Wednesday, June 19, 2013
"Poet's Choice" is actually a pretty amazing book. Hirsch has compiled (and edited for us) most of the articles that went into his column. The book really is a sort of history lesson in poetry...he offers a variety of poets from ancient days to the contemporary.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
I often get writers block alternated with nice little creative bursts. But in between my ability to write really well-rounded pieces, I try to do a little something to regenerate my creative juices. This app i used to create the image above is titled 'found poetry' and gives you variety of fun ways to personalize your magnetic poetry. It offers random words on several different subjects, but the most wonderful thing (that I haven't found in another app of this kind) is the ability to add whatever words you'd like to use! The app also gives you the option to personalize the poem by adding your own image as a back ground (as you can see above I found a picture of the city at night that served a great visual ambient to my poem). I recommend finding a free wallpaper app for a quick reserve of free images (and very beautiful, might I i add!) to go along with your poetry. There are many of those available too, so you shouldn't have a problem at all finding the perfect picture to accomodate your writing!
I plan to try to do one of these little poems at least once a day. I just think this is the cutest!
Friday, June 7, 2013
I remember the smoke stacks
Of an old November,
How the trail of charred coal
Would snake it’s way through
Of sycamores like a wormhole,
The magic Cinderella glass door
Into the center of Appalachia.
I remember the smell of pine
And the soft, wrinkled hands
Of my late grandmother,
Stroke weak and stained
Of Marlborors on all the
Car rides to the center
Of this small town,
Historical in its old ways
And weak roots, not unlike
The tobacco plows of all
the garden-weaving ancestors
who gave of me their hands,
the ones that touch the dough-cheeks
of my own daughter,
the ghosts of their fingertips
lingering upon her face
from eons and centuries,
and her tiny feet thick
of dead leaves and pine needles
from the same old trees
that held my climbing ten-year-old
knees and fingers, breath of their sap
older than the birth of me
and I imagine them taking
a silent snapshot of our private moment,
much in the way they watched
my teenage parents holding hands
before dinner, or aunt Mabel,
angling for sophistication
in her red high heels,
and maybe my uncle and I lost
in June lemonade and
a late-day game of checkers
on a day no one but me remembers,
on a day no one but me remembers,
our laugher still echoing somewhere
between the splintered core
of their old braches, each leaf seed
an unspeakable story-keeper.
Written for a prompt at Poet's United.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
This is the place I come from,
The humidity so thick
It slithers itself around your neck
Like the tail of a rattlesnake
Until you can’t properly breathe.
A town nestled deep in the forestry
Of thousand-year-old trees
That drink the air like water
And birth gnats and mosquitos ,
Those gray buzzing clouds
That move across your yard
in late evening like a surprise gift
to drink your porch light
and your blood, probably heavy
of bud light as you lay beside your pool,
the one in the backyard,
fat as a tick on barbeque and
the grilled chat of football or the coal banks,
those economical slave trades
of dirty streams and acid rain
that everybody and your brother
advocates to save while the hungry men
of local rest homes and the
delipidated apartment buildings
roam the downtown in torn shoe soles,
laden of the dirt and hunger of this city
while the common blue-collared family man,
fat on grease and beans,
fucks the loose women of 6th street
on their speilway fishing trips,
then talk to Jesus on Sundays.
Written for a prompt at dverse poetry.
We drove for nine hours,
Humidity cloaking our windows
Like the horizontal designs of a wedding veil
As our exhaust mingled
In the whispering kiss of dandelion.
I do not remember what conversation
Carried our car south like
white matter in the center of the universe,
Only that I sat amidst it,
Legs crossed like a good girl,
Floating away from the stifling everyday
Of Nashville parks, of soups and subs,
Into the star-shine of an Alabama sky,
Our car whisking us past Birmingham
Rich in it’s night clubs and 3am DJ’s,
Two skyline voyeors in an orange time machine.
The long drifts of twisted trees,
Mangled by last Springs’ tornadoes,
Spun in their roots as if by
A giant, God of thor, the one eye Cyclops,
Then the spinning gin of dust devils
That lolled me off into the drunken dreams
Of sugared sand and jelly fish.
