Poetry Hut Blog

Hi — an announcement

My first book of poetry, Trouble And Honey, is available for purchase at Lulu.com for a special recession-rate of $7.77. And if you live overseas, why not take advantage of the crappy fiat US dollar hahaha?

The book is also available as a PDF file, for free. This is an experiment. (My baseball poems free chapbook PDF has been downloaded just over 2,500 times so far, BTW. I’m sure that has everything to do with the subject matter.) The PDF of Trouble And Honey is genuinely free without any Read the rest of this entry »

LOL yeah I’m getting a late start haha.

I always feel a slight tinge of I don’t know, guilt, when I do a blind translation. Like I have to apologize. Sorry Goethe.

Found

Each going is wild
so much fur here,
and such night zoos,
they wear me inside.

I'm shut in each sadness
one blue machine standing,
with stern tender light,
with angle-shine.

Will each thing be broken,
The same thing as fate:
"So it has come to this,
so-broken again?"

Each worm befallen,
the whole world is,
Some gardens are truer
And some houses bristle.

Under unplanned weediness
I am the stillest;
Nothing is too immense
And blunt and so forth.




Johann Wolfgang von Goethe --
Gefunden


 
 


Ich ging im Walde
Each going is wild


So für mich hin,
so much fur here,


Und nichts zu suchen,
and such night zoos, 


Das war mein Sinn.
they wear me inside.


 
 


Im Schatten sah ich
I'm shut in each sadness


Ein Blümchen stehn,
one blue machine standing,


Wie Sterne leuchtend
with stern tender light,


Wie Äuglein schön.
with angle-shine.


 
 


Ich wollt es brechen,
Will each thing be broken,


Da sagt' es fein:
The same thing as fate:


Soll ich zum Welken,
"So it has come to this,


Gebrochen sein?	
so-broken again?"


 
 


Ich grubs mit allen
Each worm befallen,


Den Würzeln aus,
the whole world is,


Zum Garten trug ichs
Some gardens are truer


Am hübschen Haus.
And some houses bristle.


 
 


Und pflanzt es wieder
Under unplanned weediness


Am stillen Ort;
I am the stillest;


Nun zweigt es immer
Nothing is too immense


Und blüht so fort.
And blunt and so forth.

(not a draft but I fear I will be adding to it)

Poem by an American

I.
Read the rest of this entry »

(will be disappearing soon)

* poof *

Poetry News:

1. — Poets’ Opportunities Greater than Ever Before; Arthur Guiterman Tells How to Make a Living Out of Verse and Gives a List of Don’ts for Aspiring Poets ;- Advises Writing on Topical Themes By Joyce Kilmer. —
2. — Defending the M.F.A. [link good for a few days] —
3. — Mr. Wilson’s work was less effective in two vocal pieces, “Four Short Poems of Louis Zukofsky” and “Lotus Dam,” based on a poem by Les Murray —
4. — Just in time for Thanksgiving, hear delectable poems from Stanley Kunitz, W.S. Merwin, Yusef Komunyakaa, Galway Kinnell, and Philip Levine —
5. — He won the 2005 Lannan Literary Poetry Fellowship and has made presentations at more than 300 national conferences, universities and prisons —
6. — NEA May Funnel Addtional Funding to Artist Colonies —

I hope these weren’t some of the toys I sent. But a high probability that, yeah. My condolences. How can somebody suicide-vest-bomb a bunch of little kids? I won’t be sending any more stuff to hand out to the kids over in Iraq (after these school supplies are sent) I don’t think. (My family member is OK.)

***

I have some poetry up at the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. These poems are formal poems, including a dactylic poem that made electricity come out of my forehead when I was trying to write it, haha. I don’t think I’ll be writing any more dactylic poems anytime soon. So go read my poems and the other poet’s poems & be sure to not miss Dale Wisely’s poems because his poems just kill me.

Thank you for the invitation.

