My students are blogging this summer too. I do weekly journals during the school year, but because the summer session is so squeezed in terms of time, I decided to do a blog instead. It also saves paper, and that's a good thing as well. They've done some good stuff here if you want to take a look. Some lazy stuff too, but mostly good :)
And I encourage you to check out Poets for Living Waters, an online collection of poetry motivated by the Gulf oil spill. There is some lovely stuff there, for example these two poems by Sarah Green. I just sent them two poems as well, and would encourage my poet friends to do the same.
Showing posts with label other people's poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other people's poems. Show all posts
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Review of "Mom's Canoe" by Rebecca Foust
I haven't been as diligent about posting my chapbook comments as I planned to be, but I'm right now procrastinating on doing other work, so I'm posting the most recent one. This book resonated profoundly with me; it's set in rural Pennsylvania and both the geography of the land and the issues raised are all so familiar to me from my own life.
Rebecca Foust’s chapbook Mom’s Canoe opens with the lines “You can turn round and round and round/ and always see mountains.” The Alleghenies hover over this collection, they “calve memory from twilight”, they come closer then recede, divide the false from the true, and eventually disappear and “efface into sky” (all quotes from the first poem, “Allegheny Mountain Bowl”). The natural beauty of the land mingles in these poems with post-industrial grit, economic depression, and social ills like alcoholism and domestic abuse. The title poem “Mom’s Canoe” addresses itself to the speaker’s mother and spins a string of achingly lovely images of the canoe itself, the mother’s hard work on land, her easy movement on the water, before ending elegiacally:
I still see you rising from water to sky,
paddle held high, river drops limning its edge.
Brown diamonds catch the light as you lift, then dip.
Parting the current, you slip
silently through the evening shadows.
You, birdsong, watersong, slanting light,
following the river bend, swallowed from sight.”
This blend of the beautiful and the sad, heightened in “Mom’s Canoe” by the fact that the canoe was mentioned in an earlier poem (“Backwoods”) which places the mother in an abusive relationship, typifies the tone of the collection. Foust utilizes rhyme in this and many of her poems, but never in an overbearing way. “Things Burn Down”, a rough-cut villanelle, repeating words rather than full lines, also epitomizes the style of the chapbook. Foust invokes specific family stories, broad socioeconomic commentary, and the physical atmosphere of her upbringing in this poem which questions what might bring her parents back. In this poem and throughout the collection, subject matter, form, and tone all seem to flow from the poet’s “hardscrabble” background and articulate a wry acceptance of both past and present. In “Altoona to Anywhere”, the speaker addresses herself: “Go ahead, aspire to transcend/ your hardscrabble roots…//But when you’ve left it behind you/ may find it still there” and ends the poem with a list of things she can not transcend, concluding beautifully with “the same siren nights pierced/ with stars seeping light, all that/ gorgeous, pitiless song.” The recognition of both beauty and ugliness, love and pain, lift the collection above either simple angst or romantic naturalism; the image left is one of reality with all its contradictions.
Rebecca Foust’s chapbook Mom’s Canoe opens with the lines “You can turn round and round and round/ and always see mountains.” The Alleghenies hover over this collection, they “calve memory from twilight”, they come closer then recede, divide the false from the true, and eventually disappear and “efface into sky” (all quotes from the first poem, “Allegheny Mountain Bowl”). The natural beauty of the land mingles in these poems with post-industrial grit, economic depression, and social ills like alcoholism and domestic abuse. The title poem “Mom’s Canoe” addresses itself to the speaker’s mother and spins a string of achingly lovely images of the canoe itself, the mother’s hard work on land, her easy movement on the water, before ending elegiacally:
I still see you rising from water to sky,
paddle held high, river drops limning its edge.
Brown diamonds catch the light as you lift, then dip.
Parting the current, you slip
silently through the evening shadows.
You, birdsong, watersong, slanting light,
following the river bend, swallowed from sight.”
