carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 10:53 am
#82

What are simple things?
Do we ever really listen to our own hearts?
Some say the simple things are free
And yet they willingly will part
With fortunes in the quest for simplicity.

There is no simple life
Lives are lived in layers of rich complexity
A casual walk through Nature's halls
Might be another person's drudgery
That moment's sweetness hidden and not sought

So we yearn, and yearn
To find the straight path through the maze
Or, one true answer for our angst
Perhaps we should embrace our complicated days
And wait for simple answers after death
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 04:53 pm
#82 -nice carlotta
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 04:57 pm
(This wasn't written directly to the site, but it was written an hour ago so i guess it's spontaneous)


Leah

Moses Lake is a blessed town
each morning its citizens rise up
blessed by your shadow, with the
effortless touch, of a great evangelist.

Is it obvious
I am not one for writing love poems?
but your name finds its way
to the page tonight. Your name lays light
on my lips: Leah. Allow me to sing
my song of awe, allow me to write of
sirens and muses and love. Allow me to
forget this cluttered room of
unfinished paintings, old fakebooks
and empty bottles, this chair of longing.
I've been sitting here
for two days with lousy posture,
hoping you will come to straighten me.
You are a fixer, so fix me-
stretch me out and make love to me, blessed
Leah. You have a way of shaking the
foundation, wrecking my routine
even now, I must break away-
.
Leah, your name bears repeating.
Leah, I need you now.
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 08:57 pm
thank you, Cola.
I took inspiration from your poem about simplicity.
0 Replies
 
CrazyDiamond
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 11:25 pm
You are my hesitation,
But I never hesitate,
You are the words I've written,
But the words aren't always great.

Welcome to my love, my life,
You'll find yourself all around,
For I am flesh and you the knife,
Under my skin you abound.

You are my hesitation,
But I never hesitate,
You are my own perfection,
You are my heart, my soul, my fate.
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Mon 12 Dec, 2005 12:57 pm
carlotta- I thought it sounded like a response to what I wrote, but then I thought maybe it was just coincidental. At any rate, it made me feel lighter ..the idea of embracing our "complicated days"
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Mon 12 Dec, 2005 02:19 pm
I am made brand new
You wash me in waves weeding me
from the great unwashed
You saturate me with joy
Father, Yeshua, my strong tower.
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Tue 13 Dec, 2005 07:56 pm
#83

When I was a sprite in another life
I drifted on bark and leaves
Only a speck on the dimpled pond
Billowed along by the breeze
And the warmth of the sun was good
To the sprite who lived in the wood

When I was a giant in other times
And my head topped the tallest trees
I had my pick of the sun-ripened fruit
And the honeycomb made by the bees
The world was easy for giants then
Wandering from forest to field and fen

When I was a dragon so long ago
My fireworks lit up the skies
And when my shadow fell upon earth
All scattered in frightened surprise
I left the landscape scorched behind me
Let Dragon Slayers try to find me
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Wed 14 Dec, 2005 04:01 pm
We seasoned the cast iron skillet
and lit the stove for the last time
before I wept, beneath the Christmas tree
over restricted love, over the pawn-shop
ring I refused to show my family in shame.
But I would have married you
in some other life, some other dream
and screamed your name past the silence
past keypad desire past God and the bible.
Tonight, I season the skillet alone
and celebrate women, alone.
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Wed 14 Dec, 2005 07:36 pm
#84

My child, my child
How does it go tonight?
Are you sitting alone at the window
Under the lamp post light
While the music that makes you cry
Plays over and over, and then
You take the phone in your hand
To dial his number again?


My child, my child
I wish I could ease you
With comforting answers or
Dry your tears, as I would do
Before you crossed the border
And left your childhood behind.
I'd gladly carry this burden,
But the answer is yours to find
0 Replies
 
Endymion
 
  1  
Reply Thu 15 Dec, 2005 05:58 am
I'd like to go outside and stroll around,
To drag my cowardly self up off the ground,
To raise my head and look up at the sky,
To smile at people who I might pass by
Instead I sit here in this darkest room
and crush what hope I have into gloom
and moan and whine in my reduced heart's space
and hate myself for my lack of grace.

