Posted tagged ‘manicddaily’

“Vacuum (Swept From the Closet)” – Flash 55 (Excerpt ha! from Nanowrimo)

November 16, 2012

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Vacuum (Swept From The Closet)

“Are you drawing that vacuum cleaner?

It had been pulled from the closet.

“You are! You’re drawing that vacuum cleaner!”

He inhaled/exhaled concentration, fumes of marker slashes, too, in the air.

“Since when are vacuum cleaners great art?”

In-out, till, with renewed compression of breath/stare, he flipped the sheet over the spiralwired pad, began again.

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Agh!  I really am trying to work on Nanowrimo.  A bit.  A difficult week.  Here’s a 55 word section for the G-Man

One Way of Looking At Thirteen Blackbirds? (“Homage To Wallace Et Al.”)

November 15, 2012

Photo by Tracy Grumach

Homage to Wallace Stevens and His Thirteen-Sided Bird

I.

Instead of finding thirteen ways to look
at one
blackbird,
I get stuck in one way
of looking at
thirteen.

II.

Like the thin men of Haddam, I look
for golden birds, not gleaning
the ebon sheen of present
wings, or worse, mistake it
for the shadow
of my own equipage.

III.

O Wallace, Sage of Hartford–Connect(itcut) me
with nothing that is not there, and also
the nothing that is;
the path flown by the
blackbird, hard to miss, harder still
to trace.

IV.

I often revisit
regrets.
Blackbirds circle
the chaff-strewn field, cawing
when they land.

V.

“Should” is a word to which
no blackbird
pays much mind.

VI.

My mind, when sad,
ia like a tree in which
there are no
blackbirds.

VII.

Sometimes the heart takes flight, sighting, hawk-like,
the bright eye of an idea.
Other times the heart takes flight
simply because it has seen
a blackbird.

VIII.

A man and a woman are one.
A man, a woman and a blackbird
are a man, a woman and a blackbird.

IX.

No blackbird will ever
be baked into one
of my pies.

X.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
thank you.

XI.

When I want to see a blackbird, I just shut
my eyes.  It helps if there’s bright
sun.

XII.

In city rains, each droplet carries one small speck
of
blackbird.

XIII.

The tree trunks stretch limbs of jet black wing;
my heart expands and constricts at once;
in this, it is like
the blackbird.

The blackbird, wings beating, labors,
then soars; in this, it is like
my heart.

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I’m sorry that many of you may have already seen an earlier version of this poem!  A draft was originally written fot the the beautiful photograph of  Tracy Grumbach, above, a dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt, and also, of course, “Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird” by the incomparable Wallace Stevens.  I am not sure if Tracy’s photograph is really of blackbirds–they look more like raptors to me–but the Stevens came to mind, so I used a bit of poetic and ornithologic license.

I am re-posting this for dVerse Poetics Meeting the Bar challenge to write about allusion – hosted by Victoria C. Slotto

New York Nonplussed Minutes

November 14, 2012

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New York Nonplussed Minutes

I am feeling, I confess, low–
when sirens squeal
conspicuously close, just below,
in fact, my window, and firemen rush
into my building, strides big=booted, black
backs horizoned
by yellow tape, and, as more sirens squeal/sigh
near, more firemen follow
(fore-armed with
folds of hose), and

my spirits, dear reader, somehow
lift, particularly as I look down to other
tenants not-scurrying through the self-
same doors, but simply side-
stepping boot-cuffs, trucks, some
walking dogs.

But being not nearly as irresponsible as
you might assume, you who may not
know the hard smushed bite of this big
Apple, I peer down
the smokeless desolation
of my hall, sniff what might be the slightest halo
of burned rubber or simply
my baking yams, watch,
with increasing cheer, firemen
drifting back into the night, lugging unsullied
hook, hose, sled, as other other-tenants, with
dogs and without, continue
to filter past, till I go poke, at last,
those potatoes, testing
for sweetness.

