Drunk Poets' Society

DPS on Facebook

2007-04-02T14:50:00.000-04:00

happy national poetry month to drunk poets everywhere! i hope you all blitzed sat/sun like the good little poets i know you are. i got a few groans from my freshman composition class this morning when i announced that we'd be honoring national poetry month by reading poems all april long. oh well, they'll learn to love it.

ANYway, just a quick post to let you know that Andrew Kleczek set up a drunk poets society group on facebook, and you should all join it. just search for the group, or find it on Andrew's profile (or mine, for that matter). and if you aren't on facebook, you should be. so sign up.

i think some people might be having trouble signing in because blogger updated all sorts of stuff... you should be able to go through the steps to get a "new" account. but if anyone is really struggling, email drunkpoets@mac.com and maybe we can re-invite you to the blog.

from "Solidarity Is the Name We Give To What We Cannot Hold"

2007-01-23T00:30:00.001-05:00

I am an antiabsorptive poet in the morning,
and absorptive poet in the afternoon,
and a sleepy poet at night.
I am a parent poet, a white poet, a man poet, an urban poet, an angered poet, a sad poet,
an elegaic poet, a raucous poet, a frivolous poet, a detached poet, a roller-coaster poet, a
volanic poet, a dark poet, a skeptical poet, an eccentric poet, a misguided poet, a reflective
poet, a dialectical poet, a polyphonic poet, a hybrid poet, a wandering poet, an odd poet, a
lost post, a disobedient poet, a bald poet, a virtual poet.
& I am none of these things,
nothing but the blank wall of my aversions
writ large in disappearing ink--

(by Charles Bernstein)

Help?

2006-12-04T20:01:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here in Yizhou, China and there are mountains out my window and a river nearby and the most amazing plants and crazy animals.
Every day things I would have never dreamt about happen to ME.
Yet, I can't seem to write anything.
I've been terribly stressed out trying to plan lessons and teach college students at a rural school out here. I would love to write again, but I can't find the time, motivation, or proper words all at the same time!

Any suggestions?
Ideas?

Long time, no poetry!

2006-11-20T08:57:00.000-05:00

Here is a poem for y'all.
I hope you all keep "raging agains the dying of the light."
Matt

Standing on the Oregon Coast at 2 am.

We lined along the shore waiting
like a sea captains wife

waiting for his ship to sail in.
And the now gentle
waves lolled across our bare
feet, just after midnight,
the coals of our fire dimming
and us in the sand

waiting for some mystery,
when the orange moon
began to slide below the horizon
leaving the stacks dim
leaving the dunes to their
own thoughts. We lifted
our arms wide, waiting,

as if to hug the last glowing
sliver of the moon
slipping into the Pacific, waiting

for the chill of the still
autumn night to catch us

waiting for the warm sun to rise
at the mystery of the dawn.

HAPPY MIDTERM TUESDAY!!!

2006-11-07T14:31:00.000-05:00

Vote bitches. Or you're NOTHING. Word.

Billy Collins in Muskegon

2006-10-06T14:29:00.000-04:00

Posted By:KTB

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

Posted By:KTB

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

does this poem need more?...

2006-09-25T00:03:00.000-04:00

Game On
after Jack Vettriano

I arch back against
the lightpost, vertical
metal creases, bulb dimming. He
is kissing me—his tongue
a pack of plush tobacco, his hands
anything but ash.

The occasional car
passes (three a.m., nearly
empty road) and I sneak
a look over his shoulder,
smirk at the turning
heads of passengers, drivers.

I am unashamed of my fingers
grinding the stubble
of his chin into ashes, his
hands sparking embers
on my thighs.

Cap'n Jack begins the VWS season

2006-08-18T21:50:00.000-04:00

Hi folks,

Tom Andrews' parents donated money to create an annual reading in his honor, and this happens to coincide with the retirement of our dear leader Jack Ridl. This will take place on Wednesday, September 13, as the first installment of the 2006 Visiting Writers' Series.

More info at the VWS site.

my first poem since my thesis

2006-07-22T20:04:00.000-04:00

Insomnia
after Jack Ridl’s “Waking Up In A Cold Sweat”

The first thing you do is reach for the clock, push the glow button, check the time. Then, realizing you are half-naked, cold, and alone, you fumble around the bed grasping for pillows and that ratty white teddy bear turned gray with the half rubbed out nose and loose string mouth. And what about your mouth? Chapped and cracking along the bottom. Lips remember the last time you kissed him—quick and salty in the early airport. You imagine him sleeping now, not a thought in the world past his snores. Worn out from a long day of work. Or maybe, a day off. Spent hiking with someone else around a deserted lake. Unending conversation between fingers. And what about the two hour kayak? A bottle of wine, reading novels by the shore? It’s all too much, too much even for Darwin to create and evolve into some convoluted theory. You think maybe you dreamt it all, and that any minute you’ll wake up to daylight two years prior with stacks of poems left to write and sixteen phone calls to return. You remember after college, the last time you packed up to move home, boxes of books and a rough corner leaving a scratch above your right knee. The goodbye that never happened. Just a phone call to say, you know you can call me anytime; a brief and vice versa. Then you remember—the second bottle of wine, a folder full of email, the past two years of phone calls, a book on the passenger seat of his car, the state park where his dad took him fly fishing as a child, your first love poem, the poster of Picasso’s Old Guitarist, and you know, everything’s fine. On the other side of the bed, you catch his imprint in the mattress, roll over and curl your back against the empty space, breathe deeply and swear you can feel his arm wrap slowly around your waist.

Writing is good for you

2006-07-12T16:06:00.000-04:00

So I haven't written a ton for quite some time now, but I stumbled across this the other day while I was wading through the endless files of drivel which I have stored on my laptop and was fairly impressed. In fact, at first I thought for sure that I hadn't written it, and I had to spend a good deal of time trying to recall when I had in fact generated this piece. Anyway, since I got sick of logging on and seeing that there was going to be a New Poet Laureate (surely that is old news now), I thought I would post it and let you guys read a little Willie Javin special. Anyway, enjoy...

Rainbow

She remembers a time when she was small enough to fit in the kitchen cupboards; scared enough to hide in the closet between her father’s brown loafers and black suit coats. He used to walk her to the yellow school bus and wave as she rode away, peering out the small window at the back, leaving tiny smudges from her oily pink nose. In the winter, the smudges from earlier in the week would still be frozen to the window, a blurry reminder that her father would still be there with a small piece of chocolate wrapped in a silver wrapper when she returned. As much as her morning toast smothered in deep red jam, or tying the frayed laces on her shoes, she came to rely on the gentle chill of glass against her face to begin her day. When he died (when she was ten), she pressed her face against the casket, her eyes just above the top as she peered in at the green handkerchief which rested in his pocket. It seemed so out of place, so alive and vibrant surrounded by his black suit coat. The image haunted her throughout the remainder of her childhood. She would have nightmares in which she would see her father’s face, waving back at her from behind a school bus, but then a soft green fabric would cover her entire field of vision. She would struggle madly to remove it, but it would just wrap itself tighter around her face until she would wake with a start, hug her knees and rock herself back to sleep under her faded pink blanket.

new poet laureate

2006-06-15T10:38:00.000-04:00

I haven't read much Donald Hall, but he was married to the late Jane Kenyon, who is a favorite poet of mine thanks to Jack's recommendation.

N.H. writer to be U.S. poet laureate
By Beverley Wang, Associated Press

WILMOT - A fax last week informed Donald Hall he would be the next poet laureate of the United States, and since then, between phone calls, sitting for photographs and giving interviews, he has been thinking about his new job.
"I had one friend, I asked him to give me ideas for what I can do as poet laureate, and he typed out 85," said Hall, a former New Hampshire poet laureate.

Maxine Kumin, a friend and former state and national poet laureate from Warner, founded a women’s poetry series. Ted Kooser, the current poet laureate, has a weekly newspaper column, "American Life in Poetry."

In the living room of his farmhouse Tuesday, Hall wondered whether he could persuade a cable television network to run an occasional program of poetry, or convince satellite radio to create a poetry-only channel.

"I think most of the things I think about are unrealistic because they would take a great wad of cash to get started," he said. But you never know. "I can ask," he said, smiling.

Hall, 77, will assume his duties this fall. Poet laureates receive $35,000 for the year as well as a travel allowance.

The Library of Congress says it tries to keep official duties of its poet laureates to a minimum so they can work on their own projects.

Hall is to speak at the library’s National Book Festival on Sept. 30 in Washington and to open the library’s annual literary series in October with a reading of his work.

"Donald Hall is one of America’s most distinctive and respected literary figures," Librarian of Congress James Billington said in an announcement prepared for delivery Wednesday. "For more than 50 years, he has written beautiful poetry on a wide variety of subjects that are often distinctly American and conveyed with passion."

At age 12, Hall wrote his first poem, an overwrought piece about death. Two years later, he declared his ambition to become a poet.

"When I was 14, I decided that’s what I wanted to do with my whole life, and that’s what I’ve done.

"It was because of the love of the art that I began to write at all, not because I had something to say, but because I loved the art of poetry."

Hall said he writes from passion, not for prizes.

"I don’t have an end in view besides the making of poems," he said.