Yet still, I love the day and wouldn't leave it
There's still some light outside and I can feel it.
0 Replies
 
theprofessor
 
  1  
Reply Fri 16 Dec, 2005 04:51 am
internal torment and rage
torn fragments of my heart left on this page
a deaf mute locked in a cage
my senses are blind yet i can still see
of a day when my mind is set free
thanks to a friend who reminded me
how blindly we act in society

trying to listen but i am deaf
trying to see what i have left
as i gasp for air trying to catch my breath
open my eyes to see the face of death
running down from my eyelids like tears
wearing a mask of my greatest fear
a flash in my sight as i watch those past years
stand up and fight and thank god im still here
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Sat 17 Dec, 2005 01:55 pm
#85

The Season Thing

The kitchen smells of cinnamon
On a Saturday before Christmas
Mother's baking rum cakes
And the kids make gingerbread men
With raisin eyes and sprinkles
We only eat a few, just the broken ones,
The rest are wrapped in cellophane
To share with visiting friends.

The living room smells of pinesap
On a Saturday before Christmas
The Christmas tree is maneuvered
Into its stand, with only minor mishaps
(Perhaps a curse or two) and it's hardly
Crooked at all. But alas, the kitten waits
And watches all those shiny, shiny balls.
We stay alert for the great collapse.

The evening smells of eggnog
On the Saturday before Christmas
Mother's gone; the kids are out
The unfinished work will stay undone
It's me, the tree, and a glass of cheer
In the twilight. My favorite day of the year.
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Sat 17 Dec, 2005 04:19 pm
I knock myself in the head with a stress ball
when I need to relax, and I read Lacan
just before therapy to make the most
of each session.

Premeditation is a protection
the forethought to bathe a week in advance
to repent before sinning, and never marry
to never divorce. And I will commit to a date
to complete my tomb plate.
0 Replies
 
jjorge
 
  1  
Reply Sun 18 Dec, 2005 09:58 pm
Cola wrote:
I knock myself in the head with a stress ball
when I need to relax, and I read Lacan
just before therapy to make the most
of each session.

Premeditation is a protection
the forethought to bathe a week in advance
to repent before sinning, and never marry
to never divorce. And I will commit to a date
to complete my tomb plate.


I like it.
0 Replies
 
BumbleBeeBoogie
 
  1  
Reply Mon 19 Dec, 2005 10:00 am
Newspapers Find Receptive Audience for Poetry Column
Newspapers Find Receptive Audience for Poetry Column
By Barbara Bedway
Published: December 19, 2005
NEW YORK

William Carlos Williams famously wrote, "It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found there." Thanks to U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser and his American Life in Poetry project, poems -- a common feature of newspapers during the first half of the 20th century -- are now reaching about a million readers each week through more than 58 dailies and weeklies in this country.

Launched in April, the poetry column -- which every week features a poem chosen by Kooser and a brief introduction he also supplies -- has an alluring setup for a newspaper: The poems are short, free, and packed with meaning. Papers can choose to run them on whatever schedule suits their needs.

Tim White, opinion page editor of The Fayetteville (N.C.) Observer, one of the first papers to take on the column, notes that "Kooser is going out of his way to keep it spare, so it's easy to find a corner for it." The Observer runs it on its Sunday books page. White says he appreciates that "it takes up no more room than the bestseller lists, and adds a new dimension to our pages." One further advantage: White did not need to ask the publisher's permission to run it.

Kooser, who won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for his 10th collection, Delights and Shadows, first became interested in the press pushing poetry when he rented a room as an undergraduate in Ames, Iowa, from a woman who had two fat scrapbooks of poems clipped from newspapers. He has long discussed how poetry might be reintroduced to newspapers with his wife, Kathleen Rutledge, who is the editor of the Lincoln (Neb.) Journal Star.

He pitched his idea last year at a newspaper conference in Washington, D.C. "I talked to them for a few minutes about what I had in mind, stressing that the columns would be free, would be short, and would showcase poems that everyday readers could understand and appreciate," Kooser tells E&P. "They were quite enthusiastic."