This blend of the beautiful and the sad, heightened in “Mom’s Canoe” by the fact that the canoe was mentioned in an earlier poem (“Backwoods”) which places the mother in an abusive relationship, typifies the tone of the collection. Foust utilizes rhyme in this and many of her poems, but never in an overbearing way. “Things Burn Down”, a rough-cut villanelle, repeating words rather than full lines, also epitomizes the style of the chapbook. Foust invokes specific family stories, broad socioeconomic commentary, and the physical atmosphere of her upbringing in this poem which questions what might bring her parents back. In this poem and throughout the collection, subject matter, form, and tone all seem to flow from the poet’s “hardscrabble” background and articulate a wry acceptance of both past and present. In “Altoona to Anywhere”, the speaker addresses herself: “Go ahead, aspire to transcend/ your hardscrabble roots…//But when you’ve left it behind you/ may find it still there” and ends the poem with a list of things she can not transcend, concluding beautifully with “the same siren nights pierced/ with stars seeping light, all that/ gorgeous, pitiless song.” The recognition of both beauty and ugliness, love and pain, lift the collection above either simple angst or romantic naturalism; the image left is one of reality with all its contradictions.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Consider this a prequel
to my next chapbook review. We're reading Poems in Conversation and a Conversation this week; it's a collaborative chapbook written by Elizabeth Alexander and Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon. Alexander is reading at Penn State next week, and I've read some of her work before. I've been fairly lukewarm on it, and I remain so after reading the chapbook, but the poems by Van Clief are totally fascinating! Here is a link to an interesting little interview with her: http://es-la.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=130011494254
Oh, and she's a Penn State MFA grad :)
Oh, and she's a Penn State MFA grad :)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Review of "At Night, the Dead" by Lisa Ciccarello
Stop #3 on the Read Write Poem Virtual Book Tour. I know the admin folks at RWP are on Pacific time, so to them this might appear three hours early, but it's September 3rd here. Trust me ;)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lisa Ciccarello's chapbook At Night, the Dead haunts the mind of the reader just as the dead haunt the poems in the collection. There is a tight, almost claustrophobic quality to many of the poems; the reader is located immediately within, inside, while the dead seem to hover just outside. The first poem establishes this enclosure at the outset: “You lock the door. You lock the window. You dream of the dead. You salt the sills from the inside. You are going to dream.” The dead will appear in your dreams, regardless of the precautions you take.
The dead move slowly inside as the poems move forward. By the end of the collection “you” have disappeared and the dead have taken up residence. “The dead set up the house they remember, but it is not as they remember,” and even more disturbing, in the very last stanza, the first person has now joined the dead: “We reach for salt in the empty salt box. Missing from the kitchen what could keep us from the house…Our mouths draw close. The flame does not flicker.” All the salt, all the locks, have not kept the dead away.
The poems in this chapbook are short, some only a line or two long. Although I confess to not making much literal sense of the collection, the images are distinct and evocative. Unsettled dichotomies and conflicts of darkness and light, water and salt, dirt and diamonds, heat and home and love and paper and fruit fill the pages, but ultimately fail to make a concerted whole. This may have been the poet’s conscious intention; the mood is certainly constant throughout, but there is no recognizable narrative. Some other choices are hard to explain, such as the use of “yr” instead of “your” in some (but not all) of the poems. Another choice the author makes is that each poem is titled “At night, the dead” or some variation thereof. While this functions very well in terms of reinforcing a mood and a set of images, it makes it difficult to identify particular poems for commentary.
Overall, the chapbook is moody, dark, and haunting; the language is lovely and redolent with images (my favorites are “the sky smells like tea, the sky smells like timber and steam” and “the dark is a black bag where the eyes are kept”).* If you are looking for straightforward narrative poetry, you won’t find it here, but if you’re looking for a unique point of view and a quirky, creepy, set of poems, you will enjoy this chapbook immensely.
Get your handmade copy of At Night, the Dead
* from the second poem “At night, inside the house, the dead:” and the poem on page 16 called “At night, the dead:”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lisa Ciccarello's chapbook At Night, the Dead haunts the mind of the reader just as the dead haunt the poems in the collection. There is a tight, almost claustrophobic quality to many of the poems; the reader is located immediately within, inside, while the dead seem to hover just outside. The first poem establishes this enclosure at the outset: “You lock the door. You lock the window. You dream of the dead. You salt the sills from the inside. You are going to dream.” The dead will appear in your dreams, regardless of the precautions you take.
The dead move slowly inside as the poems move forward. By the end of the collection “you” have disappeared and the dead have taken up residence. “The dead set up the house they remember, but it is not as they remember,” and even more disturbing, in the very last stanza, the first person has now joined the dead: “We reach for salt in the empty salt box. Missing from the kitchen what could keep us from the house…Our mouths draw close. The flame does not flicker.” All the salt, all the locks, have not kept the dead away.
