Sunday, December 30, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
december twenty-ninth time
they were not allowed to give us names.
the morning would somehow
taste like ashes. the sky, a shallow
plate of milk and cloud, bent
downward and chilled our noses.
the act of unbecoming did not
make us afraid; it was a slow
waltz toward the night,
but always, there was music.
the morning would somehow
taste like ashes. the sky, a shallow
plate of milk and cloud, bent
downward and chilled our noses.
the act of unbecoming did not
make us afraid; it was a slow
waltz toward the night,
but always, there was music.
Friday, December 28, 2012
december twenty-eighth time
i want my writing to be erinaceous,
but i also want owning it to be legal
in the district of columbia.
setting priorities: extremely challenging.
but i also want owning it to be legal
in the district of columbia.
setting priorities: extremely challenging.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
december twenty-seventh time
the world's most masterful hand puppeteer
could not replicate this shape:
your hand in my hand, my heart in your hand
could not replicate this shape:
your hand in my hand, my heart in your hand
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
december twenty-sixth time
sometimes, there would be marbles
in our palms upon waking. sometimes
paper cranes under the pillows and
bookmarks between our toes.
i am not sure how there were children
before children--perhaps our love
spread such a distance that it caught
small flecks of dust; small animals.
that it nourished them to commit
beautiful and unpredictable verbs:
holding, smiling, sewing
one body from two bodies:
one heart from many shades of light.
(unrelated--back from my brief holiday hiatus! woo art time every day!)
in our palms upon waking. sometimes
paper cranes under the pillows and
bookmarks between our toes.
i am not sure how there were children
before children--perhaps our love
spread such a distance that it caught
small flecks of dust; small animals.
that it nourished them to commit
beautiful and unpredictable verbs:
holding, smiling, sewing
one body from two bodies:
one heart from many shades of light.
(unrelated--back from my brief holiday hiatus! woo art time every day!)
Sunday, December 23, 2012
december twenty-first and december twenty-second time
*I have been in Manhattan without a computer! But there will be a return to your regularly-scheduled programming on the evening of the twenty-third.*
This was not a poem. :I I direct you to a Google Search of e.e. Cummings or Federico Garcia Lorca.
This was not a poem. :I I direct you to a Google Search of e.e. Cummings or Federico Garcia Lorca.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
december nineteenth time
I am not entirely confident that mermaids
know the sensation of wind. I know
that water moves. I know that it
can foam and bellow. But there is this
eerie and impossible stillness of air
that water only knows if it is empty:
The mermaids cannot imagine; will not.
They only breathe in what they can
enchant first. That which listens.
know the sensation of wind. I know
that water moves. I know that it
can foam and bellow. But there is this
eerie and impossible stillness of air
that water only knows if it is empty:
The mermaids cannot imagine; will not.
They only breathe in what they can
enchant first. That which listens.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
december eighteenth time
these fragile beautiful products
skipping toward the ground as sore
blossoms from the branch.
the ornate, impeccable
exclamation marks of their eyes.
to be famous is to be a husk
that is simmering full and never
ever quite done. it is to be tilted
into the mouths of intimate
strangers like honey.
skipping toward the ground as sore
blossoms from the branch.
the ornate, impeccable
exclamation marks of their eyes.
to be famous is to be a husk
that is simmering full and never
ever quite done. it is to be tilted
into the mouths of intimate
strangers like honey.
Monday, December 17, 2012
december seventeenth time
winter is still full of spiders.
winter knows green grass,
and rainbows, and stars
that mock the lights
on the balcony just so.
winter knows green grass,
and rainbows, and stars
that mock the lights
on the balcony just so.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
december sixteenth time
when i am king, there will be a day devoted
to pillow fort making:
the security of the art and the tradition
and the warmth will be enough. there will not
be moats, or dragons tethered to the blanket
roof, but the welcoming glow of a flashlight
moon; murmured stories of a past in which
the fortifications kept out both the bad
and the good.
to pillow fort making:
the security of the art and the tradition
and the warmth will be enough. there will not
be moats, or dragons tethered to the blanket
roof, but the welcoming glow of a flashlight
moon; murmured stories of a past in which
the fortifications kept out both the bad
and the good.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
december fourteenth time
Today, I am reposting my Facebook status here, because I think that it is important.
"I've had a few friends reference this website, and I think it's important to remember how many beautiful things are done every day. http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/moments-that-restored-our-faith-in-humanity-this-y
Just think of how many things aren't reported, too. Every positive act matters. I will say one specific thing about today's events--regardless of how you feel about gun control, though it is certainly an important conversation, this also needs to be a discussion about how those with mental illness in our country receive treatment and how each and every one of us can discourage acts of violence by serving as a support network for those around us who may need it. A person with feelings, and thoughts, and rationalizations is ultimately the one who pulls the trigger--and that means that it isn't ONLY our responsibility to make sure that gun purchases are appropriately registered, it is Also our responsibility to avoid stigmatizing others, and to serve as a warning network if we think that someone may be a danger to themselves or to others.