2006-06-14T22:23:00.000-04:00

hey poets! we've got some new people on here... yay! if you don't see your name listed on the site, you need to login to blogger.com, click on "edit profile" and select "share my profile". and make sure you've filled in a display name. listing your full name is optional. i THINK that should all do the trick.

and if you haven't checked out the pictures from jack's party, do so! i'm going to add the link to the sidebar momentarily. if you have pictures, create a free flickr account and add them to the mix!

oh Captain

2006-06-11T12:47:00.000-04:00

I will spend more time uploading everything later, but for now, one of my favorite images:

Photos

2006-06-11T01:18:00.000-04:00

Though purposely not mentioned here, most of you know of the surprise retirement party the DPS held for Jack Ridl.

We're posting photos at this Flickr Group. None are there yet, but will be very soon.

Have some to add? Feel free!

new blog open for business

2006-06-06T09:25:00.000-04:00

hi, guys. i'm now blogging like i'm some sort of edward j. carvalho. mine is called South of No North the rambling reflections of a dysfunctional poet. it's with us.blog.com. the easiest way to get there is through my website stephensaul.com.

more poets should think about blogging. there's a big need for literary blogs. don't be shy.
and don't forget to check out my new poetry and flash fiction updates. i'm getting pretty good responses on them.

later,
stephen saul

T-shirts?!?

2006-05-09T14:46:00.000-04:00

What ever happened to making DPS shirts? I think it should happen. I may be a drunk, but I want people to realize that I am a drunk poet...not just a drunk. There's really not much difference, but to the untrained eye a drunk poet looks more intelligent (although we all know this can't be the case).

A little something from my recently finished chapbook (titled "I Am No Saint Irene")

2006-04-26T01:59:00.000-04:00

"Good Friday at Skiles"

Friday night I brought Kathryn to the old bar
on 8th street along with a bag
of black socks, trout lures, and
St. Brigid.
The saintly cowgirl slid into the booth across from us,
put her cowshit caked boots up and ordered
a pitcher of Amber Bock.

She sized us up with her green-gold eyes, squinted,
and shook her head.
She knew-
we sure as hell were no saints.

The pitcher arrived and Brigid poured three nearly
perfect glasses, the third spilling just
barely over the brim and dripping down to the table.
“A toast!” She cried-
“To God, beer, and a barn full of cows!”

She lifted the glass to her perfect pink lips,
took a healthy gulp, and
slammed the drink down with a scowl,
announcing that she could make better beer from
bathwater.
We didn’t argue.

Three pitchers later,
the talk has skimmed the surfaces of
the best way to grow a rosary vine, where we’re going fishing
once the weather stays good, how to split wood
properly, and who’s paying the bill.
St. Brigid got up to order another pitcher as Kathryn and I
silently slide out of the booth,
and quickly through door out to the street.
The moon was full and heavy in the sky,
weighing on our consciences as we left the bill and
the saint
in the bar.

Merlot Colored Bay

2006-03-09T09:28:00.000-05:00

Hey everyone,
Please read this and tell me what you hear. I am not sure if I have told the story in an understandable way. Does it make sense? Does it feel natural? If you wnated to know more, what would you ask? If you wanted to know less, what would I take out. Sorry for the typos. I wish I were drunk when I wrote this one.
Matt (Hadji)

The Merlot Colored Bay

Hello? Robert—she didn’t make it, she
Couldn’t keep on, hello? Hello? No,
I am still here. We need you to come
To sit with us, you are most
Important to her, come, please.

And when it was all over, the city
Became an unbearable place,
The spontinaiety, the noise, the contrast
Of lights in the dark part of night
And the anonymitity once enjoyed
Made him a refugee among people
Not in community, not together.

He sold the loft, left work, left the city
and aired out the cottage up North
On the lake, opened windows
to the spring sun and grass
made for croquet and bocce. He repaired
the sailboat, and the neighbor’s boat,
and Henry’s rowboat
received a new coat of varnish, until
The lawn on the west side of the house
Faded to a khaki color from all the boats
Park to receive some nursing, because
That is what he knew how to do.

All through the day men and women
And teenagers came to talk, to sail
And sometimes race,
Then the evenings he spend with a
Manhatten and a glass of white wine
On the love seat
Looking out the veranda onto the
Merlot colored bay.

2006-03-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

No one Should Ever be Alone...

Stand.
Someday,
when you’re in love,
by the edge of the sea,
your toes slowly digging into the soft sand -
a family of hermit crabs silently fleeing
the dangers of the tides -
while your ankles acquaint themselves with the salt
and shells that eagerly glide
toward the sun baked shore,
then scurry back into the tumbling ocean.

Breathe with the rhythm
of the constant rush of waves;
inhaling
each time a crest fiercely
crashes onto the beach,
an explosion of countless chards
of watery glass
which cause the ground to tremble
and the air to swell and surge
all around you.
Exhaling
as the water nervously rushes
away, dragging
your secrets and dreams
out to sea in one jumbled,
dripping heap,
smelling of salt

seaweed

faith.

Watch as the sun beats down upon the water,
spreading millions of fairies
across the horizon
to dance wildly
in and out of the rolling
valleys of the surf,
reminding you that
no one should ever be alone
so long that they forget
what it feels like to be needed.

Stand.
Someday,
when you’re lonely,
by the edge of the sea,
and try to ignore
the water rushing over your toes
and swirling around your ankles
and how the only thing that you feel
is the cold.

call for submissions!!

2006-03-01T00:18:00.000-05:00

Alright poets, no time for laziness.

Roosevelt University is starting a brand new online literary/art magazine titled "Michigan Avenue Review". They're seeking submissions for the spring and fall issues, and because this is brand new, your chances of being published are even higher! Plus, I know the professor who is heading this up, and she's pretty cool, so you should send her some cool stuff to read/look at.

Here's the info:

Fiction/Nonfiction/Dramatic Stories: up to 3 pieces, each no longer than 10,000 words. Attachments or hard copies in Microsoft Word format.

Poetry: up to 5 poems. Attachments or hard copies in Microsoft Word format.

Hypertext Stories: up to 3 pieces, each no longer than 10,000 words.

Art/Photography: color or b&w. Jpg, Gif, or Bmp. Minimum resolution 300-600 dpi

Movies: mpeg, avi, wmv, or mov. Wholly original compositions only.

Music: mp3, wholly original compositions only.

And here's the catch... each issue will have a theme. This spring will focus on urban matters. Any creative and provocative work with an urban focis, overtone, flavor, smell, or sprinkle will be considered. This fall's theme is spherical objects. From cheese puffs to atoms, marbles to planets, send your finest spherical work.

Submissions are accepted through March 15th (so get on this!). Responses will be sent via email by May 1st. Email submissions are preferred. No simultaneous submissions. Previously published will be considered, but please include the information of prior publication with submission. Upon publication, Michigan Avenue Review acquires First North American Serial Rights, all other rights remain with the author. No payment, but all published artists will receive a CD-ROM of the issue in which they are published.

Send submissions to: michiganavereview@gmail.com
OR
Michigan Avenue Review
Department of Literature & Languages
Roosevelt University
430 South Michigan Avenue
Chicago, IL 60605
ATTN: Mary Anne Mohanraj, Publisher

Ridl's Last Class?!?!

2006-02-10T12:27:00.000-05:00

Hey Kids, The word from Jack is that his last class is this spring. I didn't ask him about the details but he did say, "Yeah, we should have a huge DPS reunion and drink to the Cap'n!!!!!"

So I think its up to us to get something organized for the spring and have a little reunion. Maybe we could organize a reading at one of the theatres and invite Jack's friends and family. (Then get thrown out of a bar for reading poetry.)

I don't have a lot of time, but I wanted to bounce some ideas of DPS. This way we can come up with something to do for him together. If we could get some comments going on this it would be really helpful.

I called Myra and left a message this afternoon to see if the department was planning anything. I will let you know as soon as I hear back-

Thanks,
John Leahey, aka ONE DRUNKEN POET

everyone is broken

2006-02-09T23:13:00.000-05:00

The walls shiver and shake
each time the lovers downstairs
slam doors
to hearts opened not
long ago
with coy kisses,
late night
phone calls until sunrise
when a quivering stomach
meant desire,
not fearing
an eventual change
in octave,
or the heavy way
the word hate hangs
between the sheets.

Question Regarding God and Vodka Tonics

2006-01-26T20:57:00.000-05:00

The Meaning of Life
OR
Owen Wilson is a Prophet

The meaning of life is a string
of summers that could be carved into beads
and strung on a necklace that i could
wear, and even lose, on the next canoe trip.

Between each evenings click
from the lamp, is more or less a string
of barbeques and holiday parties
where we dring vodka tonics, light beer
and cosmosmopolitans. We listen to
trendy indy crap we all
adore, we tell stories about work,
and I will raise my kids to do the same.
But they will know that we all sip
from that great big shaker in the sky.

Work is an exciting blend of creative
people and business people, and more
or less, my job it to
make people want to buy more
stuff they don't need
made by tribespeople in Indonesia,
but it really does look high-tech
to a suburbanite driving a Volvo
and listening to an iPod.

And God, yeah God, I love God, and
go to church occassionally, but
really, the most I ever learn about
God was from Linus, but I don't
remember what he said.

And mornings I drink coffee
that exploit people and drive
an SUV that destorys my atmosphere,
but its okay, I saw one of those on
eBay once, I'll just wait till
the next one comes up.

But the real truth in the world
comes from Owen Wilson. You see, he
thought he knew his father, but didn't,
and died for the wrong man. I think
that was a movie call "Aquatic Life"
or something, but people believe what
they will believe anyway.

