To finish off poetry month, let's turn to Ted Kooser, a master of simplicity and economy. I highly recommend him.
*
Starlight
All night, this soft rain from the distant past.
No wonder I sometimes waken as a child.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
30 poems in 30 days: 30!
The Last Poem
Who will write
the last poem?
Maybe she'll be
crouched
on the beach,
the edge of the
Pacific, as the tide
rolls out
for the last time,
yellow and red,
pulling with it
empty boats
and broken houses
and silver waves
of dead fish,
into a purple sun
big enough to
swallow the earth,
maybe she'll
scratch the poem
into black sand
with a burnt stick,
writing fast as
she can, trying to
remember the shapes
of the words
as her skin tightens
and smokes,
sending up
wisps of soul
before she explodes,
super nova.
And the poem
will be
her name.
Who will write
the last poem?
Maybe she'll be
crouched
on the beach,
the edge of the
Pacific, as the tide
rolls out
for the last time,
yellow and red,
pulling with it
empty boats
and broken houses
and silver waves
of dead fish,
into a purple sun
big enough to
swallow the earth,
maybe she'll
scratch the poem
into black sand
with a burnt stick,
writing fast as
she can, trying to
remember the shapes
of the words
as her skin tightens
and smokes,
sending up
wisps of soul
before she explodes,
super nova.
And the poem
will be
her name.
Monday, April 29, 2013
A Prose Poem by Francis Ponge: "The Pleasures of the Door"
The Pleasures of the Door
Francis Ponge (translated by C.K. Williams)
Kings never touch doors.
They’re not familiar with this happiness: to push, gently or
roughly before you one of these great friendly panels, to turn towards
it to put it back in place — to hold a door in your arms.
The happiness of seizing one of these tall barriers to a room by
the porcelain knob of its belly; this quick hand-to-hand, during which
your progress slows for a moment, your eye opens up and your whole body
adapts to its new apartment.
With a friendly hand you hold on a bit longer, before firmly
pushing it back and shutting yourself in — of which you are agreeably
assured by the click of the powerful, well-oiled latch.
30 poems in 30 days: 29
Word Play
I like polysyllabic words like "obsequious"
and "sexuality" because they squish in my mouth
and also because they point to aspects of life
that make some listeners cringe.
"Cringe" is another wonderful word --
it sounds like what it is -- and "whinge,"
which rhymes, makes me smirk. There are days
when I seem to be on a cringe mission, my assignment
to disturb whoever crosses my path. "Disturb" and
"disturbing," in fact, have often been applied to me
and my work by cringing whingeing patriarchs, unsettled
daddies who would like to paint me as deranged
rather than as the voice of another (and better)
reason. "Derange" is another word that interests me,
as does "disgruntled." What does it mean to be
"gruntled," I wonder? And who is? And if
I can be "deranged," does that mean, like a buffalo,
that I've been deleted from the range? "Delete"
is a wonderful word, come to think of it, perhaps
a uniquely 21st century verb, like "defriend."
Verbs and nouns are essential words for any
literary project. No ideas but in things, baby, and
make shit happen. In my book, adverbs are evil,
like termites chewing the house down behind
the wainscoting. "Wainscoting" is a weird word.
Adjectives, to continue the architectural metaphors,
are like dust bunnies. They collect under the beds,
along the baseboards, in the corners. Sometimes,
I just want to sweep them out and wonder if
I could knit a sweater from them. To end this poem,
let's consider the word "sweater." Why would you
want to put on something designed to sweat you?
That's not very sexy. In fact, that impinges a little
on sexuality. Obsequious cringers wear argyle
sweaters and bow ties. They whinge about feminists
in deranged talk shows. I just want to sweep them
out from under my bed and knit a sweater from them.
But then, I'm just a no-ideas-but-in-things making-
shit-happen deranged kind of woman, a noun and
verb bitch, a buffalo screaming "delete, delete, delete!"
I like polysyllabic words like "obsequious"
and "sexuality" because they squish in my mouth
and also because they point to aspects of life
that make some listeners cringe.
"Cringe" is another wonderful word --
it sounds like what it is -- and "whinge,"
which rhymes, makes me smirk. There are days
when I seem to be on a cringe mission, my assignment
to disturb whoever crosses my path. "Disturb" and
"disturbing," in fact, have often been applied to me
and my work by cringing whingeing patriarchs, unsettled
daddies who would like to paint me as deranged
rather than as the voice of another (and better)
reason. "Derange" is another word that interests me,
as does "disgruntled." What does it mean to be
"gruntled," I wonder? And who is? And if
I can be "deranged," does that mean, like a buffalo,
that I've been deleted from the range? "Delete"
is a wonderful word, come to think of it, perhaps
a uniquely 21st century verb, like "defriend."
