No cats, no dogs, no fish,
Just trees plants nature,
and grief.
Rainforest blues.
Claire Morton 07.15.12
Just trees plants nature,
and grief.
Rainforest blues.
Claire Morton 07.15.12
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Aaron Kunin
He gave me a book of poems yesterday, The Sore Throat and Other Poems. Exactly right. This is my first encounter with them so I don't have many words. But they are very very strong. It's because they attend to rhythm and rhyme, in part, but also because they have a disturbing intensity of imagery, and they talk to you quite directly. I've never been called “moron” by a poem before...
Poetry and Perception
I just wrote this to my poetry analysis students:
Hi All,
Don't forget the close reading notes in the resources folder on smartsite.
To get an A grade, you need to talk about interactions between levels. In a way, you are starting to reassemble the poem after having broken it down.
This is congruent with what we know about perception, in which objects seem to appear as manifolds, not as pixels that are then scanned. Some researchers at Berkeley recently reconstructed brain images from brain wave scans using a computer that searched YouTube for similar images based on interpretations of the wave patterns. You can see them on YouTube, it's rather uncanny.
What we learn from this is what some philosophy (phenomenology) already knows: you perceive things as a whole, in a single shot. You don't assemble pixelated breakdowns of things. You see a cup of coffee: the whole cup is right there, in your mind.
It's a bit tricky doing this with a poem--or with anything--because we tend to be unconscious of the physical level(s) of reality. We just want to walk through it, drink it, allow it to work on us unexamined.
Yours, TM
Hi All,
Don't forget the close reading notes in the resources folder on smartsite.
To get an A grade, you need to talk about interactions between levels. In a way, you are starting to reassemble the poem after having broken it down.
This is congruent with what we know about perception, in which objects seem to appear as manifolds, not as pixels that are then scanned. Some researchers at Berkeley recently reconstructed brain images from brain wave scans using a computer that searched YouTube for similar images based on interpretations of the wave patterns. You can see them on YouTube, it's rather uncanny.
What we learn from this is what some philosophy (phenomenology) already knows: you perceive things as a whole, in a single shot. You don't assemble pixelated breakdowns of things. You see a cup of coffee: the whole cup is right there, in your mind.
It's a bit tricky doing this with a poem--or with anything--because we tend to be unconscious of the physical level(s) of reality. We just want to walk through it, drink it, allow it to work on us unexamined.
Yours, TM
Loneliness in my heart
Loneliness in my heart
i feel tonight, as i felt yesterday, as i will feel tomorrow
tears are falling down
as rain falls in a cold night, cold winter night
droping down as waterfalls, rushing hard from the power of love.
power of love, my love, my lost love
sadness in my soul
i feel tonight, as i felt yesterday, as i will feel tomorrow
my eyes have lost their shinny light
lost the hopeless desire to see you
reflecting my emotions
they cry continuosly, searching for love
for you.
where are you my unique desire
the only desire i have ever had.
Poetry from Fjorvita Calaj
Christian Hawkey
Today I finally get to meet the poet Christian Hawkey, who sent me his new book Citizen Of and a highly encrypted (I like it!) message containing a torn page from a book featuring images of angles of vision and an extraordinary poem. His poetics seems to be one part strangeness and another part intimacy. I like it an awful lot.
Why Aristotle and Poetry?
Someone asked me why I'd mentioned recently that Aristotle had led me back to poetry. It's elementary, really. I'm holding this poem in my hand—I'm holding a substance. Isn't that amazing?
Poems by Claire
My daughter Claire (six) just came up to me with these incredible poems.
My mind as clear
As flowing water
My song as beautiful
As the dancing wind
My thought as powerful
As dragon's breath my
Mind the holder of
The Universe
My body a friend my
Joy Earth
The traveler
I have been away for as long as I can remember.Born into wayfaring. Into shimmering blacktop and dust clouds. Towards mountains, deserts, lonely streets, filthy hotel rooms, and dangerous areas of town.
Parched and alone, relieved only by the shade of menacing fingers; dark woods teeming with teeth and claws; or the fleeting coolness of a soda from a dirty bodega. Then back I go to oppressive heat and unfriendly glares.
I watch movies alone to sooth and distract my mind.
I eat furtively and quietly in diners and on park benches. On lonesome trails and crowded sidewalks.
I sleep. Awaken. Pack up, and move on.
