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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"

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?

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!

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.

Billy Collins in Muskegon

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?...

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.

my first poem since my thesis

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.

new poet laureate

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.

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!

new blog open for business

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

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

"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

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.

call for submissions!!

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

Question Regarding God and Vodka Tonics

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.