Slurs slash the score,
smooth the restless silky rhythm,
drip dots down the scale.
"Poetry comes at things through particulars, by means of images, and it doesn't deal so easily with generalities. Its mode is to cherish without limit. You could say it is idolatrous art. Some poems, the great poems, are true to their specific situations deep down, but they also have a universal quality that lets them live again and again, even in apparently unrelated circumstances." -Galway Kinnell
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Monday, August 03, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Monday, June 01, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
New Renga Rules: All About Us is Noise
Theme: "All about us is noise."
Rules:
1. Each poster must use one word from the previous poster's stanza.
2. Every third verse must contain a volume shift.
3. If the moon shows up more than once in the renga, it had better be in a different phase.
4. Verse 18 should include a poetic seismic shift.
Suggestions:
1. Pick a day to post. (Jane: Tuesday; Sneza: Friday; HAT: Saturday)
2. When you post, use the number of your stanza as the title of your post. That keeps the person after you from having to count on his or her fingers to figure out where we are.
3. When you post, add the label "All About Us is Noise" to the entry so we can find the verse later.
Rules:
1. Each poster must use one word from the previous poster's stanza.
2. Every third verse must contain a volume shift.
3. If the moon shows up more than once in the renga, it had better be in a different phase.
4. Verse 18 should include a poetic seismic shift.
Suggestions:
1. Pick a day to post. (Jane: Tuesday; Sneza: Friday; HAT: Saturday)
2. When you post, use the number of your stanza as the title of your post. That keeps the person after you from having to count on his or her fingers to figure out where we are.
3. When you post, add the label "All About Us is Noise" to the entry so we can find the verse later.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Completed Kasen: Traveling
Traveling
Maps seeded with hope;
small, stray ink marks press paper
like feet on soft soil
Mud clings drags sucks backward but
the path-- there is one-- forward.
Draw up equations that fraction
the possibility of moving along
curved dimensions among
Distances carved in minutes,
counted in latitudes, degrees
So far, so far, and
yet still here, still in the midst
of the sky.
night breeze wafting, citrine moon,
campfire tales... we leave too soon
to pack climaxes in bags full
of openings and these
departures, fumes and noise
zippers pulled tight, campfire coal
gathered, eradiating
lost: wildlife camping,
tallgrass prairies viewed up close,
highway refuges
Unfamiliar tastes roll out
spicy language on the tongue.
gyros and lemon
cacophony of taxis
leaves fall, unnoticed
no, there is one who sees, her
eye enlarged, watching land pass
Telescope focus,
Microscopic visionary--
Earth promise, ants, trees...
uprooted, train tracks speed through
narrow tunnels: go go go
caves below the crust
salted with light, pepper pitched
coal scattered, shovels
Lift the lantern: in glinting
shards the light shows diamonds.
dun rock, sparkly white
quartz spiderwebs, no diamonds.
true gold flakes entwined
with phrases on displays
we crane our necks to read
down stairs to platform
electric oil smell
noses pressed to glass
breath steams window art, daisies
jut yellow, white, exhausted
looking in plain view
passenger aisles row
after row, no exit
Motion, stillness, illusion--
Which is it? Are we here? There?
why did we leave, wanderers
trailing dust, sand, rocks
clinging haphazardly to
steel gateways arching above,
memory fibers sculpting
rhythmic thump of feet
on wood slats, death's head puppets
wobble crazily
Shuffle the papers, declare
to the uniform your reason.
recall them to life
on Día de los Muertos
with tears, songs, sweet bread
pray whispers to saints, angels
holy feet blistered, torpid
after the first light,
visages of the divine
engraved in ruins
after fifth light, dawn tears in
pink, cobalt, orangery
pock-marked sandstone face
the ancient lion goddess
sees nothing, knows all
brushes the swaggered tail
of a tiger who passes
sojourner on
the prowl, unchecked, searching
vacated hemispheres
sleepy eyes regard wonder
with diffidence, rheum, yawning
at last the turning
the familiar facade
hurry hurry home
its rhine moistened with dark mulch
a gradient, festooned den.
Maps seeded with hope;
small, stray ink marks press paper
like feet on soft soil
Mud clings drags sucks backward but
the path-- there is one-- forward.
Draw up equations that fraction
the possibility of moving along
curved dimensions among
Distances carved in minutes,
counted in latitudes, degrees
So far, so far, and
yet still here, still in the midst
of the sky.
night breeze wafting, citrine moon,
campfire tales... we leave too soon
to pack climaxes in bags full
of openings and these
departures, fumes and noise
zippers pulled tight, campfire coal
gathered, eradiating
lost: wildlife camping,
tallgrass prairies viewed up close,
highway refuges
Unfamiliar tastes roll out
spicy language on the tongue.
gyros and lemon
cacophony of taxis
leaves fall, unnoticed
no, there is one who sees, her
eye enlarged, watching land pass
Telescope focus,
Microscopic visionary--
Earth promise, ants, trees...
uprooted, train tracks speed through
narrow tunnels: go go go
caves below the crust
salted with light, pepper pitched
coal scattered, shovels
Lift the lantern: in glinting
shards the light shows diamonds.
dun rock, sparkly white
quartz spiderwebs, no diamonds.
true gold flakes entwined
with phrases on displays
we crane our necks to read
down stairs to platform
electric oil smell
noses pressed to glass
breath steams window art, daisies
jut yellow, white, exhausted
looking in plain view
passenger aisles row
after row, no exit
Motion, stillness, illusion--
Which is it? Are we here? There?
why did we leave, wanderers
trailing dust, sand, rocks
clinging haphazardly to
steel gateways arching above,
memory fibers sculpting
rhythmic thump of feet
on wood slats, death's head puppets
wobble crazily
Shuffle the papers, declare
to the uniform your reason.
recall them to life
on Día de los Muertos
with tears, songs, sweet bread
pray whispers to saints, angels
holy feet blistered, torpid
after the first light,
visages of the divine
engraved in ruins
after fifth light, dawn tears in
pink, cobalt, orangery
pock-marked sandstone face
the ancient lion goddess
sees nothing, knows all
brushes the swaggered tail
of a tiger who passes
sojourner on
the prowl, unchecked, searching
vacated hemispheres
sleepy eyes regard wonder
with diffidence, rheum, yawning
at last the turning
the familiar facade
hurry hurry home
its rhine moistened with dark mulch
a gradient, festooned den.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
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