Always heading toward home without ever having known its warm embrace and soothing whisper. Never smelled dewy grass that was my own, waved to neighbors known for years, or shared a beer with a trusted friend. Sat down to meal cooked by all, smiles and loving eyes comingling at the center of the table, framed by friendly light from faded, old lamps.
On a sunny morning, I stepped out of the trees; leaving weariness – and wariness – behind, into
a field of flowers that was strange and new, yet immediately familiar. The outline of town lay just beyond, beckoning my tired feet and aching body and worn mind.The scent of lilac, honeysuckle and wildflowers overwhelmed me, and sat, and then lay, falling back loosely amidst the stalks and thorns and petals and grass, as they brushed against me in the morning breeze, scratching my skin satisfyingly. I let bumblebees buzz around my head and ladybugs crawl on me.
I breathed in deeply the sweet aroma of home, filling my body – as through drawing in water – from my hips up to my shoulders. Then I let out a long sigh.
Sunlight in my eye awakens me. It’s late afternoon, the sun has traveled across the sky. I stand up and stretch. I pick a handful of flowers, especially the fragrant and dewy lilac.
Then, cinching the straps on my heavy pack, I bounce a bit on my heels before heading back into the forest and away from this place, flowers in my hand.
Anchorage (a love letter to home)
(with apologies to Carl Sandburg)
You were once the crossroads of East and West
Keeper of the gateway between new and old
Off in the corner, yet noticed when needed
At the edge of forever by our own fingernails.
I knew no differently: you were me and I was you
And together in the snow we found our place in the world
While the rest of them twisted and burned in roiling water
We simply crunched past on our frozen, quiet way.
They say you are cold and I know this
Your pitch black mornings let me stay under the blankets
Or to contemplate the day’s start - still so far off - in a quiet kitchen
They tell me you are dark, and I nod and smile
The miserly light that you offer drives me out into the snow
To risk fingers and toes before returning to the fire
They wag that you are lonely, and I agree
We are made from your expanse, meant to return
And being lost amid your empty whiteness makes us thankful
Each time away grows longer and farther
A remembered breath, misty and faint in the air,
Grown whispier in my warmer, later, lighter days
Than when it came frozen from my reddish cheeks.
Each time I’ve returned you’ve become more like them
Busier
Brighter
Trying to belong
And not nearly so cold. Just like me.
We have aged.
But there are times when we can go back
To wake up in darkness, laugh in twilight
And crunch on past through the cold and quiet
While they writhe and squirm and ask for help.
I’ve arrived in search of your comforting clutch
And to hear your heart beat beneath the snow.
You were once the crossroads of East and West
Keeper of the gateway between new and old
Off in the corner, yet noticed when needed
At the edge of forever by our own fingernails.
I knew no differently: you were me and I was you
And together in the snow we found our place in the world
While the rest of them twisted and burned in roiling water
We simply crunched past on our frozen, quiet way.
They say you are cold and I know this
Your pitch black mornings let me stay under the blankets
Or to contemplate the day’s start - still so far off - in a quiet kitchen
They tell me you are dark, and I nod and smile
The miserly light that you offer drives me out into the snow
To risk fingers and toes before returning to the fire
They wag that you are lonely, and I agree
We are made from your expanse, meant to return
And being lost amid your empty whiteness makes us thankful
Each time away grows longer and farther
A remembered breath, misty and faint in the air,
Grown whispier in my warmer, later, lighter days
Than when it came frozen from my reddish cheeks.
Each time I’ve returned you’ve become more like them
Busier
Brighter
Trying to belong
And not nearly so cold. Just like me.
We have aged.
But there are times when we can go back
To wake up in darkness, laugh in twilight
And crunch on past through the cold and quiet
While they writhe and squirm and ask for help.
I’ve arrived in search of your comforting clutch
And to hear your heart beat beneath the snow.
Hump Day
A rudderless boat on a cloudy day
On an aimless drift through a crowded bay.
Rusty steel and angry horns
Menacing bows like threatening thorns
But do not lose faith in such a place
For the sun will show like a beautiful face,
And lead you out from amid the blare
To follow that smile to quiet, sweet air.
On an aimless drift through a crowded bay.
Rusty steel and angry horns
Menacing bows like threatening thorns
But do not lose faith in such a place
For the sun will show like a beautiful face,
And lead you out from amid the blare
To follow that smile to quiet, sweet air.
Heartbroken
A second spring, every leaf a crackling, golden bloom
Their softly rustling, whispered hidden words were songs
That lured me shirtless and bare into a warm, thoughtful breeze.
