I want to write

something other than this boring academic article on writing instructor identity.

I want to use this phrase "emblematic representation" because it reminds me of that time that you got rid of your dining room table and replaced it with a photograph of a table from a magazine--all the items previously placed upon the table now resided, meticulously arranged exactly as they had been before, atop the photograph on the floor. I laughed at first, perhaps I even enjoyed the irreverent madness of the idea, but then you took it too far. Now the only "real" piece of furniture in the house is the bed. Everything else has been replaced with photographs. I sat on the photograph of the sofa that now occupied the bit of sunlit space beneath the bay window and thought "this is our love." The conclusion was stunning. I let out a long breath and laughed, and almost cried, in spite of myself. I knew it must be said out loud, "This is our love, baby, look at it. Our love has been reduced to this glossy emblematic representation of what we think love is supposed to be."

HD, teach me to hear the world in this image

Evadne

I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.

His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.

Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.

~ Hilda Doolittle

The Big Empty

Because sometimes it's just like this.

This calls for some Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

~ Maya Angelou

No idea, no reason

I have no idea why I like this song so much today,

 perhaps because none of my exes has ruined it for me.

Oh dear, I guess you do get to read some of my dirty little secrets here. Shh, don't tell anyone.

We're so optimistic when we fall in love

But what happens when love ends? Is the resulting pessimism functionally equal to the previous optimism?

Sometimes I think I most miss the music that I've lost; entire albums I can no longer listen to because of the memories they evoke.

The other day I found a CD I'd made for you. Its newfound presence was oppressive. I couldn't bear it. It splintered in my hand; the songs that reminded me of you embedded in my fingers.

Face Poem

Face Poem

for R. Armitage 
 

Abstract, telescopic, geography

Of impasse

wide, open, pale,
Distant projection of perfection,

Like the moon.

Blue eyes, flecked grey,

coruscate 

half-revealed secrets.

A heart hidden,

Laughs: scar, barely visible,

Recondite.

Nose like a Roman God,

Wry smile everyone names shyness.

I disagree.

You run your fingers through your hair,

With sublime audacity

I dream

About the moon.




*Inspired by Richard Armitage's face

I'll tell you a story

But you have to know how to listen. I'll show you who I am, but only if you know how to read between the lines. You have to know how to read the signs. Most importantly, you must understand text.

This is a writer's blog, but I do not publish my work here. I post fragments, pieces, ideas; works in progress tend to appear here. I work through problems here. This blog becomes a part of my process as I test out ideas for strings of words that may or may not become more fully realized.

My poems that appear here have usually been submitted for publication elsewhere. My "Dedication Poems" are part of a larger chapbook.

But I will rarely post a linear story or event. That's just not my style. I am not a journalist and even my critical essays more closely resemble poetry than journalism.  I sense, feel, and perceive rather than "report" but I think that most successful blogs do just the opposite. They tell you rather than show you. They are quite often very logical and rational assessments of some topic.

You will find none of that here.

Nor will you find the dirty little secrets of a diarist. This is not my "journal" and I will not scribble onto hyperspace my innermost thoughts and feelings. This is not my confessional, you are not my priest.

There are stories here. But you must understand that identifying them won't be easy. It's not going to work that way. This is my textual world, these words are my playthings, and I will do with them as I please.

Do I alienate my reader? Perhaps. But I don't write for you. At least not here. Here I am free to write what I want without having to worry what editors and readers might think.

In this space, I write primarily for myself. Caveat emptor.

RIP Ray Bradbury

I have no words. Bradbury is an author who deeply inspired my own literary quest. My friends were also the books I kept on my shelves. His prescience will be missed.

Transit of Venus Redux

So I'm planning to head to an observatory to check out this  rare planetary event but of course in preparation for said event, I had to watch Melancholia because I am actually that morbid. Cheers!

Transit of Venus

For more information go here

For some reason this poem seemed appropriate:

Venus Transiens

By Amy Lowell

 

Tell me,

Was Venus more beautiful

Than you are,

When she topped

The crinkled waves,

Drifting shoreward

On her plaited shell?

Was Botticelli’s vision

Fairer than mine;

And were the painted rosebuds   

He tossed his lady

Of better worth

Than the words I blow about you

To cover your too great loveliness   

As with a gauze

Of misted silver?

For me,

You stand poised

In the blue and buoyant air,

Cinctured by bright winds,

Treading the sunlight.

And the waves which precede you   

Ripple and stir

The sands at my feet.

That blueeyed boy

So I guess in making you read my terrible poetry, I'm more like Stalin than I thought (if you don't know what I'm talking about go here).

Oh yeah, and read my warning that "handsome though he may be, he still looks like that guy who wants to read you his terrible poetry."

Jesus he was a handsome man

Hey ho woah!

Hey ho woah!

for the man in the street

An aesthetic object

Evaluated 

for fuck-ability 

at a glance?

She walks talks thinks feels - She's alive!
Her breath's
Your infinite regress.
She pulses remote life

Separate from you.

Arachne, Medea, Medusa.
My forebears. Hers.
Recognition - Deep, rippled; a vaginal fold.
Curved beneath your fear.
Yours.

Petals

Petals

for Ezra Pound

The faces in the crowd ripple me.

A blank gaze

Sawing me in half --

The blankness of the page
holding me

Together.

Submerged drifting drowning --

Cassandra screams,

No one is steering this ship!

But we are falling apart, away,

A multitude ripples

Apparitions in the crowd.

14 Photographs that Shatter your Image of Famous People

Who knew a young Stalin was so hot?

Of course, hot though he may be, he still looks like that guy who wants to corner you at the party to read you his terrible poetry (and also that guy who's totally going to fuck your girlfriend in the bathroom).

I'm embarrassed to say that when I posted that link, I had completely forgotten to warn you about the picture of Churchill's junk. Sorry about that.

You and I (Beauty and Truth)

You and I (Beauty and Truth)

for my defunct love

You insist that truth is beauty that beauty is truth
but I know, sometimes
beauty lies and truth is ugly
this, of course, is perspectival.
You are a red silk Lanvin trenchcoat
and I am a second-hand tweed skirt.
You are Cristal and Beluga
and a decadence I cannot pronounce.

Yet, I love you still.
My heart lives in your heart, 

I laugh. It's absurd.

When we part,
I drink water from a jelly jar.