MAKING POETRY

November Poems, 1-7

Making Poetry — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 21:50:14 +0000

I’m slowly but surely posting the poetry drafts I wrote for November’s 30 poems in 30 days challenge. So far, no spacing errors. Dare I hope this pattern continues? –Feel free to point out typos!

1
My Hero Too

The women stand holding their breath,
cradling fantasies kept since girlhood
as she prepares to burn. Even while

laying sticks around her, strapping her
arms behind her back like Joan-of-Arc’s,
in our icy-blue blood of tradition hope

coursed for the French knight to come,
cursing the crown and laws he once
swore to defend. He’s her true lover.

I’m just her husband, married to rules
I made up in a fit of idealism. Oh, God,
where is he? My champion, brother,

the hero who will rescue his woman
at any cost? Ah, hoofbeats at last!

2
Ch. 21: “Grey imperfect misty dawn” [Moby-Dick]

Yet again Elijah warns, his last-minute desperation
“strangely peering” at our two clueless friends
asking if they’ve noted five shadowy figures
hustling onto the pre-dawn Pequod. Yea, and yet
Ishmael and Queequeg shoo away the prophetic
as lunatic. Then they board even while wondering,

where did those men go on the eerily quiet ship?

–Ahab has sneaked a-ship unseen, is now holed up
in his cabin. But forget that gloomy Gus for now.
Chiefmate Starbuck, aboard, awake, is important.
Congratulate yourself, fearless reader. You have
reached page one-hundred of the greatest American
novel ever put into ink…that survived the mighty sea.

3
Ch.22 “And off we glided” [Moby-Dick]

The ship’s owners bid bon voyage, turning over command
to Starbuck, whose job is to haul anchor, set sail,
prepare for the open sea. And just where is the Captain?
you’ll ask. Oh, Starbuck! Good “luck to ye.” It’s a frosty
Christmas night with a breeze that’s stiffly titanic, when
“blindly [the whalemen] plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic.”

4
She’s Only Right in Theory

Maybe at another time I’d have turned man-thief,
learned how to pull hair, spew words, prepare
to battle to death for love of a man. But there’s

too much to do now, after a lifelong attempt to be
a better woman, too much unlived life to wonder
about–having outlived past aspirations by mid-

life. Perhaps another woman would slit her throat
for a man like hers. But what’s the point of that?
I’ve practiced love before. It never got better.

[I've no idea why so many variations of "life" are in S2. Oh, well for now.]

5
Fairy Tale Thought for the Day

Snow White. Opens the door to a stranger.
Eats the stranger’s food. Goes Kersplatt!
on her face. Dumber than seven manual-laboring,
hi-ho-ing dwarves. Snow White. One dumb ‘ho’.

[Yes, I know. I have to be in evil witch mode sometime, don't I?]

6
Lightning Exhibit

At the museum is a Pompeii exhibit.
There was a fire here, at the drycleaners
on the corner. Its white ash preserved
plastic-covered clothing that walks,
disembodied, over black-soot piles of
axed-to-the-floor ceiling remnants,
racks sticking up, startled then defeated
arms. An entire geometric village of red,
turquoise, yellow, patterns of triangled eyes,
dresses skirted with silkscreened pumps.
The navy suits are all lined up, marching
toward certain slaughter

7
I Do Keep Trying

Sometimes it’s a tongue in my ear
unexpectedly causing a memory
of more passionate times. Then
I daydream for a few days, weeks,
even months if the tongue’s really
speaking my language. Last week
it was a poetry reading that flicked
my switch, reminded me of a post-party
four months ago that ended with a pal
making a big, fat pass. He hasn’t
entirely given up, despite limping
away wound-licking and weepy from
yet another crappy ex-relationship.
We’re supposed to be too mature
to get excited. I certainly do know
better. But I reach for the phone,
casually ask another single-again
smoking hot man I know to come.
It sound plausible enough. Support
a friend’s musical efforts at an Irish
bar in Fanueil Hall Friday night. [check sp.]
No big deal. If I don’t end up
in his bed someday, that’s okay.
I tried. That’s the point. It’s small,
the part of me that keeps demanding
satisfaction. I can and will still get some.

Rock on!

