an augury of tearsyour love is the windon water. mine heaves deeperthan cruel riptide.
of birds and raindocument 1.may 17th."if this is how it startshow hard is the rest going to be?"may 18th passes. so does june 22nd.in the time between andafter, I am left only with my birdsand the rainand it rains all the time.august 7th. I can no longer hearthe geiger-counter clicking of the guttersover the echoes of crows andcar horns, though the mud thatdevours my shoelaces each morningtells me the storm still hits whileI'm asleep.november 24th and even the pigeonshave gone. buildings boarded up,graffitiall over my car.nothing shiny left for themto shit on.january 6th now--eight months and severalthousandbroken metaphors later,the words still flutter cold inmy hands, my fingerspressing snow angelsinto the wings nestled in mypalms. I caught themstaring at mewith the same wrinkled face the moon wearsat six-thirty in the morning, knowingthat the sunis coming.
Piano HatI remember when we got our first piano. It was a black upright. Not exactly gorgeous, but definitely a nice instrument. I was really excited to get my hands on the thing, but dad wasnt too, um, keen on the idea -- "Keen"? Really? I say things like that sometimes even though I know they sound lame. What can you do, though? I didnt have my first piano lesson until a few days later. Sounds of tinkling piano keys filled the room. Bassy notes caused the whole foundation to shake. It was a thing of beauty. It really was. Best part: It was me. I was playing it. My hands couldnt throw a ball with any sort of accuracy at all, and I was picked on for it bad, but damn could they play a piano! I mean really! Just
damn!That was, what -- like, five years ago? Yeah, I was about eight at the time, so, like, five years ago. So here I am, five years after I started playing the thing, and Im still going. In fact, Ive got a recital tonight. Thats why Im all
DogmaThis is how I think of you: That you are made of wide-frame glasses, vegetables and dismissals; that you watch Dogma and you do not know why they bothered making the movie and then ask me to put in something depressing so you can cry again.This is how I dream of you: That you are standing outside of a residence hall in the winter without any shoes; that you have no hair anymore because your niece had leukemia and you cut it all off to spite disease; that you flay your arms into seventeen parts and I wake up screaming.And most of all, this is how I feel you: That you smell like the innards of a gull, all lonely and grey; that even
To Write Love on Her ArmsWere riding in the car like we always do, always on our way to somewhere else. Im driving, passing highway sign after mile marker, counting the interstates until we get where were going.Shes asleep in the passenger seat, skin porcelain pale in the choked dawn sun. Its streaming through the windowpane in flashes that mark time with the gaps in the trees, just a few hundred miles more.Somehow I cant see how this is a real thing, real like the way hearts break, but like floating up above here, just looking down into her beautiful face. I shake myself like it was only a dream, but here she is, right here in the passenger seat.Concentrate, just for a second, curve around the bend before I return to contemplation. I don't like where were going now, because to me she is too perfect for the fate that awaits her there, somewhere out beyond my lovers reach.But still I drive on through the puddles of sunlight, hoping that she wont wake up
I will search out your shapeI will search out your shape--your parted mouth, the red esophagus,a tongue limp with hungerlike the heavy sound of a bell.I will find the dust of my skinin the ancient impressions offingers on your body.and In the cool stone of your nailsI will rest and grow to be the mossthat only you can see,the downy hairs penetratingthe back of your long neckare tall trees in the Sahara.We will sleep in one roomand share exhalations.Your eyes will be the windows.and we will keep our secretspressed between our bodiesuntil they are wet and run togetherlike slick fish--and finally, when it is dark,we will lay to bed our cares,our thirst, when the dust on thefloorboards retreats like a soft gray wave--we will scatter our clothes and offer themto the Spring moon, and peel off our skinsas carefully and easily as flower petals--and then my kiss will swim in your blood,freely and without despair.
