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June Kitchen
June 15, 2012“Writing Exercises” – Triversen?
June 14, 2012
Writing Exercises
The wheel cannot willfully–
not new as still-nude dawn–
be invented every day.
Still we work our brains,
poetry our chin-up bar,
re-wrought words our reps.
Expecting (regularly) Inspiration–
she, gartered, glad-handing,
as we, gripping pens, grapple.
Whips away, stockings running;
our words whistle after,
wheezing poetic (at least in part).
We moon till next dawn dawns,
but this time wisps of sibilance
blinker pink and blue.
Thumping rhythmically below,
a flat–tired, but still rolling–
yet another poem.
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What do you write about when you have nothing to write about? Writing!
A triversen is a form I’ve never heard of that was apparently developed by William Carlos Williams. The above is my attempt (ha!), inspired by the challenge (very well-explained) by Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse Poets Pub for as part of its “Form for All” series. If you are interested in the form, check out Gay’s wonderful article.
Shel Adelson (iPad Portrait)
June 13, 2012
Meet Sheldon Adelson (in my primitive iPad portrait), Las Vegas Casino Billionaire who (with his wife) has so far donated $25 million to super pacs supporting certain Republican presidential candidates, $10 million promoting Newt Gingrich and now $10 million promoting Mitt Romney. ‘
In an interview with Forbes Magazine, Mr. Adelson expressed a willingness to donate up to $100 million in the presidential campaign in order to defeat President Obama.
Ironically, some have estimated that Mr. Adelson has made more money than any other American during the years of the Obama administration (gambling apparently being a relatively recession-proof industry.)
I’m not sure how exactly Mr. Adelson’s ability to make such large political contributions fits in with the Supreme Court’s “Citizens United” decision, which allowed corporations to be treated as persons for purposes of campaign donations. Mr. Adelson is not a corporation. Moreover, his ability to give such large sums does not feel exactly like an example of an action of “citizens united” but rather, one citizen having an overweighted financial influence. (But maybe that’s just me.)
“Untucked”
June 12, 2012
Untucked
When he’s away (increasingly,
these days), she
sleeps at the foot
of the bed. It’s for the light, she
tells him, or rather
the turning off of the light,
the lone lamp that sits on a
dwarfed file cabinet at the bed’s
bottom, not the best configuration, but rooms
are not always perfect for the
furniture people bring to them.
It was hard at first
to find a spot down there; hard to tug the top
sheet from its tuck, and even once uprooted,
to squeeze into its tight pocket, her limbs
a swaddled ricochet of angled waist, hips,
knees, aimed to keep her feet from
the opposite dangle.
I miss you too, he replies,
but he, someone who sleeps when tired, eats
when hungry, does not quite understand her fidget
around burning vacancy, the twist and turn of one
so defended she
can only meet need through
a maze, or over
a parapet.
It’s for the light, she tells him, the turning off
of the light, trying to describe the purgatory of
the doggedly dwindling, but
the truth, of course, is
more complex.
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Here’s an older poem posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful Hedgewitch a/k/a Joy Ann Jones. I am also linking this post to Imperfect Prose, hosted by Emily Wierenga.
Barefoot Elephant Run?
June 11, 2012
This is not meant as a serious promotion of any shoe company, shoe, or non-shoe. It’s just me waxing amazed.
About two months ago, when my feet were especially sore and bulbous (I have weird misshapen bones), I bumbled into some “barefoot” running shoes. I bought them because any real running shoe hurt.
The barefoot shoes hurt too at first. Getting used to them takes time. They make you run on your toes/balls of your feet – a new sensation for plodding me, and difficult at first.
And frankly, even after giving the shoes time, it is hard not to be dubious. They are so thin, like a second rubbery skin; they are ugly, like Hobbit’s feet; and they aren’t so great for just plain walking. So, it’s a bit hard to believe that they are not secretly hurting your joints.
And yet, and yet, they are just so much fun. Fun enough that they have turned me into sort of a runner–a slow, and not very far, but very light-footed (at least, I feel light footed), enthusiastic runner.
And so, I am waxing amazed – my friend up above too, who, unlike me, had to buy TWO pairs.
Incredibly weird, right?!
“Missives Accomplished”
June 10, 2012
Missives Accomplished
There is an entwining twirl
in the script of certain centuries, a circlet
of the deliberate that, like the spiked
trim of armor, serves
a purpose beyond the
decorative.