The poems in this chapbook are short, some only a line or two long. Although I confess to not making much literal sense of the collection, the images are distinct and evocative. Unsettled dichotomies and conflicts of darkness and light, water and salt, dirt and diamonds, heat and home and love and paper and fruit fill the pages, but ultimately fail to make a concerted whole. This may have been the poet’s conscious intention; the mood is certainly constant throughout, but there is no recognizable narrative. Some other choices are hard to explain, such as the use of “yr” instead of “your” in some (but not all) of the poems. Another choice the author makes is that each poem is titled “At night, the dead” or some variation thereof. While this functions very well in terms of reinforcing a mood and a set of images, it makes it difficult to identify particular poems for commentary.
Overall, the chapbook is moody, dark, and haunting; the language is lovely and redolent with images (my favorites are “the sky smells like tea, the sky smells like timber and steam” and “the dark is a black bag where the eyes are kept”).* If you are looking for straightforward narrative poetry, you won’t find it here, but if you’re looking for a unique point of view and a quirky, creepy, set of poems, you will enjoy this chapbook immensely.
Get your handmade copy of At Night, the Dead
* from the second poem “At night, inside the house, the dead:” and the poem on page 16 called “At night, the dead:”
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Review of "Investigations: The Mystery of the Girl Sleuth" by Kathleen Aguero
When I first started reading Kathleen Aguero’s chapbook Investigations: The Mystery of the Girl Sleuth (dedicated “For Nancy Drew fans everywhere”) I felt like the type of audience the author intended: I grew up reading Nancy Drew and other girls’ mystery novels and am now at an age where I sometimes long for the simplicity of a formulaic plot and a crook to catch.
The collection opens with “To Nancy Drew on her 50th Birthday”, a poem which seems to me basically a mélange of titles and situations from many of the books. A note at the end of the volume calls this piece a found poem, but I felt that it was a bit boring, at least for an opening. However, the next several poems interestingly articulate Nancy’s problems (an unhappy marriage, a breast cancer scare) and discontent with her role in life; in “Competence”, she would “…like to change plots/ but she can’t figure out how.” The poems continue, following Nancy on a vacation where she can’t quite relax, peeking into the thoughts of her father and the housekeeper, then becoming more socially aware. “Stumped” reads like a real woman’s crisis with Nancy stuck between past and future with no way of growing older, nothing but a “stalled self”, and in “Unsolved Mysteries” Aguero points a finger at the selfish bourgeoisie world Nancy inhabits. And then, with “Mystery of the Tolling Bell”, the poems shift from a third person view of Nancy’s fictional world to a first person world in which teenagers do horrible things, friends commit suicide, and mothers develop dementia.
These poems, while couched in the terms of mystery, don’t fit with the rest of the collection. I found myself wondering if Aguero wanted to write two books: one about Nancy Drew, the other about the mysteries of her own life (or other ‘real’ lives). If she did intend to blend the two together, the balance is off in this chapbook; only five of the nineteen poems are in the third person. I feel like the chapbook would be stronger without those pages, particularly as it ends on a lovely note. After all of Nancy’s failures, fears, and stalling, the final piece “Zen Nancy” seems to show a girl sleuth who has somehow found a way to grow up, as she investigates bigger mysteries like “the sound/ of stone, the color of air,/ the vast and cloudless sky”.
The chapbook is available from Červená Barva Press
The collection opens with “To Nancy Drew on her 50th Birthday”, a poem which seems to me basically a mélange of titles and situations from many of the books. A note at the end of the volume calls this piece a found poem, but I felt that it was a bit boring, at least for an opening. However, the next several poems interestingly articulate Nancy’s problems (an unhappy marriage, a breast cancer scare) and discontent with her role in life; in “Competence”, she would “…like to change plots/ but she can’t figure out how.” The poems continue, following Nancy on a vacation where she can’t quite relax, peeking into the thoughts of her father and the housekeeper, then becoming more socially aware. “Stumped” reads like a real woman’s crisis with Nancy stuck between past and future with no way of growing older, nothing but a “stalled self”, and in “Unsolved Mysteries” Aguero points a finger at the selfish bourgeoisie world Nancy inhabits. And then, with “Mystery of the Tolling Bell”, the poems shift from a third person view of Nancy’s fictional world to a first person world in which teenagers do horrible things, friends commit suicide, and mothers develop dementia.
