Random Poetry Bit

Illumine with the muse's seeming
She steps light to a secretive, graceful rhythm
A dance all-consuming from gloaming to dawn
Courting whimsical vesper, her breath keeping time
With silken and sinuous, rapturous delight.

Her almond shaped eyes, gold-flecked..how they shine.
The line of her body bewitching, a rhyme..
Clad only in samite, the moon's waxing glow
Resolving to starlight and sinful-sweet show
She hears your heart hammer and drinks it as wine.

Bright Red Rectangles form... a Wagon!

Bright red sides, constricting
But I shouldn't panic.. no...
Panic says the voice inside;
The alley's filled with snow!

A little wagon, lightning blazed
Pitched and weaved down icy slopes
Its helpless cargo clutching fast
The sides, as houses thundered past.
And looming nearer wooden doom..
Turn the lever, turn us left!
A patch of frozen ground afrights
Quickly slides us to the right.

...I blinked at grey and leaden sky
Wincing, prone upon the snow.
Nothing broken, save my sense
From plowing through the neighbor's fence!
But as I lay and turned to see
That bright-red wagon 'pon the ice
I couldn't help but curse the thing,
"Damn you fisher-price!"

Electronic Poetry Review: A Response

Poem with Citations from the O.E.D by Francisco Aragon


I found in Aragon's work something poignant, an undeniable significance that welled up inside, much like a secret voice coaxing me to the keyboard, urging me to heed and record.

Aragon seems troubled through the first few stanzas, trying to reconcile something of 'voyce' and expression. Does the deaf-mute shout?.. in lacking standard communication, does this individual not still possess an inner voice, articulate thoughts? Strange then that we so stigmatize a person for hearing 'voices'. Do we not all hear them, a communal unspoken voice or one which speaks to us soundlessly through memory, through the impressions of family or experience? To lock them up would be a self-denial and abusive, for they remain inside and linger all the same.

I felt that the last few stanzas implied a sense of connection, an unspoken bond perpetuated even beyond death through memory. Even in sorrow, the "voiceless thought" persists, and I felt a strange sense of comfort in that idea, that I have these memories and voices with which to weather stress or exult in joy.

Language Poetry: A Response

Taking into account both Mohammad's "A Language Poetry Dossier" and Silliman's subsequent response, I believe I have come to a better understanding of language poetry, in so far as it allows the poet to understand its machination at all. But then again, is that correct? Correct to claim it has a machination, some secretive aim? I think it rather a thing unknowable, undefinable; it is in this very lack of definition that language poetry seems to possess its curious beauty and power. It is significant for its whimsical nature and the ability to toss form and definition aside; it seems very much the stuff of creative imagination, the raw fountainhead of any poetic enterprise. Language poetry relies upon nothing more than what an author perceives at a sound, at a collection of characters, at a lively image in a consuming instant. This is something I respect, to a degree, something vital and appropriate for its wild abandon, not unlike a mustang galloping o'er the plain; unbridled, it tosses its head at walls and fenses and thunders onward.

I look forward to exploring this further.

Experimenting with Poetry: #4 - Acrostic Chance

Fox Woman


Unadapted Lines

Floor of one of the deserted buildings...
Oxen labor, with the backs of their driver's heads as
X-pression; and Onaga's narrow face...
What does she think, when she writes these poems?
On one side,
Masters of the house
Are often filled with grief
Notoriously inconstant, smooth and fluid


Author Alteration

The floor, begrimed and deserted
Kaya stood, head bowed, straining as an oxen
Laboring face, narrow expression
'Do you think to write these poems?'
On one side, the rocky road lies tempting
But this was his, and he the master of the house
Though his destiny be filled with grief
Better a hovel than a notoriously inconstant world.

Ezra Pound: A Response

While contemporary poetry, free verse expression, rarely moves me in a comparable fashion with the traditional strain, it still seems to me that Ezra Pound should be afforded every honor for his influence, for his contributions to poetic expression.
I see in Pound's work the same fluidity of language I would readily laud in Frost or Yeats. How then to reconcile my usual misgivings, the uncertainty that would have me both uplift and marginalize 'free verse' poetry?

