Women’s Poetry Women’s Poetry
I, too, dislike it. However, I was trying to not think when out of the gaping wound of the car-detailing garage (smells like metallic sex) came a Nissan GT-R fitted with an oversized spoiler. Backing out sounded like clearing the throat of god. A gold snake zizzed around the license plate. Sunburst hubcaps, fancy undercarriage installation casting a pool of violet light on the pocked pavement of gum blots. Was it this that filled me with desire?
Jun 3, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Daisy Fried
i am enCentering the amen New i am enCentering the amen New
for Peter Gizzi crush tamarind and the brown thirst of Quivira the hollow sound of the silence of travail the tipp iron toe of aventura coronado . x -plore for the first time like in imagen childhood the time of the world of the mesa. but this one is "real" the opponents are vivid & feather'd & red not one of these is yr father here the world that we thought of as round after all becomes arid & flat in its trail full of deep stony echoes & the steep sound of phonemes as if God is a well where there is no language of water. no meaning of silver of mineral flood that we know in our langurous rivers . but here is only the archer wind . is this why we are hearin feathers? . the future sits across from us squat & vivid on a burn -ing horse. not a cross. w/its arrows there are no orchards here. no wine no other kind of time for these sorrows
May 27, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Kamau Brathwaite
Quarto Quarto
1. Call me Sebastian, arrows sticking all over The map of my battlefields. Marathon. Wounded Knee. Vicksburg. Jericho. Battle of the Overpass. Victories turned inside out But no surrender Cemeteries of remorse The beaten champion sobbing Ghosts move in to shield his tears 2. No one writes lyric on a battlefield On a map stuck with arrows But I think I can do it if I just lurk In my tent pretending to Refeather my arrows I'll be right there! I yell When they come with their crossbows and white phosphorus To recruit me Crouching over my drafts lest they find me out and shoot me 3. Press your cheek against my medals, listen through them to my heart Doctor, can you see me if I'm naked? Spent longer in this place than in the war No one comes but rarely and I don't know what for Went to that desert as many did before Farewell and believing and hope not to die Hope not to die and what was the life Did we think was awaiting after Lay down your stethoscope back off on your skills Doctor can you see me when I'm naked? 4. I'll tell you about the mermaid Sheds swimmable tail Gets legs for dancing Sings like the sea with a choked throat Knives straight up her spine Lancing every step There is a price There is a price For every gift And all advice
May 20, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Adrienne Rich
Poem Poem
at 82 I find everything erotic-- that's the stomping ground of all intelligence-- the intellect picks it up from the ground and gives language as a kind of music to dance around
May 20, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Robin Blaser
The Going The Going
The cloth edge of certainty has shredded down to this: God and love are real, but very far away. If I go to Istanbul, will I return? That is not one of the permitted questions. When I go to Istanbul, how will I bear to return? I could slip into the small streets that lead away from the souk, then run east to the high plain and the Caucasus-- It's all alone, the returning, the going. The cloth, a soft holland whose blocks of blue and lemon once cheered me in a skirt, now dries dishes. God and love are very far away, farther even than the mountains in the east.
May 6, 2009 / Books & the Arts / April Bernard
Rockabilly Blues Rockabilly Blues
Rock. Rock. Rockabilly, rock. Really Billy, really, really rock. Shake your silly hillbilly flock. Sing the Pledge of Allegiance. Sing all the dire anthems of the coming apocalypse. Sing the burning bush. Sing the Wall St. blues & bow down before the bedonkadonk of Britney or the Brits at old Bunker Hill. It's all good... It's all Davy Crockett.
Apr 22, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Adrian C. Louis
Red Cloth Red Cloth
Red cloth I lie on the ground otherwise nothing could hold I put my hand on the ground the membrane is gone and nothing does hold your place in the ground is all of it and it is breathing
Apr 22, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Jean Valentine
The Branches The Branches
The branches looked first like tepees, but there was no emptiness. Like piles of leaves waiting for fire: at the foot of the wisewoman trees, at the foot of the broken General, next to the tree of the veteran girl who died this summer slow red cloth
Apr 22, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Jean Valentine
The Hub The Hub
Boston's oak trees Drop tiny bald heads Some wear berets. It's a city of character But no soul.
Apr 8, 2009 / Books & the Arts / William Corbett
Clear November Morning Clear November Morning
O Brooklyn's harp, Manhattan spires All the liars rough with others' lives, Jesus sayers, hard moneyed men Whose hearts are fists of power Dishonor and death will find you out.
Apr 8, 2009 / Books & the Arts / William Corbett