Monday, April 02, 2007

DPS on Facebook

happy national poetry month to drunk poets everywhere! i hope you all blitzed sat/sun like the good little poets i know you are. i got a few groans from my freshman composition class this morning when i announced that we'd be honoring national poetry month by reading poems all april long. oh well, they'll learn to love it.

ANYway, just a quick post to let you know that Andrew Kleczek set up a drunk poets society group on facebook, and you should all join it. just search for the group, or find it on Andrew's profile (or mine, for that matter). and if you aren't on facebook, you should be. so sign up.

i think some people might be having trouble signing in because blogger updated all sorts of stuff... you should be able to go through the steps to get a "new" account. but if anyone is really struggling, email and maybe we can re-invite you to the blog.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

from "Solidarity Is the Name We Give To What We Cannot Hold"

I am an antiabsorptive poet in the morning,
and absorptive poet in the afternoon,
and a sleepy poet at night.
I am a parent poet, a white poet, a man poet, an urban poet, an angered poet, a sad poet,
an elegaic poet, a raucous poet, a frivolous poet, a detached poet, a roller-coaster poet, a
volanic poet, a dark poet, a skeptical poet, an eccentric poet, a misguided poet, a reflective
poet, a dialectical poet, a polyphonic poet, a hybrid poet, a wandering poet, an odd poet, a
lost post, a disobedient poet, a bald poet, a virtual poet.
& I am none of these things,
nothing but the blank wall of my aversions
writ large in disappearing ink--

(by Charles Bernstein)

Monday, December 04, 2006


I'm sitting here in Yizhou, China and there are mountains out my window and a river nearby and the most amazing plants and crazy animals.
Every day things I would have never dreamt about happen to ME.
Yet, I can't seem to write anything.
I've been terribly stressed out trying to plan lessons and teach college students at a rural school out here. I would love to write again, but I can't find the time, motivation, or proper words all at the same time!

Any suggestions?

Monday, November 20, 2006

Long time, no poetry!

Here is a poem for y'all.
I hope you all keep "raging agains the dying of the light."

Standing on the Oregon Coast at 2 am.

We lined along the shore waiting
like a sea captains wife

waiting for his ship to sail in.
And the now gentle
waves lolled across our bare
feet, just after midnight,
the coals of our fire dimming
and us in the sand

waiting for some mystery,
when the orange moon
began to slide below the horizon
leaving the stacks dim
leaving the dunes to their
own thoughts. We lifted
our arms wide, waiting,

as if to hug the last glowing
sliver of the moon
slipping into the Pacific, waiting

for the chill of the still
autumn night to catch us

waiting for the warm sun to rise
at the mystery of the dawn.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


Vote bitches. Or you're NOTHING. Word.

Friday, October 06, 2006

Billy Collins in Muskegon

Posted By:KTB

Get this video and more at

Posted By:KTB

Get this video and more at

Monday, September 25, 2006

does this poem need more?...

Game On
after Jack Vettriano

I arch back against
the lightpost, vertical
metal creases, bulb dimming. He
is kissing me—his tongue
a pack of plush tobacco, his hands
anything but ash.

The occasional car
passes (three a.m., nearly
empty road) and I sneak
a look over his shoulder,
smirk at the turning
heads of passengers, drivers.

I am unashamed of my fingers
grinding the stubble
of his chin into ashes, his
hands sparking embers
on my thighs.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Cap'n Jack begins the VWS season

Hi folks,

Tom Andrews' parents donated money to create an annual reading in his honor, and this happens to coincide with the retirement of our dear leader Jack Ridl. This will take place on Wednesday, September 13, as the first installment of the 2006 Visiting Writers' Series.

More info at the VWS site.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

my first poem since my thesis

after Jack Ridl’s “Waking Up In A Cold Sweat”

The first thing you do is reach for the clock, push the glow button, check the time. Then, realizing you are half-naked, cold, and alone, you fumble around the bed grasping for pillows and that ratty white teddy bear turned gray with the half rubbed out nose and loose string mouth. And what about your mouth? Chapped and cracking along the bottom. Lips remember the last time you kissed him—quick and salty in the early airport. You imagine him sleeping now, not a thought in the world past his snores. Worn out from a long day of work. Or maybe, a day off. Spent hiking with someone else around a deserted lake. Unending conversation between fingers. And what about the two hour kayak? A bottle of wine, reading novels by the shore? It’s all too much, too much even for Darwin to create and evolve into some convoluted theory. You think maybe you dreamt it all, and that any minute you’ll wake up to daylight two years prior with stacks of poems left to write and sixteen phone calls to return. You remember after college, the last time you packed up to move home, boxes of books and a rough corner leaving a scratch above your right knee. The goodbye that never happened. Just a phone call to say, you know you can call me anytime; a brief and vice versa. Then you remember—the second bottle of wine, a folder full of email, the past two years of phone calls, a book on the passenger seat of his car, the state park where his dad took him fly fishing as a child, your first love poem, the poster of Picasso’s Old Guitarist, and you know, everything’s fine. On the other side of the bed, you catch his imprint in the mattress, roll over and curl your back against the empty space, breathe deeply and swear you can feel his arm wrap slowly around your waist.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Writing is good for you

So I haven't written a ton for quite some time now, but I stumbled across this the other day while I was wading through the endless files of drivel which I have stored on my laptop and was fairly impressed. In fact, at first I thought for sure that I hadn't written it, and I had to spend a good deal of time trying to recall when I had in fact generated this piece. Anyway, since I got sick of logging on and seeing that there was going to be a New Poet Laureate (surely that is old news now), I thought I would post it and let you guys read a little Willie Javin special. Anyway, enjoy...