Verbs and nouns are essential words for any
literary project. No ideas but in things, baby, and
make shit happen. In my book, adverbs are evil,
like termites chewing the house down behind
the wainscoting. "Wainscoting" is a weird word.
Adjectives, to continue the architectural metaphors,
are like dust bunnies. They collect under the beds,
along the baseboards, in the corners. Sometimes,
I just want to sweep them out and wonder if
I could knit a sweater from them. To end this poem,
let's consider the word "sweater." Why would you
want to put on something designed to sweat you?
That's not very sexy. In fact, that impinges a little
on sexuality. Obsequious cringers wear argyle
sweaters and bow ties. They whinge about feminists
in deranged talk shows. I just want to sweep them
out from under my bed and knit a sweater from them.
But then, I'm just a no-ideas-but-in-things making-
shit-happen deranged kind of woman, a noun and
verb bitch, a buffalo screaming "delete, delete, delete!"
Sunday, April 28, 2013
A Poem by Elizabeth Bishop: "One Art"
One Art
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.bHPHG4ji.dpuf
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.bHPHG4ji.dpuf
One Art
by Elizabeth BishopThe art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.bHPHG4ji.dpuf
One Art
by Elizabeth BishopThe art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.bHPHG4ji.dpuf
30 poems in 30 days: 28
I have to wonder how much of my poetic inspiration derives from darkness, frustration and irritation. Today, the weather is glorious. I'm relatively happy. My hangover has subsided. I'm looking forward to dinner with family and friends. Therefore (?), my poetic inclinations/inspiration are at 25%.
I'm tempted to write a poem that starts "roses are red and violets are blue."
*
Roses are Red, Gender is Blue
The way roses are red, and gender is blue,
sometimes I'm tempted to go through
insane intellectual contortions in order
to prove an arcane point on the border
of human intelligence, but I pretend
it's just obvious, duh, like, you know, gender
is meant to be bent, ya'll, and love equals roses
dyed red ( or blue) -- because it's just a pose,
nothing more than a social construction, and
thus subject to continual re- and deconstruction.
Oh to be alive and writing this silly palaver
on a Sunday, when sun shines like hammered silver
over the genderless shoots of daffodils,
and neutered pets on leashes finally get their fill
of the neighborhood, strolling past socially scripted
males washing their trucks, and socially scripted
females raking the dead leaves from their lawns,
their faces a dull study. This line will end in "yawn."
Except of course for those guys who are raking,
and those chicks inside houses, refusing to bake,
and neutered apartment dwellers, yard free, smoking
on their stoops, and smirking. Squirrels poke
through the sexless branches of maple trees,
the crocus and daffodil push up, unqueeny bees
get ready for another season of mindless work,
and I'm writing this ridiculous poem, shirking
a list of chores that may or may not be dictated
by gender requirements, the whole thing instigated
by the idea that roses are red and gender is blue, or,
you know, kinda fluid, but sticky, like super glue.
I'm tempted to write a poem that starts "roses are red and violets are blue."
*
Roses are Red, Gender is Blue
The way roses are red, and gender is blue,
sometimes I'm tempted to go through
insane intellectual contortions in order
to prove an arcane point on the border
of human intelligence, but I pretend
it's just obvious, duh, like, you know, gender
is meant to be bent, ya'll, and love equals roses
dyed red ( or blue) -- because it's just a pose,
nothing more than a social construction, and
thus subject to continual re- and deconstruction.
Oh to be alive and writing this silly palaver
on a Sunday, when sun shines like hammered silver
over the genderless shoots of daffodils,
and neutered pets on leashes finally get their fill
of the neighborhood, strolling past socially scripted
males washing their trucks, and socially scripted
females raking the dead leaves from their lawns,
their faces a dull study. This line will end in "yawn."
Except of course for those guys who are raking,
and those chicks inside houses, refusing to bake,
and neutered apartment dwellers, yard free, smoking
on their stoops, and smirking. Squirrels poke
through the sexless branches of maple trees,
the crocus and daffodil push up, unqueeny bees
get ready for another season of mindless work,
and I'm writing this ridiculous poem, shirking
a list of chores that may or may not be dictated
by gender requirements, the whole thing instigated
by the idea that roses are red and gender is blue, or,
you know, kinda fluid, but sticky, like super glue.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
A Poem by e. e. cummings: "O sweet spontaneous"
I wonder if it's true that what we put into our brains changes what flows out into our veins.
*
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
-- e. e. cummings
*
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
-- e. e. cummings
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)