poem stayed with her the way certain other poems had stayed with me, (yes Taije Silverman I am talking to you, also Eliot Khalil Wilson, Ilya Kaminsky, Sean Thomas Dougherty, Richard Siken, Laura Kasischke, Simone Muench, and too many others to list)... she wrote me with this lovely title which I read, envied and shared. <br /><br />Now to that new day I promised myself. <br /><br /><br />Matthew Olzmann<br /><br />MOUNTAIN DEW COMMERCIAL DISGUISED AS A LOVE POEM<br /><br />Here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why our marriage<br />might work: Because you wear pink but write poems<br />about bullets and gravestones. Because you yell<br />at your keys when you lose them, and laugh,<br />loudly, at your own jokes. Because you can hold a pistol,<br />gut a pig. Because you memorize songs, even commercials<br />from thirty years back and sing them when vacuuming.<br />You have soft hands. Because when we moved, the contents<br />of what you packed were written inside the boxes.<br />Because you think swans are overrated.<br />Because you drove me to the train station. You drove me<br />to Minneapolis. You drove me to Providence.<br />Because you underline everything you read, and circle<br />the things you think are important, and put stars next<br />to the things you think I should think are important,<br />and write notes in the margins about all the people<br />you’re mad at and my name almost never appears there.<br />Because you make that pork recipe you found<br />in the Frida Khalo Cookbook. Because when you read<br />that essay about Rilke, you underlined the whole thing<br />except the part where Rilke says love means to deny the self<br />and to be consumed in flames. Because when the lights<br />are off, the curtains drawn, and an additional sheet is nailed<br />over the windows, you still believe someone outside<br />can see you. And one day five summers ago,<br />when you couldn’t put gas in your car, when your fridge<br />was so empty—not even leftovers or condiments—<br />there was a single twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew,<br />which you paid for with your last damn dime<br />because you once overheard me say that I liked it.<br /><br />–from Rattle #31, Summer 2009<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span></span>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-34033696109168087392011-12-14T07:05:00.001-08:002011-12-14T07:05:48.123-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zU4gzT5KRzg/Tui7RzdkgCI/AAAAAAAAAAY/3ek9iyyYv-4/s1600/382751_217455568328493_126894987384552_496670_43160897_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zU4gzT5KRzg/Tui7RzdkgCI/AAAAAAAAAAY/3ek9iyyYv-4/s320/382751_217455568328493_126894987384552_496670_43160897_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686000444101656610" /></a>a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-23808575920143123032011-12-08T15:45:00.000-08:002011-12-08T16:20:36.843-08:00Touche TodayBecause I couldn't stop the dead/they ambled up to me.<br /><br />Or so it's been. A long year. A long, long year. But some of it still scarlet shawls, collected animal bones carved cryptically to read a thing about vintage quilts made into tipis and what it means to teach, to be taught, to have words amass loss into something meaningful.<br /><br />The other day I pulled up a poem to show a student a certain tone and the lines and within it the line about the people who loved the speaker being sad since the speaker died struck me anew as a mean thing and it reminded me of a coffee meeting a few weeks back with someone who didn't like any of his wives or women or me and how I left reeling from it and thinking that literature should bring about the best of us. So today saunters in, a little stooped as a Thursday can be and with it, an elegy by a student who wrote of the universe's overcoat and another student urging him to search that coat for spare change and change and then this title little sonnet about sugar and our sweetness galloping away with us, consumed by our consumption, done in by our need for the lovely and honeyed and I am saved enough by that. But then the mail and that cranberry crimson shawl made for me by one of my first university students ever. A girl wicked-sharp, a teacher among students even then, and now, all degreed-up, married, a grown-up but still armed with the whimsy and knitting needles both unmetaphored, restored to a world where a thing can be spun into something both necessary and playful and warming a needful day into play. <br /><br />I could say more about a snapshot of Glen Campbell or a poem called a canzone shared with me by a favorite poet or about lite eggnog and spiced rum or smoke kittens or tadpoles so tiny when they burst into froglets that we call them the preemy and they burst out like a dark star against the turquoise gravel. Or a sister named of all things Antonia, who is indeed My Antonia and my best friend and my light star in a world of dark gravel. Or that I live in a house now with a someone who loves me despite myself, sometimes in spite of myself but makes a night like this pitch-black from the city's distance, a little warmer, a lot brighter. <br /><br />In light of that, here's a poet whose work I await in book form:<br /><br /><br />Conversion Blues<br />by CHRIS PEXA<br /><br />– for Rachel<br /><br />tell us about evening and about the bright<br />star tell us about the huge dark wall<br />where it is pinned so if no one is looking<br />the sky is really burning and tell me it is my eyes<br />that douse it all to soot, black branches<br />with one root in carbon and budding eternity.<br /><br />explain that once a month a family of owls covers<br />the tree, winks at us, refuses to explain their singing.