As for me,
my father is in that book
on my nightstand. It is amazing that
everything God is can be summed up
in a book. I just bought a DVD
version of the Gospels too.
(Not to mention the kickin'
soundtrack)Sometimes I think I could
use the Cliff's Notes version though,
I just feel like it is too easy sometimes.
But God is close on my nightstand,
and I'll take off my cozy slippers
before I click the lamp,
kiss my wife, and say good night.

how to be a great writer, by charles bukowski

2005-12-30T02:22:00.000-05:00

you've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.

and don't worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.

just drink more beer
more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a
week

and win
if possible.

learning to win is hard--
any slob can be a good loser.

and don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.

don't overexercise.

sleep until noon.

avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.

remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).

and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong--

an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.

stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient--
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery

all that dross.

stay with the beer.

beer is continuous blood.

a continuous lover.

get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window

hit that thing
hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in

and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

if you think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now

without women
without food
without hope

then you're not ready.

drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.

end of semester reading

2005-11-29T22:02:00.000-05:00

how do i get myself roped into these things? so i have to read at the end of the semester MFA reading on monday, and i can't read any of the old stuff i read last year. i want to read few things from prague, but they haven't been revised, most of them haven't even been workshopped. any feedback on this one? the middle stanza might not really fit... but i like it too much to cut it, and the poem would be missing something without it. and this was an assignment, so i was required to use my full name. but i don't like the sound of "budris" at the end. but i like the line, so there has to be something there... i don't know. thoughts?

Remembering Prague

If I die in Prague no one
will remember my name. Letters
will slip between cracked
cobblestones—a consonant here, a
vowel there. No street will take
my name, no statue, monument.
No one will rest small stones
upon my grave or set up
stands to sell memorabilia.

Last night, young Czechs
rolled joints on the beergarden
tables. Bits of grass caught
the wind, went hang-gliding. Rolled
down the hill. Took wrong
turns. Got lost beneath city
spires, fingers slim and squirming
pointing to heaven. Came
to rest among streetlamps and stone.

Today, when I die in Prague,
Charles Bridge will still be heaving,
cement seams bursting with tourists.
They will congregate to watch death
ring his golden bell, Astronomical
Clock chiming. They will not
notice my absence, but the river
Vltava will whisper Katie,
the rain will echo Budris.

Foer Interview

2005-11-23T09:00:00.000-05:00

Here is an old Jonathan Safran Foer interview back from when he was 26, a little while after he had published "Everything is Illuminated." The most illuminating part of the interview is talking about how his bestselling novel barely got published.

JSF: That's one of those cases when an ellipsis is infinitely valuable. You know, I didn't write my book in a week.

RB: That was being claimed?

JSF: Yeah. I didn't come out of nowhere. That's one of those beautiful and romantic myths, which is, in fact, really ugly in the way that it's not true. I wasn't some naive person that wrote a book and the next thing he knew it was on the bestseller list. I was rejected by numerous agents and rejected by numerous publishers, and it's so important for people to know that because…

RB: You have to suffer to sing the blues.

JSF: No, it's not that I am saying that I deserve where I am. I am saying that a lot of young writers conflate commercial failure with artistic failure. And they think, "If I had written a novel like that than I would be successful." Well, it’s just not true. I was a half a degree from never publishing my book. I just got a great ride. I got really lucky. I kind of hit the lottery. But it could have been another way and it was another way for a while.

Read the full interview here:
http://www.identitytheory.com/interviews/birnbaum108.html

I want it to stay half full

2005-11-18T22:35:00.000-05:00

When I get that Call

It is usually when I am alone
in the kitchen
a bottle of wine, a homemade
meal of something
from an Italian cookbook
mom gave me, hoping I'd catch
an Italian girl. Instead
I am alone with a risotto
and a bottle of wine, and that
is when they call. She says,
"won't you come out" because
the time to live is now. But
when I do go out, I feel more
alone that when I am alone,
just me and that bottle of wine.
Kierkiegaard and I know
one another better, as well
as Asimov, Woody Allen, and
even Jack Welch. Now, I think,
I must reach out, so when John
calls cause there is someone
to meet up with, I might set
that glass down, leave the book
spread eagled on the kitchen
counter, and we'll enjoy
the night, meet friends
of friends of friends, and I'll
even return late, alone; or
we'll return late, together
sending the book to the floor
so the counter can make room
for the two of us. Yet days from now
I will ignore the urge to wash
the two glasses, one stained
with lipstick, that stand
next to the recorked bottle
we left half empty, that I can't
seem to drain, because
I want it to stay
half full.

untitled.

2005-11-13T23:04:00.000-05:00

She prefers angles—
sitting at the chair in dim
pub corners where brick meets
mortar. She prefers

drinking beer from small
tumblers when sitting in such
corners, but from cans otherwise.
And then there’s the angles

of her kitchen, too white—
she hangs postcards
where ceiling meets wall
meets wall, writes poetry

on the backs first, adheres
them with sticky tack and
admires the rightness of it all:
the ninety degree paper

edges, the dry wall angles, the
addresses unused and facing
back, unreadable.

It's that time of the year again

2005-11-02T14:46:00.000-05:00

That's right, I'm back to wake all your lazy asses up again, and try and charge you up to go out and vote. Yeah, next Tuesday is going to be super...or should I say it's Super Tuesday next week, so go vote. I know I know, it's "only" local elections, but the argument could be made that the people who are elected next week will have a more visible impact on your lives in the upcoming years than the people elected in 2006. That doesn't mean you shouldn't vote next year...

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the day next Tuesday...here's to nice weather, clear roads, and easy to read ballots...one can always hope. Just so you know...Chris Coleman is going to beat the shit out of Randy Kelly in St. Paul, MN (Kelly made the mistake of stumping for President Bush in the last campaign...which is political suicide here in the ultra liberal Twin Cities), and the race in my Minneapolis is much closer, between a long time family friend, Peter McGlaughlin, and incumbent RT Rybak. It looks like Rybak will win. Anyway, that's the update here...so now you should go figure out what things look like in your neck of the woods. Then go vote on Tuesday...then go out and buy yourself a drink, cause you just participated in the democratic process. What a wonderful thing.

Quite Simply an Ordinary Day

2005-10-30T23:16:00.000-05:00

Okay, now you are bitchin' about the drinkin' and the writin'. Let me be a hero for thirty seconds. I went to work (on my only day off) after church that is, where I singlehandedly brought the age of the congregation down by 10 years. Then I got in a car accident on my way to by my dad a present, but it is neither a holiday nor his birthday. Then I kicked f#$%^&g @$$ on an ice rink against the best team in the league to keep us undefeated. So now, after three beers after the game, half a bottle a wine, and now I am drinking Scotch STRAIGHT from an F#$%^g bottle because that is what my favorite authors Haruki Murakami does and Raymond Fucking Carver did (someone once willed me a grave between him and his living wife Tess Gallager, side note) so in great honor of the drunk poets, as the Brits say, I AM B100DY PISSED! So he is a poem, composed drunk of my fat keister, just for you are ears ( and i know i am going to someone feel really wierd toomorow. So if you need a hero either count me in, or pass me off as a raving drunk.

Lots of Drunk Love,
Hadji aka Matt

Poem

It is Coming.

Really, like the second coming, by Auden that is.

I think is was Auden But I am not sure now,
but what I do know is that I am on my third scotch
and that most girls either
think I am a cute intellectual
or a solipsistic jerk. Either
way I am a happy drunk,
until the dude who surfs,
(how do you act cool
when you surf on Lake
Michigan) makes out
with the girl I love
so now I am brokenhearted
in that "Hope College sophmore
I don't care I still made out with you"
kind of way, like cookies,
or that is what my youth paster
called it (ya know,
it) or at least some thing
like it, but is wasent it
so I can hardly call it it
but in Wyckoff Hall, it didn't matter,
anything that resenbled it, was, well
you know, it. Like going out to coffee.

But if she orders a moo at JPs, forget it,
especially when she wins the songboy auction
and gets you for a dollar, cheaap,
or even holding hands in chapel,
its out of the question. But you can
still do your homework together.

But then you graduate and a few years
later, you like in a big city (or more
likely a suburb of one) and you do like
Kerouac prodicted, we live in houses
and just watch TV all day and forget
that SOMA and IT like in "Brave New World"
ever even existed more like "Drunk Old World"

(did I ever tell you drunk poets
that i live only two miles from a bar where Kerouac,
Cassidy, and Ginsberg used to get drunk? I do, cause Kerouac Married
this chick from my hometown and they got devorsed after
like three weeks or something, which is kinda like
how I quit my job to stay in vienna for three weeks longer,
(really long story by the way))

So anywhay, I guess
we were at the part where we are playing darts
in this old bar where Kerouac and Ginsberg
used to get drunk like we do, and from
the local arcavist, I figured out which booth
those Beat poets drank at, so now
we drink there too,
and we play darts there
like it was going out of style,
and now we are approached
by some self-proclaimed avante-garde
girls from Grosse Pointe (where everything
desearves and extra "E", like "sex E") but we pair up to play darts
like it was as cool as the old
days,

but we didn't really care about darts,
it was just an excuse to make passes
like a bimmer on lakeshore,
and so we did,
and so we did,
like making passes,
was going out of style,
and so we did.

2005-10-30T13:49:00.000-05:00

whatever happened to drink, drink, drink?
write, write, write?
post, post, post?

Stephen Saul on Exhibit in UK

2005-10-20T16:20:00.000-04:00

Just wanted to get the word out! My poem, "Stone Heart," is on exhibit at the Leeds City Art Gallery (UK) from Oct. 20, '05 to Jan. 8, '06. The exhibit is named "Something of the Night: imagining the city, 1875-2005. Painting, Photography, sculpture, new media."

