karmic kudzu

Alchemy

2012-01-23T11:28:00.000-05:00

Moments of grace in our settled sights,
a simple walk, no more;
you stopped to pick up leaves along the way.

Shakeup of elements.
Carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
the fracture. Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the crack of Christmas lights
crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down.)

I know now, too, that you have lost
the time when I was there,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each close-knit day together.

Then, I only felt the transmutation
resulting from that one clear moment's grace.

A draft ...

2012-01-20T16:10:00.003-05:00

Moments of grace
in our settled sights,
a shakeup of elements,
carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
the fracture. Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the incongruity
of Christmas lights crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down. No need.)

I know now that you will also not remember
when I lived there with you,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each day together.
Close-knit.

Then, I only knew the world would look so different
on either side of that clear moment of grace.

Irene

2011-09-01T11:18:00.002-04:00

It didn't used to smell so wild,
like raw branch and sodden beam,
and the lost unfortunate lives
of small things.

Now it tongues walls and lawns,
places it has no right to be;
no right, except of that which made it --
reminding metal and cement block
who came first.

By next week we'll send in crews and glance
sidelong at still shallows
as we cart away debris.
Some things gone forever.
Some transformed.

See through.

2011-08-15T14:20:00.003-04:00

I am not clairvoyant--
I see you clearly only sidelong.
Up close we blur our margins,
bets smilingly hedged,
presentation all.

Askance I know you better.
Scrutinized, your practice
turns to false fronts,
a show of jazz-hand eyes
I fell for once.

Sleeping, or at work or
at a distance, then I see
you free of that imprecision
even if I cannot plumb you,
deep or otherwise.

haunted

2011-04-05T13:29:00.001-04:00

If I must have ghosts
Might as well be
Tangled sheets that do the trick
Turned down fresh
Turned out cold
Set free to cleave to mountaintops
Cant and recant told in whispers
To your sleeping ear

unruly

2009-09-19T01:29:00.000-04:00

seething hair the strands caught
never held between clenched fingers
tangled on rough cheap sheets
tangled in your teeth
your fingers

after when the blood cools
and skinsweat leaves a salt veil
slowly we will run lax fingers
through devil’s knots
and clove hitches
and figure eights of hair

thinking in numbers

2009-06-17T20:26:00.002-04:00

Trying to give myself a boost back into writing poetry, so this is what I have:

Issue 5 of _In My Bed_ is here!

2009-04-22T11:43:00.003-04:00

The fifth issue of In My Bed, "Skin," is available now. My poem "Skinned" is in there, along with some quite lovely raciness. Adult content! NSFW! Enjoy!

down

2009-04-20T11:50:00.004-04:00

Wings are what is called for,
soft as a feathered nest
prepared for new young.

I have a glimpse of wings
and close my eyes, imagining
the slip of family, genus, species.

I am the swan now, wings
white as teeth opening
To enfold you, Leda in reverse.

And we see angels, we see wings
as signs of mad dispassionate
grace: freedom to see farther.

I love the wings you gave me
when I felt them first
in that first naked moment.

2009-04-19T20:22:00.003-04:00

The couple moves in slow-mo,
caught in the wide angle of the cherry blossoms.
His hand and arm grow into hers.
They look not at each other--too bright!--but
Down, searching toes for signs.
Every seven steps
(but not the same seven)
they each glance up with
Eyes like tender greedy fingers.

They plot their lives there on the sidewalk.
Confident their collaboration is
on hand for the taking.
For the wanting.
Simple.

Here but gone...

2009-04-06T23:36:00.002-04:00

I've been MIA, poetically speaking, but I have good news: "skinned" will be published in In My Bed magazine (link to come), issue 5. Also, I was a finalist in the Summer Literary Institute's annual poetry contest (link for this also coming). Lithuania sounds unlikely--I'm flat broke and have no job!--but it sure sounds great anyway. Ponder, ponder.

concrete sky

2009-04-06T23:28:00.005-04:00

One Fine Philly!

2009-03-06T12:08:00.002-05:00

I've been invited to blog over at One Fine Philly!, a fun little blog on the local scene in the City of Brotherly Love. Come on over and check it out!

dream home

2009-02-11T14:39:00.002-05:00

skinned

2009-01-24T22:47:00.005-05:00

winter time

2009-01-13T17:56:00.002-05:00

fire safety

2008-12-14T12:36:00.002-05:00

New Philadelphia Poets

2008-12-13T21:50:00.003-05:00

Finally made it to a reading by the New Philadelphia Poets, a group of varied and talented folks here in the City of Brotherly Love, who are doing the good work of bringing poetry to new venues and new people all over the city. It was a benefit reading for BuildaBridge, a group I want to learn more about and, ideally, get involved with--check them out too.

