Posted tagged ‘Karin Gustafson’

Rhinoplasty?! If You Don’t Know What It Is–Try Out NOSE DIVE!

December 18, 2011

Drawing by Jonathan Segal (From NOSE DIVE)

Just came back from a wonderfully sweet book launch party for NOSE DIVE, a new novel written by me and illustrated (fantastically) by Jonathan Segal.

I feel very blessed to have contact with so many terrific writers/poets/readers/friends online, but, well, it’s great to actually BE with people, i.e. face to face.  To have them buy a book you have written is an especial thrill.

So thanks thanks thanks to all who came–and a quick message for all of you who were there in spirit:  thanks to you too  (but now get the book!)   (Available in paperback and on kindle–kindle version for only 99 cents!)

Hope you all had as nice a Sunday.

(PS –all rights to NOSE DIVE illustrations are reserved by Jonathan Segal.)

Mag 95- “Futility-Ha!” Mired in Schadenfreude, With Elephant

December 11, 2011

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When I saw the photo prompt of Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales this week–a wonderful painting/photo of a swimmer partly buried in sand, my brain filled instantly with heavy poems.  But in the midst of a sun-filled walk, silliness came to mind, and, true to nature, I opted for that:

Futility-Ha!

The fledgling surrealist, mired in schadenfreude, built his
scene with greyed hues and competitive passion–
Take that, Dali, with your dribble of melting clocks, your
self-referential facial hair; your stinking thrown arched cat–

He sniffed.
And you, de Chirico,
forget the portentous shadows–
he darkened
the outlines of empty rowboat– that grandiose
trapped geometry, I’ll
show
you Futility.

A moment bent towards the palette,
milking color.  What he sought was
the suggestive but mysterious, just a touch
of squeamish–wrinkles in caught
flesh: I’ll put my oar in now, ha ha!
(The tenor of that laugh was getting worrisome, thought the
studio assistant, scurrying for more turp.)

A person chest-swallowed in sand, a nearby boat, parked
boat, sober waiting
boat–  So much for Rimbaud–dab dab–(a muted blue
that should be steel filled the inner keel)– and it will be my passenger
who is sunk
and not the ship; the actor, the observer both, an
image to get stuck from
shore to shore-

To turn up the volume (as it were),
he bared the dim-pale back, turned shoulders
to swimmer’s rounds,
sculpted with cylindrical precision (but unclear
detail) a bathing cap.

Profundity, eh! he grinned, the assistant quietly
checking the studio door–sometimes he locked it
from the inside–
And you, Magritte!  How do you like
them apples?

P.S.  A few side notes: the creator of the true image (without elephant) is Mostafa Habibi, who, to the best of my knowledge, has no beef with Salvador Dali, Giorgio diChirico, Arthur Rimbaud, or Rene Magritte, all of whom I admire greatly.

P.P.S. – if you like silliness, please please please check out my new silly, but fun, teen novel, Nose Dive, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated (terrifically) by Jonathan Segal.   On Amazon.  When you’re there–take a look at Going on Somewhere (poetry) or 1 Mississippi (elephants).  Thanks much!

Blindness/Poetry/ Fabric of Lives – “Against the Weave”

December 10, 2011

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DVerse Poets Pub has a lovely prompt today, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto, broadly based on quilting, the fabric of one’s life, as a means of self-expression, art, beauty (as well as warmth).   My poem below is about a blind relative who actually made the rug depicted above.  (Please note that the poem itself is fictional!  Also that it’s a draft!   (NOTE – December 13–I’ve done a revised version of the poem below which may be found here.)

Against the weave

The convulsive flicker
could just hook onto the gap
between white and black but
other spectral shifts–
cadmium to indigo to green–
could not be seen, nor shapes–
except for looming or not there–so
he chose his shades by smell mainly: some washed
with the saltiness of fresh ham, others imbued with a slight
must, a corner of the
barn where the planks rotted.
An occasional skein smelled
new mown while another whispered of water
silken with suds.  Others
he could barely stand to sniff, their acrid
sharpness testifying to strong dyes, the warp
of a fresh uniform–he remembered
when his brothers had gotten
away–or even the diluted stink
of slaughtering pen.

There were colored yarns too and webs
of cloth that he twisted before weaving–
their original patterns–the chintz or pink
geometry–converted on his cellar loom to
a knotted crisscross, stripes
that would hold up to years
of sun or shadow, feet and floor.

