Monday, December 27, 2004

   It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to

wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment
it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound – that he will never get
over it.
That is to say, permanence in poetry, as in love, is perceived instantly.
It hasn’t to await the test of time. The proof a poem is not that we have
never forgotten it, but we knew at sight we never could forget it.

-Robert Frost-

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Christmas Wishes

Merry Christmas, Poets!

As we celebrate the holiday, its time to discuss what the DPS wants for Christmas. Here are some things one the list.
  • Activity - Posts are coming slow these days. Do we need to invite more bloggers? Do we need a poem of the week? Should we invite Jack's classes to hang out here?

  • Visuals - KTB is working on this one... We may have some prettiness in store someday.

  • Cool Stuff - (among others) is available... should we move up the food chain? This could have some interesting side-effects:
    • email addresses (
    • personalized blogs (
    • Categories! Make blog posts with one or more categories (Original Poetry, Drunken Story, Announcement, etc.)
    • Other fun stuff I haven't thought of yet.
    This could be really fun. If we want to do it, we just need a little cash. Would you donate $10 to do this?

  • T-shirts - Karen and KTB are pushing for these. I'm sure they'll weigh in.

So what do you want for Christmas? Something on this list? Something else? Comment away, and we'll go from there.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

I'm enjoying a burst of creative energy after what's been a rather dark few months for me. Here's a bit of revised, still in transition, work...

Translating Cagada

inspired by the first lines of "A Chronicle of Death Foretold"

I am translating Garcia Marquez at midnight,
but only--te quiero mucho, adios--rolls
off my tongue, not whole phrases or knowing how

to use conditional, imperative. It's imperative

to translate cagada. I expect "caged," find "shit."
Dictionary pages flutter, reveal bird shit splattered
on trees in dreams interpreted by wiser women.

A wiser woman once told me, it is imperative to speak

your mother tongue. Unless, upon death,
you become trapped, forever rolling
in a hell of every language except your own.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

DPS NZ chapter

All right, I finally have something for ya'll...Believe it or not, I have had a bit of trouble writing here, everything comes out too cliche, or forced, so I tried some stream of consciousness writing, this is what came out. It isn't written to anyone in particular, but if you want it to be to you, just imagine it is...

What Dreamers Dream...

I'm trying too hard.
I want to write
until my fingers fall off,
till my blood spills
out over the pages, red,
sticky, washing through endless words
and drying in the margins,
my soul saturating every syllable.
I want sex
on the mountain tops,
dreams at the bottom
of coffee cups, and sweet
frosting to lick of the edges
of my mouth. I could dive
into the invigoratin icy waters
of your mind, swim to the point that makes you scream,
makes you need me. Or
I could walk away...
take a stroll across mighty waters
to a place too far away to know,
too foreign to hold,
too safe for sleep. I'd love
to hold you up to the light,
shake you and put my ear to your chest
to see what's inside, crack open
my head and pour out my insecurities
as a blessing to God, wrap myself in a brilliant
robe of flowers until I wreak
with the stains of spring,
I want to scream prayer,
and taste the light that swirls
around my ankles, bundle up my wrists
and tie them to the edge
of the world. I should kiss
your eyes, and cheeks, and tender toes,
you should hold tight around my waist
and ride this sunset with me
until we find what delicious secrets
grace has hidden in the distance.
I want to pluck the tiniest stars
from your hair, put them in a little brown bag
and feed them to the fish that triwl beneath our feet.
I want confusion, I want ignorance,
I want to dance with my hand on your back.
I want certainty and survival
at three am, standing on a tree stump
about to burst. I want to lay here,
with you beside me, until we are right.

(5 Dec 04)

feedback more than welcome. I miss you guys...all my drunk poetic love from this side of the pond!

Sunday, December 05, 2004

kyle posts... whoa...

okay. holy shit. i'm going to shoot this computer. this is the millionth time i've tried posting this. if it doesn't work this time, forget it.

what did i say at first? oh. schenectady sucks. no good coffee shops. fuck capitalism. yadda yadda yadda. love you all. peace.

Coffee Shop; Schenectady
While my heart warms slowly
on a stone hearth next to a loaf
of honey wheat, Petula Clark
aches to go back downtown, but I'm
content to sit in this corner booth,
nailed like Jesus to the wall. Dim lights,
soft hum off the neon sign -- why is
sloppy cursive considered fancy?-- young
couple having lunch. If this were
a Hitchcock film, I'd be more suspicious
of the two guys talking on cell phones, while
sitting at the same table.
As the sun pulls the blanket back
over his head, a pot drops on the other
side of the wall; kitchen. Did Poe
watch bagels spread creme cheese on
themselves, while sitting in an opium den?

on this day...

in 1933 the 21st amendment to the constitution ended prohibition.

celebratory drink, anyone? :)

Thursday, December 02, 2004


so i just posted my poem a few hours ago, right before the end of the semester student reading (at which i was very nervous, but it went very well, and i even received a number of compliments on my work). and when i got home from the reading, and class, and another el ride of free writing... i got an email.

apparently my poem, The Road, is one of the 3 poems by Roosevelt graduate student nominated for the AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) Intro Journals Project. so it's now out into the world, waiting for the winners who will receive $100 and publication in a variety of journals to be announced in spring 2005.

pray for my poem. and in the meantime, everyone go have a drink to celebrate with me. i'd say put it on my tab, but im broke. so if i win, i'll buy ya all another round. :)

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

a new poem for you all my friends... :)

The Road
after Naomi Shihab Nye’s ‘Kansas’

We close the atlas, follow
the sunset across Kansas
and reminisce about childhood, puppy
love, regret—don’t mention
yesterday, when you left him
at the altar, begged me to go
with you, turned our talk westward.

Two cups of coffee, black,
at an all night diner, and back on
the road our cigarettes
glow midnight. We’ve got mountains
to see in the morning baby, but this
is the flattest night in the world,
and yesterday’s city still flickers
in the rearview mirror.

When dawn breaks, you pull over,
turn up the radio and lean
forehead on the wheel, sing
so the odometer vibrates. You
don’t know where you’re going,
but we know this song. I sing harmony,
turn the key to idle. We roll down
windows and climb onto your car roof,red, 1988, stick shift.