Making Poetry — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 21:31:26 +0000

This illustration by Bruce Hammond [Copyright 2011] is based on the last line of my poem “Oxygen & Aerosmith” [Copyright 2009] about a dream I had about Steven Tyler. Unlike my favorite rock stars, I don’t use illegal substances. This is what my mind does on valium:

30 poems coming soon!

Making Poetry — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 19:06:56 +0000

Whew! I saved $60 by not buying a T pass this month, rarely went far, but I left the house every day for a 30-minute walk and to post 30 poems in 30 days. How did I end up doing the 30/30 challenge twice in one year?!

Poems will be posted when I figure out how not to botch the spacing as with those of April. …and WordPress is the easiest host to navigate. Duh! to me.

Poetic Halloween

Making Poetry — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 22:39:31 +0000

Here I am at Stone Soup’s Halloween eve poetry reading.

“Clara” from the Nutcracker

(and very nice total stranger

who hopefully doesn’t mind being in this photo)

Clara dressed up as a demon because Mignon sang the Annie Lennox lyrics "I used to have demons" in her spooky Halloween poem.

Photos by Stone Soup Poetry host Chad Parenteau

Don’t Try This Without a Mask

Making Poetry — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 22:44:14 +0000

photo by chad parenteau, october 2011

I’m retiring my creepy rock opera make-up now. But it’s strange how wearing it allowed me to read whatever the heck I pleased as loud as it came out at poetry readings this year. My regular make-up made me as stage-frightful as usual. Curioser and curioser.

Last Call for U.M.Ph! Prose #8 Submits

Making Poetry — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 21:12:50 +0000

Submits accepted til October 28th for the eclectic journal of city narratives: phlash fiction up to 1,000 words and prose poetry up to 100 lines–which really means feel free to send five 20-line poems, etc. But save the epics on dumpsters, okay?

U.M.Ph.! Prose

umphsubmits@yahoo.com

Mike Amado’s New Book is Available

Making Poetry — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 20:06:55 +0000

I was lucky enough to read this collection of poems before the big book release party this past weekend (by proofreading it). It’s hard to believe the poet was only 33. This is the first of a series of posthumous collections.

“The Book of Arrows” by the late Mike Amado (of Plymouth, MA), founder of PTAOW, explores “the Spoken Warrior’s” Native American ancestry from a socially-conscious perspective as well as showing off the intelligence and readiness to laugh that made him a dear friend to many of us Massachusetts poets. Now available:

http://www.thelostbookshelf.com/index.html

Write one sentence that summarizes each year of your life so far.

Making Poetry — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 23:00:51 +0000

Inventive.

Last Featured Reading of “The Woods Have Words”

Making Poetry — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 22:59:36 +0000

It’s been almost three years of fun since my first book of poems was published. 15 features at a variety of MA venues later, it’s time to let the old order changeth. This is the final reading/signing of the book (which will be on sale for $10 cash vs. the usual $15). Stay tuned for publication news on volumes two and three of the poetic trilogy.

Saturday, September 17, 2011, 2-5pm, Brockton Public Library. FREE

Commuter rail/bus accessibility. Check the site for directions and parking info. Bring a poem for the open mic!

http://gbspa.homestead.com/Calendar.html

Happy Labour Day!

Making Poetry — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 19:36:58 +0000

America Lounging

I see America lounging, breathing in the sausages and skewered vegetables,
Those of bartenders, each one being heard, as it should be, loud and wrong,
The doctor snoring away his holiday as he sways in a hammock,
The mason singing to his new son as he forgets his job, fatherhood being work,
The fisherman ignoring forecasts of tides, the deckhand sailing on the Charles,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the elders reweaving old yarns,
The (shopkeeper’s)* chat, the bicyclists commuting to nowhere special, no time soon,
The raucous laughter of the mother, or of the newlyweds at play, or of the girl in a sprinkler,
All laughing through the afternoon that belongs to us all, despite each separate wish,
The sundown shadowing cardplayers, and lovers, and college kids, all robust, friendly,
Singing and yawning with widened smiles, welcoming tomorrow with open arms.

[After Whitman]

*(One word that means “cashier at 24-hour store?”)

[After Whitman]