These poems, while couched in the terms of mystery, don’t fit with the rest of the collection. I found myself wondering if Aguero wanted to write two books: one about Nancy Drew, the other about the mysteries of her own life (or other ‘real’ lives). If she did intend to blend the two together, the balance is off in this chapbook; only five of the nineteen poems are in the third person. I feel like the chapbook would be stronger without those pages, particularly as it ends on a lovely note. After all of Nancy’s failures, fears, and stalling, the final piece “Zen Nancy” seems to show a girl sleuth who has somehow found a way to grow up, as she investigates bigger mysteries like “the sound/ of stone, the color of air,/ the vast and cloudless sky”.
The chapbook is available from Červená Barva Press
Monday, August 31, 2009
Review of "An Undertaking" by Jeffrey Harrison
This is an expanded version of a grad school assignment - my review of Jeffrey Harrison's chapbook An Undertaking. (Have I mentioned my Poetry Workshop has a chapbook focus? It's really cool - each week we'll read 2 chapbooks (give or take) and write a one paragraph response to each, then choose one poem from either book and write a poem in response to, or in imitation of, or otherwise relating to, it. That's the first half of the semester; second half we'll continue reading chapbooks, start researching chapbook competitions, and put together our own chapbook type collections. Super cool, huh?) This is the first chapbook I've read and responded to for that class. I didn't love it, but I appreciate it. For more detail, read on....
Oh, and I may post reviews of all (or most) of the chapbooks I read for that class. I know I will post a review of Lisa Ciccarello's At Night, the Dead later this week, as part of the Read Write Poem Virtual Book Tour so stay tuned for more book-reviewing goodness :)
--- end babbling. begin review. ---
Jeffrey Harrison’s chapbook An Undertaking embodies its title in two ways. The word “undertaking” immediately conjures thoughts of a journey or a project, but once a reader sees that the chapbook is dedicated to someone who’s recently died “undertaking” seems to imply all things funereal. The collection opens with a poem called “Saint” in which the poet addresses a sculpted stone saint in a museum and asks for his prayers, and then the bulk of the chapbook contains a group of poems that focus on the suicide of the poet’s brother Andy at age 47 but also delve beneath the surface of his life and into the processes of grieving and healing. The collection closes with a poem titled “Visitation” in which the poet’s mother hears the song of white-throated sparrows and, in the song of these “family birds” she hears the memory of loved ones gone but also the knowledge that everything will be all right, and that the sparrows, like all people and things, “…will stay/ for only a few days before moving on.” In spite of the big subjects of suicide and death, Harrison’s poems are most memorable when they include concrete details like Andy’s seeming obsession with socks, discovered by his parents and brother only after his death, the rhyming scavenger hunt clues he wrote for his niece and nephew, and the silly songs he sang to a Newfoundland dog when the boys were younger.
Some poems like “The Investigation” and “Plea” use form, rhyme, and repetition to order the emotion while others explore different line lengths and stanza patterns. The poem “The Investigation” is particularly interesting to me because it makes use of the villanelle form to harness the emotion of the subject. The conversational diction and straightforward narrative style develop in the reader the same distance that the poet eventually achieves at the end of the piece. After struggling to understand his brother’s death, he realizes that he never really will, and that he has to “let it go”, a phrase that echoes throughout the poem. The structure of the poem and the enforced casualness of the language remind me of the way that many people deal with loss: we force ourselves to keep up with our habits and our schedules, to keep up appearances, and to speak and act as though things are fine. In life, as in the poem, the acting will eventually bring us to the reality.
Overall, the language in these poems is remarkably restrained, the opposite of the melodrama one might expect based on the subject matter. While I admire Harrison’s ability to process emotions rationally through words, I personally felt an almost-forced calmness in the poems and would have liked to see a bit more rawness emerge in this chapbook. The physical chapbook, from Haven Press, is a beautiful artifact: dark grey covers, letterpress printing on cover and title page, handsewn binding; and the poems contained inside tell a sad story in accessible language. An Undertaking is available on amazon.com.
