Have I accomplished any of my said resolutions yet?
Not a damn one
Am I proud of myself?
Absolutely.
That's what February is for
January is just
Too damn cold
To do anything
Remotely
Productive
In the state of
Minnesota
Here's to a productive and happy February, all.
And when Maki gets back from Vegas
He not only will have stories to tell
But hopefully new poem topics as well.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
January 27, 2010
I am not willing
to wander through
three hundred
thirty
eight
more days
with my eyes closed.
Resolutions are overrated.
Living life
(while awake)
is not.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
POEMS WRITTEN BY THE RUNNING WATER
LORENA DUARTE
** NOTE: This poem is NOT terrible. It is one of my favorites. Lorena is amazing! And she's from Minneapolis! :-) **
the quicksand has taken me of late
and to this I add that
certainty certainly left me.
where have I been?
I have been waiting for the world
to turn on its axis
have been expecting the four horsemen of the apocalypse
with what I hear on the wind
full of fools and flippants,
have been staring at the running water, daring myself
to run.
to do this week:
1. develop serious drinking/drug/depressive/social/love
problem, in manner of all great poets,
see: Thomas, Dylan
see: Mistral Gabriela
see: Dickinson, Emily
see: cummings, e.e.
see: Ahkmatova, Anna
see: Dalton, Roque
2. wear inappropriately heavy eyeliner
at 7 a.m. in manner of all brooding half drunk 27 year old poet girls
the world over.
3. sport bright pink fairy tutu costume complete with sequins
at 7 a.m. in manner of all sweet 7 year old girls
the world over.
perhaps then the knives will rip themselves out of my stomach,
perhaps then my heart will stop its running, like the water,
will stop its running like the water,
will really deserve the "nicest smile of the day award"
the guy at the coffee shop gave me this morning,
perhaps then I could map the quicksand
all our – and by our – I mean we –
all our quicksand, our holes
where we find ourselves stranded,
we could kiss each and all our
boo boos away,
we could write late into the night
all the crazy poets
write infinity into our poems
no pretending
no parasites
no jewels
no cages
no.
only the sweat dripping of soft lovers
little bombs going off in our hearts
poem prayers under our pillows every morning.
where have I been?
where have we been?
where are we headed in this conciseness?
in these tricks
in these empty howls
in the barren?
no.
I propose instead:
1. living/loving dangerously
2. having the guts to be useless and
3. following visions of the always running towards the new
yeah, the running towards the new –
yeah like the water,
I propose poems written by the running water.
BLESSING THE BOATS
LUCILLE CLIFTON
(at St. Mary's)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A brilliant poem from Elizabeth Bishop. Enjoy!
One Art
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.
Friday, January 15, 2010
This is one where I post something that I didn't write
I will say this as an intro. I believe that writers of poetry should first and foremost be readers of poetry. I think it's important on this blog to acknowledge the work of published, notable poets in addition to adding our own personal flair, which is why am posting the following by one of my favorite poets/authors. Sherman Alexie is the author of one of my favorite young adult novels and one that every author and reader of this blog should read, in my humble opinion.
I found this poem while browsing the Internet tonight, on this website. It reminds me of a city I love to visit and would hate to live.
Subway Song, Interrupted
Ascending
From
Subway
To
Street,
I’m
Always
Confused—
I don’t live in New York. I use the subway when I visit, so I keep a stack of partially used MetroCards on my desk in Seattle. When I first traveled to New York, I used subway tokens. Those are useless now, but I still keep a dish filled with those eccentric coins. Today, I counted my MetroCards. There are fifty-three. For years, I’ve tried to remember to bring them when I travel to NYC. But what’s the use? I will always forget. So what should I do with these cards? Maybe I’ll mail one each to fifty-three friends who live in NYC. I’ll write them a note: “I love you, dear friend. I love you inside and in between the boroughs. These MetroCards are a mystery. Use them. Unmask them. Interrogate them. Be thorough.” Or maybe I should send all fifty-three to the visiting poet who met her future husband on the F Train. “Really?” New Yorkers ask (surprised by their city) when I repeat that story. “Yes,” I say. “She met him on the subway when she asked him for directions.” Is that a miracle? Maybe. But, hell, I know a guy—a lifelong New Yorker—who lost his virginity as he was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Is that a miracle? He says, “Effing A, it was a miracle, all thirty-three seconds of it.”
—Descending
From
Street
To
Subway,
I’m
Always
Confused.
I hope that the authors of this blog will use this as a springboard to post their favorite poems from their favorite poets as well. Happy New Year, and happy writing.
Yours with all my heart,
RecyceledArtGuru
I found this poem while browsing the Internet tonight, on this website. It reminds me of a city I love to visit and would hate to live.
Subway Song, Interrupted
Ascending
From
Subway
To
Street,
I’m
Always
Confused—
I don’t live in New York. I use the subway when I visit, so I keep a stack of partially used MetroCards on my desk in Seattle. When I first traveled to New York, I used subway tokens. Those are useless now, but I still keep a dish filled with those eccentric coins. Today, I counted my MetroCards. There are fifty-three. For years, I’ve tried to remember to bring them when I travel to NYC. But what’s the use? I will always forget. So what should I do with these cards? Maybe I’ll mail one each to fifty-three friends who live in NYC. I’ll write them a note: “I love you, dear friend. I love you inside and in between the boroughs. These MetroCards are a mystery. Use them. Unmask them. Interrogate them. Be thorough.” Or maybe I should send all fifty-three to the visiting poet who met her future husband on the F Train. “Really?” New Yorkers ask (surprised by their city) when I repeat that story. “Yes,” I say. “She met him on the subway when she asked him for directions.” Is that a miracle? Maybe. But, hell, I know a guy—a lifelong New Yorker—who lost his virginity as he was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Is that a miracle? He says, “Effing A, it was a miracle, all thirty-three seconds of it.”