And: I read at the open mic after the official reading. My first time. A great experience. Thank you, NPP, for the chance!

text and life

2008-12-11T16:13:00.000-05:00

write me a letter
put your heart in it
trace the shape of together on a sheet
and don’t worry about stains
they won’t show by morning

write me a letter with teeth
so I know where we are

write me a letter that gives me words for you
and I will read you into empty sound

write me a letter that says goodbye
write me a letter that says goodnight
write me a letter that says lover
write what you won’t say
write what you want
write your hands on my back
write me into your bed
write to turn my eyes to face you
write your name
write my name
write it all

and I will eat your words, I will eat your words.

A Lovely Love

2008-12-06T15:25:00.001-05:00

Let it be alleys. Let it be a hall

Whose janitor javelins epithet and thought

To cheapen hyacinth darkness that we sought

And played we found, rot, make the petals fall.

Let it be stairways, and splintery box

Where you have thrown me, scraped me with your kiss,

Have honed me, have released me after this

Cavern kindness, smiled away our shocks.

This is the birthright of our lovely love.

In swaddling clothes. Not like that Other one.

Nor lit by any fondling star above.

Nor found by any wise men, either. Run.

People are coming. They must not catch us here

Definitionless in this strict atmosphere.

--Gwendolyn Brooks

I think this may be the most beautiful sonnet ever.

reason

2008-12-04T23:33:00.003-05:00

villanelle, take 2

2008-11-30T20:11:00.003-05:00

Really I just changed up the punctuation. But I thought I'd post it separately ...

villanelle

2008-11-30T01:51:00.000-05:00

in text

2008-11-18T20:53:00.003-05:00

Coming soon: My friend is putting this to music! Can't wait. So thrilled.

a quick thank you

2008-11-14T02:08:00.004-05:00

... to the folks who have made it over here from Poets Who Blog. I really appreciate your feedback, and the time you've taken to check out what I have to say. I'm reading your stuff too!

pulse

2008-11-14T01:56:00.001-05:00

autumnal

2008-11-11T20:26:00.002-05:00

words for you

2008-11-03T18:29:00.002-05:00

Engine Driver (the decemberists)

2008-10-18T17:08:00.001-04:00

I'm an engine driver
On a long run, on a long run
Would I were beside her
She's a long one, such a long one

And if you don't love me let me go
And if you don't love me let me go

I'm a county lineman
On the high line, on the high line
So will be my grandson
There are powerlines in our bloodlines

And if you don't love me let me go
And if you don't love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

I'm a money lender
I have fortunes upon fortunes
Take my hand for tender
I am tortured, ever tortured

And if you don't love me let me go
And if you don't love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
I am a writer, I am all that you have hoped on

And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

(And if you don't love me let me go)
And if you don't love me let me go
(And if you don't love me let me go)
And if you don't love me let me go

sightline

2008-10-12T15:38:00.003-04:00

frame

2008-10-06T19:16:00.002-04:00

lovely inside

2008-09-19T11:46:00.001-04:00

post

2008-08-25T21:37:00.002-04:00

bloody poetry

2008-08-21T13:33:00.001-04:00

tether

2008-08-18T12:00:00.010-04:00

la citadelle

2008-07-31T11:18:00.004-04:00

point of view

2008-07-21T16:36:00.004-04:00

fruit

2008-06-28T11:48:00.001-04:00

Zora on falling in love ...

2008-06-26T13:24:00.001-04:00

"I did not just fall in love. I made a parachute jump. No matter which way I probed him, I found something more to admire. We fitted each other like a glove. His intellect got me first for I am the kind of woman that likes to move on mentally from point to point, and I like for my man to be there way ahead of me. Then if he is strong and honest, it goes on from there. Good looks are not essential, just extra added attraction. He had all of those things and more. It seems to me that God must have put in extra time making him up. He stood on his own feet so firmly that he reared back." -- Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road

summer

2008-06-23T13:44:00.002-04:00

formalities

2008-06-19T14:25:00.001-04:00

1:2 [revised version]

2008-06-08T16:38:00.007-04:00

I worked on the first stanza and a little bit on the second, and I think I like this better. Update: I think "unyielding" scans better than "unforgiving."