*******************************************

Yes, I’m trying to scribble a November novel, but last night major non-fire seemed to happen in my building.  No noticeable smoke or flames but tons of terrific firemen and three or four trucks.  I am linking this to With Real Toads, Kerry O’Connor’s challenge re addressing the reader.

Cowspotting

November 13, 2012

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Cowspotting

Life, she thought, let him off easy, while she–
she had to fight
for everything.
So when he declared, stentoriously, that cows
always faced
the same direction, she fumed
inside.

You just look in any field, he proclaimed,
the cows will all be facing
the exact same way.

The country road they traveled curved
around hills spotted,
she realized horrified, with
almost-gridded shanks.

Look, she squinted, that one’s
completely sideways.

An anomaly, he crowed.  The exception
that proves the rule.  

For years then, still smarting over fate’s
unfairness,
she carefully checked (when she had the chance)
the collective stance of cows, refusing to ever settle
for a near unanimity
of moist soft snout. but finding, even if it took
a rearrangement of gaze
or slope,
that one, that two,
that several
who stood askew, and oh, then,
how righteously
she delighted.

****************************************

Supposed to be doing Nanowrimo and am, sort of, but I could not resist revising an older poem for dVerse Poets Open Link night.  I make no claims as to any accuracy.

Train Refrain–Don’t As(k)

November 12, 2012

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Train Refrain–Don’t As(k)

So, I moan upon the train,
refrain of work week:
Why is it why is it why
sit I? Until each cheek
is less than sleek–
Sure, I’m sure I won’t regain

lines that never reached the plane
the vain label chic–
but must I sit and fit my–
slit my– The word I seek
is not quite “seat,”
nor rhymes “in the,” nor “a pain.”

******************************
I’m actually blessed with a beautiful train ride some days of the week but despite the view from the window it’s long and seats are–shall we say ‘worn out’–
and to while away the stiffness could not resist the challenge from Kerry O’Connor of Real Toads to try a very complicated rhyming syllabic form invented by Louis MacNeice.

(Reading note -as with virtually all my poems – pauses only come with punctuation and not at ends of lines.  Thanks.  It’ll make more sense that way!)

11th Day, Month (photo)

November 11, 2012

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This somehow felt to me like a November 11th kind of photo.

I am back to Nanowrimo now, more or less. May post pics, but trying to focus on November novel word count. Since I find myself writing in a notebook mainly at this point, this will be hard to compute! (Needless to say, type). But you can only do what you can do, I guess.

“Joining Forces” – Truce (Delivered)

November 10, 2012

Joining Forces

There is always the watcher, the one who espies
inside, slyly
analytic, silent
except when snark.
Though for hours, she’d tried
to decamp,
to flee the body that we share (ensnared
by pain), to pull out
of any continguity
with lower torso. Whining
well before the Irish nurse crooned push,
push the baby,
that all
was going wrong–impossible for her, the mistress
of ‘should-be,’ to believe so much pain
not terribly incorrect–

Then, when all did
go wrong, the knell
of my wired belly slowing
to the low thuds of the inconceivably
inexorable–oxygen
wrung from room and umbilical cord and only
in those seconds after life and flesh hardened beyond
what could be borne, unleashing, briefly, the
flutter of caught bird’s heart–
push push push push
now–

Straddling contractions-1-2-3-
they–LIFT– maneuvered us urgently
into the OR–push
push push push–
while she, peering through face-clasped hands,
crouched in the ceiling corner
of my brain’s buzzing
flourescents–

Overhead, masks aimed metal shells
of high-tubed light–I grabbed her by hunched–
you’ve got to–
just this once–
push push push push–
and she–
and she–
and she–
gave me
our all.

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Here’s a reading of the poem, which is the true story of the birth of my first child.

As a “process note,” the wired belly refers to the fetal monitor which conveys the sounds of the baby’s heartbeat (all those thuds and flutters.)  Contractions make the pregnant stomach unbelievably hard.  Tangled cord can cut off  O2.

