Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Piss Off!!!

Seriously guys, we need to do something about this new wave of Bloggospammers...I don't know if there is anything we can do, but if there is, I am sure Mr. Van (Dan...obviously) Morrison is up to the task. Honestly, I have never even had a desire to go to San Diego...so why in the hell should I need to know what the weather is like there??? And I certainly don't need any wedding favors, or Bride's jelewry. Nor can I use any craft project school, although I believe that person could use some grammar lessons, and although working at home sounds enticing, I don't need to start my business through some pathetic ass spammer...and if I need Japanese tea, I would rather go to Japan than visit this dudes sorry fucking website.

So if we can do something about these nobodies, please, let's do it quick. If not...I say we burn the whole internet down and lock them inside.

By the way, Del, sorry I will miss you and your gail force winds...although I would be seriously surprised if you could pose a genuine threat to anyone. Anyway, I will miss you man, knock back a few drinks for me...and give those conservative bastards hell. I know I can count on you.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Headline's Read:

Hurrican Delhagen is coming to Holland this Thursday. Storm winds expected to reach catastrophic levels. Considered the most exciting storm in decades. Gov. Granholm is suggesting that those with a low alcohol tolerance flee the west coast of Michigan or they may find themselves engaged in random acts of sillyness and poetic musings. Expect large quantities of beer to be imbibed and long talks about life to be had.

Staying with Karen and Molly thursday night, and Morrison on Friday and Saturday nights. Stock the fridges. Kyle's coming home...

Thursday, August 25, 2005

In my first post to the DPS blog nearly a year ago, I included three stanzas to a poem that wasn't finished but at the time there was nothing more to give. Last night I wrote the ending and it's a good feeling. It's different from anything I've ever written and I'm not sure what to make of that, but either way, I like where it's heading (because, of course, revision is the name of this game):




Revival


Abuelito will not return
to see his mother
buried in Santiago.
He already regrets

the visit two years
ago, when the mango
began to grow
under the skin of her neck.

In his nightmares, he still sees
the way her head tilted,
a forced question
no one could answer,

not even Castro’s weekly
address over the radio.
Bisabuela always sat
as though listening intently,

the fruit in her neck
begging a scapel or at least
a bottle of pills. Not even
her firstborn could work

such magic, and this knowledge
kept him traveling everywhere
but Santiago, praying for healings
across South America,

laying hands on sick
sons, touching every flesh
except flesh of his flesh.
And so the mango slowly weighed

down her body and stole
her soul, and in another land
the firstborn hung his head
to the side and cried.

Celebrate Cap'n Jack and Jackie, too!

Just a reminder: our dear Jack Ridl and Jackie Bartley will read poetry at Fenn Valley Winery this Sunday from 2 to 4 p.m. Carpooling is encouraged, just leave a note if you can drive or need a ride.

Poetry and wine on one of the last summer Sunday afternoons...what more could you ask for?

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

DPS meeting

A meeting of the Minneapolis chapter of the Drunk Poet's Society was called to order last night. Two new members were inducted, and a healthy amount of alcohol was consumed, all while we listened to the Minnesota Twins beat the Chicago White Sox in 16 innings (9-4), and read each other a great number of poems, both our own, as well as others written by "accomplished" poets. Just wanted to let everyone know...the DPS is alive and well. You were all missed, and I cannot wait till the next time I get to sit down over words and drinks with any or all of you.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

More political ranting

Hey everyone...I just needed to get this off my chest. Just yesterday I was sitting in a coffee shop doing some writing for a book I am working on, and I couldn't help overhearing a woman a couple of tables over talking to a couple of younger women. She was describing how the issue of education in politics is very important to her, I am assuming because she is herself an educator, or so she made it seem. My heart was warmed by this, at least until she continued. She went on to explain that she was "done" voting, that she felt there were too many issues on the global and international level for her to keep up with, and because of this, she felt too frustrated to have the will to vote any more. She felt that she would never be given enough accurate information to make a good final vote worthy decision.