The gallery contacted me by email and asked permission to use "Stone Heart," among works by other artists, in their upcoming exhibit. What a rush! I think I'll get drunk!

You can read the poem on my site at stephensaul.com.

For Will and the beer that’s almost gone

2005-10-20T01:09:00.000-04:00

-light 09
confused the hell out of me
not winning, well past…
lost
too young, being naive
wicked

California – Tom Petty
yah, Smalls
“don’t act like you never got cut off at the bar before 8:00”
not sure if she drinks
she wears flats cause she tall
i wear Jordan’s
waiting for Cody, leaving this place
degenerate
the pig says, “my wife is a slut”
cause I’m cool

Purple Sharpie
running for office
must have been,
Bush’s fault
Act of God – I hear

not feeling empty
touring
petrol lemonade
Kinfolk, we all
we all

Prompts

2005-10-18T11:54:00.000-04:00

Matt's posting made me think...

We all could use some help in the "prompts" department. We haven't really been updating with material to read, critique, help with. Neither has there been much critiquing going on. We're all busy. Yeah. I'm just as guilty. However...

This is what I propose. Let's all go on a bender...

Okay. Now that that has sunk in... I'm actually half-serious. :) This is what I think we should do. As you are able- take some nights, get really really drunk, and then write! This will take some REAL self-control/mind power/discipline, I know... but... one night get drunk on wine. The next, get drunk on vodka... then whiskey... then maybe gin... and of course, beer at some point... keep a journal or log or whatever of what you write. Make sure you know what you wrote while drinking what. Then let the writing settle for a week (as well as your stomach's, livers, etc.). Then go back to it and see what happened. THEN... post! POST! POST! RESPOND! RESPOND! RESPOND!

It's kind of like getting an assignment in Jack's class... only much, much more "liberal arts." :) So? Who's in? I think I'm going to start on Monday night... Expect some phone calls :)

Oh My Gosh Josh, It's Fiction!

2005-10-17T23:36:00.000-04:00

So, as always, the preface. I don't normally write fiction (i am a drunk poet but not drunk at the moment). Not only that, I do not normally write fiction that is dialogue heavy. I feel like I am drowning in a lack of what people should say, and where they are going with the conversation, probably since it lacks plot whatsoever (but then again, so did the entirety of the sun also rises). I think if my dialoue seems like a normal conversation, and I have a couple of scotches, I can get over this whole "Where is it going thing?" Anyone have a roadmap i could borrow?

One beer two beer shakesbeer
Hadji

Outside St. Andrew’s Hall

“Hey, hows it going?” Ben said propping the door to the alley with a cinder block.

“Fine,” said a hipster high school guy who was sitting on a broken bench in the alley next to St. Andrews. He sat smoking a cigarette through a frown.

“Can I bum a light from you?” Ben said with a gesture that showed his own
cigarette in hand. The kid lit the cigarette.

“Mind if I pull up a cinder block?”

“Go ahead.”

“So,” Ben started then exhaled smoke. “What brings you to this fine alley on a Thursday?”

The kid looked up, looked back down and mumbled. “I was supposed to meet someone for the show.”

“But they didn’t come, did they?”

“Or they went in without me, I arrived on time, but they had the tickets. She
probably doesn’t care one way or the other.”

They both sat silent for a minute. The kid pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “You know, things sometimes just shouldn’t happen. I have been waiting to see Death Cab for like a year, and they finally come, and I am going, but it doesn’t happen.”

“I know what you mean, its like that one song where the lines go she looked so beautiful but it didn’t mean a thing to me. Except it is her who doesn’t care this time,” Ben said.

“Yeah, it’s like that, and it hurts. But you just can’t do anything about it, someone who feels like that. I mean, it just doesn’t make sense, so it doesn’t make sense to agonize over it all.”

“You got it. I had something happened to me like that.”
“What happened?” the kid asked.

“Well. I travel a lot. And she didn’t like it and started meeting people while I was gone. I figured as much. But I didn’t do anything about it cause I had convinced myself that she was never important to me. She was, but it was easier to just hide in an excuse.

“I did eventually confront her, but it was too late. And that made things ugly. That’s when we said all the things that shouldn’t have been said and so on. Now a great way to end a great relationship.”

A man stuck his head out the door and said, “Ben, almost time. About ten minutes before Pedro wraps up their set.”

“Thanks Dave,” Ben said from his cinder block.

“So you are Ben, from the band?” the kid asked.

“That’s me.”

“You seem like a normal guy.”

“I am just like any other guy. Listen to music, fall in love, fall out of love, like baseball, usual stuff guys often like.”

“I mean, well, I always think of musicians as larger than life, but you just seem to live.”

2005-10-11T00:20:00.000-04:00

not being in a poetry workshop this semester means i haven't been writing lately. sad, i know. but i have a bunch of things i wrote in prague this summer and i'll just keep posting them periodically until i start writing again. this was an assignment where we were given the first line and had to write from there using some sort of stanzaic form. i think i did alright. feedback please :)

Upstate

Whenever I come here, it comes
to this—you, sipping gin

and tonic in the afternoon; me,
trying to make a metaphor of it all.

I watch watermarks forming
where our glasses meet

wood grain and the table between
us is a tree trunk, partly

hollow. Roots ensnare feet placed
toe-to-toe on wood floor, sap

dripping from inside out, sticky
but not adherent. I keep

looking for leaves, fuzzy buds,
magnolias. We search for branches

strong enough to climb, support
us both. Tree rings count

the days we’ve been reaching
around it, rough bark

peeling, interrupting our
fingers, barely touching.

Bonfire

2005-10-10T21:27:00.000-04:00

i have witnessed
the jagged cliffs of sedona
open wide
like a leprous hand
and reach upward
to a burning sky
and i have seen there
the moon's brooding face
like the face of g-d
and i have wept there
i have died there
and lived again
in haggard shadow

i have drank
from the waters of babylon
a jewish man
an arab man
a free man
a slave man
a saint
a prophet
annointed
martyred
crucified and resurrected

i have stood
at the wind blown doors
of empty temples
heard the cries
of mulahs priests rabbis
echo
from floor to ceiling
i have seen their ghosts
like limp rags
sat in the silence
of their vestiges

i have seen the fear
in soldiers' eyes
and looked away
and i have seen it
in the stiffness of their stride
i have felt their courage
their conviction
i have wept with them
and for them
at their gravesides
i have stood silent there
with their families
been in their hallowed homes
touched their cherished things
i have drank their whiskey and wine
listened to their stories
told by women who loved them
and i have sat where the tide
rolls heavy
the sky electric
glad to be free of them
glad to be alone at last
in the wondrous bliss of nothingness

i have seen the man who cannot hear
the man who cannot speak
the blind man the madman
the prisoner of his birth
i have read about them
in all the holy books
the expiation that is their suffering
the exquisite blessings
that await them
in the distant arms of g-d

i have shouted at it
laughed at it
from the rooftops of flood waters
drank it away with port wine
fled from it with mahler whitman
like solomon
i have written of it
from the ruins of night
only to sit
spent on my throne
in the early light of dawn

and i have stood
upon their parapets
amid their spears and arrows
raging like a madman
only to sit dumb
upon the smoldering fields
where their fallen lay
and then flee to the forest
thick with fallen leaves
a breathless fugitive
my bonfire
striving with the darkness
flashing like neon
across my hoary face

stephensaul.com

The first in a while

2005-10-05T16:12:00.000-04:00

I haven't been writing much lately, or rather I haven't been writing at all lately, but just the other day I had a bit of inspiration creep into me after reading through Andrea Cleary's chap book and this is what came out.

As always, it isn't the rosiest of poems, but I like it (that doesn't mean that Andrea's chap book was depressing, in fact it was quite the opposite). Of course feedback and comments are greatly appreciated...

The Closet

I’ll hang my dreams
in the closet,
in between the grey
suit that doesn’t fit
and the tattered shirt
you bought me in Amsterdam.
They’ll drip India
and starry nights
to the floorboards below,
emanating aromas of confusion
until dry and worn-out.

I meant it when I said I love you,
but the words floated
in the silence, bouncing
off the screaming tea kettle
and resting in your still-warm shoes
where they mingled
with the soft beams of sun
that paint the radiators.

I’ll sleep,
haunted by winter,
wrapped in the cruelty of being
alone, the fear of being loved. I’ll taste
my own blood
as it swirls around the wine glass,
filled with hints of Bread Crusts, Train Rides,
and Sandalwood -

and I’ll hold your hand as I dream,
for what else is there
to keep me warm
until December; to sew together
the three pieces
of my heart that sit ignored
on the shelf in the closet.

out of a sad time...

2005-09-15T17:51:00.000-04:00

comes this. give this a read, give me feedback. i want this to grow as a poem, but i'm too close to it right now. feedback would be very helpful right now. thanks.
p.s. this is the first poem i've written on a napkin in a long time...

I left it in the
Diner booth
or
Our last cup of coffee

Two eggs-scrambled-
home frieds and toast, half
eaten. The Regulars
filter in as the coffee
drip
drip
drops.

The wall mirror tells me
that I hunch. I sit
straighter.

Everyone here wishes
they were someplace else.

In a moment, you will
step out of the country
but my feet will
remain planted under
this table where I
will ask for a warm-
up and two more creamer.

2005-09-11T13:39:00.000-04:00

hey guys... i'm trying to gather a few pieces to submit to roosevelt's literary magazine (www.roosevelt.edu/oyezreview in case anyone else is interested in submitting things too!) this is one of the poems i wrote in prague for an assignment. any feedback for revision? need to expand? better title ideas?...