Contemporary poetry could easily be termed 'new', 'novus' in the Roman tongue. The Latin word implies 'strange' as well; something new is strange and not to be trusted. I have my reservations, but at the same time I can not condemn this man for reaching outward, for experimenting and revealing another outlet for inspiration. And in the same breath, I can not discount those like-minded poets who find exhilaration in new methods, in the simple beauty and musical nature of language. To walk the same path inevitably becomes tiresome and dangerous. New blood and new horizons always benefit the human spirit, and any study of literature finds ample evidence that sometimes the old, traditional ways do not suffice. To keep poetry fresh and lively, sometimes a new method need be procured, a method that includes everyone and liberates language. I think this has been a hard won but valuable lesson for me, in that while many contemporary poets refuse the rhyme and meter, they still possess the same wishes, the same desires and wistfulness. Yeats and Wordsworth were not so different, nor Ezra Pound unaware of his emotions and unable to express them in his medium.

Breathe deep then, gentle poets. Dream something new, and when the poetic ecstasy is spent, let us meet at the local coffee house.

Big Bridge: A Response

Out by Gloria Frym

Ms. Frym,

In reading your poem Out, it seemed to me that the word itself carried so much of the work's meaning, as if the lines sprung naturally from that central idea. Out is an imperative statement, expelling something, and so too implying a personal liberation of the self. This is a complex notion, in that one could both expel something in order to find freedom, or find 'freedom' in the expulsion of the self. And these two possibilities rule the poem, one passing into the other and back again seemlessly till one seems much the same as the other.

In either case, the reader is presented with strange thoughts in a startling, singular moment. In a power outage, one often finds deep-seated thoughts coming to the surface, things usually submerged and hidden away. In that flickering candlelight, the world takes on a different hue, colored by recollections. Holidays are similar, moments frozen in time. In these moments of half-realized self, when history and present sentiment blend into wistful consideration of the 'tarnished platter', a secret self emerges. The possibility is there to shine the self and world into a wondrous luster, and the reader is eager to keep that possibility and flickering candle flame from being doused.

But this is a different self encompassed by the candle's flame, an illuminated self that belongs to a different place, a different world removed from war and the busy exertions of a typical day; this is a creature of halfways and dreams. As the power returns, this self retreats back inside, and the world begins to turn anew, busy and buzzing with electricity. The world turns, but should not one be still remain wistful?

This seems the point of the poem, a pensive thought and encouraging need to recall something of a half-remembered self, something reserved for holidays and the occational coincidence. But what is expelled or maintained, and which freedom is sweeter, that of self-awareness or self-denial?

Tin Lustre Mobile: A Response

Unreadable Poem by Ward Kelley


An unreadable poem, an indiscernable truth. I found this thought to be particular poignant and exquisite, expressive in what it communicates or rather does not. I have read and forgotten the words in a few simple breathes, and yet, it remains in me to wonder and perhaps muse for an uncertain spell over this dream-caught implication.

This dreamed poem itself seems so concerned with love and truth, with aspects of seeming and layers of awareness. At first glance, one might very well see something pleasing in a particular light only to find it otherwise, deceptive or ill-defined. This is lamentable, in one instant, but so too necessary.

The poet pours out his heart onto the page, breathes something of himself into the work, but one still has to wonder if there is something deeper of truth, secluded beneath the surface in a tumultous sea of dreams. Possibilities and hopes; these things we harbor and sometimes reveal, but can one ever truly place these things in the open? Would another understand or encompass the breadth of feeling?

Random Poetry

A quick musing for this week's poem..
I offer the following, two brief pieces, the first prompted by the need
to create a 'beautiful' limmerick, and the other a random creation
during a literature class, where I felt compelled to put a response into rhyme.


