Wednesday, February 23, 2005

dps, the next avant-garde movement

For my poetry class we've been reading "The Last Avant-Garde, The Making of the New York School of Poets" by David Lehman. You should all read it, fabulous book, really. And if not, at least go read poems by these guys: Frank O'Hara, John Ashberry, Kenneth Koch & James Schuyler. Basically they were just four guys in the early 1900's who loved art. And art was centered around NYC at the time. Other than that, they had little to do with New York, and didn't set out to create any sort of literary movement. They wrote poems. They were inspired by art and by one another. They collaborated. They kept in touch when they were scattered about the world. And above all, they were friends.

I laughed my way through the first few chapters of this book, it reminded me so much of this little group of poets from Hope College. :)

And a little quote from the book that made me smile in particular. The epigraph to chapter 2, titled "the band of rivals":

"Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes,
sometimes
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step . . ."
-W.H. Auden-

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

A Poem About the Art I Dream of in This Life, After All

to love,
and be loved
as in Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville
or to find the hand keeping my chest warm,
not because there is no other way,
but because there is no better way.

avec adieu, la poeme:

A Second Introduction
for H

Watching her walk slowly into the bar
gently lifting her dress strap back
onto her sloping shoulder , her lips opened
to whisper a hello, while I finished
serving a few customers. She sat
near the other end of the bar and I brought
her a glass before flicking off the neon signs.
I leaned over she leaned forward
for a kiss and somehow it brought
back evenings dancing around the steam
Of cooking pasta and the glow of red
wine through the kitchen
to the living room
to the bedroom
and we’d wake to the soft yellow light
of the rising sun.

Tonight was different.

We smiled
Despite a few years of pain, not knowing
each other and suddenly we are back, dancing,
wine in hand, the internal
rhythm of our love playing,
first note sounded with her dress strap
sliding off her shoulder.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Relapse

Behind closed doors, she is 19 again.
Cracks a window and breathes suburban air—
fresh, deep, easy. Props an elbow
against crisp eggshell walls, bare toes crinkling
around powder blue bath rug. Lights. Drags. Ashes
in the toilet. Forgets her smooth scalp, swollen
calf. Eyes closed, she remembers her first
apartment, above the Blue Moon
Café, friday nights with her baby
spinning her polka dot skirt silly across
the dance floor, his fingers catching the love bug
all over again in her short red curls. She flicks.
Unaimed ash finds her knee, early 50s, carrying the weight
of children, cancer, the cha-cha. Putting out
the cigarette she zips up evidence. Tucks away
worn cloth makeup case in the middle drawer. Pops a mint. Heads
down the hallway. Takes the stairs one
by one. Slowly.
Aching

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Poet's Leap Riesling

So gang, here is a wine make just for us drunk poets. Poet's Leap comes highly recommended from Riesling afficianados all over. Drink some, be inspired, write lots. (You'd think it would be priced so a poet could afford it, or so I think).

http://www.northwest-wine.com/Poets-Leap-Riesling.html

October

it's strange
the sounds
a house
can make
windows
rattling
lights
buzzing
the slow
baritone
of the place
settling
it reminds me
of a boat
i had once
the wood hull
would groan
like wild timber
when the wind
came up
just right
as she clipped
across the bay
that was a
long time ago
a lifetime
it's funny
you find yourself
looking back
to when
you were younger
stronger
less afraid
a time when
all it took
to boil your blood
was the toss
of the sea
maybe
a humpback
or two
breaching
off your port
and the veins
in your hands
blue
and bulging
with life force
as you gripped
the wheel hard
in the current


stephensaul.com

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

poetry on the web

I just read Eggrolls, a poem by Alan Shapiro, on Slate.com, really, really enjoyed it, and thought I'd pass it on. You can hear it read by the author on the site, and they post a new poem each week.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Because I had fun tinkering with this tonight, I thought I'd share. Feel free to offer suggestions--ironically I couldn't find my little tin of fortune cookie slips tonight (that's what happens after I clean my room). In fact, if you've seen better fortunes that might fit, I'd love to tinker with this poem some more. Or just share funny fortunes (in bed, in bed!). Love and happiness to all!


untitled

I keep fortune cookie proverbs on pretense
of someday using them in a sculpture.
I like keeping the charming faux wisdom, as if
on a bad day I might find tucked in my change
purse, “You are strong and brave!” Or a lover,
brushing his teeth in the morning, finds
taped to the mirror, “You are the shining star
of his existence, lucky number 17” and know that we
were destined to fall inextricably in love. My father
will understand when I silently hand him “Good fortune
is coming to you in due time,” and I will answer
all letters with the duplicate “True love is in your
destiny” slip that’s appeared in over twenty cracked
cookies yet and we will believe every last word.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

DPS @ Stein Night, October 2004


all photos courtesy Daniel Morrison

to see more, visit:
http://community.webshots.com/album/267496927nSFeMg

Thursday, February 03, 2005

it's 3 a.m. and only appropriate

that I post to the Drunk Poets blog. I just saw Siddie and Toddie and talked earlier to Del online, and these conversations only remind me how much I miss you all.

Tonight I happened upon Lemonjello's montly poetry reading--clear forgot, though it's always the first Wednesday of the month (hint hint)--and didn't have anything to read. That is, until I remembered a few earlier drafts posted on this site. So I printed what I could, made what revisions I remembered, and read my poems PLUS the Erica Jong "...Four-Poster" at that li'l corner coffee shop. Afterwards, this high school gal came up:

"Hey!" her sparkle-eyeshadowed eyes blinked.

"Hi!" I tried to grab my latte from the counter behind us.

"Um, what was the name of that last poem you read..." she glanced at her friends.

"Oh, um," I interrupted, thinking back to the last ones--perhaps she means Reunions?

"...oh yeah! The one about the bed...?" She grinned and her friends nodded.

"Oh!!" I smiled. "Yeah! That was Parable of the Four-Poster," by Erica Jong, J-o-n-g."

She grinned again. "Thanks so much!!! I'm going to Google that as soon as I get home!"



So. I'm going to go sleep off the fuzzy navels and dollar-fifty draft beer. Here's to sweet dreams and budding poets (or at least poetry fans) and swift reunions.