Never too hot for poetry!

It is, however, too hot to think much about what I’m doing… Suffice to say that I am thinking prayerful thoughts in the direction of my friend Wendy in Denver, and wondering what I’m going to write for class this week…

Today’s poem is called “To Drown in Honey,” and comes to us from Carl Phillips. There is video of him performing it at http://www.pbs.org/newshour/art/blog/2009/04/weekly-poem-to-drown-in-honey.html

I am kindof in love with the linebreaks.

To Drown in Honey
Carl Phillips

Now the leaves rush, greening, back. Back now,
the leaves push greenward. –Some such song, or
close to. I forget the most of it. His voice, and
the words pooling inside it. And the light for once
not sexual, just light. The light, as it should be …

You can build for yourself a tower to signal from.
Can become a still life. A slow ruin. You can
walk away. They all say that. Sir, I see no way

out of it. I have put my spade to the black loam
that the mind at one moment lets pass for truth,
at the next, oblivion. I have considered. I know
what’s buried there: emptiness and renunciation and
ash, and ash … Why, then, so suddenly–overnight
almost–all the leaves again? Why now, rushing back?

another rainy poetry Monday

Hey folks

Feeling a little schizo today — just blogged over at firecatclub about Angie Zapata’s horrible murderer, and still feeling kindof shaken by that…but now over here to talk about poetry.

My poetry teacher has recently been trying to get us to understand more of the power inherent in that form and its history; our text this week is Dancing in Odessa, by Ilya Kaminsky, which is super fabulous.  I LOVE it and am actually going to have to get a second copy so I can mark the first copy up and yet still have one I can read.

So I suppose I will give you one of his poems.  I had thought about doing an Adam Zagajewski poem, because tonight at school we are having him for a reading, but… But I want to wallow in the Kaminsky for a while.

Here is one of my favorites.  This is the poem that opens the book, and while some critics have suggested that it is overwrought and so on, but my feeling is that THIS is why I’m supposed to be doing this writing THING.  So.  Anyway.

AUTHOR’S PRAYER

If I speak for the dead, I must
leave this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over
for the empty page is a white flag of their surrender.

If I speak of them, I must walk
on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through the rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking
“What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition and the darkest days
must I praise.

If Fridays are for movies, maybe Mondays are for poetry

Hey folks

I am not going to go on and on here about the amazon.com thing.  I am going to mention it, briefly — DO NOT USE AMAZON ON ACCOUNT OF HOW THEY ARE HOMOPHOBIC AND TRANSPHOBIC AND SEX POSITIVE PHOBIC — which I have been telling everyone for years…

Okay.  All done.

I like the idea of having a regular feature here.  Like movies on Friday.  I think Monday would be a good day for poetry — get the brain going, see what sparks fly…

Plus then I can share my favorite poems with you as I find them.  Lucky you.

First though, I want to share my happies that we finally got some flowers in the front garden box that we put in MONTHS ago.  I will post a picture later.  And we finally put up a pole system in back for the birdfeeders. So far the birds are mildly perplexed.  Poor birds.  Squirrels seem happy though.

Anyway.  Today’s poem:

Mastering the Art of Poetry”
by Daphne Gottlieb (from Why Things Burn)

make sure you have everything
you will need
on hand:

pen paper or computer keyboard
dictionary thesaurus scissors (surgical)
tape first-aid kit plastic wrap
feathers candles clothespins
gag rope handcuffs
an assortment of whips
from fat thudding floggers
to bitey braided cats
maybe a wooden paddle
rubbing alcohol
piercing sharps
scalpel
a cane or two
and a riding crop.

got everything?
good.

negotiate,
negotiate,
negotiate.

if you want your poem to beg or struggle,
make that clear.
listen to your poem’s desires
and get ready

to be powerful and terrible.
your poem is quivering in front of you
and your iron will
as it kisses the collar you hold.

begin.

start
slowly,

gradually.

maybe a little stroking, teasing pinches, a few
words chosen
carefully
go a long way.

now escalate.
if you’ve started with your
gentlest, sweetest metaphor,
it’s time to build up to something a little
harder.

feel it? your poem opening up, reeling,
writhing, relinquishing control?
good.

take it right to the edge of what it can stand
then back off
then right to the edge
and back off again
up to a farther edge
as your poem swells
with the marks you leave on its skin

one thank you master
two thank you master
three thank you master

as you push it, drag it, hold it down
raise it up

THANK YOU MASTER

tell your poem
“you’re about to get a verb you’ll never forget, you little slut.”

tell your poem,
“I want to hear you scream.”

tell your poem,
“you only get forty more words, you greedy bitch!”
and when it has taken all it can bear

hold that precious poem close
show it how much it has pleased you
and rest. give it your name
and kiss it
goodnight.