She remembers a time when she was small enough to fit in the kitchen cupboards; scared enough to hide in the closet between her father’s brown loafers and black suit coats. He used to walk her to the yellow school bus and wave as she rode away, peering out the small window at the back, leaving tiny smudges from her oily pink nose. In the winter, the smudges from earlier in the week would still be frozen to the window, a blurry reminder that her father would still be there with a small piece of chocolate wrapped in a silver wrapper when she returned. As much as her morning toast smothered in deep red jam, or tying the frayed laces on her shoes, she came to rely on the gentle chill of glass against her face to begin her day. When he died (when she was ten), she pressed her face against the casket, her eyes just above the top as she peered in at the green handkerchief which rested in his pocket. It seemed so out of place, so alive and vibrant surrounded by his black suit coat. The image haunted her throughout the remainder of her childhood. She would have nightmares in which she would see her father’s face, waving back at her from behind a school bus, but then a soft green fabric would cover her entire field of vision. She would struggle madly to remove it, but it would just wrap itself tighter around her face until she would wake with a start, hug her knees and rock herself back to sleep under her faded pink blanket.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

new poet laureate

I haven't read much Donald Hall, but he was married to the late Jane Kenyon, who is a favorite poet of mine thanks to Jack's recommendation.

N.H. writer to be U.S. poet laureate
By Beverley Wang, Associated Press

WILMOT - A fax last week informed Donald Hall he would be the next poet laureate of the United States, and since then, between phone calls, sitting for photographs and giving interviews, he has been thinking about his new job.
"I had one friend, I asked him to give me ideas for what I can do as poet laureate, and he typed out 85," said Hall, a former New Hampshire poet laureate.

Maxine Kumin, a friend and former state and national poet laureate from Warner, founded a women’s poetry series. Ted Kooser, the current poet laureate, has a weekly newspaper column, "American Life in Poetry."

In the living room of his farmhouse Tuesday, Hall wondered whether he could persuade a cable television network to run an occasional program of poetry, or convince satellite radio to create a poetry-only channel.

"I think most of the things I think about are unrealistic because they would take a great wad of cash to get started," he said. But you never know. "I can ask," he said, smiling.

Hall, 77, will assume his duties this fall. Poet laureates receive $35,000 for the year as well as a travel allowance.

The Library of Congress says it tries to keep official duties of its poet laureates to a minimum so they can work on their own projects.

Hall is to speak at the library’s National Book Festival on Sept. 30 in Washington and to open the library’s annual literary series in October with a reading of his work.

"Donald Hall is one of America’s most distinctive and respected literary figures," Librarian of Congress James Billington said in an announcement prepared for delivery Wednesday. "For more than 50 years, he has written beautiful poetry on a wide variety of subjects that are often distinctly American and conveyed with passion."

At age 12, Hall wrote his first poem, an overwrought piece about death. Two years later, he declared his ambition to become a poet.

"When I was 14, I decided that’s what I wanted to do with my whole life, and that’s what I’ve done.

"It was because of the love of the art that I began to write at all, not because I had something to say, but because I loved the art of poetry."

Hall said he writes from passion, not for prizes.

"I don’t have an end in view besides the making of poems," he said.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

hey poets! we've got some new people on here... yay! if you don't see your name listed on the site, you need to login to, click on "edit profile" and select "share my profile". and make sure you've filled in a display name. listing your full name is optional. i THINK that should all do the trick.

and if you haven't checked out the pictures from jack's party, do so! i'm going to add the link to the sidebar momentarily. if you have pictures, create a free flickr account and add them to the mix!

Sunday, June 11, 2006

oh Captain

I will spend more time uploading everything later, but for now, one of my favorite images:


Though purposely not mentioned here, most of you know of the surprise retirement party the DPS held for Jack Ridl.

We're posting photos at this Flickr Group. None are there yet, but will be very soon.

Have some to add? Feel free!

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

new blog open for business

hi, guys. i'm now blogging like i'm some sort of edward j. carvalho. mine is called South of No North the rambling reflections of a dysfunctional poet. it's with the easiest way to get there is through my website

more poets should think about blogging. there's a big need for literary blogs. don't be shy.
and don't forget to check out my new poetry and flash fiction updates. i'm getting pretty good responses on them.

stephen saul