Thursday, June 30, 2005

in 9 hours i'll be on a plane to Prague...

rain on Charles Bridge, Prague

night nestles into every nook the street lamps cannot
-Matthew Nickel

yellow-orange glow cannot
be captured
on film. in my mind I
take pictures. sketch
out the light lined bridge,
brick and iron.
carve in my footprints,
erase clutter, breathe in fog.

by day, I imagine the saints
watching through sculptures.
five stars on his head, saint nepomuk
takes inventory of tourists,
whispers inspiration in street
artist ears, watches the sunset, guards
the Danube by night.

I close his eyes,
nestle up to you.
let my red dress bleed
into the raindrops, teach you
to waltz, close your umbrella—
it keeps out the streetlight.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

fifty goals for a poet

Because this week is full of hope, I offer a first draft. This could be much longer--I've made at least two lists of fifty items since 18, and the first has at least a quarter of the items crossed off by now. So call me cheesy, but this is the poetic form of at least a few new items on my list with some old favorites. Please feel free to comment, critique (especially the title)--or add your own list to mine! :)


fifty goals for a poet

Own a queen-size bed and breakfast
daily on the front porch, swing
with toes pointed toward the sky,
kiss a brown-eyed lover full

on the mouth at sunset after driving
back to Holland from watching sunrise
in Wisconsin. Drive through New York
on your way to Seattle. Name grey cats

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett,
but stop after two or choose
children or dogs for future additions.
Go to Cuba. Go again. Sing outloud

in the smoke-tinged karaoke bar
and hum love songs on the empty church
pew rummaged for your painted-red
library with well-oiled typewriter,

buy tickets to Barcelona last minute,
take a train when you cannot bear
to return without a visit to Paris.
Brew iced sweet tea and write letters

to your future grandchildren,
give free room to a hopeful artist
because you were young and broke
once, too, even if you still barely balance

at month's end. Even if the list never reaches
fifty, after you have planted a rose bush
you must stand, brush the crumbs
of dirt off your fingers

and whisper a promise to keep
this plant alive though other
potted herbs shriveled at first
freeze. If you do this much,

you will know the poems
lived every last word.

Monday, June 06, 2005

two short poems, and one stumped ktb

ok poets, i have these two short little poems that are like skeletons for much greater poems. i just don't know how to fill them in. for the last week i've been reading them over and contemplating and i am really stuck. hopefully the basic ideas i am going for is already in the poems, they just need a little more meat. any ideas? other feedback? things you love? things you hate?...

He said he didn’t get
my poetry. He asked me
not to follow
my dream over
seas. He wasn’t sure
if a three hour drive
was close enough to still
love me. He confessed
his eternal lack
of interest in my
God. He never understood why
I wanted to
wait. But when
he missed
the point of Counting
Crows, I knew
he’d never
know me.

I wondered
who she was, if
she knew your taste
like I did. But then
I saw the way
you looked at her,
and I saw your
eyes smile at
me, and I knew.
She was your
hometown sunset,
and I am your
Parisian sunrise.