Oh, and I may post reviews of all (or most) of the chapbooks I read for that class. I know I will post a review of Lisa Ciccarello's At Night, the Dead later this week, as part of the Read Write Poem Virtual Book Tour so stay tuned for more book-reviewing goodness :)
--- end babbling. begin review. ---
Jeffrey Harrison’s chapbook An Undertaking embodies its title in two ways. The word “undertaking” immediately conjures thoughts of a journey or a project, but once a reader sees that the chapbook is dedicated to someone who’s recently died “undertaking” seems to imply all things funereal. The collection opens with a poem called “Saint” in which the poet addresses a sculpted stone saint in a museum and asks for his prayers, and then the bulk of the chapbook contains a group of poems that focus on the suicide of the poet’s brother Andy at age 47 but also delve beneath the surface of his life and into the processes of grieving and healing. The collection closes with a poem titled “Visitation” in which the poet’s mother hears the song of white-throated sparrows and, in the song of these “family birds” she hears the memory of loved ones gone but also the knowledge that everything will be all right, and that the sparrows, like all people and things, “…will stay/ for only a few days before moving on.” In spite of the big subjects of suicide and death, Harrison’s poems are most memorable when they include concrete details like Andy’s seeming obsession with socks, discovered by his parents and brother only after his death, the rhyming scavenger hunt clues he wrote for his niece and nephew, and the silly songs he sang to a Newfoundland dog when the boys were younger.
Some poems like “The Investigation” and “Plea” use form, rhyme, and repetition to order the emotion while others explore different line lengths and stanza patterns. The poem “The Investigation” is particularly interesting to me because it makes use of the villanelle form to harness the emotion of the subject. The conversational diction and straightforward narrative style develop in the reader the same distance that the poet eventually achieves at the end of the piece. After struggling to understand his brother’s death, he realizes that he never really will, and that he has to “let it go”, a phrase that echoes throughout the poem. The structure of the poem and the enforced casualness of the language remind me of the way that many people deal with loss: we force ourselves to keep up with our habits and our schedules, to keep up appearances, and to speak and act as though things are fine. In life, as in the poem, the acting will eventually bring us to the reality.
Overall, the language in these poems is remarkably restrained, the opposite of the melodrama one might expect based on the subject matter. While I admire Harrison’s ability to process emotions rationally through words, I personally felt an almost-forced calmness in the poems and would have liked to see a bit more rawness emerge in this chapbook. The physical chapbook, from Haven Press, is a beautiful artifact: dark grey covers, letterpress printing on cover and title page, handsewn binding; and the poems contained inside tell a sad story in accessible language. An Undertaking is available on amazon.com.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Last day of work
I'm reading (and loving) Lisa Ciccarello’s chapbook "At Night, The Dead" as part of the first Read Write Poem "virtual book tour". Several people will be reviewing the chapbook on their respective blogs; my review will appear here on September 3rd.
Also, just playing on the new fabulously redesigned Read Write Poem site today. Go check it out!
Also, just playing on the new fabulously redesigned Read Write Poem site today. Go check it out!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Thursday, Thursday (sung to the tune of "Monday, Monday")
Let's see, what to say today? I am excited for the weekend, but having a good week already. Tuesday was my first carless day. I took the bus to and from work, walked over to the rental office to put money on my laundry card, and then did 4 loads of laundry (can you tell I've been procrastinating?). I also got a lot done on the jigsaw puzzle I'm determined to finish before Saturday. When my friend L moved to Arizona a couple years ago, she gave me three big 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles. They've been sitting around my apartments since then, and I finally decided to start one last week. It's probably 1/3 of the way done now. I am hosting brunch before the Pride parade on Saturday so it has to be off the table before then, and I would hate hate hate to have to put it away without finishing it. Yesterday, I bought some groceries after work, then walked my dog up to the bank with me and deposited some money, then I brushed him, clipped his nails, and gave him a bath. And then I went swimming! First time this year! It was a little cold, but nice to be in the water. Tonight I want to stop by the North Market after work and get some produce, then I have volunteer training from 6-8, and then I want to bake at least one batch of muffins, if not two. And I want to go out tonight to kick off Pride weekend. Tomorrow, I will drag myself through work, and then the weekend will commence. I've gotta get everything ready for brunch and get my apartment vacuumed again (damn that dog hair!) before the lovely irresponsible spirit takes over completely, but I will do it.
Oh, and I like this poem by Wislawa Szymborska. And I read a couple more of the James Wright letters last night. The ones where he talks about the Korean War are very interesting. If I had the book with me now, I'd quote a few passages which read as quite contemporary and relevant even now.
Oh, and I like this poem by Wislawa Szymborska. And I read a couple more of the James Wright letters last night. The ones where he talks about the Korean War are very interesting. If I had the book with me now, I'd quote a few passages which read as quite contemporary and relevant even now.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Just an interesting quote
from today's Poem of the Day email. It's from "User's Guide to Physical Debilitation" by Paul Guest. I can't say I love the poem, but this section made me laugh awkwardly...oh sex.....
