Saturday, August 28, 2004

third time's a charm

ok i know, i'm the loser who has nothing better to do than sit at my computer and post things on here all the time. what can i say, your comments and ideas are fabulous and motivating and i get excited. (but more of you should be getting involved here! hinthint...!) but at any rate, if for no one but matt to whom i am eternally grateful for the feedback, here's the latest revision which i think i'll sit with for awhile. we all know a poem is never finished, but i think this one is finished for now. -ktb

at 10pm i’m still in canada

i should be converting
kilometers to miles, but
the trucks keep riding close
behind me, flashing their brights,
and all i can think of
is you, yesterday, converting
the physics of lightning into
poetry over long island iced
tea, billy collins, citronella.

candle’s smoky glow rose from mountainside
bar patio, matched orange heat
lightning, you appropriately read
moon (it was full) came alive
with every image, alliteration,
consonance. i tried to stir
ice in my glass, catch
your reflection in crystal cubes, not
let on that i noticed
the way you only looked at me
when you spoke, told stories,
suggested i read next.

i wanted to stay, let the storm
roll in, the rest of the bar disappear, leave just
me and all i can’t leave
behind (you) to melt under summer
rain, pine breezes, full moon and poetry
lightning where neither kilometers
nor miles could separate, we
could be poetry.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

when in doubt... revise

at 10pm i’m still in canada

i should be converting
kilometers to miles, but
the trucks keep riding close
behind me, flashing their brights,
and all i can think of
is you, yesterday, converting
the physics of lightning into
poetry over long islands,
billy collins, citronella.

candle’s smoky glow rose from mountainside
patio, matched orange heat
lightning, you appropriately read
moon (it was full) came alive
with every image, alliteration,
consonance. i tried to stir
ice in my glass, catch
your reflection in crystal cubes, not
let on that i noticed
the way you only looked at me
when you spoke, told stories,
suggested i read next.

and when i breathed that last line
of lost love, i knew i wanted to stay,
let the storm roll in, the rest
of the bar disappear, leave just
me and all i can’t leave
behind (you) to melt under summer rain.

but now, in the wrong country, i
look for that familiar michigan left
u-turn lane to lead me back east, past
the falls and through mountains
to stone patios, pine breezes, full
moon and poetry lightning where
neither kilometers nor miles could
separate, we
could be poetry.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Poetry News

I just read an interesting article you all might enjoy at www.pw.org about poetry and silence. Here is the link: http://www.pw.org/mag/teachersguide/indexloun.html

Also, keep your eyes out for Stephen Dunn's new book, "The Insistance of Beauty." He is a very interesting christian poet (who has been challenged and questioned by the conservative right). Not to mention he won a pulitzer, i believe in 1999.

Also, welcome Ted Kooser to the throne. He replaces Louis Gluck as the US poet laureate. He term begins in October.

Hope everyone's Monday is rocking like the Rolling Stones on Noah's Ark (the biggest cruise party since the ice age!)

Sunday, August 22, 2004

Mary Oliver: Dogfish

Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.

If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.

And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?
*
I wanted
the past to go away, I want
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know
whoever I was, I was

alive
for a little while.
*
It was evening, and no longer summer.
Three small fish, I don't know what they were,
huddled in the highest ripples
as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body
one gesture, one black sleeve
that could fit easily around
the bodies of three small fish.
*
Also I wanted
to be able to love. And we all know
how that one goes,
don't we?

Slowly
*
the dogfish tore open the soft basins of water.
*
You don't want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it's the same old story--
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.
*
And look! look! look! I think those little fish
better wake up and dash themselves away
from the hopeless future that is
bulging toward them.
*
And probably,
if they don't waste time
looking for an easier world,

they can do it.

Friday, August 20, 2004

Funny, the connections between Hardware Stores and...

The Other Man Home Improvement Services

I will do what your husband won't.
I can do what your husband can't.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Opportunity

NEWS

(updated 7/23/04)

Call for Submissions:

I am currently editing a poetry anthology titled "Writing with Light: The Poetry of Photography" to be published by Uccelli Press in 2005. I am seeking literary poetry of all lengths on all aspects of photography. Send to:

Toni La Ree Bennett, Editor
WRITING WITH LIGHT ANTHOLOGY
PO Box 85394
Seattle, WA 98145-1394

or email submissions/queries to me at:

writingwithlight@uccellipress.com

Please include a cover letter with your submissions, whether mail or email.

Monday, August 16, 2004

Lets Make This a Don't Ask / Don't Tell Poem

Materialism

After Kelly left me for a MAN
with a REAL job, I bought
a food processor.

When Jessica said I sucked
I found a used vaccum.

Erin wrote "loser" on my forehead,
moved out in the middle
of the night, so I looked
for a garbage desposal.

Sally cheated an accountant,
so I bought a block of knives
from a late night commercial.

Martha threw stuff at me, which
I had to replace, the candles on the table,
my favorite VHS movie, and the window
the fire poker went through.