Poetry News:

1. — New lit mag alert —
2. — Afghan woman poet Nadia Anjuman remembered two years on —
3. — TO make one anthology is not necessarily a proof of courage; it may be merely a sign of ignorance. But to dare the wrath of neglected poets and of their friends the critics a second time, is bravery. —
4. — Jane Cooper: 1924-2007 Read poems, listen to recordings, and learn about her life. —
5. — The best informative writing about war needs to be in prose. In poetry, it’s more a matter of embedding expressions of daily life, inner and outer, in the times —
6. — Literary Podcasts —
7. — Jean Valentine - The Japanese garden —
8. — The first attack I found against a newspaper came in 1800, when a Federalist poet decided that his party’s defeat at the hands of the Republicans could be blamed entirely on the media —
9. — The “border of poetry” is “dreamfaces blurring horrorlands” —
10. — Take a look at Eleanor Rees’s exercise on reimagining familiar environments, which she has called Stepping Out —

LOL I ask questions on this blog once in a while but people email me rather than post comments. Bok Bok Bok. {chickens} Thanks for the emails though.

This is sort of pathetically funny. Maybe it is because of the neighborhood I grew up in, but even *I* know that falafel is not a Persian, Iranian, Chaldean, etc food. [Must. Not. Make. Bill. O'Reilly. Joke.] But seriously, when my sister flew back to AZ from Detroit last time, she brought a jar of good Dearborn tahini with her & the TSA had a fit. It really caused a problem. Part of it was because they couldn’t decide if it was a liquid or gel or whatever. And the label was all in Arabic. Actually, that’s pretty funny too, now that I think of it.

We always have a container of Costco hummos in the ‘fridge. So I guess we are screwed hahaha. I was emailing with someone about that article & we reckon that maybe if you buy bacon it does an if / else and throws your purchase out of the system.

if item !=pork then go on
else if item = pork then quit

or there could be a special “lone wolf/extremist” category

else if item =ViennaSausages
or item =RonPaulDonation

then write “lone wolf.”

A found poem from our conversation:

Purina One
BILLOFRIGHTS
BILLOFRIGHTS
Scott Tissue
BILLOFRIGHTS
Produce
SPAM
BILLOFRIGHTS
Bananas
Milk
BILLOFRIGHTS
Hershey Kisses
BILLOFRIGHTS
Tide
BILLOFRIGHTS
Brawny
BILLOFRIGHTS
Land-O-Lakes Butter
BILLOFRIGHTS
BILLOFRIGHTS
Twinkies

At 1:20pm, 40 years ago today, I was born. Just being here at all is pretty miraculous — I was supposed to arrive in late January. (I weighed 34 ounces when I was born. In 1967. And I’m alive.) I spent about 3 months in an incubator, which I’m sure fcked me up on some deep psychic level somehow, hahahahaha. The medical bill was over a million 1967 dollars & I can’t say how it was paid for because I’m unsure if the statute of limitations has run out. (Not joking hahaha.)

And it is my 17th wedding anniversary. I met Darryl when I was a musician in Detroit & he was living in Nashville & visiting Michigan while working on a mutual friend’s record. We grew up a mile from each other. Happy anniversary, honey:

(Link)

{Totally joking. Darryl never reads this blog anyway LOL.}

Hey did you know Quincy Jones produced most of Leslie Gore’s records, like the fantabulous Hey Now? I love the drums & bass on that record. It’s funny to think Quincy Jones produced “It’s My Party” but he did.

Man I love big early ’60s slappy snare drums. Music production mostly pretty much sucks now. (Said the 40-year old.)

Darryl is taking me to the Belcourt to see a Preston Sturges screwball comedy because I GET TO PICK (and I’m pretty low-maintenance). I think my sense of humor is circa 1940 because Jack Benny, Preston Sturges, Phil Harris, Fred Allen = funny funny to me.

ps. a found poem:

Preston Sturges’ Eleven Rules For Box Office Appeal

A pretty girl is better than an ugly one.
A leg is better than an arm.
A bedroom is better than a living room.
An arrival is better than a departure.
A birth is better than a death.
A chase is better than a chat.
A dog is better than a landscape.
A kitten is better than a dog.
A baby is better than a kitten.
A kiss is better than a baby.
A pratfall is better than anything.