After the Iron Curtain; Flashback

His wife grows flowers, yellows
and reds, on their blue windowsill, tucks

one into his lapel as he leaves
for work, nearly retired and running

late. Boarding the metro, his freckled hand
in tweed left pocket finds no ticket. No

time. He sits, rides backwards, avoids
eye contact and clutches black

leather briefcase, compressing
the cracking fabric, wrinkling

enclosed papers. He watches
for inspectors, for secret police, tries

to hide behind a soft smile and
a red begonia.

Piss Off!!!

2005-08-30T10:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Headline's Read:

2005-08-29T16:49:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-25T22:34:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-08-25T16:50:00.000-04:00

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?

DPS meeting

2005-08-17T16:20:00.000-04:00

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.

More political ranting

2005-08-09T16:49:00.000-04:00

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.

Great Poetry Posting Site

2005-08-06T23:24:00.000-04:00

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

Summer Commencement

2005-08-04T04:00:00.000-04:00

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

Tobacco Row by Stephen Saul

2005-08-03T16:19:00.000-04:00

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

a poem with love from prague

2005-08-02T22:21:00.000-04:00

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.

When the Evenings are Silent

2005-07-27T10:42:00.000-04:00

Watching the moon
over the lip of a wine glass,
feeling the grass
below my feet, sleeping
at the feet of a giant dune,
the evenings are silent.

When I can't sleep
I listen to cars passing
on the avenue, there is silence
in their tread
and passangers
stare at buildings passing by
each with an untold story.

On the fourth of July
we watch fireworks
where silence takes off
its clothes between our oohs.

Mornings where a husband
makes coffee, a wife
finishes the crossword puzzle.

At work, in the closure
of a long meeting, people
chat regarding summer plans
or weekend yachting trips
up to the "old club."

In sanctuaries across
the world, people mourn the living
people celebrate the dead, confessing
in silence, the many sins of many
people.

Somewhere in the plains
wipers sweep the drizzle
off the windshield, like
waving goodbye to the fields
of crops practicing a gospel
of silence.

A man slips a paper
into a file, soon
forgotten due to an account
we now call silent.

Looking across the restaurant
I eavesdrop on the couples,
but in one corner, there is no
conversation. Years from now,
with moments of regret and
nostagia for something misplaced
between lovers, they'll probably
pass this restaurant and remember
savoring the flavors, the passions,
and finally the lack of dialogue, which
resulted in the loudest conversations
a pair of unmoving lips
ever experienced, broken
only by a kiss, and one of them
turning out the light
before sleep.

The Stone Dream by Stephen Saul

2005-07-23T21:50:00.000-04:00

i dreamed
i was a wooden horse
a gift to trojans
and then
a broken pale
on a wooden step

i dreamed
i was a poem shredded
scattered like waste
in abandoned rail yards

i dreamed
i was a whore a saint
a drag queen a wild thing
lost found confused enlightened

i dreamed
the stone dream
where a bad wind rages
our city streets
leaving our young men
to howl in ruins of stone
and to scream obscenities
in the flesh and blood
of birth and hard-on
only to weep
the tears of mothers
and of madmen
against mausoleum walls
in shadows of bronzed glory

once again the beast wanted nothing
but the death of everything we love

i dreamed
the dream of wise men
old
long suffering
who sit like death on their balconies
at twilight
and vouchsafe the eternal flame of silence

and i dreamed
the dream of wild horses
that rage hill and valley
where rings of pale fire
ignite the starless night

i dreamed
the waking dream
god in the darkness
impenetrable silence
fucking myriad of names
words of blasphemy
spilled like water from my trembling lips
i have worhipped in all YOUR temples
now come die in mine

and i dreamed
the night dream
old men rising
from the neon shadows
to stand lonely sentinels
at deserted gates

i dreamed
the dreams
of starry-eyed dreamers
on the subways
and the sidewalks
and the ferries
from brooklyn to the golden gate
where the steam rises
and the waters swell
and the sweaty masses press
only to weep
in the end
with the young men
and the old men
the mothers
and their daughters
all quiet
all hands interlaced
in candlelit fields of night

stephensaul.com

DPS Event: August 28

2005-07-22T13:21:00.000-04:00

Jackie Bartley and Jack Ridl are reading at The Fenn Valley Winery on Sunday August 28 between 2-4pm. It's very casual, come and go as you please, fill your glass, settle in under the vine covered patio. We hope we get to see you there.

Jackie and Jack and the gang at The Fenn Valley Winery

I'll offer to drive from Holland. DPSers, let's hang out!

I dream of wine and vineyards

2005-07-09T20:28:00.000-04:00

When Sophie Returns Home

Moving the barrels will require
her support, and bottling
syrah will change my life with her
and in the evenings
we'll sit with two
glasses on the stone table I made
in the rear orchard,
under the trees we planted
in our youth. Our parents
will be spirits by then
and returning from college
in California, Sophie might
feel them in the trees,
the vines and hear their
breathe on the wind. She'll
notice the leaves talk
to one another and occassionally
to us, and the ivy
growing on the fence
recalls the evenings
they sat here on the south
facing slopes
looking for nothing
in the green of the earth
and the blue of the water.

Maybe she'll hear the stories
passing through the rustle,
but by then I'll have forgotten
how to listen and when I pass
all the land becomes hers.
She might realize that the land
never blonged to us, that really,
we belonged to the land.

2005-07-09T17:58:00.000-04:00

I've really missed poetry workshops, and tried to form a reading group back when more of us still lived in Holland. I would still love to form something like this if enough of us would be willing to commit--but, our numbers are dwindling. So short of that, I was wondering what any of you thought of an active, long-distance "workshop." I know we have this site, but I know I don't always post really rough, or personal, poems here because let's face it, it's public. It's not the dungeon. It's not looking at all of you across those tables and knowing we're in a safe space. So I was thinking we could either electronically swap, or even (my ideal format) we could mail a few poems at a time to whoever's interested and committed.

Maybe it'd be too much work. But I've missed the active sharing and supporting and such. The DPS blog is a great way to keep a collective journal and share, but I guess I really do want marks on paper, stacks of poetry. I like actual comments written on actual pages, and I personally respond better that way. And a year until grad school workshops is a long time to wait.

Which, by the way, I'm applying to MFA programs. It's official. I have to really get my butt in gear, but I'm incredibly excited and realizing more and more that this is necessary and wonderful and welcome.

high hopes, false starts

2005-07-08T07:01:00.000-04:00

A first draft (what had to be expressed, you know how it goes). Feel free to point out what's not clear. I've noticed my poetry has become more...expository? Though it's always had a bit of that bend. I don't want to lose images, but then, these moments needed telling more than they needed illustrating for now. I feel like there's either a section missing, or that this is two poems. I don't want to kill the darlings just yet.

...
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
-Stars

Perhaps there is still redemption.
Tonight, you fall asleep in another
time zone, and I remain in your future.

There are fears I can’t name. I want to tell you
I need you by my side, but I have only
just learned your last name. We kissed

under the stars on the shore of Lake Michigan,
but a kiss is no mere indulgence these days.
My mother asked if you were a believer.

I told her I believe
I want to bring you home,
because your sins

are only the same as I've hidden
from her all these years.
I spoke to you in Spanish, pressed up

against the edges of our borders.
Your response, quick and fluent,
surprised us both. Before, you claimed

discomfort with our parents’ tongue.
I am waiting on this precipice for your holy
fire to anoint me, and I will speak again in tongues.

Happy Fourth!!!

2005-07-05T13:28:00.000-04:00

Hey Hey Drinkers...
Happy 4th! For those of you who don't understnd this wonderful holiday, it's a chance to be thankful for all wonderful things American, such as hot dogs, brats, beer, potato salad, fireworks (via China), beer, swimming, picnics, family, friends, and all that other wonderful stuff. I hope you all enjoyed the day, and I hope you take the time to reflect on your civic duty to the country at some point...remember, there will be another chance to vote soon, only four short months away there will be voting all over the country...PAY ATTENTION AND VOTE! If you don't think these local elections are important, you are stupid as fuck. The fact is, these elecions have a profound impact on how things like education and transportation and much much more work in your state and your city/town. Beyond that, many of those running for public office now, will be attempting to run for public office on the national stage in the future, if you think Clinton started his political career as the leader of the free world...you are just dead wrong. So pay attention now, and you wont be caught off gaurd then. Let's go generation Y...get off your fat asses and vote for once. No more of this 14% bullshit. Hoorah!!! USA!!!

Inaugural Post...

2005-07-05T09:27:00.000-04:00

Drunk Poets' Society:
Thank you very much for your kind invitation. Thank you also to Karen for such a fine introduction. Although, I now have something to live up to! I welcome anyone's comments, criticism, or suggestions. I also have a xanga site that I periodically post poems, pictures, or opinions if you are interested. The adress is: www.xanga.com/ir0ny

Here are a couple poems that I have written:

Fasten Seatbelts For Descent

I'm going back to meet myself
So he can tell me how it felt,
To be the one without wings.
Yelling into the depths of the gravel pit,
Voices echoing, echo, again.
Reflecting off the granular memories
Piled high in the depths of his mind.
Circumstancial consequence, irreversible.
Fading into an air of normality, take a breath
Not enough to trigger the alarm to
Whisper its plea, smoke, no smoking please.
It calls out to the foolish,
But I fly with Icarus, transcontinental.
Take a picture for the memories, but as for now,
"Attention passengers, this is your pilot speaking, we will be flying at 37,000 feet."