available nowlove is like a bruiselurking just beneath your skinbegging to be born
February 2009 Haiku-Wrimo1.winter rain-an old pot fillswith moonlight2.sunrise...birdsong fallingfrom the mountain3.just in timefor the newborn-snow flurries!4.gang signson the old church door...winter deepens5.stillness...a cloudof white breath6.deepin the raven's cry-southern drawl7.midnight walk- between each starthe cosmos8.resting awhileon Issa's death poem-the fly9.morning thaw-the bulldog's growlsoftens10.loneliness...leek soup coldin the crock pot11.crowsbecomingdusk12.one cloudthe shade of mango-winter's end?13.beggingin her native tongue...day moon14noon rain-children pourfrom the school bus15.each strand of cobweb white dew16.smotheringthe prayer candle-evening fog17.my last dollar...a scrap of daylighton the table18.thunder!one small faceat the window19.stretching between seasons earthworm20.gatheringthe prisoners-winter rainbow21.starry night
Lesson 1 - Basics of MeterQUOTE OF THE DAY"Life is tons of discipline. Your first discipline is your vocabulary; then your grammar and your punctuation. Then, in your exuberance and bounding energy you say you're going to add to that. Then you add rhyme and meter. And your delight is in that power." - Robert FrostAs Robert Frost is saying, meter and rhyme are not the most important parts of writing. They are the most intricate when creating poetry, but poems can be written without them. I began my poetry with free verse, and gradually became more and more fixed as I went on to learn more about how meter affects the poem, and how rhyme, alliteration, assonance, and the like also affect the reader's experience with a piece of poetry. And my free verse is all the better for it. Even if you never write another fixed poem after finishing this course, an intricate understanding of the rules of conventional poe
This Light, SpeechlessThis light, speechlessand without a name,is dismantling the day quiet as a door leftunopened by the wind,folding itself unhurriedinto idle birds, thisorigami light, unmakingmuscle and design,is not for the handupon the world unwashed,the stains of lunchand a book unread this light is taking up the dust,and the best of the bed,the chair and chest, givingits indifference gradually towhatever is dead on the silland the soft muttering of birchleaves awaiting twilight.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers thinkWe may dream our reality.With earphones attached liked IVsI dream my own melodic universe.Until someone laughs behind meAnd strikes up conversation with a friend.And in that moment they become my anchorAre they spinning through my dreamOr am I spinning through theirs?Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,And sometimes it all mixes togetherLike liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.When no one speaks to me for hoursI begin to wonderIs everyone dreaming a reality that includesThe whole café but me?The street outside the windowWith passing strangers, dogs and carsIs a whole new Milky WayWaiting to be discovered.But I am no space explorerAliens are beyond my reach.Whispers of the people aroundReach my ears distinctlyLike waves lapping on the shore.Words on paper go no wayTowards proving that I was ever hereMy identity is slowly condensedNot into the people who kno
Memory of a LullabyChapter 1:The silence shattered as the bells in the rafters above him began to sway and sound their morning tones. Kane, jarred from his meditation, sighed quietly and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the beam that stood upright behind where he sat. The solemn melody played on for a minute or so before the bells fell to silence once more, having finished filling the air with their resonating tones as the people of Delmaska woke to face another day. Kane kept his eyes shut a moment more, trying to remember the broken pieces of the melody that had haunted him from his rest for the last few nights now. But they had fled with the sounding of the bells, like the black night from the mornings glow.He was perched in the rafters of an old church, defaced by time and run through with rot. The wall had even fallen away in one spot, allowing Kane a clear view of the cityscape and the sun as it rose over the east sector. Here in the vast sprawl of slums, he oversaw the poor a
It is hard to be softMom cutting Dad's hair in the kitchen. Feather voicesbecause they are discussing matters heavier than water,jarring scrapes when they move the chair.Tufts of hair fall, touching thecurved blade of ear. It is sharper, as are our brains,than you think, even asthe night velvets. It pads alongside my cat,who sits behind the laundry room door and makes old saxophone sounds.I slip inside to touchthe kitten scruf of his neck.How difficult it is, to definitively love or hate,when everything is so soft.From where I sit there are no windowsand except for drooping eyelids I would not believein the moon. Or in the swift autumn nightsthat come upon us like riders. And the hardhands begin groping in my belly,begging to be noticed. I do.
mondaymornings are importantto the poem. sometimes ithas to struggle toward Mondayand the house has to be cleaned.it hardly has time to think of you.it needs bagels for strengthand caffeine for the tangled messof words, strewn about like cheesedoodles locked in battle positionon the floor. the air is stale.it will unearth suitcases fullof past. read chapters of historywritten on cracked luggage tags.it will want to stop because itsallergies are flaring. the flotsamand jetsam of the mess is gettingin the way of the poem. it becomesimpatient and contemplates whiskeyand a cigarette mid afternoon.it will discover more crumpledpassports from missed flights;pages of dark-marrowed wordspointing to the cellar of the travelagency door. it wonders if it's stillasleep. it will not like this. it willbe indignant. angry. withdrawn.the shattered syntax must be rebuiltone word at a time. it feels betrayeduntil it raids the cellar, emptying contentby the roots and finally dumps