<br />when snow is thinly falling we see you there,<br />the slowest star, and I hear you thinking<br />of a story, that mute wetness spread across the field is you<br />clearing your throat, all stories being born<br /><br />from silence. what story: the snowflakes<br />cut from the sun are large as cars in the darkness<br />and grow small and doily when licked<br />by January stars. what story: barefoot,<br />running in the wake of the plow,<br />cold black clods and white sun blessing your steps,<br />no Jesus yet to dream you into majesty, earth<br /><br />being enough, no steeple secrets, no divine moons<br />to pin back your hair, no soap for your tongue, no lye,<br />no alabaster mothers to sew in a new tongue<br />and holy toast, cracked as headstones, for you to chew.<br />are you ready to climb to the top of the stairs?<br />to tell me about the star nation, the unnamed,<br />what some grandfather of the clean, glowing<br />cafes and dive bars of the moon<br /><br />call morning, a newborn's grouchy hunger?<br />the dew its mouth and tongue sing for?<br />think of me in the low thorns, hunched like an umbrella,<br />my small ribs breaking toward the clouds like love.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-55891457915308172802011-10-02T22:23:00.000-07:002011-10-03T18:36:05.096-07:00Long, long timesince I came here and said hello to myself or whatever it is that I am trying to sing into or out of in the specifics of this forum. It's one thirty in the morning, I am not home and I will be on a plane soon to be home. I am feeling that at sea feeling of not being where one lives and not feeling very at home in the transitional homes we make when we travel. So I went into my books, Lisa Olstein lately, and I found what home I always do in her kind of words. Tonight I am struck with how certain seasons effort in quietly and others crash in and no season really leaves us without impact. There will be another new baby in my life in April and what other chairs will be pulled after the music stops, there is no way of knowing. But I try, like another quietly-efforting poet, to dwell in possibility and when I can focus in, I also dwell in prose. Tonight, I think I should dwell in waiting sheets and the too-little slumber that precedes too long a day. But with luck and some portion of a blessing, I will sleep in my own bed tomorrow night, which as darkness sometimes keeps me from recalling, is really tonight.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Dear One Absent This Long While</strong>By Lisa Olstein <br /><br />It has been so wet stones glaze in moss; <br />everything blooms coldly. <br /><br />I expect you. I thought one night it was you <br />at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs, <br /><br />you in a shiver of light, but each time <br />leaves in wind revealed themselves, <br /><br />the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak. <br />We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove. <br /><br />In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires <br />over which young men and women leapt. <br /><br />June efforts quietly. <br />I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall <br /><br />so even if spring continues to disappoint <br />we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain. <br /><br />I have new gloves and a new hoe. <br />I practice eulogies. He was a hawk <br /><br />with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs <br />of a salamander crossing the old pony post road. <br /><br />Yours is the name the leaves chatter <br />at the edge of the unrabbited woods.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-62232965405433193872011-06-24T18:58:00.000-07:002011-06-24T19:11:11.169-07:00Home from home again and it was a gorgeous trip. M and me bushwacked a trail through the trail-less and inching along tree trunk, through pine and juniper, we thorn cross-hatched our flesh and bled our way to the clearing where an ice-cold stream stood between us and a better trail. We took off our shoes and crossed, our feet a screaming declaration of ALIVE, as they thawed and the feeling was sheer elation. We took our empty water bottles and filled them with the purest clarity and drank. It was heaven. Back in our wonderland of a country-house, the fireflies are like a lite-brite board. I have never seen so many and the feeling is like the old opening of Disney movies--all that Tinkerbell wand-debris and firework. It's been hard to get back here, to the blog that kept company at my loneliest. Now there are foxes,chipmunks,squirrels, goldfinches, bluejays, frogs, rabbits, groundhogs, deer, skunks and two cats in the window to keep me company and busy. But I miss writing here and sharing the latest lovelies. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">One Heart</span> <br /> Li-Young Lee<br /><br />Look at the birds. Even flying<br />is born<br /><br />out of nothing. The first sky<br />is inside you, open<br /><br />at either end of day.<br />The work of wings<br /><br />was always freedom, fastening<br />one heart to every falling thing.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-43922684004325202622011-06-01T14:36:00.001-07:002011-06-01T14:36:49.922-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">Dear Someone</span><br />Deborah Landau<br /><br />my emptiness has a lake in it deep and watery <br />with several temperaments milk cola beer <br /><br />at night the selves are made of water <br />all the openings flooded streaming with rain <br /><br />my emptiness has an aqueduct in it <br />selves rushing through channels <br /><br />dissolving washing away in streaks <br /><br />my emptiness has a fish in it <br />a piece of seaweed liferaft a rocky strait <br /><br />all night the selves are breaking themselves <br />again and again on the sandbar <br /><br />you can’t get out from the drowning <br />nightwatery the blacksparkling pools <br /><br />my emptiness has a nowhere reef an island <br />at night the immersion comes deep-running and sudden <br /><br />the selves <br />it washes us under and suddena-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34823973.post-49274972405712777802011-06-01T14:30:00.000-07:002011-06-01T14:32:42.163-07:00More and more it's deliciousness I want but all the time there's less and less of it.All Else Fails<br /><br />*<br /><br />Days, weeks, months,<br />why not use them for something?