There once was a lady, silvery bright
Waxing through the day into night
And the moment did shine
As I knew she was mine
The one of ethereal light.


The yearning heart quickens
With that creative fire,
That creative life.
And in so doing limns desire
Refined; makes it bright and true
A pleasure and proper muse's due.

Permission to be Bored: A Response

Mr. Stannard,

Having read your criticism of Permission to Breathe by Michael Laskey, I feel the need to be likewise critical of your article, not necessarily for that I disagree with you and the reasons supplied, but rather, much like yourself, I am seized by a need to be equal parts petulant and thoughtful.

I do agree with you that criticism is a difficult matter, that sometimes it might simply be better to pass a book on to someone else. A critic must necessarily be involved with the work and knowledgable in order to provide a well-rounded article; he or she must give the proper consideration before reaching a conclusion. I understand your frustrations, in that you seem torn in your duty to friendship but eager to make clear your position on poetry. This is commendable, but in the same instant one need question your supposed rational, your definition of poetry that would exclude the bearing of Laskey's work.

You seem one to favor a new and vital poetry, something that breaks through old barriers, stretches the limits of language with a revitalized poetical flourish. This is also commendable; however, the consequence is to say that Laskey's work is not that, or at least not to your liking. You make an emotionally charged argument but neglect the emotion in Laskey's own work. His poetry might be familiar, bound up neatly into succinct phrases, but this is a form of his choosing, perhaps a calm and wise reflection upon his own heartbreak.

Contemporary poetry seems largely involved with raw emotion, and I can not help but consider it a horrid voyeurism in other poets that would delight in another's pain with their lips pressed hungrily to a bleeding wound. If Laskey's work was this, tumultuous and pain-lashed through every syllable, would you deem it proper poetry?

Wayward Year

Haynaku Exercise

Arbors...
Rising clothed
Resplendent, gleaming gold

Branches
Higher, sweeping
Leafy scarlet veins

Senses
Amorous quicken,
Thicken honeyed rhyme!

Hippocrene!
Distilling vigor
Brimming golden wine

Flowers
Trying late,
Sighing purple bloom

Harken!
Silent shadows,
Slanting wayward noon

Lonesome
Leaves remain
Abstain wilder winds

Retain
Blushing finery
Lest effervescence end

Pensive
Drooping green
Seeming frozen dream

Young Adonis

Excercise62: Photograph



A young adonis framed in time
Framed my being, in him and out
At once infused, my senses racing
Eye to eye, and lip conjoined
Ichors racing and limbs well-fashioned
Sinews strong and lustful proof,
Create myself a yearning garden,
Ripe and dewy, fleshy fruit
Exquisite formed my emanation
Articulated through his eyes.

Brazen Tumult

Excercise64: Points 18 & 21

Brazen words..burgeoning thoughts!
Think you to make...
Sense of me, to shape
Wild quandary in rhyme.
Torrents falling, rushed betimes
Aside..my grappling fingers sure
For writer's sake, tremble
Dizzy, mad and blind
Alive, but drown'd in beauty
Gold-flecked syllables roll inside.

Jacques Derrida: A Response

Mr. Derrida,

No man is an island, entire of himself, and each poet, whether mundane or laureate, likewise bound to his fellows. For you, Sir, who stressed so much the importance of this unity, this fellowship and love, I have only the utmost respect. I hope only that I have the breath sufficient to do you proper justice in this response.

Criticism and deconstruction, the close analysis of any literary work will inevitably breed questions, musings and ponderings. Some amount to light-hearted discussion, others to more heated affairs, but always it is important to observe this idea of love, that there is a shared imagination between two writers, a sense of affinity; all criticism, while it might refute a presented idea, need not be disparaging its author.