His shirt was always buttoned
to the chin, belt loops puckered,
eyelids fluttering beneath a pale high
forehead that seemed, nonetheless, compressed
as if trying hard to focus all
that could not be seen.
But meeting him one would look
at the large knuckled hands (turning
from eyes, forehead).  Hard to realize from their
stiff dangle how fast they could
weave.  For he got
very good at it, one past-time
allowed a blind man
when sons were meant to plow
straight furrows.

(P.S. – I am also submitting this poem for Gooseberry’s poetry picnic.)

Cheap Thrills? Cheap Anyway! And Worth Way More. Take a (NOSE) DIVE!

December 7, 2011

NOSE DIVE

What is cheaper than a cup of coffee, a newspaper, a pack of gum in an airport, one-eighth of a restaurant glass of wine, 0.5% of the lowest gig oldest model iPhone, half an egg sandwich?

What will cost you way less than a subway ride, and give you a much pleasanter feel of the West Village (a/k/a Greenwich Village), NYC?

What will provide you with (highly censored) phone sex at a fraction of normal per minute rates?

The (virtual) smell of extremely fine cheese with no after-stink?

Lots of little side trips down Musical memory lane?

The answer is my new novel, NOSE DIVE, available now on Kindle for only 99 cents!

99 CENTS!!!!  You could get it in a Dollar Store (only you can’t.)   In fact, you need to go here!

Come on!  Take a chance!  99 CENTS!!!!

 

(P.S.  For those without a Kindle, print copies are available for $10.00–think 3 or 4 egg sandwiches.)

A Shameless Plug on Cyber Monday–NOSE DIVE

November 28, 2011

I am somebody who generally finds the holiday gilding of the overconsumption lily both unsettling and unseemly.   Patagonia, to its credit, posted an ad today, Cyber Monday, urging customers NOT to buy one of its most popular jackets, because of its heavy environmental cost.  (This, by the way, is a jacket that is made of 60% recycled materials.)

But I am making an exception in the last eight minutes of this online shopping day to make a shameless plug for my new novel.  It’s called NOSE DIVE and is a comic teen mystery set in downtown New York City.

The book has some very silly, but (I hope) fun, elements–Broadway show tunes, phone sex, gouda cheese.  The illustrations and cover by Jonathan Segal are especially wonderful.

So, check it out.  It’s available in paperback on Amazon, and will soon also be on kindle.   (Which means that even if you want to save trees, you can buy one.)

Yes, it’s for teens, but anyone who (i) likes music, (ii) has felt unhappy with their looks, and (iii) has had a friend in a tight spot should find something to relate to.

And it makes a great gift!

Magpie Tales (91) – Villanelle to Wandering Mind

November 13, 2011

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I am posting this in response to the prompt of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.  Tess posts an interesting photo each week.  Because I like to use my own art work (except the current header landscape by Jason Martin), I’ve redone the photo (more or less).

In this case, due to the chaotic conditions of this particular November day, I’m cheating a bit, in that my poem below does not completely fit with the photo, and is also a poem  that I have posted before.  (But what’s cheating in love and poetry? Ummm… not a great thing.  Sorry.)

Still, it is an interesting poem, and although I think it belongs to the image of an older female–i.e. one about my own age–it does describe a certain twilit mental crossroads (one without clear signposts, and perhaps, several empty chairs.)

Villanelle to Wandering Brain

Sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way
and must make do with words that are in reach
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day,

when what it craves is crimson, noon in May,
the unscathed verb or complex forms of speech.
But sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way

and calls the egg a lightbulb, plan a tray,
and no matter how it search or how beseech
is pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

I try to make a joke of my decay
or say that busy-ness acts as the leech
that makes my mind feel like it’s lost its way,

but whole years seem as spent as last month’s pay,
plundered in unmet dares to eat a peach—
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

There is so much I think I still should say,
so press poor words like linens to heart’s breach,
but find my mind has somehow lost its way
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

Magpie Tales (89) (“These Words Are No Nest”)

October 30, 2011

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This is a post (1001th – an apology to those who subscribe) made for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales. Each week Tess posts an interesting photograph as a prompt. The above is my personal take on the photo–I’ve revised it a bit to fit in with the poem below, a sonnet of sorts.

