Stream of Consciousness

He who has seen present things has seen all, both everything which has taken place from all eternity and everything which will be for time without end; for all things are of one kin and of one form.
- Marcus Aurelius

From Araminta Ross...

Also known as...Harriet Tubman

I freed thousands of slaves. I could have freed thousands more, if they had known they were slaves.
           

Figure 1A: A Science Poem

 Photo by Eraticus.

 Universal Veil
 
            from definitions of the parts of a mushroom in a mycology textbook
 
Like an egg fried
sunny-side-up—
this membrane that
tissues the immature
before we disappear
entirely, leaving
behind our patchy warts.
Such microscopic
pores, the true/false
running our morals
underground through
deadened wood until
they’ll tree our hair,
with fibers that push
never pierce the veil.

The Equation of Poetry

 

Photo by Sebastian Ritter

 

Big Tent Poetry Prompt for this week:

This wordle + this phrase “There is also the matter of ____” = this ditty of a poem.

Harlequin Fragment Read Over a Shoulder

There is also

the matter of flame,

its typical boyish

parade that often

defies smile. Leads you

to question your gasps a-

wake, their tangled,

necessary slips.

But, ah, how we

knew all along:

the thighs have it.

 

PS -- A bit of attempt at syllabics too, sort of, kind of, my own pattern...

 

National Penmanship Day (January 23rd)

 

 

This in reponse to the Big Tent Poetry Prompt for this week.

Yes, indeed, there is a holiday for any and everything.  Too bad I didn’t stage a formal celebration of this day last month.  Until 2012, a poem will have to do.

 

Once Upon a Time Perfect Penmanship Mattered
 
in
 honor 
of 
National
 Penmanship
 Day,
 January 
23rd

1.

Wallace Stevens wrote a poem 
about perpetual undulation, 
which may or may not mean 
“the motion of a hand as it writes.”
 
Esther Williams once did swan dives 
over my penmanship, expert cursive,
alphabetical bobbings on a choppy-line sea. 
Row after row of ovals, push-pulls,
calluses from holding the pen too tight.
 
Different than the tap-tap of this 
QWERTY keyboard even when 
your fingers have been taught to find 
the home row, 9th grade typewriters 
with no letters on the keys.
 
Miss Pointek was 
Our Lady of Perpetual Undulation—
She could find the middle C on that type, right
nod & our chorus of fledgling typists knew 
the pangram.

                Wrist-lift.     Ready.     Begin. 
 
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. 
 
2.

The moon god, Thoth—body of man, head an ibis—
(aka a therianthrope, who knew?)
taught the Egyptians to write. 
But wasn’t it the scritch-scratch start-stop
carve of glyphs in stone?
 
                        I’d rather 
pick up my pen & stir the sleeping fire. 
“Full many a gem of purest ray Full many a gem of purest ray Nine men mining in a mine
Nine men mining in a mine”—
 
Hand/writing, a lesson in muscular movement.

Let the penmanship tell my fate—
Mata Hari or Auntie Mame?

3. 

At the high school reunion, 
a football demi-god asked
did I still have perfect writing?
 
Oh, that Palmer Method
was my final scripture, 
last obedience to authority. 
When I changed the way I wrote, 
U-turn & full speed ahead 
into the boys.
             “Come on baby, do the locomotion with me.”
 
But Our Lady of Perpetual Undulation—
She could find the middle C on that type, right,
nod & our chorus of fledgling typists knew
to lift our glasses, toast, wrist-lifts ready, begin.
 
How quickly daft jumping zebras vex!
 
 

What’s in a Name Indeed...

I'm forever coming up with titles that could be entire volumes of poetry. Just last week, I wanted to work with this one: Sitting on the Left Hand of God Who Is Really Neil Young.

My collections-to-date are called The Hours of Us [a published chapbook]; What Rivers Cannot Quench; and The Varying Shores of Her World. A few of these found their provenance in lines from W. Shakespeare, mutated to my own needs. Others were that mythical lightning-bolt-strike of inspiration.

I wonder what it would be like to further explore the implications of this poem's title, as an umbrella for an entire collection. For now, it is literally a riffing on my first and last names. Here's the start:

 

The Gypsy Exchanges Ions with the Son of the Red-Haired Man

 

Miss Nancy shuffles the deck,

slaps down the spread,

more swords and cups

beside the Lovers and the Fool.

If sparks could fly,

this nancy boy would flee,

red dish digging

to trump his gypsied nights.

 

My (Second) Word for 2011

 

 

I just had to take on another one: Acceptance. Fearless acceptance? A combination of the two, maybe that will work. The image is of an open hand, letting go.

 

Year of the Rabbit in Poetry: Four Recently Read Titles

Blue Front: A Poem by Martha Collins

Lighthead by Terrance Hayes

Punish honey by Karen Leona Anderson

The Dollmaker's Ghost by Larry Levis

 

Photo by Heidi Bauer.

Year of the Rabbit in Poetry: Five Recently Read Titles

 

 

 

Each in its own way, making my thoughts lift up, sometimes soar:

Eternal Enemies by Adam Zagajewski

All-American Poem by Matthew Dickman.

The Pajamaist by Matthew Zapruder.

Romey's Order by Atsuro Riley.

Station Island by Seamus Heaney.

 

 

My Word for 2011

 

I've spent some time -- inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love I suppose -- trying to come up with my word for 2011. I meant to do this last year, and the year before, and never got around to it. Then today, this appeared in my e-mail as my Daily Peace Quote—words from a favorite poet no less.

                                                                                
Our deepest fears are like dragons guarding our deepest treasure.
                                                               - Rainier Maria Rilke

 

So I knew the time had come and I (of course) instantly knew my word: fearless.

And even though its definition is simply lacking fear and a number of its synonyms veer into the language of battle and war -- bold, brave, courageous, intrepid, valiant, valorous, gallant, plucky, lionhearted, heroic, daring, audacious, indomitable, doughty; unafraid, undaunted, unflinching; informal gutsy, spunky, ballsy, feisty -- I've decided I still want to keep it, for now, to try it on for size as I venture in the creative and West Coast Fitness waters of this my 56th year on earth.

Maybe it will inspire me (or at the very least remind me) to reclaim some of the derringdo and pluckiness I once exhibited (in spades) when I was younger, more optimistic, and, of course, thinner. Maybe it will simply help me have more confidence and know that there is nothing to fear even as my right knee shows signs of arthritis and my hands turn psoriasis-prone. Maybe it will give me the perspective I so often lack -- and truly need and want -- to be able to use my writing to tell my truths.