I hoped that it might last forever, as I walked among the trees
Through peaceful evenings and golden sunsets, that all along
Were just the lying double talk of a manic, relentless doom.
Like dead skin it collects in nooks and corners, insectile
Leaving behind skeletal fingers to wave and mock and cackle
As I try to cover my flushed, raw skin, caught bare in its malice.
I thank God for light, for heat, for wise words that offer solace
For the ease that which this modern life arms me to attack
The primal dread, fear growing as the sun retreats, all the while.
Imagine those nights, breathless within, while the howls outside
Those musty, mudden walls announced that summer was slain.
Flickering candles in hollow lanterns do little to allay the fears
Of those who now must seal away and mete out nightly tears.
Chilling winds and driven snow will soon arrive to cover the plain
When the bonfires of Samhain are gone and warming embers died.
Long months are ahead, and I must ignore the hopeless wails
Of old men and wolves for whom this winter will be their last.
Under harsh beams or withering candles, beneath nylon or hay
In front of a television or storyteller, sanity's tested either way.
I hope the husk I hear in my ear is a new voice, not the past
Whispers who've told me sweet lies of dewey grass and lover's tales.
Their softly rustling, whispered hidden words were songs
That lured me shirtless and bare into a warm, thoughtful breeze.
I hoped that it might last forever, as I walked among the trees
Through peaceful evenings and golden sunsets, that all along
Were just the lying double talk of a manic, relentless doom.
Like dead skin it collects in nooks and corners, insectile
Leaving behind skeletal fingers to wave and mock and cackle
As I try to cover my flushed, raw skin, caught bare in its malice.
I thank God for light, for heat, for wise words that offer solace
For the ease that which this modern life arms me to attack
The primal dread, fear growing as the sun retreats, all the while.
Imagine those nights, breathless within, while the howls outside
Those musty, mudden walls announced that summer was slain.
Flickering candles in hollow lanterns do little to allay the fears
Of those who now must seal away and mete out nightly tears.
Chilling winds and driven snow will soon arrive to cover the plain
When the bonfires of Samhain are gone and warming embers died.
Long months are ahead, and I must ignore the hopeless wails
Of old men and wolves for whom this winter will be their last.
Under harsh beams or withering candles, beneath nylon or hay
In front of a television or storyteller, sanity's tested either way.
I hope the husk I hear in my ear is a new voice, not the past
Whispers who've told me sweet lies of dewey grass and lover's tales.
The Quiet Man
The quiet man rocked his creaky chair
While the sun set just a bit earlier that day.
A dead leaf landed in his wispy hair and
He stared at his boots for something to say.
The porch’s faded color matched the dying grass,
Splinters and rusty nails that bit like the cold.
His coffee was bitter, his mood like brass,
He did not want to say goodbye to the old.
The spring mornings had seemed endless.
Damp grass and shade trees beckoned
Drenched in the sun’s golden excess –
That led to the lake, to swim with friends.
Dragonflies and fishing reels buzzed a music -
Summer songs to dance and steal kisses
And the last of the green on the popsicle stick.
Over campfires and crickets, the reminiscence.
It was sleepiness that finally led them to dreams
To dive into blackness, and surface again
The cool waters on hot days of delighted screams
To strip off their clothes and run in the rain.
From behind the screen, his daughter’s voice,
“Dad? You okay out there?” He just sighed.
It wasn’t as though he had any other choice.
So he sipped and rocked as summer died.
While the sun set just a bit earlier that day.
A dead leaf landed in his wispy hair and
He stared at his boots for something to say.
The porch’s faded color matched the dying grass,
Splinters and rusty nails that bit like the cold.
His coffee was bitter, his mood like brass,
He did not want to say goodbye to the old.
The spring mornings had seemed endless.
Damp grass and shade trees beckoned
Drenched in the sun’s golden excess –
That led to the lake, to swim with friends.
Dragonflies and fishing reels buzzed a music -
Summer songs to dance and steal kisses
And the last of the green on the popsicle stick.
Over campfires and crickets, the reminiscence.
It was sleepiness that finally led them to dreams
To dive into blackness, and surface again
The cool waters on hot days of delighted screams
To strip off their clothes and run in the rain.
From behind the screen, his daughter’s voice,
“Dad? You okay out there?” He just sighed.
It wasn’t as though he had any other choice.
So he sipped and rocked as summer died.
Hello sunshine
I'll watch a sunrise
Growing upon the grass
Sneaking through the curtains
and straining through the glass.
Hello sunshine.