1:2

2008-06-07T20:31:00.004-04:00

what I'm still working on: the end of the first stanza doesn't work for me. Not totally happy with the end of the last stanza either. Hmmmph.

why I write poetry ... and why I love Derrida ...

2008-06-06T13:36:00.005-04:00

"Someone writes to you, writes you, of you, on you. No, rather a mark addressed to you, left and confided with you, is accompanied by an injunction, in truth it is in this very order which, in its turn, constitutes you, assigning your origin or giving rise to you: destroy me, or rather render my support invisible to the outside, in the world (this is already the trait of all dissociations, the history of transcendences), in any case do what must be done so that the provenance of the mark remains from now on unlocatable or unrecognizable. Promise it: let it be disfigured, transfigured or rendered indeterminate in its port--and in this word you will hear the shore of the departure as well as the referent toward which a translation is ported. Eat, drink, swallow my letter, carry it, transport it in you, like the law of a writing become your body: writing in (it)self."

-Jacques Derrida, from "What is Poetry?"

what we don't say

2008-06-02T03:33:00.022-04:00

“I’m not here for that.” She stretched out a hand, flexed it, then reached across him for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. Took a long time with the lighter.

“Not here for … ?” As his voice trailed off he could see her receding like a storm cloud. He hadn’t expected her to be here at all, tonight, but then he had heard the screen door open, a knock, then the shush as it shut again. When he opened the inner door and looked out, there she was, sitting on the bottom step with an unlit cigarette poised between her fingers, her back to him. Over her shoulder she said, not asking him for anything, “I ran out of matches.” It was as good an explanation as any, he figured. And so, he had held the door open for her. Two hours ago.

“Love. Your love.” She said it uninflected but carefully, somehow. Rather as if just by saying the word she were acknowledging that yes, she knew love, she recognized its power, but denied its relevance here. He found himself cataloging the clean lines of her face, telling it like a rosary--there was the hint of a new scar on her chin, but he didn’t ask about it. He stayed away from her eyes.

The two of them let the words, the word “love,” in particular, echo in the dark around them. In her mind’s ear she could hear how it sounded the last time she had said it in this same room, so differently but just as careful. “I love you.” It had been late afternoon, then, with the sun lighting up the dust motes, a trick of the light she never tired of. The look on his face as he registered her “I love you” had propelled her out the door, down the sidewalk, all the way to the river almost. It took her a while to realize that when she’d said it, she could have said, “good bye.” Had said it, in effect.

She felt her being here now needed a new context.

He lay next to her quietly, letting the cold street light from the window pull her into sharp relief, etching her shadow on the pillow behind her. She had propped herself up on her elbows, leaning a bit awkwardly to one side when she wanted to take a drag. He was on his side, watching her, not saying anything. It bothered her, his waiting for her to speak. Instead she finished her cigarette, with long slow breaths, not rushing, and then slid from the bed. They were both conscious of how her naked body looked in the scant light—he’d photographed her like that, trying to capture the way her skin seemed to radiate on its own wavelength beyond sight. She slipped her shirt over her head, pulled on her panties and jeans, slung her bag over her shoulder, still not saying more, knowing he was waiting. Just as he started to think she would leave without so much as looking back at him, she stopped at the door to the bedroom and stood, her face empty of pain, serene even as she looked down on him.

“Thanks for the lighter.”

"Keep it."

turbulence

2008-05-31T09:03:00.003-04:00

taste

2008-05-29T08:25:00.000-04:00

from Toni Morrison's _Sula_

2008-05-16T08:24:00.000-04:00

"In a way her strangeness, her naivete, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings; had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like any artist with no art form she became dangerous." (New York: Bantam Books, 1975), 105.

balance

2008-05-15T08:22:00.000-04:00

term II

2008-05-07T08:21:00.000-04:00

second pass

term

2008-05-07T08:20:00.000-04:00

first pass

flying out

2008-05-06T08:18:00.000-04:00

I hear this as a country song, though it's been suggested it's kinda Jeff Buckley ...

commemorative

2008-04-28T08:10:00.000-04:00

to do list

2008-04-23T19:13:00.000-04:00

how to say no

2008-04-13T19:15:00.000-04:00

dismissal

2008-04-09T19:24:00.000-04:00

first try at structure

spring

2008-04-04T19:30:00.000-04:00