The poets themselves -- among them, Lisel Mueller, Wendell Berry, and Naomi Shihab Nye -- are obviously gratified to be reaching a sizable audience that the Poetry Foundation (which sponsors the project with the Library of Congress and the University of Nebraska, where Kooser is a visiting professor) estimates to be about one million readers each week.

"I've received many, many messages from all over the country," relates Nye, who five years ago helped lobby her local paper, the San Antonio (Texas) Express- News, to begin printing one poem a week in "Culturas," the arts section. "The poet is paid only $20, but ... you can see that what Ted is doing is right up my alley. Put poems out there wherever you can!"

Steve Bennett, book editor at the San Antonio (Texas) Express-News, explains that the poems are picked by guest editors, usually poets or professors, who select from submissions. "I think it's very important for a major daily to support poetry, which, believe me, is far from a dying art form," he observes.

In a variation on the "all politics is local" maxim, Wanda A. Adams, book editor of The Honolulu Advertiser, prepares a local version of the project, called "Poetry in Island Life," which is published on the last Sunday of each month along with Kooser's column. It features a short, locally written poem that has previously appeared in an area literary magazine or in a poetry anthology or collection.

"In looking over his poems, I realized they all had a mainland focus," Adams points out. "We've got our own patois here, a different rhythm and syntax." She tries to choose "reader-friendly, transparent poems" that parallel what Kooser is doing, but admits the search can be daunting: "There's a fair amount of time involved in finding poems that are the right length, with no offensive language." Much of the response has come from educators and from other poets wanting the paper to use one of their poems, she notes.

Doug Peterson, assistant features editor at the Des Moines (Iowa) Register, reports a very favorable response to the Kooser column from readers. "We find that out mainly when we don't run it," he says ruefully. When he was out for two weeks with a broken wrist, the paper received about 15 calls and e-mails from people asking -- "very politely" -- when the column was going to come back.

Peterson understands how they feel. "Kooser is very good at selecting poems with a lot of emotion," he notes. "Some even make me cry. Sometimes as I edit them I'm afraid someone will walk by, ask what's wrong, and I'll have to say, 'I just read a poem.'"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barbara Bedway ([email protected]) is an E&P contributor.
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Mon 19 Dec, 2005 09:24 pm
#86

What I Want

You ask me what I want?
I want that house we almost built
On the land down by the pond
I remember the plans so well
It would have had two bay windows
And a fireplace of river stones.
I wish we'd done it; we let it pass
And now the land is gone.

I want to finish something;
That novel I tried to write, -
It had a great beginning,
You said so yourself
I wish I'd done the hard work
And finished, but everyone knows
I'm better at beginnings than at ends
I wish it wasn't so

I want the child we almost had
One more to make our world complete
A girl, a boy, and a spare, you joked
I hoped that he'd be a boy
He'd still be in school, imagine that
We'd have another year
It wasn't meant to be, I guess
But I want that year so bad.
0 Replies
 
carlotta
 
  1  
Reply Wed 21 Dec, 2005 11:33 am
#87

I dream of other places
I've always hoped to see
Crumpled ruins weathered
Into dusty history
To walk between the runes
Or sail the wine-red sea
Or feel a balmy trade wind
Beneath an island tree
These are dreams I harbor
In the ports of fantasy

Because I have an anchor
I cannot drift away
Tethered in familiar waters
I bob, I twist, I sway
My mind will always wander
But home is where I stay
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Wed 21 Dec, 2005 12:54 pm
jjorge-

thanks
0 Replies
 
Cola
 
  1  
Reply Wed 21 Dec, 2005 01:06 pm
It's intimidating- the blank stare of the page
and engrossing at once, with my hunched
shoulders hoovering over my desk, writing is my
lake and how i excuse my narcissism, but
there is no excuse for pretentious poetry
such as this. Backspace, delete the
mythological reference. Truth: I am a liar
sitting straight-back in front of a computer
unromantic and self-absorbed, at once.
0 Replies
 
 

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