whose story
your story
my story
some other
someone speaks
some listen
some believe
some obey
here the page turns
hear the page turn
slow whispers
form a deaf ear
control’s the word’s
darkest destiny
(August 13, 2020)
whose story
your story
my story
some other
someone speaks
some listen
some believe
some obey
here the page turns
hear the page turn
slow whispers
form a deaf ear
control’s the word’s
darkest destiny
(August 13, 2020)
I started a serial poem back at the beginning of January. The plan was to write 140 poems, each poem’s length pre-determined by a random number generator, ranging from 3-140 syllables. It was to follow vaguely the rules of a renga, where each poem grew out of the one before it somehow, whether through theme, pun, image, or a reply. The number of poems was determined by the number of syllables in a sonnet.
I have reached 80 poems in this series. I hit 40 back at the end of March. I have 60 more to go. I would like to finish this by the end of December, which means I should speed up a bit. LOL. I have never really written under a deadline except for required essays in grad school. However, 80 poems in 7 months is a fairly phenomenal pace for me.
I will now begin to move forward with the third ‘stanza’ while collecting and tightening sections 1 and 2, in hopes that as I reread and work over the first two sections, the third stanza will continue the conversations, if you will, that began in the first two “stanzas,” and the themes and images will continue to echo and grow organically in section three.
A little obsessive, but then what about life is not.
(July 27, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)
“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”
—Guillaume Apollinaire
insistent demanding attention
soft whispers curl at my feet
like cats they claw at me
with their sharp reminders
lightly pulling at my skin
until the ground is awash
in the blood of memory
and then slightly below the surface
small phrases embedded in dead
conversations rise like tattered faces
from the sea to mouth their silent
vowels like fish dying in the sand
until the raw scraps of language
in which I am tangled
are cast out in a storm surge
far out among the dark waves
and I drown choking
with nothing to say
(July 6, 2020)
Infinite Watched Pot
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pot.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pan.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is thought
poetry is words
poetry is silence
poetry is emotion
poetry is gibberish
poetry is vague
poetry is ambiguous
poetry is precise
poetry is concise
poetry is babble
poetry is light
poetry is dark
poetry is mind
poetry is heart
poetry is hidden
poetry is everywhere
poetry is pervasive
poetry is absence
poetry is laughter
poetry is tears
poetry is love
poetry is hate
poetry is simple
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is metaphor
poetry is plain
poetry is complex
poetry is slant
poetry is curved
poetry is bent
poetry is straight
poetry is cubed
poetry is convex
poetry is obtuse
poetry is infinite
poetry is hermeneutic
poetry is occult
poetry is transcendent
poetry is god
poetry is zen
poetry is buddha
poetry is Christ
poetry is religion
poetry is atheist
poetry is glib
poetry is serious
poetry is dirt
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is earth
poetry is air
poetry is fire
poetry is water
poetry is elemental
poetry is irrelevant
poetry is submission
poetry is dominance
poetry is coy
poetry is rude
poetry is blatant
poetry is obvious
poetry is obscure
poetry is orgasmic
poetry is impotent
poetry is sex
poetry is flirtation
poetry is destruction
poetry is resurrection
poetry is creation
poetry is filth
poetry is shit
poetry is dust
.
poetry is nothing
poetry is everything
poetry is breath
poetry is death
poetry is ice
poetry is tongue
poetry is bowels
poetry is piss
poetry is you
poetry is me
poetry is us
poetry is other
poetry is privilege
poetry is poverty
poetry is gender
poetry is genderless
poetry is cadence
poetry is dissonance
poetry is power
poetry is gravity
poetry is nature
poetry is voice
poetry is spit
poetry is sight
poetry is blind
(April 11, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (17)
he alludes to a poem as if others
know what he thinks about before he can
speak which in this case means before he can
think his thoughts being like Rube Goldberg
devices clacking along tripping springs and
traps which propel the odd idea along
tangential routes until finally falling
into its assigned slot and everything
stops and silence expands like waves of water
rippling across the surface of a lake
eventually lapping the far shore
where a small boy plays with a wooden boat
never once thinking about poetry
(January 23, 2020)
from “an untitled serial poem”
grey and cold all day
the year begins again
cedar pollen drifts wildly
I can feel the shredded bark
deeply behind my eyes
trying to cut a way out
I’m not surprised but fear
all that has changed enough
to become a normal day
as wolves claw and slaver
at the door
(January 2, 2020)
note: I am starting a series of 140 poems, the length of each poem will be a set number of syllables determined by a random number generator. each poem/stanza will organically arise from the previous poem/stanza in the series in the manner of a renga without following the traditional renga’s syllable parameters. Additionally there is another requirement put upon every tenth poem/stanza in the series which will connect it to another “ten” poem/stanza following abstractly the traditional rhyme pattern of a Shakespearian sonnet. This is the second time I have written a longer poem following this self-imposed system. The first was called “Sonnet: a renga” This is the beginning poem/stanza of the new series.
A little more than a month ago, one of my work mates proposed that she, a math teacher, and myself write a haiku a day for a month. After 37 haikus (I wrote more than one some days), I am going to stop the exercise. I think that my fellow English teacher proposed the undertaking in order to make her write everyday. I do this already, so it did not motivate me to write. I did find it a calming activity most days: a time to stop and think about what was in front of me either physically, mentally, or spiritually. However, it also deflected my attention away from other poems I had been working on. Usually I post about 15 or so poems a month (sometimes even pushing to 20). In October, because of the haiku event, I posted 38 new poems. I like haiku, and like writing them. Usually I make up parameters for my writing in an arbitrary and random manner. During the exercise, I used the traditional 5-7-5 syllable count, although I have in the past ignored that stricture focusing more on the brief flash of attention than on a numbers game. Figuring the syllable count is more of a guideline than a law. I don’t plan on giving haiku up; I’m just not going to sit down each day to write one. I have always written in small snatches of time, never having the leisure to write for extended lengths during the day. So, haiku, and imagism, lend themselves well to going from start to finish in the brief time I have to write. However, I also like spending time in my head as I go through the day, thinking about a longer piece. Therefore, as I stated at the beginning of this ramble, I am going to end my participation in the project. Thanks to all of you who read and liked the work I have posted over the last month.
(October 31, 2019)
What is here is there
only when it is here now–
the pen on the page
(September 30, 2019)