Just some poems today:

1. — Lorine Niedecker “When Ecstasy is Inconvenient” —
2. — Mary Ruefle “From A Little White Shadow” —
3. — Muriel Rukeyser “Metaphor to Action” —
4. — Susan Howe “From Hinge Picture” —
5. — Wislawa Szymborska “Consolation” —

For my sister, Intissar, and for Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Once upon a time

when crows flocked to the illuminated clouds of dreams, gold jingled
with midnight and the cooled sky sustained this wildness. But soon
came the reign of the Evil King, and his dazed kingdom had nursed far too long

on bad tidings presented as medicine, to be taken as the eye accepts a magic trick,
gladly. And so, in the beds of the kingdom, the troubled sleepers were as tight buds,
and even their dreaming could not unfurl the worries pressed upon them

by the Evil King. For his heart was a dark labyrinth. For he was drunk
on his inheritances, and so the hearts of his Evil Court did become intoxicated
also on this syrupy poison, and so the heart of the Evil King quickened

at the chance to spread its sickness. And did quicken at the chance
to spread war and fright. And so the people of the kingdom became
sorely afraid, and so the dreams of the troubled sleepers shuddered.

For since the dreams of the sleeping kingdom did not now hold even one
golden thread or one embroidered canopy, the Queen of the Dream Crows
did speak, Caw! for the Queen was a wise Queen and a generous Queen

and she wanted her flock to prosper. The people of the kingdom do suffer.
The dreams of this sleeping kingdom, we must restore. We must restore
their peaceful sleep and again we can gather our dream treasure. Caw!

And so at great speed the Queen ordered her flock to fly.
And so the flock arrived at the hidden-yet-glittering storehouse
of the Dream Crows. With the care of a drought-stricken bird,

each crow pecked up one bright and shiny mirror. And with them
they flew. Each crow to the troubled kingdom. Back to the Evil King.
Each crow flew above the sorrowful dreams of the sleepers.

And oh, the night-birds gathered at the palace of the Evil King.
And oh, the night-birds placed the mirrors around the Evil King.
Caw! spoke the Queen, let us wait to see him awaken; he will see

the truth of his wicked heart in our mirrors. Caw! And it came to pass
that in the morning the Evil King traveled back from the land of dreams.
And the Dream Crows shook their blue-black feathers.

But oh, the Evil King’s heart was as a shriveled pea, and much too small
for him to see. And oh, the hearts of the birds, their own good hearts,
fell. And yet there was not one sound. My flock ““ Caw! then spoke the Queen,

let us, ourselves, sleep. The work of the day is carried by the kingdom,
so let us try again to-night. Caw! And while the Dream Crows slept,
the drivers of the kingdom drove their cars. The writers of the kingdom

filled their books. The musicians of the kingdom hung their music in the air.
And while the Dream Crows slept, it was as if the people of the kingdom
woke from a long journey in the land of dreams. So that when, in the night,

when the crows flocked to the illuminated clouds of dreams, they found gold again jingled
with the midnight and again the cooled sky. At first, scattered bits of glitter but
becoming once again tightly-woven. Caw! the Queen of the Dream Crows

did speak, for the Queen was a wise Queen and a good Queen. The Evil King could not see
his own evil heart. But as when dreams bestow unto sleepers bits of treasure to use
during their work of the day, in our mirrors the people of the kingdom surely saw the truth

of the Evil King’s heart, and this was also a treasure unto them. In all amongst you,
can any one bird tell me, in amongst all the stories from amongst all the lands,
has there ever been an Evil King who ruled forever? Keep this in your heart. Caw!

Poetry News:

1. — “That letters, words and sentences are all involved in reading is nothing new, but finding that their contributions to reading rate is additive is startling” —
2. — Borges and Lowell —
3. — Shhh, the ‘poetry librarian’ is in town —
4. — Eight Poems by Pierre Reverdy —
5. — English literature, as we know it, begins with the works of two great poets who wrote in London during the second half of the 14th century: Geoffrey Chaucer and William Langland —
6. — Complete Minimal Poems by Aram Saroyan —
7. — For example, here is a fairly recent Simic self-portrait —
8. — Saginaw celebrates poet —
9. — why are Nick Laird’s poems so sombre? —

My web host moved this site to a newer server. I think everything is working OK?