When not an outright impossibility
or form of neurological science fiction,
sexual congress will either be with
tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy,
performing an act of sadistic charity;
with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas;
or with someone blindly feeling their way
through an extended power outage
caused by summer storms you once thought romantic.
When not an outright impossibility
or form of neurological science fiction,
sexual congress will either be with
tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy,
performing an act of sadistic charity;
with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas;
or with someone blindly feeling their way
through an extended power outage
caused by summer storms you once thought romantic.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
13 Ways of Looking at a Cat
Wonderful PAD prompt today!!! Take the title of a famous poem, alter it in some way, and then write your own. You don't have to follow the form of the original, but I chose to. This was actually a lot of fun, and the responses today are really good.
13 Ways of Looking at a Cat
(after Wallace Stevens' "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" with my apologies)
I
Throughout my entire apartment
the only moving thing
is the tan striped tail twitching.
II
I am of three minds,
like the cat
who can not decide which bird to chase.
III
The cat dances in the window at night.
She is a small part of the ballet.
IV
A woman and a woman
are one.
A woman and a woman and a cat
are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
the beauty of accomplishment
or the beauty of anticipation,
the cat purring
or just before.
VI
Raindrops streak the wide window
with sad saltless tears.
The shadow of the cat
crosses it, back and forth.
The desire
traced behind the blinds
an unfillable need.
VII
O thin women of this city,
why do you imagine small dogs?
Do you not see how the cat
rubs against the legs
and nestles in the laps
of those you desire?
VIII
I know secret languages
and liquid, indescribable rhythms,
but I know too
that the cat in not involved
in what I know.
IX
When the cat darted behind your couch
she marked the end
of one of many relationships.
X
At the sight of a cat
sleeping in a patch of sunlight,
even the most industrious
would wish to nap beside her.
XI
You walked from downtown
in an old pair of flip flops.
Once, a dog followed you,
thinking the squeak
of your sandals
was the mewing of a kitten.
XII
The curtains are moving.
The cat must be playing.
XIII
It was morning all day.
It was raining
and it was going to rain.
The cat lay curled
on top of my pillow.
And if you need a refresher on the original, it's here.
13 Ways of Looking at a Cat
(after Wallace Stevens' "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" with my apologies)
I
Throughout my entire apartment
the only moving thing
is the tan striped tail twitching.
II
I am of three minds,
like the cat
who can not decide which bird to chase.
III
The cat dances in the window at night.
She is a small part of the ballet.
IV
A woman and a woman
are one.
A woman and a woman and a cat
are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
the beauty of accomplishment
or the beauty of anticipation,
the cat purring
or just before.
VI
Raindrops streak the wide window
with sad saltless tears.
The shadow of the cat
crosses it, back and forth.
The desire
traced behind the blinds
an unfillable need.
VII
O thin women of this city,
why do you imagine small dogs?
Do you not see how the cat
rubs against the legs
and nestles in the laps
of those you desire?
VIII
I know secret languages
and liquid, indescribable rhythms,
but I know too
that the cat in not involved
in what I know.
IX
When the cat darted behind your couch
she marked the end
of one of many relationships.
X
At the sight of a cat
sleeping in a patch of sunlight,
even the most industrious
would wish to nap beside her.
XI
You walked from downtown
in an old pair of flip flops.
Once, a dog followed you,
thinking the squeak
of your sandals
was the mewing of a kitten.
XII
The curtains are moving.
The cat must be playing.
XIII
It was morning all day.
It was raining
and it was going to rain.
The cat lay curled
on top of my pillow.
And if you need a refresher on the original, it's here.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Isn't everything ordinary if you think about it?
I liked this, for reasons that may be obvious. It's from from the Academy of American Poetry's "Poem of the Day" email today.
Goldfish Are Ordinary
by Stacie Cassarino
At the pet store on Court Street,
I search for the perfect fish.
The black moor, the blue damsel,
cichlids and neons. Something
to distract your sadness, something
you don't need to love you back.
Maybe a goldfish, the flaring tail,
orange, red-capped, pearled body,
the darting translucence? Goldfish
are ordinary, the boy selling fish
says to me. I turn back to the tank,
all of this grace and brilliance,
such simplicity the self could fail
to see. In three months I'll leave
this city. Today, a chill in the air,
you're reading Beckett fifty blocks
away, I'm looking at the orphaned
bodies of fish, undulant and gold fervor.