No Nest

These words are no nest.  They won’t warm you
when I’m gone.  You won’t be able to tuck
your head under a t, though it starts true,
slip fingers down n‘s curve, deftly pluck
replies from even the unsilent e‘s.
They won’t warm me either–no echoes
in ashen brains, though spread upon a breeze.
As twigs and hair and grass and dust close in,
words will be somewhere else; just as what peeps
behind these eyes, this voice, this flickering
insistent maw of self, will, at best, sleep
long.  But for now, I’m here, a bickering
steadfast word monger, building a place
of syllabic lingering, would-be embrace.

 

(I am also linking this poem to The Poetry Palace weekly poets’ rally.)

Fridays Flash 55 (“Did you hear the one about the father, the daughter, and the….?”

October 21, 2011

Overheard in NYC 

Man, dark curls pulled back below
balance of thick black hat,
breaks from gentling lilt of
tuneful (if slightly breathless) Hebrew song,
to child, blonde curls falling forward,
anxious (despite song),
in his fully-extended arms (and pink), wedged
between careful pale-
fingered grasp and
trapezoidal cardboard box:
“Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ve got
the ukelele.”

(This is posted for Friday Flash 55 (Flash Fiction in 55 words), a fun excercise posted by the G-Man, Mr. Know=it-all.   (I’m going to tell him a thing or two.)

Apologies to regular followers:it’s the reposting of an earlier (not great) drawing, and story, though slightly expanded here.

Taboo/Provocative Sonnet? (“Spy Games” )

October 18, 2011

One of my (many) faults is a tendency to second guess myself.  In the world of online poetry sites, this tends to arise in the context of ‘why did I post that poem, link, story, or picture?’ when I should have posted a completely different one.  (The different one, of course, would have been much more cool, likeable, wowie-zowie.)

This past weekend, dVerse Poets Pub, a wonderful online poetry site, urged poets to post something taboo or provocative.  Needless to say, I spent all weekend castigating myself for the poem I put up (about an important seaside activity.)

So, here it’s Tuesday, dVerse Poets “open link” night, and instead of moving on, I’m going to post another “taboo” poem, a sonnet, in, I think, a Spenserian format.   I am also posting this poem for the Poetry Palace’s poetry rally.  Here goes:

Spy Games

We played spy games galore in the basement.
Running spy games with the boys, our bent hands
guns, till sweating we lay down on cold cement,
shirts pulled up, chests hard.  Not much withstands
the leaching chill of earth, the buried sands
beneath a downstairs’ room, except perhaps
the burn of nipple, the future woman’s
breasts.  Our spy games just for girls had traps—
some of us played femmes fatales, poor saps,
while the leader girl was Bond—0-0-7.
She hung us ropeless from the bathroom taps,
then tortured us in ways that felt like heaven,
the basement bed our rack, what spies we were,
confessing neither to ourselves nor her.


The poem is published in Going On Somewhere.  (The header is a detail from the cover by Jason Martin.)  Check it out!

Taboo? (Maybe…) Poem (Yes!) (“A Woman Needing to Pee”)

October 15, 2011

Woman Needing To.... (image by Diana Barco)

The below poem is posted as part of dVerse Poets Pub, Saturday Poetics prompt, hosted today by Kellie Elmore. The prompt was for a poem that is provocative or deals with a subject that’s taboo.  As a (believe it or not!) slightly shy person, I find it very hard to post something both new and taboo, so am posting an older poem (one, that I’ve had time to get used to.)

A Woman Needing to Pee

A woman needing to pee,
she steps into the sea, knees
salt, a piercing balm, her
shaved legs grimace, gasp
cold, still she strolls thighward,
as far as she is able, needing to pee,
squats needing to hide it,
rubs water over her arms to hide it better,
acting out a woman too timid
to go out far, a woman
needing to cool herself.  But
she craves warmth and secretes it,
a secret warmth, wet-warming
all the sea.

Stretching tall
and cold now only where air
licks skin, she dives
into the afterglow,
a woman who swims.

A little background:  the poem was originally written as part of a “magnetic poetry exercise,” a kind of arbitrary but freeing exercise.  It can be found in my first book of poetry, Going on Somewhere, poems by Karin Gustafson, pictures by Diana Barco, cover by Jason Martin.  Check it out!

(PS – the new header above is from the cover of Going on Somewhere,  by Jason Martin.)