“In a stunning follow-up to the attack on Taslima Nasreen by Muslim activists, the Hyderabad police on Saturday booked the exiled Bangladeshi author for promoting enmity between different groups on grounds of religion, race, language ” a charge that can get her two years in prison, if proven. The attackers are roaming freely, charged with minor misdemeanours.” [more]

Got my hair CUT OFF Saturday. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to go to the salon when you have slid into surgical menopause hahaha? Speaking of which, I am taking a break from the internet for a bit because the world is really starting to piss me off (more) & I need to hibernate & straighten my brain. See you in a bit. Have a poem xoxo:

Remedy
(for Sylvia Plath)

This cure is a quake of the brain. In a cracked
room sits a cracked bell, convalescent. Shaken
until erased, I seek a grand plan, yet

fail without ceremony. I’m simply an immigrant
in a monochrome country. The doctors are delinquent
to tender this gift (spark-volts,

spark-lids): even the shadows sleepwalk
inside the ruinous afternoon. Suddenly I am
at the kitchen table. Suddenly I am

an oracle, inconsequent. In an electric
mist, I smell hot wire and I smell possession.
The ink of my pen is shaping a rook,

arranging and rearranging his feathers
in the rain. I feel the flare of an angel
at my elbow. I feel her random descent.

The Reanimation of Ted Williams’ Frozen Head

It is almost imperceptible — the twinkle of ice rime thawing
in an interior steel room filled with exaggerated gases,
near a regal super-neuro-unificator machine.

Everything is silent but for a discontinuous tinkling,
which means the enfolding of the field begins,
which is a prognostication of the heft of the bat,

which means science is in the catbird seat,
conquering the poke and stir of ashes,
so the scientists all incant: whosoever

liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
The super-neuro-unificator goes “ding”
and Ted Williams’ head twitches, and

Ted Williams’ head opens his eyes,
and the scientists all step forward,
and the scientists peer down

like Zeuses. They ask: tell us how
it was, when the air was good,
and tell us about baseball

and green grass Sundays of
left field. Please do
begin.

I haven’t posted a poem/draft here in … forever. So here’s a newish one from last month. My poetic output has been slim for a while, due to not feeling too hot, but I’m starting to feel better. I’m pretty slow and picky during the best of times, anyway. Bishopian, even. (I recently took apart my book manuscript & halved it to chapbook size.)

I keep taking the first stanza of this poem out, putting it back in, taking it out, putting it back in, standing back, squinting, taking it out again, putting it back in again.

Also, I’ve come to the conclusion that I think that ding in quotes:

“ding”

is somehow funnier than ding in italics:

ding

But maybe it is just me, LOL.

ps Ted Williams for non-baseball fans. Also, no news this weekend. And no weekend news for the rest of the summer probably. Have a good weekend.

A lot of my Gran’s folks lived in Burke County, NC & around Morganton. For a few generations, the women in that part of my family never married, had kids by multiple partners, and also gave their own surname to their kids (instead of the man’s). So I haven’t had much luck with my genealogical research for that Whisnant line LOL. Anyway, speaking of Burke County, North Carolina…

there is an Appalachian murder ballad called “The Ballad of Frankie Silver(s)” — it isn’t as well-known as like “Omie Wise” or other murder ballads. The story is that Frankie allegedly took an axe to her husband and afterward she allegedly confessed via the ballad’s lyrics. (From the scaffold, even.)

There is a (great) documentary “The Ballad of Frankie Silver” at Folkstreams and you can watch it online. [warning: contains hillbilly music]

Frankie Silver got hanged on this day in 1833

This dreadful dark and dismal day,
Has swept my glories all away.
My sun goes down, my days are past,
And I must leave this world at last?

Oh! Lord, what will become of me?
I am condemned, you all now see,
To heaven or hell my soul must fly
All in a moment when I die. . . .

[the rest of her confession]

I apologize to any of you who (like me a little bit) are on the color-blind side. I couldn’t resist posting this, my favorite poem. Makes me cry every time. I think it is the sheer sound of it.
r
k
n
l
nt

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain –
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design –,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then –
Thus hallowing an intervaestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical
Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel any choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur.
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance
Miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent
.