<br />I'm heading for a head on.<br />I'm revving up my so-called self.<br />I know my life is meaning<br />less. Strutting around<br />for awhile until poof.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Everything gets more and more absurd.<br />The office and deskchair, the skin on the neck<br />eye cream, love, the handholding and bungled<br />attempts, watching the clock all night 2 am, 4,<br />then daylight, sitting in my dress again<br />with cup and plate.<br />To work to work then back again<br />to bed, another night.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I read Pessoa and he confirms<br />my worst suspicions.<br />I read the entertaining novels<br />and they make me happy.<br />I sleep beside the river.<br />The river often sleeps when I'm awake.<br />Sky, water, I have not had enough of you.<br />Better be shoving off again and into the night.<br /><br />*<br /><br />More and more it's deliciousness I want<br />but all the time there's less and less of it.<br />What the hell do you think you are doing?<br />You should find something definite to subscribe to<br />so as not to keep drifting tossed aimless through the world like this.<br />At the party Stanley said for now factor in<br />gratitude, narrow the zone and see your life<br />which is what we call it as if it were a real thing.<br />I wear my street clothes. I accept the parameters.<br />Don't shout drink some wine at night<br />work is what is offered and sometimes love.<br />Another time there was ecstasy,<br />though many things went laughably wrong.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Those who don't feel are happy, says Pessoa.<br />Those who don't think.<br />The night has advanced. We figure in it so slightly.<br />Down the ice chute we go.<br />Say goodbye to your eyes in real time.<br />Get ready, get set. Say goodbye<br />to your synovial fluid. Your knees<br />will wear out in no time<br />won't hoist you nowhere.<br /><br />*<br /><br />And now our luck has changed.<br />There are a lot of hells in this room<br />but I put on my girlface<br />and we go to a café we have dinner<br />we creep into the night and hide<br />such a slight place we find<br />we can duck into it and not worry<br />it isn't yesterday or tomorrow<br />it is only for a time.<br />We plan to meet again later but.<br /><br />*<br /><br />He keeps me waiting<br />and I start hysteria a little bit.<br />I start hysteria against everyone's advice.<br />I go into the street to drink air.<br />I've never been so thirsty in my life.<br />Another mouth, some fresh minted lips.<br />See, I can feel blue on half a bottle of jewels.<br />Sleep then wake then this then that day<br />and another night back on the bed<br />lying in an eros dumb and slackjawed.<br />The sound of hustling advances and retreats<br />as if someone were shuffling money<br />or unbuttoning a blouse.<br />Can you put that taffeta away now, please?<br />Please put it away.<br /><br />*<br /><br />As soon as he sits down I can tell I want to.<br />How long can I sit here not doing the thing<br />I want to do. All the youngish men all the etceteras<br />of desire etcetera.<br />There's a little hole in my boot.<br />Could you put your finger in it.<br />There is power in breathing.<br />There is power in a silent beat<br />before answering a question, in a leaning in.<br />But puts down her foot<br />every time (monogamy) you mustn't be<br />strident cheri stop that.<br />Across the table his mind right there<br />behind his talking face.<br /><br />*<br /><br />We are in a dirty place now when we get together.<br />We made a nasty city and have to walk in it.<br />Before we were wider wilder avenues but we made it too cramped and ugly.<br />Nowhere to go to tea. Only gin here, damn it this cramped and narrow<br />space and no god at any gate and no goodness.<br /><br />*<br /><br />Now our bed is not ample not fair. Now<br />we don't have a bed<br />only this corner blackred and backlit.<br />Something of me is a blind point, something of him too.<br />There's a little edge of pain here and we walk along it.<br />Don't cry don't kiss me either and also don't stop.<br />That's the way he looks when he wants to watch.<br />Why don't you go swoon yourself again into some fantastic<br />mood music. I am a small cup with a twist and you are liquid. A drink.<br />Another drink.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I'd rather watch you doing it than do it myself,<br />I'd rather hear about it, I want to be told,<br />I'd rather read about it, I'd rather just sit here.<br />Hold the mask over my face<br />while you do it to me.<br />I'll put on some music.<br />Now see how we grow aglow<br />so young and beautiful<br />all our capillaries lit up.<br /><br /><br />Deborah Landau is the author of Orchidelirium, which won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry, and The Last Usable Hour (forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press). Her poems have appeared recently in The Paris Review, Tin House, The Kenyon Review, TriQuarterly, The Best American Erotic Poems, and elsewhere. She directs the creative writing program at NYU.a-smkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03744787898685544079noreply@blogger.com0