I wrote the poem for my prompt of “truce” for dVerse Poets Pub, a community of wonderful poets, which I am hosting today.  Check it out!  I am also linking to Emily Wieranga’s Imperfect Prose (about childbirth).  

And also, my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, orNose Dive. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents! Nose Dive really is very funny and light hearted, and 1 Mississippi is a lot of fun for little teeny kids.

Olive Branch (Of Sorts) To Bill O’Reilly

November 9, 2012

Imagine this as Olive Branch (no time for new sketch)

To Bill O’Reilly

Yes, Mr. O’Reilly
we want “things” – good schools, decent
jobs, a safer planet.

“Stuff” –  like
our soldiers home
with limbs
intact.  Our own bodies
our own.

You’re bile-full, Bill,
but I’m even willing
to give you some-thing
back – my belief that you too want
such things  – truly – the stuff
that dreams
are made of.

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Yes, yes, I’m supposed to be working on Nanowrimo – and I am here and there – but can’t resist the call of the G-Man.  

The above are 55 words responding to Bill O’Reilly’s comments re 2012 election saying that people who voted for President Obama just wanted “things,” “stuff,” that President Obama would give them.  (I’m guessing O’Reilly thinks that Shelly Adelson and the Koch Brothers and all those who gave tens of millions to Karl Rovian PACs were not interested in getting any “things,” “stuff” out of this election.)  (I’m sorry – that last bit is snarky and I mean to be conciliatory, because I really do believe that we all want what’s best for the country; that there’s way more good faith out there than each side likes to acknowledge.) 

Have a great weekend.  I am hosting dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics tomorrow (if I get it together) so check it out–as well as the G-Man, of course, who has a great poem today about the wonderful tradition of the Hedgewitch!  

P.S. – just realized that this is my 1400th post.  No wonder my life/health/mental health is collapsing! 

  

Thanks! And Cherry Pie!

November 7, 2012

Washington and Cherry Pie

A quick thanks to all who bore with me through this election cycle, and most of all to this country.

I have at times been reticent to post political views on this blog.  There is, of course, the fear of offending people.

But a larger fear has been, well, of getting into some kind of trouble.  Professional, political–you name it–trouble.

Some times that hesitancy may be sensible. But when it’s truly fear – a fear that partisanship is so strong that people on the other side will simply not forgive me or like me or read me, or hire me–then I kind of shiver inside.

Because if people are fearful of writing about their beliefs, it will be very difficult to maintain democracy.  (It will also be very hard to write anything very interesting.)

I’m not saying everyone should go around shouting all the time!  And some forms of speaking out are violent, inflammatory, dishonest and really not very useful, even if legal exercises of first amendment rights.

I suspect that I’ve bordered more on the boring than the inflammatory.  Still, I just want to say – thanks.  To you who agree, and especially to you who disagree.  For reading, commenting, and simply being kind.

And to you whose candidate lost, I really do know how very stinging and sour and awful that feeling is.  All I can ask is that you believe that those on this side are as sincere and well-meaning as you believe yourselves to be.

And to those on my side, come on!  Be gracious.

I’m not sure what George Washington and Cherry Pie have to do with all of this, other than the fact that both, like the right to vote and assemble, write and draw, are things (errr… people and things) for which I am supremely thankful.

 

PS – Adding this later – It’s not great to gloat, but I also think acrimony will be worsened if people try to deny the victory.  To say for example that it is a narrow popular vote victory is not mathematically or historically true (if one looks at past popular votes)–it’s a victory of millions of votes, far wider than any George W. Bush popular vote victory.  (Of course, Bush lost popular vote in 2000.)

Not Sure Where I’m Going (Nanowrimo)

November 4, 2012

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Working, sort of, on Nanowrimo in between kvetching about the election and missing blogging and now back in NYC without Internet access (except through iPhone) and can’t quite believe in my new “novel” yet.

So, a bit, frustrated.