Brushing your lashes
Lifting your cheekbones
Coloring your lips
In rhythmic, stirring tones
Hello sunshine.
Growing upon the grass
Sneaking through the curtains
and straining through the glass.
Hello sunshine.
Brushing your lashes
Lifting your cheekbones
Coloring your lips
In rhythmic, stirring tones
Hello sunshine.
The weekend in quatrains, part 2
In the low heat of morning, I never boiled
Releasing the sludge that coated my skin
In a slow rising steam, the days I had toiled
Shimmered off, exposing the shine within.
Live wires bared, my smile jumped and arced
My body went taut at the strength of the current
Those who touched me were shocked from the spark
And kept their distance, or again be burnt.
----------
Sign says yes, sign says no
Who the hell knows which is which?
Not the loser in sandals and kimono.
Lance and Lancette? Shut up, bitch.
Releasing the sludge that coated my skin
In a slow rising steam, the days I had toiled
Shimmered off, exposing the shine within.
Live wires bared, my smile jumped and arced
My body went taut at the strength of the current
Those who touched me were shocked from the spark
And kept their distance, or again be burnt.
----------
Sign says yes, sign says no
Who the hell knows which is which?
Not the loser in sandals and kimono.
Lance and Lancette? Shut up, bitch.
The weekend in quatrains, part 1
Headed home on Friday's sweet breath
Reacquainting my legs to spinning gold.
Suffering for others is passion's quick death
You can't always do as you're told.
----------
We stopped at that oracle of high Chicago-style
Don't ask for ketchup, not even a dab
I hope somebody told those four New Yorkers
Who rode up from downtown in a taxi cab.
----------
My stumbling fingers just get in the way
That voodoo is best left for someone else
Yet it will do to get me through the day
And up those hills to find my pulse.
My faltering focus was broken by insistence
And it lured me out for some tangy jokes
I wanted more than just a sip of that sense,
But that could wait for my sweat on my spokes.
Reacquainting my legs to spinning gold.
Suffering for others is passion's quick death
You can't always do as you're told.
----------
We stopped at that oracle of high Chicago-style
Don't ask for ketchup, not even a dab
I hope somebody told those four New Yorkers
Who rode up from downtown in a taxi cab.
----------
My stumbling fingers just get in the way
That voodoo is best left for someone else
Yet it will do to get me through the day
And up those hills to find my pulse.
My faltering focus was broken by insistence
And it lured me out for some tangy jokes
I wanted more than just a sip of that sense,
But that could wait for my sweat on my spokes.
From Martyr to Gladiator
A sun-baked statue, in the crowd's dull murmur
Bathes in the gaze of an unrestrained fervor.
The glint of my sharpened blade cuts just as deep
As the eyes of the lion pierce my will to resist.
Prayers alone once gave me the strength to leap
Providing a mantel on which courage to keep.
In that giddy state I’d give his mouth my wrists
And fall to my knees to await pity and capture.
Yet the spit from the mass would only persist
A frothing and oily anger, screamed and hissed.
Still slick with naiveté, I’d only stare and demure
At the shadowy hate - backlit madness - and weep.
The heat of the sun sucked up, one-by-one, my tears
And breathed life into a single flower, sown in fears.
And the petals grew black, grown sour in the heat -
I’ll give spit, sweat but no more my own blood.
At this affront, the crowd stood in their seats,
And cried, showered me in their graces and screamed
With love for me, for my birth from that bud,
For my certain death by teeth, club and spear.
Now that I fight with the beast in the mud,
Not accepting release from his bite in the flood
Of hurled spite and venom, and rotten sneers -
I stand in the sun and welcome my defeat.
Bathes in the gaze of an unrestrained fervor.
The glint of my sharpened blade cuts just as deep
As the eyes of the lion pierce my will to resist.
Prayers alone once gave me the strength to leap
Providing a mantel on which courage to keep.
In that giddy state I’d give his mouth my wrists
And fall to my knees to await pity and capture.
Yet the spit from the mass would only persist
A frothing and oily anger, screamed and hissed.
Still slick with naiveté, I’d only stare and demure
At the shadowy hate - backlit madness - and weep.
The heat of the sun sucked up, one-by-one, my tears
And breathed life into a single flower, sown in fears.
And the petals grew black, grown sour in the heat -
I’ll give spit, sweat but no more my own blood.
At this affront, the crowd stood in their seats,
And cried, showered me in their graces and screamed
With love for me, for my birth from that bud,
For my certain death by teeth, club and spear.