Here is a poem I wrote that I was featured in the Holland Sentinel for reading at the Herrick District Library.

As the Sun Shone Down He Professed, "Scrabble King I am"

Shadows long, fingers bent
Prodding, asking, growing still.
Hopes of summer erased as the
Temperature retreats unarmed,
Back to the way things were before.
Things that wishing can't erase,
But too many of them leave to me
Pencil lacking the
Eraser, my saving grace.
Grin and bear no more
Re-do's or mulligan’s.
Look it up in the dictionary, a word with y and z
Scrabble King I am.
Live my life like the game
Formulate, calculate, rearrange
Until I find the perfect words
The simplest, but score so low
With only an:
I love you
And then, the winning words revealed
I know you see the shadows too
And feel the chill upon your cheek
The wind chime sounds, the grass is already
Greener than before, summer hopes restored
Stay, smile, Scrabble King I am
And I love you.

=adam

Introducing.....

2005-07-02T12:25:00.000-04:00

Adam Fox: the newest member of our DPS blogging community.

Adam was one of my stellar creative writing students at Hamilton High last fall. Since then he has graduated and become a friend, fellow writer, and an inspiration to me.

What you'll first notice about Adam is that he sees the world as an artist and never gives up searching for the little things that make life meaningful. He has a poignant sense of word play, an appreciation for shift in perspective, a skillful grasp on irony, and a genuine artistic spirit. Adam is always thinking and always viewing the world through the lenses of photography and writing.

On top of that, his personality is delightful and fun. Enjoy his work and everything he will add to the DPS blog. :)

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

2005-06-30T11:32:00.000-04:00

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.

fifty goals for a poet

2005-06-15T23:28:00.000-04:00

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.

two short poems, and one stumped ktb

2005-06-06T00:30:00.000-04:00

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?...
*
Miscommunication

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.
*
Untitled

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.

It's never too late for poetry blitz

2005-05-20T03:50:00.000-04:00

I spent the night of poetry blitz sleeping in a small trailer in the very small coastal town of Ngunguru (noongooroo), New Zealand. While there was no chance to post poems all over everything in sight, I felt I would be doing the DPS a disservice if I let the night slip by without a hint of poetry...so I wrote one poem, and shared it with my travel mate (Kris) and since late is better than never, I thought I would post it for you folk now that I am back stateside. It may seem familiar, it was written after Jack's poem..."After reading Dom someone or other...Benedictine Abbot". Please give me comments and suggestions.

Poetry Blitz

Centuries of carefully crafted words
will float effortlessly off my fingertips.
They will nestle into walls, skylights
and coffee makers. Glare
through windows, slip
under doors, rummage
through drawers filled with confidential files.

With the first breath of sunrise
they will twirl and dance with trees,
gently caressing the tips
of each leaf as they burst
into the air like seeds
with the gentle exhale
of the wind. Come night fall
they will stumble

through doorways on the heels
of alcoholic moonlight.
My words will splatter their blood
across the grassy lawns, soaking
through to the very soul of youth.
They will march down main street
in broken haphazard unity
declaring captivating music. My words
will be everywhere.

They will hide
in the sizzle of scrambled eggs,
they will be the last bits of paint
that cling to the brush, the first
sip of beer, the curl of cigarette smoke.
They will stick to the souls
of your feet, and roll down your cheek
with your salty tears. You will find them
in the wag of the dogs tail, dripping
icicles, ice cream cones (double scoop),
and the white lines that race
by on the highway.

They will be slipped
into the warmth under the covers
in the chill of winter, wrapped around shoelaces,
and strapped to the bottom
of swingsets. They will echo
through empty hallways
and forgotten valleys, cling
to wet mops and peal from bell towers.
They will be the bits of cookie that stick
to the pan, dry and burned on the edges,

and when you're not paying attention
they will slip into your evening cup of tea,
glide into your mouth, and remind you
of how your father used to kiss your mother
on the lips
in the kitchen
for no apparent reason.

Drunk Poet Retreat

2005-05-19T18:26:00.000-04:00

Friends,
June 3-5 could work well for my apartment and the sponsor. Later in June becomes difficult since i will be in Jamaca on a mission trip. If june will not work, the offer stands for July and August!
Peace and love,
Hadji the Reknird Eniw
(sorry, had too much in anticipation of the retreat

Amazing What Dancing Can Do To People

2005-05-19T17:32:00.000-04:00

Whatever Happens, it is Left on the Dance Floor
For G and M

The band will strike
up Frank and feet
start moving and you'll
swing through
the song, forgeting
that you were even
dancing. After
one you'll enjoy
piking: the feel
of his hand
holding you below
your shoulder
like a pendilum,
smoothly sliding
suede soles
barely catching
in time to cruise
through another
West Coast song. After
two songs, you'll
feel each others heat,
and the lights
will slip by
like searchlights looking
for a fugitive
on the floor
and when you
draw her back
from a rock step
she will step in close
and hold your shoulder
tight, like
tucking into a shadow
to hide.

Then the ring
on his finger
will slip faster
than the tempo
of the latin
break session. Soon
something kinetic will build
and hardly let go, even when
you send her,
something electric will remain
fingers to fingers,
eyes to eyes,
and she'll spin,
again and again
with you around
swing away from the lights
of Club Atomic Dog,
late on Thursdays
when someone waits at home,
asleep with
a book in hand,
the bedside lamp
still and quiet
in a cold queen size bed.

2005-05-19T09:55:00.000-04:00

These moments from Toothpaste For Dinner had me laughing out loud in the office.

It's Been A While

2005-05-17T15:29:00.000-04:00

Hi, guys! It's been a while! I've been constructing a new website. Check it out, especially "New Poetry" and "Flash Fiction," at stephensaul.com

Oh, and my new book, "the wind is a blind man tapping," is available through online booksellers. It's actually doing pretty well. Visit my site for more information.

Truly,
Stephen Saul

Another Booze Inspired Poem About Divinity and Love--Sort of

2005-05-07T16:42:00.000-04:00

The truth I Tell as Lies

Nostalgic for the day
my wife wakes me in my old
leather armchair and takes
the scotch and soda
from my tired hand to walk
me to bed. We'll
undress me and she'll
crawl in tight and with grace
will say how good I smell despite
cologne being a bottle of Cutty Sark,
or highland single malt. She'll
say she loves me in the same tone
as when we spoke about my secondhand lovers
and her affair with the chemist.
Then I'll know there is a sin
for which hail marys won't save,
so I confess.
But the lies I regret
as truth told in first person
in some pub in Derry,
jobless, pennyless, happy
that the time to write is consumed
by her love are all simply nostalgia
for tommorrow that fade
when she pulls the string
on my bedside lamp. And in bed
we lament on the outcome of all this,
and once again, confess
our love
before passing
into unconsciousness.

Drunk Poets Retreat

2005-05-05T09:58:00.000-04:00

This summer Red Hat Micro-Winery, the unofficial wine of drunk poets, is sponsering a retreat in metro-Detroit. All Drunk Poet Society members and friends are welcome.

Itinerary
Friday evening will include a wine tasting and poetry reading and insprirational speech once Hadji is drunk. Local bar hop is optional.

Saturday morning (aka Noon) will feature a pancake and omlette breakfast with coffee to cure hangovers OR the option to eat at the little diner at the end of my road. Workshops will follow through the afternoon. A break in the workshops for a tour of the Edsel Ford Mansion is available for approx $10. Saturday we'll hit a cajun restaurant and continue the evening with fun and poetry (of course).

The accomadations will be crampt (Matt's 850 sq. ft. flat). Whoever brings the most food gets choice of bed or futon and choice of companion. Kitchen facilities are excellent and includes a wonderful cook (questionable) fantastic wine cellar (definately NOT questionable with 38 label choices and close to 100 bottles), a full service bar (i even have martini shakers), and a serene environment with fish tanks, plant life, and view of lake (sort of).

Dates depend on interested parties, availability, Matt's work schedual.
For reservations call 313-550-8415
Visit our sponser's website at www.redhatwine.com

Much love,
Matt

Hullo!

2005-04-28T00:34:00.000-04:00

It's been ages since I even looked at this thing...sorry ya'll. But no worries, I have been drinking my share to make up for it. Just wanted everyone to know that I am still here, and miss you all. Love you all...and wrote a poem for Poetry blitz night which I will try and post sometime soon, if I get the chance. Until then, I hope everyone is enjoying their drinks, and at least thinking in poetry now and then. Much love from down under.

The month of MAY is BOOZE DRIVE MONTH

2005-04-27T23:19:00.000-04:00

I'd like to raise a motion that we use the 33% of our goal on booze. We can divide it out on based on numbers of posts. The more the posts, the more to drink! I think this will be great incentive to post more

Though things like: DID YOU HEAR WE HAVE A NEW POPE?

Really shouldn't fly...

miss ya,
JL

2005-04-27T12:56:00.000-04:00

New poem from Siddie! I haven't written in so long... anything decent that is... and I would really love some feedback from you experts. I am also graduating in a week, so any advice you have in that department would be appreciated as well!! :)

walk home. 4 am in my
pocket. rain. streetlight. smells
like doughnuts. alone except
10-speed biker, darkly dressed. this
is where I find you. spanish
guitar, las canciones mas tristes. I
return. hands in your pockets. fingers
fidgeting with forgotten palabras.
invented amor. I imagine this
dewy night-morning in Cuba, walking same
shining streets. mundo nuevo valiente.
your face there too. I reach
el extremo. you will always
walk on. solamente junto,
junto, solamente.

