Posts tagged "poetry"

Does it matter that we grow fond

of who we are though we are different
than before? We forfeit old diversions
and open different doors. So devoted
to moving on, we move on; except now
and then, oh the sighs in our hinges.

from "A Door in the Wind” by Maurya Simon, from the October 1985 issue of Poetry
I do not wish to become / a trapped cat, spitting in a cage, pacing / the same inch of thought, smothered in my own fierce / stench. But I do not know how to prevent it, / exactly.

I have made use of this quote before but here it is again because, well, it’s not like it stops being relevant.

(via Roger Mitchell, “Aging Gracelessly” Indiana Review, Volume 7 #1 Winter 1984)

again and again and again

if in that moment / it is clear that in our entire, graceless rage / it is what we have, and all along, / most yearned for, / then let us be spared by that which has the power to spare us / the knowledge that it is too late / to disclaim anger, find the will / for love and tenderness, beg / for pardon

again and again and again

John Engels, “For the lately dead” The Kenyon Review, Autumn 1984.  (via sorryeveryone)

i’ve been feeling really good about poetry lately, and today I learned that when someone says “I, the former national and international poetry slam champion, took a little job over the summer at Papa John’s” it’s time to start paying attention

"baby I can’t get fired, my heart is already ash"

 - avocados

The best advice I can give
you is to ask nicely. You’re asking
a lot, and being polite about it
will communicate to the avocados
that you understand this.

so here is my poem about avocados

130 plays

so this is a poem I wrote that is about the death of the sun and the eventual heat death of the universe, but it is also a love poem. it does not have a title because most of the poems I write these days do not have titles. (I do not know why this is.) I left the intro on because when I say “a love poem about the death of the sun and the eventual heat death of the universe” you can hear a guy go “whaat?” and man alive do I love that.

1,163 plays
The last leaves, in fact, beech perhaps, they hang on too long, or aspen, / Yellow like that, sweep and begin to plunge, the last hope / Of the tree, taken by Thanksgiving’s wind, because that’s the way with wind is, Willful like that, cruel.
 Marilyn McCabe, “Eve on the Edge” Cream City Review Volume 32 #2

Why a fence you ask?
Because of reasons, which are as follows: demarcations, unwanted elements,
property values, taxes, building codes,
civic duty, creepiness, and bears. Dear bears
we built these fences for a reason. Dear reasons
we do not care. Sincerely, the bears. The bears
have learned to compose letters
and nobody cares. Dear food let us eat you
Dear ocean full of menace let us eat you
Dear terrifying ocean full of menace we mean it
Dear wolves we have already eaten you and now we sit here
by the ocean wearing your torn-off faces like masks
until the ocean full of menace gets the picture. Dear ocean
full of menace
we are right here. Under the moon. We are waiting.

sasha fletcher, “We Don’t Have All Night”

They have been having the same conversation
for a year now. But we are in a relationship, she says. I know, he
says. What will happen when you leave, she says. I’ll go back to my
life. What am I? she asks. You’re not my life, he says.
Jill Bialosky, “An Essay in Two Voices” Harvard Review, Winter 2008
a drop of water on the lip of a jug, / trembling, trying to hold on / for another second to the idea of sphericity- / that was us, our nakedness.
d.nurkse, “Newfane" The New Yorker, April 2009

billy collins is the pits

This is from an old P-Boink piece I wrote, “Taylor Momsen, Meta-Critic” and since I badmouth Billy Collins on the podcast this week I just needed to post my thoughts on him so I could link it from the extended show notes. #synergy 

Ms. Momsen then launched into a diatribe against former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins, a man who she claimed “derives his sense of whimsy largely from his own idiocy.” She read one of Mr. Collins’ poems, an excerpt of which is reprinted here:

You know the parlor trick.
wrap your arms around your own body
and from the back it looks like
someone is embracing you

Though this reporter found the verse to be inoffensive at worst, Momsen paused at the end of each line and pointed her finger down her throat, suggesting gagging. “Mr. Collins would do well to heed the words of Robert Creeley, namely, that form is never anything more than an extension of content. Without what in latin is known as acutus, or the Spanish agudeza, without a point, any exercise in form is purely masturbatory.” Momsen went on to suggest that poets, rather than “playing with the effects and affects of breath within a syllable” should simply “say something that fucking means something. I mean, god. Seriously.”

Some of the walls remained and some / fell. We scavenged what bricks we could / for the new walls, some of which // remained and some of them fell. / We scavenged what bricks we could / for the new walls, all of which // are shorter, so we crouch. No one remembers / how to make bricks, how to stop bombing, / how to drink tea without dust in it.

-Bob Hicok, “A Story From The World” The Iowa Review Volume 40 #1 Spring 2010

someone going through my tumblr reminded me of Bob Hicok and so here is some more Bob Hicok

pro wres isn’t poetry

in the parlance of pro wrestling, a bump is the fall someone takes. this is as simple as falling backwards and lading flat on your back because you got hit with an extra powerful fake punch, but it extends to all falls: the ones from complicated suplexes and slams, the ones off ladders, the ones through tables. I like watching wrestlers take hits more than I like watching them give them, I think there’s more art to it and I have more respect for people who put as much effort into making their opponent look great as they do themselves. (for my money, Scott Lost was the best dude for this, excepting dudes who made careers out of it because they’re too small to do anything else.)

in any event, sometimes I see a particularly great bump. but the thing about pro graps and the way I see pro graps, a great bump means one that lands particularly hard, an artful sort of ugly crash. (this is a fan’s perspective; a worker would see a great bump as one that looks good but doesn’t hurt. maybe these are the same bumps that I like, I don’t know because pro wrestling is fake and sometimes it’s hard to tell whether they’re in pain or they’re just acting like it.)

when I see a great bump, I go “oooooooooh” and my eyes narrow, with the length of the oooh and the width of the eyes directly linked to how good I think the bump was.

I told you all of that so I can tell you this: that is the exact same face I make when I am listening to someone read poetry and they drop a great line.