This is a conversation about guns, yes. Guns facilitate mass casualties. But there will always be weapons that do that--homemade explosives can certainly do that--and that is why discussing the root of the problem, how the shooter could have become less motivated to commit the crime beforehand, is so important."
Poetry seeks to understand all points of view; a poem has succeeded at being significant if it takes us to a moment that we did not think that we could experience again, or at all. It is moments in our lives such as this that deserve poems: where people cannot understand, or do not want to understand. The shooter was a human being. He was not "evil," he was not "irreparable." He may have felt horribly, horribly alone. He may have become confused regarding what was real and what was not, or who was threatening him and who was not. If he had not had access to guns, he might have used knives. If he hadn't used knives, he might have used poison. He might have used bombs. Pain unravels. People don't generally, as I understand it, want to kill those around them from birth. They spend years--decades--being hated, and thus learning how to hate.
The only thing that begets violence is violence. If you want to stop violence, it starts in homes. It starts in schools. It starts with an act of kindness. It starts with avoiding desensitization. It doesn't start with the gun shop--guns may facilitate death, but they don't cause death. Gun control is incredibly important, but focusing on gun control also puts the responsibility for crimes such as this largely in the hands of the legislators and the prosecutors. When violent crime escalates, it is a societal problem, and it means that absolutely everyone is not doing enough. Every positive act matters, and that includes being kind, and observant, and attentive to your word choice, and a role model for those around you who may need one.
"I've had a few friends reference this website, and I think it's important to remember how many beautiful things are done every day. http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/moments-that-restored-our-faith-in-humanity-this-y
Just think of how many things aren't reported, too. Every positive act matters. I will say one specific thing about today's events--regardless of how you feel about gun control, though it is certainly an important conversation, this also needs to be a discussion about how those with mental illness in our country receive treatment and how each and every one of us can discourage acts of violence by serving as a support network for those around us who may need it. A person with feelings, and thoughts, and rationalizations is ultimately the one who pulls the trigger--and that means that it isn't ONLY our responsibility to make sure that gun purchases are appropriately registered, it is Also our responsibility to avoid stigmatizing others, and to serve as a warning network if we think that someone may be a danger to themselves or to others.
This is a conversation about guns, yes. Guns facilitate mass casualties. But there will always be weapons that do that--homemade explosives can certainly do that--and that is why discussing the root of the problem, how the shooter could have become less motivated to commit the crime beforehand, is so important."
Poetry seeks to understand all points of view; a poem has succeeded at being significant if it takes us to a moment that we did not think that we could experience again, or at all. It is moments in our lives such as this that deserve poems: where people cannot understand, or do not want to understand. The shooter was a human being. He was not "evil," he was not "irreparable." He may have felt horribly, horribly alone. He may have become confused regarding what was real and what was not, or who was threatening him and who was not. If he had not had access to guns, he might have used knives. If he hadn't used knives, he might have used poison. He might have used bombs. Pain unravels. People don't generally, as I understand it, want to kill those around them from birth. They spend years--decades--being hated, and thus learning how to hate.
The only thing that begets violence is violence. If you want to stop violence, it starts in homes. It starts in schools. It starts with an act of kindness. It starts with avoiding desensitization. It doesn't start with the gun shop--guns may facilitate death, but they don't cause death. Gun control is incredibly important, but focusing on gun control also puts the responsibility for crimes such as this largely in the hands of the legislators and the prosecutors. When violent crime escalates, it is a societal problem, and it means that absolutely everyone is not doing enough. Every positive act matters, and that includes being kind, and observant, and attentive to your word choice, and a role model for those around you who may need one.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
december thirteenth time
her artificial constraints
kitsch as band-aid
thrift as box
book as body
tick as tock
kitsch as band-aid
thrift as box
book as body
tick as tock
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
december twelfth time
I find it remarkably comforting that my plants know that it is winter even though they are inside. They shed and blossom and grow accordingly. It says something about one's capacity to remain true to oneself even in the most bizarre and unanticipated of conditions.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
december eleventh time
i hope that my library books remember me (!)
i hope that library books hope to smell like people as much as i hope to smell like library books. old and full and loved.
i hope that library books hope to smell like people as much as i hope to smell like library books. old and full and loved.
Monday, December 10, 2012
december tenth time
the wikipedia page for dinosaurs says that the term,
meaning "terrible lizard," is a misnomer
because dinosaurs are not lizards. i, however,
believe it to be a misnomer because as
some of us learned from The Land Before
Time, and the Smithsonian, and years
of storybooks and puzzles with brilliant
illustrations, dinosaurs
are not terrible at all.
meaning "terrible lizard," is a misnomer
because dinosaurs are not lizards. i, however,
believe it to be a misnomer because as
some of us learned from The Land Before
Time, and the Smithsonian, and years
of storybooks and puzzles with brilliant
illustrations, dinosaurs
are not terrible at all.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
december ninth time
crack bones, crack jokes, crack wise
crack is a fantastically fully word, both in meaning and in sound.
crack a smile
to break open and reveal in beautiful and horrible ways.
crack whore, crack cocaine
to destroy and to create. to expose and to change.
crack up
crack(er)
kracken
(okay, maybe not the last one)
crack is a fantastically fully word, both in meaning and in sound.
crack a smile
to break open and reveal in beautiful and horrible ways.
crack whore, crack cocaine
to destroy and to create. to expose and to change.
crack up
crack(er)
kracken
(okay, maybe not the last one)
December eighth time
I want to remember everything but I want to carry my world on my back.