I've never used a different language in poems before. I don't even speak Spanish. I was going somewhere else with the poem and then I turned on the Motorcycle Diaries soundtrack (you all should see the movie, it's phenomenal) and decided the poem needed a more beautiful language.
If this helps the reading, here are the translations.
las canciones mas tristes = the saddest songs
palabras = words
amor = love (obviously)
mundo nuevo valiente = brave new world (I've also been reading The Tempest a lot)
el extremo = the end
solamente junto, junto, solamente = alone together, together, alone

Donald Miller Quote

2005-04-10T01:56:00.000-04:00

This is from the author's note in a book called Blue Like Jazz. Because sometimes life doesn't resolve....

* "I never liked Jazz music because Jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.
After that I liked Jazz Music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself."*

...Love to the DPS -- I miss you guys!

Haruki Murakami

2005-04-07T09:09:00.000-04:00

"There must be communist dentists in the world, but the whole lot of them could probably fit in four or five buses."

Haruki Murakami
South of the Border West of the Sun

Portraits of the Coffeehouse Patrons

2005-04-07T08:59:00.000-04:00

Welcome to The Galley Cafe where the most diverse patronage could establish a community in the place. Conversations happen between complete strangers in ways a typical Starbucks never could. People become friends without ever learning one another's names. This is the "third place."

* A student sits revising a paper with a latte.

* A Greek Orthodox priest sits with a library book and the house blend.

* A woman sits with the morning paper and her cappuchino.

* A builder talks through a project with a client and a light breakfast and what smells like hazelnut.
* Two Thai business people dressed entirely in black get lattes to go.
* The group of men who meet every Thursday drink French Roast and tease the man who drinks decalf as they grip about the direction America's youth are taking the country. If only they could be in office.
* A former resident is back in town, drinking outside, smoking.

What fun!

2005-04-02T02:03:00.000-05:00

So after a long island, a nice shot and a beer, I joined my fellow poets in the blitz the other night.

Let me tell you....it was fun.

We successfully evaded the custodian in Lubbers while others got caught in Phelps. :)
And then we ran around campus taping poems to trees and signs (in my tipsy state of mind I kept taping them to trees and then yelling 'look! it's poet tree!').

Eventually, we ended up with more tape than poems....so we, uh, double and triple enforced them. Trust me, whoever took some of them down must have taken quite some time doing it.

I wish I could do that every night.

2005-04-02T01:48:00.000-05:00

This was the first year that I actually saw poetry up after 11 am.
Well, at least outside.
It seemed as though the grounds crew was a little slow on the picking up process.

That made me happy.

"At Hope, poetry is no joke... or is it?"

2005-04-01T19:03:00.001-05:00

Friday, April 01, 2005
By Myron Kukla
The Grand Rapids Press
HOLLAND -- When Hope College students and faculty walked across campus this morning, they were greeted by a blizzard of poetry.

Penned by the famous and the relatively unknown, the poems were posted on doors, windows and classroom walls. They hung from bushes, were tucked into library books, taped to flagpoles and even stuck next to the cafeteria's lunch menu.

It's called the Poetry Blitz, an April Fool's Day joke that has become a spring tradition among Hope students in poetry and creative writing classes.

"The idea is to take poetry from the classes to the masses," said Glenn Lester, a Hope senior who participated in today's sixth-annual event. "It's a magical feeling when everybody shows up on campus in the morning and sees all these poems and you know you've had a part in it."

The literary event was inspired by creative writing and poetry professor Jack Ridl.

"I take credit but no responsibility for everything," said Ridl, who prefers to remain a Blitz bystander. "I stay home on this night because I wouldn't want to see anyone I know doing this. I might have to report them."

Ridl, though, takes pride in his students spreading iambic pentameter and free verse around campus.

"Spreading poetry ... brings a little bit of beauty and gentleness to our crazy world," said Ridl, who has taught at Hope for 35 years.

But not everyone is as happy with the aftermath. Campus maintenance workers usually are sent out early to pull down as much as they can.

"Because the maintenance crews take the poems down, part of the fun is hiding them in places that are not obvious, but where they will be found in a day, week or maybe next year," said English major Audrey Young.

Young said she is not afraid to reveal her connection to the group. "What would they charge me with? The unlawful distribution of poetry?"

© 2005 Grand Rapids Press.

One year ago...

2005-03-31T22:02:00.000-05:00

I sent out this email a few minutes ago. Some of you weren't on the list, and I thought it appropriate to share with all:

poets~

i'm sitting here in my apartment in schenectady, new york and thinking to myself, why the hell am i in schenectady, new york? i should be in kenya. or vietnam. or at least, in holland, michigan.

it was one year ago at this time exactly that we were in the brewery. phil was already well on his way, and i had a bag filled with poems by God-knows-who. Then Phil got a concussion. We broke into at least four buildings. Put up a banner in Dewitt. Plastered Lindsay's car with poems. Ate pancakes at IHOP. Some of us even went out to Jack's house. Who DOES that? :)

I want you all to know, that on the evening of the 2005 blitz, I am fondly thinking of all of you. I miss you all very dearly and think of you all often, even though I don't call as often as I should. That's my fault. I'll work on it, but no promises.

I wrote a poem yesterday. Felt good. And as I'm writing this, I feel like sharing it with you all. I think it speaks to our regrets... we shouldn't live with any. It's still very rough, but it says what it needs to. So, here ya go:

Icarus’ Last Thoughts

Melted wax and singed
feathers lost their grip when
he flew too close to the
sun. But the cooling breeze,
as Icarus plummeted to
his death, did not serve
as an adrenaline rush, as
sky-divers must often feel.

Rather, a cold indifference
to a father’s warning was replaced
by sadness. Fear and anguish
were furthest from his mind.

Sadness-
-never again tasting chocolate;
the lost feeling of a woman’s kiss; fermented
grapes from a wineskin; the salty taste
of the air on the seaside; butterflies;
rain;
the first new grass
of spring.

I hope this email finds you all doing well. If any of you are stir crazy, a lonely guy in Schenectady, NY could use a crazy visitor with a tendencey towards drunkeness. I'm going to go have a piece of chocolate cake and then pour myself a drink of something, take it out to the front porch, and toast the poets. living, dead, in hiding, wherever we are. i toast you all. live, live, live and burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles.

i love you all.
love,
~kyle (i have not yet BEGUN to drink) del

Le Blitz Poesie

2005-03-29T09:47:00.000-05:00

Sassafras--

THE BLITZ HAS SPREAD WORLD WIDE!!!!!! See below!!!!

You will be joined by poets from all over in the magical town of Nantes, France!!!!!

Remember--$&^_%_*%_@ FJ$($&Q)$#((

Kayak

Subject: Le Blitz Poesie...coming up soon in FRANCE!!! Take part in it!

O Jack, Dungeon Master and Poetic Guru,
O D(runk) P(oet) S(ociety) / Creative Writing crew,
O Poets,
O Friends,

Here I cometh to bring you an incredible message :

this year, the Poetry Blitz shall go worldwide.

And you –yes, YOU !– should (will !) partake.

So some of you might be wondering, waddahellizthePoetryBlitz ? !

Answer : a wonder-ful word-vendetta ; a piece of poetic terrorism ; a gansta drive-by shooting of rhymes ; a nocturnal Happening ; a multiple pamphlet for smashing metaphors and silly similes ; a scattered demonstration to shake the comatose morning masses into an explosion of poetry-consciousness !

(Hmmm, I’m getting a little carried away.)

Soooo the great Leader and Designer of this brilliant hymn to poetry and randomness is the world-famous Jack 2 da Ridlllllll, who teaches ‘Creative Writing : Poetry’ at Hope College, MI, USA, and who does it in a pretty damn good way, too. Beyond being the best prof ever, beyond making us push the limits of our little creativity, he also makes his lucky students spread the poetic gospel on 2 da streets (yo) for everyone to enjoy –especially Hope’s hung up administration, who is still trying to come up with a way to put him in jail.

Basically, every year, at night (yay! Night), in the limbo-hours between March 31^st and April 1^st, faithful to Jack’s appeal, all wannabe-poets roam the campus, putting up 20 poems each (or more), all over the walls, trees, buildings, rooftops, the chapel, cats, in mailboxes, bushes, the President’s flowerpots, etc. etc.

What you get when the sun rises, is a usually dull place waking up to a world of poesie, wondering what the hell happened (“Those beret-ed /caped crazies struck again!”), sometimes actually reading the poems!, anti-poetic nazis ripping them off and dumping them (so sad…), and bigots getting real offended and saving them as proofs for an obscenity trial (hmm that text about masturbation on the Chapel’s door, ahahha).

Anywayz, last year I promised my dear teacher/guru that I would import this funtastic event to France…and this is exactly what I intend to do this Thursday! I already gathered a squad of poetic terrorists(hollaaaaa to the Nantes people on the list), and we’re getting ready to hit the streets of downtown Nantes with an invasion of worldwide poems in French, English, Spanish, whateva, just after March 31^st’s open mic poetry slam @ the trendiest spot in Nantes, le Lieu Unique. I’m so excited!

NOW, as I know you’re a bunch of jolly people, I thought you might find it cool to participate. And you don’t even have to come to France! What would be really FAWSOME would be that YOU send me poems via email / suggestions / web links. They can be about anything, in any language, they can come from your own imagination, from your favorite anthology, from your roomate’s trashcan, I don’t care. Me and my crew will print them out and put them up, along with all our own texts. And then on Thursday afternoon, you can imagine us French and American crazy Beatnicks roaming the old, old streets of our antique Fwensh city, putting up YOUR poems at 3am (local time, local color)!

