in which I write about stuff
smell of Christmas in March
the fir boughs cut and gathered
by orange dozers
(they’re cutting down one of the micro-forests near my office to build a shopping complex to include a Lowes, a gym, and a branch of my employer.)
I feel like the last line doesn’t quite work, but nothing I try seems any better….
lost domain
forgetful blogger
boon to spammers
just something that C & I were joking about earlier.
sun among thin cloud
onto my jacket sleeve
drift tiny ice flakes
(also: snow? WTF?)
full moon
ice in the ditch
pedal faster
all this prairie
multitude shades of drab
subdivisions to be
beyond the fog
over the thawing lake
birds cry: “spring!”
(why yes, I do write haiku in my head on my bike rides.)
Something C said today, while playing with Pico, as an idea for a title of something about cats. I think it would make a great title for a poem, but I can’t seem to get started on the poem that would go with it.
So I’m just going to toss this out into the universe. Have fun. 😉
I may come back to the idea later, though.
O stupid queen!
For thinking of the past
as anything other
than a trap
for women,
a time that calls you
a disease.
I drop my head
into a bath
heated most modernly.
My chin-length hair
floats away.
Your voice does too.
breathing in and out of seared lungs
air rushing over pink-cold hands
and pushing
floating past
the red-gold tree blazing
before the late afternoon sun
breathing pushing
and the black dog hasn’t yet
carried off my soul
so long as I can
dance around the corner
and bolt across the street
thru traffic
on two slim curls
of rubber & aluminum
This week’s poetry Thursday prompt is “what we avoid” and in being true to the spirit of the idea, I’m revisiting the one poet for whom I have a serious and active loathing:
The last semester of my senior year of college, I took an advanced poetry writing course, in which we were inflicted with a variety of unpalatable modern poets. (Why, no, I didn’t much care for the class.) Most of them were forgettable, or at least I have forgotten them, but my knee-jerk dislike for Pound has lingered on.
So I’m going to give him another shot and see if — 10 years later — I can get something out of the experience. If any of y’all like his poetry, I’d sure appreciate a pointer to what and a bit of why, too.
Update, Oct. 20: I poked around the internets looking for various things by Pound; some of the notable bits are now in my ezrapound tag in deli.icio.us. I think I’m going to stick by my judgement of 10 years ago: mostly pretentious, snobby, self-referential crap. But there are a few gems, when he gets out of his own way. But I’m not finding that I’m inspired to write anything of my own, either way.
I’m glad
(again)
(still)
that we don’t have television
early morning
in the dark
radio on the counter
while I wash dishes
and that’s bad enough
thank you
age 8
wrote 2 poems
a little story
my own myth-making
sky people: rain & stars
feeling corny
as soon as words
hit big-ruled paper
too clever by half
somehow sent out
as an exemplar
followed me for years
exploring one color
shades of purple
seeking my own joy
in a poem
of image and tone
noticed and loved
only by me
age 12
never mind the tortured
lines
wrung out
of early adolescence
scrawls in 4 colors
on spiral-bound notebooks
hidden
in the adult side
of the library
obscure poets, modern, local
now I forget
her name
but remember the texture
of the books’ covers
a class project
collecting poems
famous, obscure, and mine
the fierce forced push
of keys
grandfather’s typewriter
into rough-shiny translucent
eraseable paper
illustrated
in 4-color ballpoint
stick figures
age 19
lusting and trying
out
everything
and being left
all the time
notebook in hand
walking strange streets
at night
the tall chestnut
tree’s roots
lift the sidewalk
crossed in passage
from wierd dangerous nights
into days
incognito
taking notes
next to the oblivious
rich white kids
but not really notes
for class
poems of the house
with the virtiginous
stairs
the plate window shattered
by burglars
on Xmas Eve
the original victorian
bathtub
big enough for 3
age 19/20/21/22
and all along
poems for her
because I’m no good
with words
age 24
poem at a wedding
a backyard courtyard
San Francisco
sunlight & flowers
and everything just so
the food, the guests,
the 2 men
old friend & new
(it won’t last)
the maid of honor
in a red silk shirt
and a long black skirt
reading aloud
lines that flowed
onto the journal’s page
waiting for a bus
under a flat grey sky
a thousand miles
away
(everybody cried)
age 27
a monochrome PDA
from work
fits enough words
for haiku
geese
leaves
and the moon
walking back
from lunch
bunnies in the brush
a bee on the lawn
drawing more attention
more of a poem
than a moment of
silence
and the gathered crowd
age 30
in the vanpool
the wide river valley
green, filled with fog
seeing words in it
after years of silence
all the cliches
of dark lifting
ice breaking
all true
a bit queasy
from chemical amendment
pulling the pen out
from the spiral
of wire
opening and turning
to a blank page
without lists
of what’s not done
or prose rambles
of wanting the knife’s
edge
more than any
other thing
start a new poem
and it doesn’t matter
what it says
age 32
this is now
at the end
of the longest poem
in maybe a decade
has it been that long?
and today is the pivot
into fall
a lurid sky
promising rain & clear
equally, indifferently
as the sun vanishes
my hair is freshly cut
and I walk past
the bike shop
the empty lot, the burger stand
to home
to revise this poem
type it up
and go on to the next
[this is a slightly different response to this week’s poetry thursday prompt. two side notes… 1) I’m at a complete loss for a title, which is fitting given how much trouble I’ve had with titles, suggestions welcome; 2) Kat, if you read this: what year was G&L’s wedding?]Â