The crossed “S” of Sworn, the ribboned
“B” of Beloved, the Ionic pillar that
leads into Forthwith–an unwinding calligraphy that, like
a curl lodged in
a locket, binds us
no matter how difficult the general flow
of characters,
tethering us to the half-moon brow
soon to be lost in childbirth, the shifting smoke of
gunpowder, the blue-black breast of
a recorded slave, a quill
that once took flight;
even the parchment, like the globe itself,
(or time), refusing to stay flat
and simple,
the swirling letters dark
wicks upon its lanterned waves.
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Agh! The above is my draft poetic offering for Tess Kincaid’s the Mag. Tess posts a picture prompt, and the picture is my version of the this week’s, a painting, Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte. .
“All Too Many Multiple Tours”
June 9, 2012
All Too Many Multiple Tours
Pentagon announces 154 suicides so
far in 2012, a number that “eclipses,”
the Times writes, the
the number of deaths
in combat. I think leadenly
of “eclipse,” black shadow blotting
sun, and then of suicide, suicide as a
combat death–combat with self and all
else too. (Self
losing.)
Making a choice of sorts: but “it’s them
or us” doesn’t seem
to describe it, nor “kill or
be killed.” Not even, “to be
or not to be.”
If you use something again and
again–take a horse–if you run it and run it and run
it, digging heels into flagging sides, knees into strained-
cord neck–and if it’s a well-trained horse–its eyes
will wilden, froth foam in laval persistence, hide soak, until
heart bursts, what’s broken
folds to ground, and you, who were so profligate with
your steed, we, who were so profligate, will be lucky to escape
with our own whole rider’s legs, our wastrel feet–
But still will not be able to blot out
ebon barrel to close-cropped head, pink
scabbard mouth, delineated
chest–the tunneled metal eclipsing
son/daughter, self, all
else.
Get them home.
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The above is a poem (still really a draft) posted for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt, “choice,” hosted by the wonderful Brian Miller. I’m not sure why this topic came to mind. Pretty sorrowful news.
“Juiced” – Belated Magpie
June 8, 2012
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| image by Klaus Enrique Gerdes |
Differently Armed (In Hyderabad)
June 7, 2012
Differently Armed (In Hyderabad)
A cart of bangles glistens like fish scales (if fish schooled scorched
above splintered blood-red wood).
Spindly fingers, knuckles barely bumps, lift the lattice of burqa to better see the flicker of plastic gold against a day so hot it curves and shimmers too; the comparative fullness of forearms rimmed by green, maroon, and gold (gold gold), black sleeves, as full as acolyte’s, accordion at elbows.
Escaping blaze, I tuck my own much-too-bare arms into the torso of loose dress—if I’m going to get burned, let it be through armholes only–so that now, a person trapped in rectangle, I stand face above sandwich-board, unfiligreed, unlimbed-
while opposite, armed as richly as mummified goddess, they hover (so solidly black) spangled by glint, hand mirror, each of us pretending
not to stare.
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I’m posting the above (slightly edited since first posted) for dVerse Poets Pub “Meet the Bar” challenge to write about an alien world/landscape, hosted by Charles Miller a/k/a Chazinator.
Doorbell Rings Some Time Very Late
June 7, 2012
Doorbell Rings Some Time Very Late
Fear upstarts–
quake awake shaking, bleared night silent
but for bell that should not be ringing,
dark but for lights that I’ve fallen
asleep on, torn jagged– “Who’s there?”
my voice
ragged
this side of door, which, shit, is not locked–
Fear tumble-rs through brain
paralyzed against making noticeable click
addresses
chain, a pretense
of metal, that shaking fingers slip
silently into slot.
I call back “No,”
taking hold now of true
lock as eye scope
smudges blurred guy blanking to greenish hall–
A mistake, all
safe, still shaking–no,
there’s stillness
on skin itself, the quiver
inner, as twist
in chest/plexus
refuses to let go of
fisted alarm, armed
against beating flow
of all other tisssued self,
scared stalwart.
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I’m back from brief blog break! Not exactly rested – especially after being woken up in the middle of the night last night –but really missing my blogging buddies (especially all those great guys at dVerse.) One lingering problem is, of course, that I’m not a poet! If I am any kind of writer at all, it is of novels, but the kindness of the online poetry community is really hard to beat, and that kindess tends to inspire poetry even in prosaic types.
All that said, I am linking the above to Emily Wierenga’s Imperfect Prose. Emily, another kind soul, has posted a poem of mine, “Thin Birthday,” on her other blog, Chasing Silhouettes, with a wonderful painting (by Emily.) Check it out!
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