—Descending
From
Street
To
Subway,
I’m
Always
Confused.
I hope that the authors of this blog will use this as a springboard to post their favorite poems from their favorite poets as well. Happy New Year, and happy writing.
Yours with all my heart,
RecyceledArtGuru
Church On Sundays
Sure
You didn’t make it into church this morning
Don’t feel guilty
Even God gets hangovers
You didn’t make it into church this morning
Don’t feel guilty
Even God gets hangovers
Monday, January 4, 2010
Happy New Year
Busy hands calmly reloading an automatic rifle
Blank stare slowly scanning for breathing bodies
Little feet struggling to stand strong as blood seeps between toes
At an age where he should have been helping his family with the crops
Should have been playing with his friends
Should have been dreaming of love
Instead, as he draws in air that is finally fresh
He sleeps next to my room with clenched fists
I do not dare imagine what nightmares horrifically parade
Single file line like the army he once marched in
His birthday gift was a merry-go-round of gunpowder
His celebratory song was a chorus of screams
When he was drunk
He would tell me about his experiences
Of the violence that tore open his chest
Like it did his community
He warned me about going back
How he was drawn out of desire to help
How he was afraid for his safety if he were to return
What did he see on that final night?
Just another enemy between him and what he needed?
I could not let him do what I feared he would
But it did not much matter
In the end
They stomped him until he felt at home
Beat him into the knowledge that America and Sudan are different
But they do not always have to be
And what do we tell him now?
To hold his head high?
That in this country his dreams will come true?
That’s the problem
They did come true
The ones that have plagued him for the past fifteen years
This is not a new year for him
It is just like all the rest
Blank stare slowly scanning for breathing bodies
Little feet struggling to stand strong as blood seeps between toes
At an age where he should have been helping his family with the crops
Should have been playing with his friends
Should have been dreaming of love
Instead, as he draws in air that is finally fresh
He sleeps next to my room with clenched fists
I do not dare imagine what nightmares horrifically parade
Single file line like the army he once marched in
His birthday gift was a merry-go-round of gunpowder
His celebratory song was a chorus of screams
When he was drunk
He would tell me about his experiences
Of the violence that tore open his chest
Like it did his community
He warned me about going back
How he was drawn out of desire to help
How he was afraid for his safety if he were to return
What did he see on that final night?
Just another enemy between him and what he needed?
I could not let him do what I feared he would
But it did not much matter
In the end
They stomped him until he felt at home
Beat him into the knowledge that America and Sudan are different
But they do not always have to be
And what do we tell him now?
To hold his head high?
That in this country his dreams will come true?
That’s the problem
They did come true
The ones that have plagued him for the past fifteen years
This is not a new year for him
It is just like all the rest
Sunday, January 3, 2010
the identity crisis poem is late
...due to a recent identity crisis. life imitates art.
song for the identity crisis
--best to read while listening to this.
on the day of my identity crisis, none of the downtown
traffic lights were working
the parking ramp was filled with horns perpetually
honking
in a chorus of monoxide panic
trapped animals confused and frantic
on the day of your identity crisis
it’s not going to be much different
on the day that i lost all sense of self and continuity
couples were rollerblading down the greenway
and scattered along the route were bronze boots
inexplicably fused to benches
were they meant to be creative expression
or a function to give bums some hesitation
on the day you lose all sense of self and continuity,
you might need a place to sleep
and when the spring melts the frost from this blood
things will get positively manic
like jets of contaminated water
pouring from dozens of hydrants cleaved in two
filling the gutters with sweat and retch
moving at a speed few could ever catch
on the day of your identity crisis,
we’ll see just how fast it comes.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
I've resolved to have fun with life
No more judging
Or complaining
No more criticizing
Or doubting
I will paint more
And let the colors fly
My words will be more than just
Words
They will splashes of meaning
Across a canvas
They will let my true feelings
Emerge
Feelings no longer have a hiding place
Regret is out there for anyone (and everyone) to see
Cut and paste
Doodle
Even if nothing comes of it
Where I am right now
Is where I shall be
And I will be OK with that
I can be as new age-y as I feel like
And no one can stop me
New month, new year, new decade.
You know what that means! New theme here at Terrible Poetry for Terrible People. You've guessed it.
If you haven't read your email lately, or are a wonderful reader/audience member, the theme this month belongs to none other than NEW BEGINNINGS and NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS.
Which, as Alex says, is "obviously appropriate, given the time of year."
If you've never contributed anything, here's your chance. Or if you are a reader and would like permission to contribute, leave your email address in the comment and we'll get you added to the contributors list ASAP.
Also, I think it's time (as all new beginnings go) to get crackin' on our resolution to share some of our poetry out loud. I'll toss some ideas back and forth as to a gathering place, and we'll go from there.
If you haven't read your email lately, or are a wonderful reader/audience member, the theme this month belongs to none other than NEW BEGINNINGS and NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS.
Which, as Alex says, is "obviously appropriate, given the time of year."
If you've never contributed anything, here's your chance. Or if you are a reader and would like permission to contribute, leave your email address in the comment and we'll get you added to the contributors list ASAP.
Also, I think it's time (as all new beginnings go) to get crackin' on our resolution to share some of our poetry out loud. I'll toss some ideas back and forth as to a gathering place, and we'll go from there.
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