This has been particularly valuable to me, and was itself a hard lessoned learned. My own adolescent writings were often things I viewed as ideal, possessing their own unsullied uniqueness, and I rarely took criticism with any kind consideration. This is the trap involved in deconstructing another’s work; unless both individuals are open to the idea, feeling themselves to be in a free forum, only resentment will come of the discussion. Yet, you have worked diligently to demonstrate this open forum, where many individuals can exchange their ideas; there will certainly be points of contention and disagreement, but through patience and temperance, this forum becomes the very instrument for beautiful, refined ideas.

Thank you, Jacques, for being so patient to see this fact, and I do hope that others will read your words and find in them this same truth, that while I observe the man next to me as different, I can still respect him for that very fact.

William Carlos Williams: A Response

Mr. Williams,

A person can never deny that the idea of freedom is an intoxicating and admirable thing, whether written in the boldest sweeping strokes of the pen or trumpeted to the heavens upon a tremendous breath. This idea is pervasive in our culture, replete with images of bursting locks and broken chains. It crosses boundaries, shakes their roots and brings walls and restrictions tumbling downward. And in the wreckage, through the billowing cloud tumbles a vibrant cry, that of a man exultant and unfettered. This is particularly true in the arts, where one finds new movements burgeoning so readily from the old, taking something of the established structure but bending or contorting it to create something different.

I am admittedly a traditionalist, finding contemporary poetry and the bending of old form somewhat foreign forms of expression. However, in reading your essay, "The Work of Gertrude Stein", alongside the work of Gertrude Stein herself, I found myself at the very least intrigued by this idea of liberated verse. Whatever I might argue for the beauty of old forms, I do find myself buoyant in the freedom of words; they can be odd or crooked, peculiar or nonsensical, existing solely for their own sake. That is a beautiful notion, and I believe it the strongest argument for contemporary poetry. The creative impulse, the imaginative faculty is the beating heart of any poetic work, and whether one poet understands another's method of delivery or not, they still share this imagination in common. Verily, there is no harm in looking askance to catch sight of a rare and marvelous white bear.

The Prodigal of Ys

I can not breathe though I confess the rolling of the tide
My blood and sinews straining at the tolling of the bells
For I have come a goodly league from any friendly shore
And drowned beneath, submerged there lay the proof before my eyes
Despised, though still enchanting all the chambers of my heart
Shimmer-dark and darker dream, the prodigal of Ys

She was a dream resplendent, nestled deep the pearl of Ys.
A shining town fair bustling nigh the sea and beating tide
Replete with many wonders and such song to rouse the heart
And merrily her towers rung and chimed with many bells
While voices leapt and children sang, all joy within their eyes
What better place could ere be found on this or any shore

Yet lurking in the depths of thought, the daunting of the shore
Forever lay a breath beyond the shielding gates of Ys
Though ancient locks remain a stalwart shield between their eyes
Upon their mirth and heady life, advanced a shadow tide
But from beneath that crushing weight chimed silver, shining bells
Their music light and airy raised the troubled brooding heart

Through decadence and waste there crept a black and cankered heart
A lady garbed in mystery, she came from distant shore
So quick to smile, a wicked grin beheld the pensive bells
"A pearl should not refuse the sea", so spake this one to Ys
And just beyond far stronger beat the rumor of the tide
The darker promise writ into deceiving lambent eyes

Her graceful fair and alabaster skin enchanted eyes
As well she blushing sweet ensorcelled quick a yearning heart
Beating still and nearer lurked the pounding, crushing tide
She plied her net with care, as one would snare beyond the shore
A lusting man with gasping mouth, this paragon of Ys
Quick he thrust the key to her and silence claimed the bells

In silence grew a fearful clamor, wildly strident bells
The portals bared, the locks sprung wide to terror stricken eyes
And pouring down in torrents strong the ocean fell on Ys
Consumed the laughter and the mirth, swept down the beating heart
Into the valley spilled the flood so long beyond the shore
She smiled and with her brethren disappeared into the tide

I linger, drift upon dark Ys, and harken to its bells
Behold the tide while cormorants sweep wailing near my eyes
'Quick away my weary heart; forget this spectral shore