Do you want to see aggression?
the boy asks, holding a purple beta fish
to the light while dropping handfuls
of minnows into the bowl. He says,
I know you're a girl and all
but sometimes it's good to see.
Outside, in the rain, we love
with our hands tied,
while things tear away at us.
Goldfish Are Ordinary
by Stacie Cassarino
At the pet store on Court Street,
I search for the perfect fish.
The black moor, the blue damsel,
cichlids and neons. Something
to distract your sadness, something
you don't need to love you back.
Maybe a goldfish, the flaring tail,
orange, red-capped, pearled body,
the darting translucence? Goldfish
are ordinary, the boy selling fish
says to me. I turn back to the tank,
all of this grace and brilliance,
such simplicity the self could fail
to see. In three months I'll leave
this city. Today, a chill in the air,
you're reading Beckett fifty blocks
away, I'm looking at the orphaned
bodies of fish, undulant and gold fervor.
Do you want to see aggression?
the boy asks, holding a purple beta fish
to the light while dropping handfuls
of minnows into the bowl. He says,
I know you're a girl and all
but sometimes it's good to see.
Outside, in the rain, we love
with our hands tied,
while things tear away at us.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Another Monday night
passes with red wine and poems. David Baker read at the Poetry Forum; Ann Townsend was our scheduled reader but wasn't feeling well, so he filled in. As he put it good-naturedly: proof that ex-husbands are good for something. He read a couple of the same poems I heard him read last year, but mostly different ones, and I enjoyed his reading a lot, even though I'd been curious to hear her. Open Mic was good, almost without exception. I read a second draft of that "Miracle" poem I mentioned the other day. I think it's going to be a poem I end up liking a lot. Was also going to read something out of The Best of Best American Poetry 1988-1997 - Anthony Hecht's fantastic villanelle Prospects but hadn't had a chance to read it aloud and felt like I would mess it up, so just read my own poem. Came home, wrote a partial first draft of something I'd thought of last week, and tried to write the poem I threatened to write on Friday (making fun, a bit, of the lead singer of a band we were watching).
Waiting, sometimes patiently, for any answers from grad schools. I heard that Penn State has notified nonfiction and fiction people, but so far no poetry acceptances.... And, as of yesterday, the English department at Cleveland State hadn't received the material I mailed the end of January. That's a bit worrisome, as it included my recommendation letters, which I can't just print off another copy of, but the woman I spoke with didn't seem too concerned; she seemed to think that it was on campus somewhere but hadn't made its way into her hands yet. Quite possible, I suppose, and I can't worry too much about it right now.
Waiting, sometimes patiently, for any answers from grad schools. I heard that Penn State has notified nonfiction and fiction people, but so far no poetry acceptances.... And, as of yesterday, the English department at Cleveland State hadn't received the material I mailed the end of January. That's a bit worrisome, as it included my recommendation letters, which I can't just print off another copy of, but the woman I spoke with didn't seem too concerned; she seemed to think that it was on campus somewhere but hadn't made its way into her hands yet. Quite possible, I suppose, and I can't worry too much about it right now.
Monday, December 8, 2008
re: the previous poem about maps
one of the things that was bouncing around in my head when i wrote that is a set of lines from a richard hugo poem. i don't remember the title of the poem, or where i read it. it's not in any book i own. the lines, as far as i remember them, and this is probably not exactly right, are as follows:
not every river flows south
whatever maps might claim.
if you were mapped the color would be wrong:
no brown adequate for harm,
no white white enough for pain.
i'm sure that's slightly off, but if anyone knows what poem it's from, i would love to know. thanks!
not every river flows south
whatever maps might claim.
if you were mapped the color would be wrong:
no brown adequate for harm,
no white white enough for pain.
i'm sure that's slightly off, but if anyone knows what poem it's from, i would love to know. thanks!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I get my car back tonight!
I've written three poems recently which I like a lot, but have not had the chance/inclination to post up here, plus a group of twenty-sevens about the devil's older sister. Sounds odd, and probably is, but kind of fun. I was working on that last night but just got too tired to keep counting syllables and hadn't felt the end yet anyway, so went to bed in the middle of a line. I'll post some stuff soon.
In other news - I heart Timothy Liu. He read at BG when I was there, and he was so fantastic! He did almost everything from memory, which really impressed me, plus I loved the poems. The stuff on poets.org (where I linked) includes one I remember from that reading : "An Evening Train" which is just wonderful. I started thinking of him last night when I was thinking about poets I'd love to study with. Unfortunately, he teaches at a school without an MFA program. They offer an MA in writing, which might not be bad, and if I could study with him, it would be worth it!