I understand the woman's frustrations. In this day of 24 hour news casts, wars on terror and ever present threat of attack, crumbling education systems, growing economic gaps, changing environmental policies, and much much more, it is hard to keep up with it all. In fact, it is basically impossible. One would do good to realize that not even the President understands EVERYTHING. That's why he surrounds himself with a team of thousands upon thousands of advisors and staffers. In this way, he tries to make the best choices with the best information that is available to him. All politicians do this, and whether you agree with their choices or not, if you do not give your feedback, or your vote, you have no say in anything. The decisions really are made by those who show up.

What the lady in the coffee shop needs to understand, as well as the rest of us, is that even if you don't understand all the issues, and even if you don't know what you think about a number of issues, there must be at least a few issues which you do have a passion for. For her it would have been education. So then, focus on those issues, and vote accordingly, and when you get the chance, take the time to learn a little more about other issues that you might find interesting. You don't have to know everything, but if you don't vote you are selling yourself short. Voting is a right...that means that is something which you have earned. Not something you have cause it's nice, or something you have cause it is cute...it is something which as an American citizen you DESERVE. Not voting is just a pathetic form of giving up...both on your country, and equally importantly, yourself. Come on people, let's be heard. Let's refuse to go unheard. Let's go out there and get what we deserve. Let's vote.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Great Poetry Posting Site

PoemHunter.com is a great place to post your poetry. Lots of great resources, including reader statistics, creation of your own e-books, listing of your books with book cover photos, your website, reader comments, email and your search engine listings. And they put all that in themselves. They do all the work. All the poet does is join for FREE and type in her poems.


stephensaul.com

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Summer Commencement

Drunken Poets,

The one and only,
Pimping my style
You know what it is.
Oh Yah. Smooth as Fuck.

Just wanted to see if anyone is going to be Holland next Friday, the 12th of August. My summer classes here are ending so I’ll be in town to celebrate. If anyone is interested in inhaling cigs that may you dizzy, finding your way home by a statue in a park, the possibility of riding a train, or a free drink -- come out. I’ll be in town, and hopefully won’t break into anyone’s house. Hope to see you-

Smooth as...DPS class of ’04
John

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Tobacco Row by Stephen Saul



She was thirteen, maybe, and black like the earth.
And she would stretch to hang tobacco bundles
high in the air to dry. A black boy, much younger
than she, would sit on the stoop and watch. When
she turned, he looked wide-eyed into the dark
ovals of hers, oblivious to the woman's body taking
shape under the thin cotton dress.

Sometimes, when the sun was setting, I watched
her rise from her knees among the tobacco rows
and sing softly through bee-stung lips. The waning
light caught the growing curves of her breasts and
hips. And she blew on her blistered hands, then
fanned them, to cool the sting.

She wore a straw hat with a band of red silk. Her
long hair, tucked away, worked loose in strands
and fell about her face. She often looked up at me
and waved, her hand clutching tobacco leaves. And
I waved back from the wagon filled with strawberries
on their way to market.


stephensaul.com

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

a poem with love from prague

Astronomical Sestina

Waiting for the hour
to strike, a swift wind blew
across Old Town Square, dead
leaves and lost postcards aimless,
skimming over my feet. I watch
freckles rise on cold

arms, suppress July rain-cold
with a shiver. Quarter to the hour
noon according to my watch,
but I can’t read this clock, with its blue
and gold, its four hands motionless,
framed by sins and death.

When I was fifteen, my mother died,
gave in to January cold
and cancer, her last breath soundless.
I lit a church candle—our
Catholic prayer—flame glowed blue
in the wake of snow outside. I still watch

the fire dance in my head, watch
wax melt, remember her dying
for days wrapped in translucent blue
veins, oxygen cords, cold
cloths and warm blankets. The hours
passed slowly then, much less

speed than now, alone in Prague, lost
in a crowd hoping to watch
the Astronomical Clock tip the hourglass,
golden bell chiming by death’s
skeletal hand. Were there crowds that cold
winter? Did their hands turn blue

like my mother’s, blue
and shrinking? Did the timeless
clock chime when her cold
body released its soul to the watchful
eye of God? The wind dies
as the Astronomical Clock’s hour

strikes. Blue doors open and I watch
apostles parade, waving. No one dies
here. Another cold hour past.