Molly said I was too nice, that she
felt I patronized her when I showed
affection, so I erected a statue
in the backyard for her.

Denise said there were too many
ghosts in my closet so I found
a great organizer on sale.

Kristina said I needed a spiritual life
so I bought copy of the "I Ching."

Beth said I needed a heart, so
I adopted a cat.

Amiee hated the cat,
and I wouldn't give up "Lucy"
so I decided to buy her a new
set of dishes, Lucy that is.

Tricia said I was perfect
as I was, so I bought
a new house.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

Anne Lamott: from Gypsies

"I realized that I want what the crones have: time for all those long deep breaths, time to watch more closely, time to learn to enjoy what I've always been afraid of--the sag and the invisibility, the ease of understanding that life is not about doing. The crones understand this, and it gives them all kinds of time--time to get much less done, time for all those holy moments."

Anne Lamott from "Gysies" part of "Travelling Mercies".

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

f.w.b.

oh so very stuck i am... i was going to wait to post this, work on it, extend it, give some space since my last poem. but i really wanted to work on it tonight and when i tried nothing came! so i'm stuck. i don't know where this is going. i don't even know that any of you will have an answer for me, but maybe just putting it out there will help. i read the u2 album title "all that you can't leave behind" today, and i feel like maybe that's part of where this is going. i don't know, i'm stuck. that's what i get for trying to write poetry in my head while driving i guess, the train of thought derails before the whole poem gets through the station.

at 10pm i'm still in canada

i should be converting
kilometers to miles, but
the trucks keep riding too close
behind me, flashing their brights,
and all i can think of
is you, yesterday, converting
the physics of lightning into
poetry over long islands,
billy collins, citronella.

Flaubert

"Words are like stones with which one builds a wall."
Flaubert

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

One Afternoon Stand, Don't Tell my Girlfriend, She'd Never Understand

I am not sure, but I think that it might make a better short story than a poem, but i needed to get this out of me before it was long forgotten.

On the Matress, She Taped a Note: "Linda 586-773-5683"

Welcome to "The Great Indoors"
the teenager boy said as I enterd,
"Don't forget 'The Great Home Sale'
If you need help, please ask an associate"
And he handed me a circular. After
his grandeous greeting, I walked
through kitchenwares, where hand-painted
coffee mugs wear stickers
pridefully as though the were the new
sheriff in town. Then the appliances
where refigerators now cook, clean,
and flip through my favorite TV stations
while I cook half-inspired meals;
or so they say.
After a quick glance at vaccums
more akin to nuclear weapons
than household appliances, I found
the escalator to "Bedrooms."

Slowly I walked through a variety of bedrooms,
"Henry the VIII" with Roccoco
stylings, the "Princesses Tower" with ruffles,
and a four post bed featuring lacy trimmings,
then I found it, "River Glen." A nice woodsy
display of a king size oak bed, a headboard
of raw knots and above the bed, a painting
featuring a man fly-fishing. "This
is my room" I said as I crawled
into bed, pushing
my feet deep into the covers like walking
into a slow moving river
with my waiters and rod. Peacefully I set
the circular on the bedside table
pretending to turn off the lamp
pretenting it was a tree. A lay my head
back on the pillow, turned to my side
to check the comfort,
then suddenly,
a soft hand gently moved from my waist
to my chest, a body moved in close
behind me and a young female voice asked,
"So what do you think? This bedroom
set is on special for 15% off with an
additional 10% if you become
a "Great Indoors Memeber" today. Slightly
shocked and mostly intregued, we cuddled
spoke about our long days, marvelled
over the comfort of the "River Glen Suite"
then she rolled to the other side
of the bed. So I turned my head,
and rolled like I would down the gulch
into the river, till I came close enough
to whisper, "I love
this bed" and she took my hand,
drew me hand across her torso
and said, "I am Linda, if you have any
questions about my department,
please feel free to ask."

Customers walked by, first the old couple,
the man frowning, the woman smiling, then
the family that rushed through quick,
but we kept whispering, as though we were
in the dark of my flat, listening to the waves
of Lake St. Clair lap up on shore, as though
we saw forever in each others eyes. She turned

to look at me and our eyes met, and our whispers
stopped, there was no lure in my tacklebox
that could hook such a beauty and I realized
"it couldn't last forever." We stodd and she
smile and I smiled,
and I said I want to takeher home,
refering to the bed of course,
and her toes stretched and she kissed
me on the forhead. "I am so happy,"
she replied. And I took

the "River Glen Suite" home
with me. When the cashier asked,
"Did our service meet or exceed
you expectations," I didn't know
what to say but "I was treated
as though I were loved," and that said,
I returned home.

Monday, August 09, 2004

Summer poem...

ktb - this is an AWESOME idea! I love you all!
So this has not exactly been a summer of inspired, fantastic poetry-- really of poetry at all. This is probably the only thing I've written that I'd even share with anyone - but since we're kindred spirits I know I can trust you! :) Feedback and comments are more than welcome! I'm not sure if I like the beginning, it doesn't exactly fit with the end, but the poem was originally going somewhere else, you know...