Other people I've stumbled on and liked (as faculty in programs I'm looking at) are: Arielle Greenberg and David Trinidad at Columbia College, Sandra Alcosser (who studied with Richard Hugo, who is one of my classic favorites) and Marilyn Chin and Ilya Kaminsky at SDSU, Rae Armantrout and Roberto Tejada at UCSD (both of whom I'm not sure I like but are interesting). More to come... Doing lots of reading/research....
In other news - I heart Timothy Liu. He read at BG when I was there, and he was so fantastic! He did almost everything from memory, which really impressed me, plus I loved the poems. The stuff on poets.org (where I linked) includes one I remember from that reading : "An Evening Train" which is just wonderful. I started thinking of him last night when I was thinking about poets I'd love to study with. Unfortunately, he teaches at a school without an MFA program. They offer an MA in writing, which might not be bad, and if I could study with him, it would be worth it!
Other people I've stumbled on and liked (as faculty in programs I'm looking at) are: Arielle Greenberg and David Trinidad at Columbia College, Sandra Alcosser (who studied with Richard Hugo, who is one of my classic favorites) and Marilyn Chin and Ilya Kaminsky at SDSU, Rae Armantrout and Roberto Tejada at UCSD (both of whom I'm not sure I like but are interesting). More to come... Doing lots of reading/research....
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Oh, George.....
felt compelled this morning to search for poems by former instructors of mine and found this one, which i'd never heard or read before, by george looney. he headed the bfa program at bg when i started; i was lucky enough to have one class with him and to hear his final reading in bowling green. he left the university to go to penn state erie after my sophomore year.
it's a lovely poem. enjoy!
"Music Left by Another"
by George Looney
from The Literary Review
it's a lovely poem. enjoy!
"Music Left by Another"
by George Looney
from The Literary Review
Friday, July 18, 2008
Quick quote
"We two, together, on a darkening day
Took arms against our own obscurity."
It's Roethke, I'm 99% sure, but can't recall what poem. A pair of lines that pop into my head every so often, and were there last night. Actually the impulse behind the poem I wrote before bed and promptly forgot.... Maybe tonight I'll look at it again and post.
Took arms against our own obscurity."
It's Roethke, I'm 99% sure, but can't recall what poem. A pair of lines that pop into my head every so often, and were there last night. Actually the impulse behind the poem I wrote before bed and promptly forgot.... Maybe tonight I'll look at it again and post.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Desire
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
from "Clear Night" by Charles Wright
I must have read this for the first time at least ten, if not eleven, years ago, but it just sticks with me!
I read it then as a desire for greatness, at least in part: to be touched by god, or by power, to be so close to it that it bruises; to be recognized, admired, unique; to be tested, challenged, and expanded; to be overwhelmed by something larger than the self, something so big or so strong or so real that all the junk inside is culled away.
There's the acknowledgement of pain, that it's part of the process, the desire for it if it leads to greatness, the willingness to be transformed no matter the cost. I always come back to the word "overwhelmed" when I think of these lines, that desire for a transformative experience.
/End of random thoughts. Comments?
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
from "Clear Night" by Charles Wright
I must have read this for the first time at least ten, if not eleven, years ago, but it just sticks with me!
I read it then as a desire for greatness, at least in part: to be touched by god, or by power, to be so close to it that it bruises; to be recognized, admired, unique; to be tested, challenged, and expanded; to be overwhelmed by something larger than the self, something so big or so strong or so real that all the junk inside is culled away.
There's the acknowledgement of pain, that it's part of the process, the desire for it if it leads to greatness, the willingness to be transformed no matter the cost. I always come back to the word "overwhelmed" when I think of these lines, that desire for a transformative experience.
/End of random thoughts. Comments?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Emptiness
"Every true poem is a spark,
and aspires to the condition of the original fire
Arising out of the emptiness."
Charles Wright, "Body and Soul II"
I love me some Charles Wright. Always have. The full poem is here if you want to read it. Kind of goes along with the novel I'm reading now, or maybe I just see the connection because I've got both things in my head.
and aspires to the condition of the original fire
Arising out of the emptiness."
Charles Wright, "Body and Soul II"
I love me some Charles Wright. Always have. The full poem is here if you want to read it. Kind of goes along with the novel I'm reading now, or maybe I just see the connection because I've got both things in my head.
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