Would not that be sweet? Come on!

DPS, and all the friends who gave me poems: you got no choice, mweheheheh, cuz I still have all your kickass texts here, just need to make some copies :).

Much love,

Vive la Poesie! Vive le Blitz Mondial! Vive Jack Ridl!

*~Lil’Delphine~*

p.s: special shout-outs to the 04 and 05 Holland Poetry Blitzers! (will they have dogs and guards in the cafeteria this time??)

poems about art

2005-03-26T12:41:00.000-05:00

Ok kids, pull out all your 19th Century Poetry knowledge... I need help. For my lit class (titled 19th C. American poetry) I have to create an anthology of poetry all related to a theme and write a paper on it.

So I've decided on the theme Ekphrasis, art about art. I need to compile a number of 19th Century American poems written about art. They can be about poetry/writing, about other poets/writers, about paintings/other visual artwork, about music, about dance... I can even stretch the limit a little and include poems about architecture, etc. Anything that you consider to be a poem about art. They can be be famous or more obscure poets. It doesn't matter, anything goes. And I'd love to include images when applicable.

I found a few in my textbook, just by flipping through the index of titles and first lines. But if you can think of any, I would be more grateful. Thanks poets!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2005-03-17T20:30:00.000-05:00

What are all you poets up to today?

Citizenship is Forever Lost

2005-03-09T07:13:00.000-05:00

<<<<< >>>>>
Last night we met as normal. Levante stood cloaked in an overcoat, leaning on the Anonymous Statue. We waited briefly before Keraly, Sandor, and Mitvoszh arrived. No one of us uses names; none of us bring pens. Our tasks are too valuable to risk in any way but by memory, and when a time comes that one does not arrive, their presense remain in memory as well. That was how it was.

It seemed only appropriate to meet by the anonymous statue whose artist, date of construction, commissioner, and meaning were all anonymous. The only know fact was its location in the corner of the Szchenie Park near the heroes' square in Pest.

Gather, we walked to a safe place, a friend's cafe that had an underground room whose staircase was hidden by the floor panels. Here we exchanged information.

Lev provided information about the new laws the Commisar was passing affecting travel across the Chain Bridge and it would affect the way we distributed information. We met mostly to exchange mathmatical proofs and theories which we could no longer openly study at the Universitie where our offices were, but that no students could attend due to the chains on the gates.

Lev worked with the commisar to develop math for industrial projects. New buildings, factories, bridges all needed a mathmatician to make them stable. Lev was never asked to take his important job, and arguing over his tasks is not a though to even ponder. He produces the way the Trufalut factory produces automobiles: effectively with no questions asked. It was for the good of the highest order, the people.

The rest of us had seemingly mundane careers, if you could call them such. But the real career happened once a month like this, furthering our knowledge together for our own selfish motives that the regime could easily take away if we were discovered or if a neigbor learned of our studies. No proof could be done by paper, first for fear of discovery, but also the amount of paper we would use would draw suspision if we explained all the letters to family we write. But with time the practice became a custom, and a pint of Dreher would loosen the mind enough the forget the regime and practice the life we missed of challenging theorms in the Three Ravens Cafe.

Time standing still never happened though. Fifty five minutes was about all we could afford so we worked quickly to memorize what we continue to study till next month when result brough certain fame among friends, and certain scrutinies over accuracy. But Lev suggested groups like ours were being discovered, and penalties for operating independant of the Commisar's approval would bring ultimatums too risky for our families, yet no one worried about my head the way Imka, Lev's wife, worried about his.
<<<<< >>>>>>

Good friends, I bring you greetings from Budapest. I am exploring the many former commmnuist struggles and the amazingly rich history of literature here. I got drunk in the castle cellar on hungarian wine to bring true poetic honor to the Drunk Poets. I heard this story the other night in a cafe over an Unicum and later some absynthe (which is very bad, very bad, but good if you are a drunk poet). This statue exists and it is said that intellectuals met to meet over politics and literature and science depending on the circle against the will of the Soviet puppet govener.

Three Ravens no longer exists, but was once a hub of intellectualism and is now honored byt the presence of Cafe Ekermann by a plaque, painting and several photos. It was more literary than the others, but the regime closed the cafes in order to avoid people meeting in such manners. It is unlikely many were able to without severe consequences.

The literature here is difficult to imagine, for many of the heroic writers here wer killed in battle or martyered or something of the like. but it is a truly amazing story, when some bits may be pieced together.

May peace and the love and liberty in knowledge keep you these days and always.
Hadji

Hunter S. Thompson

2005-03-04T00:43:00.000-05:00

I don't usually post political stuff here (and I won't make it a habit) but I thought this was perfect for this group.

He knew who I was, at that time, because I had a reputation as a writer. I knew he was part of the Bush dynasty. But he was nothing, he offered nothing, and he promised nothing.

He had no humor. He was insignificant in every way and consequently I didn't pay much attention to him.

But when he passed out in my bathtub, then I noticed him. I'd been in another room, talking to the bright people. I had to have him taken away.

-- Hunter S. Thompson, on meeting Dubya at a Super Bowl party in Houston in 1974

Via

2005-03-03T10:08:00.000-05:00

Frank & Ernest

dps, the next avant-garde movement

2005-02-23T23:47:00.000-05:00

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-

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

2005-02-22T20:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Relapse

2005-02-20T01:02:00.000-05:00

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

Poet's Leap Riesling

2005-02-17T15:04:00.000-05:00

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

2005-02-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

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

poetry on the web

2005-02-16T18:44:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-02-07T01:21:00.000-05:00

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.

DPS @ Stein Night, October 2004

2005-02-06T23:05:00.000-05:00

all photos courtesy Daniel Morrison

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

it's 3 a.m. and only appropriate

2005-02-03T02:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Jack in the BOX (for the arts)

2005-01-30T22:19:00.000-05:00

Drunk Poets' Society

≈
Aloha, JACK is going to be reading in St. Joseph, my hometown, this weekend at the BOX FACTORY. Its a pretty neat place that used to be a factory that has been renovated into a art center. I'm stuck in Chicago this weekend, but I'd recommend everyone to check it out, and support Jack & the Box Factory for the Arts. Check out there website at: http://www.boxfactoryforthearts.org/
-jl

for the ladies

2005-01-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

Drunk Poets' Society

the wait

It seemed
like years
before
I picked
a bouquet
of kisses
off her mouth
and put them
into a dawn-colored vase
in
my
heart.

But
the wait
was worth it.

Because
I
was
in love.

- richard brautigan

"the bedpost poem"

2005-01-27T01:38:00.000-05:00

So ktb and I were discussing what we fondly refer to as "the bedpost poem," and decided that none of you could go another day without reading it. You might want to be sitting down for this one -- you'll see why...

Parable of the Four-Poster
Erica Jong

Because she wants to touch him,
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him
she keeps silent.
Because she wants to kiss him,
she turns away
& kisses a man she does not want to kiss.

He watches
thinking she does not want him.
He listens
hearing her silence.
He turns away
thinking her distant
& kisses a girl he does not want to kiss.

They marry each other --
a four-way mistake.
He goes to bed with his wife
thinking of her.
She goes to bed with her husband
thinking of him.
--& all this in a real old-fashioned four-poster bed.

Do they live unhappily ever after?
Of course.
Do they undo their mistakes ever?
Never.
Who is the victim here?
Love is the victim.
Who is the villian?
Love that never dies.

...I feel like I got kicked in the stomach every time I read that poem. k's advice of the day: change the ending. do whatever you can to change your ending.

Sea of Absurdity

2005-01-24T11:50:00.000-05:00

(...) I loaded my sacks with strange
stuff and ran down the mountain, across the
desert, and into the Sea of Absurdity.

_______Joan Jobe Smith,
from "Land of a Thousand Dances"

i read some
joan jobe smith
today
a little gerald locklin
on the tube
troops were still dyin'
in EYE RACK
joe brainard was right
"death is a funny thing"
whatever happened
to "three dog night"
"the door"
these new kids
aren't bad
but i've lost
all the really good stuff
artists who said
something
stuff about living
and dying
the ones
who showed you
other people were
FUCKED UP
just like you
they gotta be here
someplace
the janice joplins
the billie holidays
in among the ruins
with the beer bottles
and unopened letters
the shit-stained shorts
and dirty socks
i feel like
some german kid
where in hell
are all the jews

stephensaul.com

Key of E

2005-01-22T14:15:00.000-05:00

koppel
oprah's book club
defining "is"
and h-i-v
9/11 hard-ons
shoved in our face
hairless cunts
and pussy called cake
all burning
burning our eyes
as we kiss
our last
in the jagged shade
of atomic blasts
fire burning fire
i'm a deaf man
in a sea of fire

website: stephensaul.com

Name That Company

2005-01-18T01:14:00.000-05:00

I'm looking for a great name for a new company - mine!

The idea is to have a company that encompasses my consulting business, web and software development, media ventures (hehe, that sounds cool), and whatever else I or my associates decides to do. :)

Comment or email me with suggestions. If I pick your suggestion you'll win something! I'll at least buy you a nice dinner and a bottle of Red Hat wine. Maybe you get cash or something better if the company does well! Silly, stupid, and serious suggestions will be considered!

Requirements? I don't have many:

Keep it simple.
The .com must be available.
Originality is always nice.