Eros knows
when I need to shed
a few. Heartbreak
diet is a guaranteed weight-
loss program. Once
I dismissed ten lbs. in only
two weeks! The only side effect
is a few weeks of misery: gut-
wrenching sobs that leave
incurable headaches and unattractive,
sticky skin. Step one: find
extremely attractive, smooth-talking
man and fall head-over-feet in crazy,
pick-up and follow him across-
the-country love. Step two: find
aforementioned man in bed with
sister, or something equally
devastating. Step three: find
yourself alone, squeezing a wet
pillow and repeat the mantra
"I love him" between sobs.

Congratulations! You are too
emotionally sick to eat or
sleep and the weight comes
melting off.

Saturday, August 07, 2004

draft #2

is this draft #2 or am i on like, #12 by now... who knows. but it's #2 to be up here, so here we go. much thanks to some ideas from matt and karen... let me know if this is better or worse or neither or still not enough or... still not sure about the first line, and i'm having some tense issues now, not sure if the shift between present and past is ok or weird. spell out ninety percent or put 90%? not sure if i kept the subtle ending, if my double meanings are coming through the line breaks, if i've said enough yet to capture this moment (that i don't really remember much more clearly than this... haha)

could-have-beens don't buy you a beer

cigarette drags in my right hand,
your baseball cap backwards
in my left, you take a drag
of me. i don't taste vodka
tonic on your breath, salt,
lime, tequila shot or
the camel lights your lips dangled,
teased until i shared it.
and i am convinced ninety percent rum
kissed back. the other ten percent my fingers
teasing the faded tear between
brim and cap, forgetting
the cigarette, wishing
i had kissed you longer
and knowing i meant it
when i said i don't smoke
when i'm sober.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Chekov Quotation

"...and suddenly everything became clear to him."

Anton Chekov

why can't i write anything new?

alright kids, this is the one and only poem i have written all summer. (i just started a second, but so far it's just a stanza that seems to be missing the poem, so that will come later i hope...) anyway, since i wrote it over the summer it hasn't gotten much feedback, so any comments or suggestions or whatever would be great. thanks friends!

could-have-beens don't buy you a beer

cigarette in my right hand, your
baseball cap backwards
in my left. I couldn’t taste
vodka on your breath or the cigarette
that dangled from your lips before
I shared it. and I am convinced
ninety percent rum kissed back,
the other ten percent this poem
that wishes I had kissed
you longer, knows I meant it
when I said I don’t smoke
when I’m sober.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

"Friends, Lovers, Drunks, Lend me your Beers!" William Shakesbeer

Well, the invitation to join you good folks was a wonderful surprise. In honor of the occasion, I offer you fellow drunks or poets, which ever you are, a poem. And it even has alcohol in it for your Drunk Poet theme!

The Last Saturday Night as Friends

Late one Saturday
you brought a book to read to me,
an exchange for dinner
since you rarely like to cook. It began
with me pulling ingredients
from the pantry
and even some spices
which we couldn't really afford
in those days. You read
parts of poems to me and something
inside me smiled, warmed
like the watery whiskey we drank to loosen
our edges at the end of a long day.
You danced when I turned on the radio,
your drink in one hand, you other arm
twirling with some semblance of grace
while I tryed to tap the pots I used
to cook to the rhythm of your love.
Your dancing proved more interesting
as you took my hand, lifted your drink
to my lips and I sipped,
until you poured too fast, spilled
on my white t-shirt.
I'll never forget you setting
the glass on the counter,
freeing your hands to to take me
two stepping, turning tight
across dirty linoleum squares
in my small kitchen. You whispered
something inaudable into my ear
but no matter
you told me all in the look
on your face,
the water gathering in your shiny eyes
and the gentle kiss I waited years
to feel, never knowing
it was you all along.

wise words from jack

*i felt it only appropriate that the first post on here was from an old email jack sent out to encourage his students... a reminder of why when it's all said and done, and we've moved on to the next phases of our lives and spread out across the globe, somehow we can still all "be" together. -ktb*

"When we start out writing poems, it is new--everything is new. We begin to see the world differently, we even get pretty lyrical about stuff. We get excited to know that a line break can matter in a poem and that we can actually make that happen. It's like most anything good that we discover, full of fresh, new things.
And then we start "working" on our poems. We start "thinking" about them.
And we start feeling more uncertainty and frustration and even lose for a time that original excitement, that infatuation actually. Sometimes we even start screaming, "I CAN'T WRITE POETRY ANYMORE!!!!" Some of you may be feeling that now a bit or a lot. It's a transition...


If I never write another effective one, this way of being in the world is something I'll always have--and so will you. You are learning not only more about all that can be done with a poem, but also how to be with others' poems...

Poetry is not a course, not a subject, not a discipline. It's a way of being in the world." -jack ridl, 1/27/2004