Four hundred miles dissected between
Hurried exits, stop lights and roadway signs
And the nowhere open-all-night
Convenient stores where
Middle-aged women with bad teeth
Spoke to you in ‘darlin’ and ‘baby’
as their too-fat fingers dipped
Into freezers full of stale bread and old eggs,
Up to the sweat of their wrists
Into the desperate wallets of old men
Stiff in their worn pants,
Truckers and troubadours alike,
The after-party of middle age.
All the while I snuck past
The private dinner parties of their blind dates
And into bathrooms smelling of piss
And four-day-old tampons,
Holding my breath while pissing
And then looking into grime-streaked mirrors,
Thick in the car-leather smell of my own skin,
Eyes shot of too much caffeine,
Mind bent upon runes and the words of Keats,
Skinny in my beads and jeans,
The star-chasing, tarot reading Goddess
Of some ignorant man-boys dreams.
Written from a prompt at Poetry Jam.
Monday, June 3, 2013
The season of summer
Drips the sweat of her hands
Across the windshield.
It is nearing 8pm
And we have just left the mall,
That wonderland maze of retail
Buzzing like a bubble gum machine
With all the young people lurking
Between their cell phone calls and curfews.
My belly is full of the days’ long deed,
And tired, our limbs hang like
Limp clothes in a closed closet.
The tops of pine and elk trees
Pull the last rays of sun
Across their branched heads like bonnets
As the world whizzes by like the tail of a bee,
All gleaming though, these wheeled metal machines
That drive tired men home from work,
The housewives to convenient stores for salt and wine,
And teenage girls, flowered in their virginity
Across miles of impatient daydreams,
Into the reality of dawn’s unshaven upper lip
And the cold turn of a shoulder blade
Once the deed is done.
Right now I am happy in this numb place,
my womanhood not yet born
And I have never met my daughter.
I am content with the universe
Of air-conditioned velvet seats thick
Against the quiet ache of my footsoles,
This spinning world as the window-view
Drifts our eyes out of the daylight
And into the open mouth of nightfall.
Outside the window, one by one,
In the suburbia yellow brick road below the valley
I watch the houses fall into sleep,
The lights of their windowed eyes
Slowly growing dim
As a blown out candle in a dark room.
As if hesitant of that vacant center stage,
The night is shy to dance to life
As each star bangs its white birth
Against the black iron of the sky
And the pale city lights begin to bloom
Against their perched metal roofs.
The city becomes an invisible string of lights,
The eclipse of moon across
a glinting mirage of streetlights and concrete.
The crickets begin their quartet,
an orchestrated symphony of firefly buzz
And the lone mating croak of frogs.
I am one with the yellow-lined smile of the highway
And the disjointed stream of car headlights
That beckon us home like hanging lanterns.
Written for a prompt at mindlovemisery.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Today is the twenty-first day of summer
And the beads of the trees
Have frenzied their rapture
Into a bloom of white roses
And the chill thrill of hibiscus and thyme.
I have just met a boy,
Shy and sly as he comes
In his itching smiles, all sunburned
To the lips and hands.
I wonder what secrets
Crawl the halls of his brain
As he drives his cobalt like a train
Into the throat of downtown.
The tiny universe within itself
Where teenagers litter
The umbrella-tables of the Mexican restaurant
And sight-seers maul over
The postered windows
Of the historical theatre,
It’s old screen still and blank
As a blind eye that cannot blink.
We are walking now
Into the mad swirl of the city streets,
Each step sticky to the concreted heat,
and from somewhere across my shoulders
I feel the wind dance into my hair
While he talks of golf, the sins of Reagan,
Explains the purpose of sun-stained
Metal stars that line the brick buildings
Of this nowhere town,
Though I do not care much for his voice,
Thin and nimble as the candlewicks of Jack,
And I wonder if Jill craved the voice
Of another man, any man.
We pass a tree full of chirping birds,
So loud the leaves jump as if disturbed
From a deep sort of sleep
And I can’t help but feel
These creatures are speaking to me
In their sharp, native tongue,
Screeching for me to ‘leave, leave, leave.’
I am moving my limbs hypnotically now,
Lost in the lonesome drone of my own
Inner conversations, wondering when
the moon will make an entrance.
the moon will make an entrance.
Wondering to myself again if Jill ever felt
The pinching, spastic bore of
Each new romance eventually falls into,
Did she, too, hear the quiet metal thrill
Of the doors closing, the locks bolting?