Now that I fight with the beast in the mud,
Not accepting release from his bite in the flood
Of hurled spite and venom, and rotten sneers -
I stand in the sun and welcome my defeat.
And so I go
Alighting from my snow-covered branches
To lush poppy fields, planted in my dreams
Horses tails and sunlit seeds, floating there
In the scent of fresh blood and citrus'd air
And I dance for hungry lions on haunches
To hold off the nights of growls and screams
And so I go
Under their watchful, wise, and haunting gaze
I flee to stained glass sunsets, over wine
To muse on the footprints of those braver
Dusty by time, their story's not wavered
They knew that truth lay deep inside the maze
I only lament what should have been mine
And so I go
The lions will move on to easier prey
To leave me with the lemon-scented breeze
To drown in fatigue and a heavy sleep
To feast - on pain, on knowledge, both deep
And refresh in the salty cleanse of the spray
To return to face what I left with ease
And so I've come
To reclaim what I'd lost, that stolen gold
And retake of what little ground is mine
That naive patch of skin is not a lie
A gift from gods of wings on which to fly
To soar above the sad and smoggy cold
Drinking with joy warm sunshine and wine.
And so I've gone.
To lush poppy fields, planted in my dreams
Horses tails and sunlit seeds, floating there
In the scent of fresh blood and citrus'd air
And I dance for hungry lions on haunches
To hold off the nights of growls and screams
And so I go
Under their watchful, wise, and haunting gaze
I flee to stained glass sunsets, over wine
To muse on the footprints of those braver
Dusty by time, their story's not wavered
They knew that truth lay deep inside the maze
I only lament what should have been mine
And so I go
The lions will move on to easier prey
To leave me with the lemon-scented breeze
To drown in fatigue and a heavy sleep
To feast - on pain, on knowledge, both deep
And refresh in the salty cleanse of the spray
To return to face what I left with ease
And so I've come
To reclaim what I'd lost, that stolen gold
And retake of what little ground is mine
That naive patch of skin is not a lie
A gift from gods of wings on which to fly
To soar above the sad and smoggy cold
Drinking with joy warm sunshine and wine.
And so I've gone.
Barren
I know that I have only seen it rain
That never has it stormed within my path
I read the pages, looking at the pain
And heard the ruminations on God's wrath.
I cow'r in fear to dwell upon my fate
That's been foretold by corpses walking past...
They cackle at my slick-skinned naivete
With toothless leers and bony fingers crossed.
Expensive clothes and robes now turned to mold
Rotten, sour agelessness of excess
To be undone by no amount of gold -
Illuminating only scars and sadness.
While great swaths of fire, birthed by lightning,
Clear the remains of every living thing.
That never has it stormed within my path
I read the pages, looking at the pain
And heard the ruminations on God's wrath.
I cow'r in fear to dwell upon my fate
That's been foretold by corpses walking past...
They cackle at my slick-skinned naivete
With toothless leers and bony fingers crossed.
Expensive clothes and robes now turned to mold
Rotten, sour agelessness of excess
To be undone by no amount of gold -
Illuminating only scars and sadness.
While great swaths of fire, birthed by lightning,
Clear the remains of every living thing.
A Simple Gift
Tis that moment, just past a night of despair
A newborn breeze - glowing, sweet and delicate
Gift us with assurance to look past the breaker
To shed fear and bias in the absence of light
Be not a hero, a shining knight, or savior
Simple words have always pushed to greater heights
Tis your words that will inspire
A struggle carried on our backs
Gift us with strength and fire
To overcome our tears, to
Be
Free
A newborn breeze - glowing, sweet and delicate
Gift us with assurance to look past the breaker
To shed fear and bias in the absence of light
Be not a hero, a shining knight, or savior
Simple words have always pushed to greater heights
Tis your words that will inspire
A struggle carried on our backs
Gift us with strength and fire
To overcome our tears, to
Be
Free
Monday Verses
Hungry...
Like a bad best friend with a pack of smokes
Leading me with him to take a few tokes
Tempting to ditch my good boy church friends
Whose eyes linger on through an envious lens.
Killing it all, a mother's good work
Gone to waste for a laugh in the park
That's his trick, for a smile in winter
Just pay the price of ruing the summer.
Like a bad best friend with a pack of smokes
Leading me with him to take a few tokes
Tempting to ditch my good boy church friends
Whose eyes linger on through an envious lens.
Killing it all, a mother's good work
Gone to waste for a laugh in the park
That's his trick, for a smile in winter
Just pay the price of ruing the summer.