I want a careful, contagious aesthetic.
I want to summarize the plot without undermining the twist.
I want a careful, contagious aesthetic.
I want to summarize the plot without undermining the twist.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
december fifth time
I like how freshly-harvested turnips have this little row of fuzz that goes from the bottom of the turnip to the middle, like a seam, because it reminds me of a tiny person with belly hair straight up to the button.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
december fourth time
i hope, someday, to be entirely made of music.
i know that what i am doing is right
if it is a move toward symphony;
if it hums and beats like a heart
but can be picked up by others--learned--sung.
i know that what i am doing is right
if it is a move toward symphony;
if it hums and beats like a heart
but can be picked up by others--learned--sung.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
december second time
her lack of control had compelled her
to build a tiny cosmos of terrariums:
some with plastic figurines, some lush,
some with a fine layer of carefully
controlled poisons such that
absolutely nothing could grow.
to build a tiny cosmos of terrariums:
some with plastic figurines, some lush,
some with a fine layer of carefully
controlled poisons such that
absolutely nothing could grow.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
december first time
Of Hades (from the same series as the 30th poem.)
I have heard this called rape.
Like her, the rapeseed is harvested—
it is the most valuable part
of the crop—its delicate yellow
petals stripped
for oil. For nectar.
Coaxing
the fresh wick of her body
from the wax of cool earth—
her eyes only fluttered. Shoulders
drooped with the still
of dark; nestling toward the heat
of my skin: like the sun. The ruptured
field disappeared behind us; horizon. Hair
coiled as vines; sweet cusp of her lips.
from the wax of cool earth—
her eyes only fluttered. Shoulders
drooped with the still
of dark; nestling toward the heat
of my skin: like the sun. The ruptured
field disappeared behind us; horizon. Hair
coiled as vines; sweet cusp of her lips.
Stubborn
as a perennial, she would not
open: only wait. Pale and replete,
shivering through averno—changing
the tide of the river styx—
only outward when her mother’s
cries tore through her throat.
open: only wait. Pale and replete,
shivering through averno—changing
the tide of the river styx—
only outward when her mother’s
cries tore through her throat.
To be
buried, finally, both she
and I. To be consumed, a bitter herb
simmered to sweet. She is a light
beneath a door with no handle
that allows me to read and be read.
She wilts with the grace of a rose,
blushes sometimes, softens at the edges.
Everyone Wants Me to Love.
To have a winter more charitable,
a death who is infatuated and warm.
Teasing the soil of the underworld
with possibility, Persephone: a seed
kissing the dirt apart with hushed
derision. Aching toward the light.
and I. To be consumed, a bitter herb
simmered to sweet. She is a light
beneath a door with no handle
that allows me to read and be read.
She wilts with the grace of a rose,
blushes sometimes, softens at the edges.
Everyone Wants Me to Love.
To have a winter more charitable,
a death who is infatuated and warm.
Teasing the soil of the underworld
with possibility, Persephone: a seed
kissing the dirt apart with hushed
derision. Aching toward the light.
I have heard this called rape.
Like her, the rapeseed is harvested—
it is the most valuable part
of the crop—its delicate yellow
petals stripped
for oil. For nectar.
The rape
gives: it seasons and fades.
november thirtieth time
Of
Demeter (from a series I am working on based on the Persephone fable, from perspectives that are not that of Persephone.)
Chrysanthemums grew
from her pores.
I clipped them with the teeth of faeries caught
by hand. She was a truth gaping out
of my chest; her laughs slashed the sky like a blade.
The elements cried and balked at her coming,
and the moon swayed accordingly.
There were seasons, then. They were like little
deaths that bore eloquent poems of dirt.
The fields turned and rolled as kites do.
They pulsed with sunflowers.
I built my daughter a chrysalis of my heart
because my bones could not wield us both.
I did not believe that she could breathe
alone. She will not have the chance.
I clipped them with the teeth of faeries caught
by hand. She was a truth gaping out
of my chest; her laughs slashed the sky like a blade.
The elements cried and balked at her coming,
and the moon swayed accordingly.
There were seasons, then. They were like little
deaths that bore eloquent poems of dirt.
The fields turned and rolled as kites do.
They pulsed with sunflowers.
I built my daughter a chrysalis of my heart
because my bones could not wield us both.
I did not believe that she could breathe
alone. She will not have the chance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)