Magazine articles for ladies (list I made while laughing).

These articles don’t exist yet because maybe they don’t have to be written because maybe just their titles are enough. I came up with them in a rush of hilarity one day last week. It was way too easy. Can I make a career out of this? Show me the money!
 

8 Ways To Tell If You Fell Asleep Or If You’re Still Watching That Movie

Seven Ways To Wear Your Hair That Will Convince People You Definitely Have Hair

Top 10 Best Books To Read While Pooping

Twenty-Seven Hotties To Think About While the Gynecologist Does Her Thang Down There

Six Sexy Songs To Make Your Sex Sexier and Songier

“I Can’t Calculate That”: One Woman’s True Story of Trying to Figure Out How Many Tampons She Has Used In Her Whole Life

The Best Dog Breeds For Keeping Your Secrets

Do the Dougie, Or Don’t: Women Confess Their Sad True Tales of Dancing Really Bad

How To Eat Garlic For Dinner And Still Get Banged That Night

Best Ways To Integrate Your Sad Childhood Stuffed Animals Into Foreplay

10 Fruits That Will Make You Say, “Wow, Fruit Is Good!”

Classiest Slutty Wedding Dresses

Six Nailpolishes That Scream “I’m Hungry!”

“Yoga Takes Forever”: One Woman’s Story of Downward Dog Boredom

5 Easy (& Photogenic!) Weekday Recipes That Are Actually Just Take-Out Placed in a Pricey Bowl from Anthropologie

7 Kittens That Will Make You Puke and Never Want To See a Kitten Again

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“Dark & Lovely” (littlepoem) (mine).

Dark & Lovely

  space

Why were those deer

in the road

this morning?

Didn’t they know

their duskhour is still

lightyears

away? Didn’t they look

dark & lovely

in the morning light,

and didn’t you

hope in your fleshy

heart they’d survive

this season

of guns?

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Filed under autumn, dangerdanger, poetics, poetry alive

Mourning for Galway Kinnell, poet & Vermont person.

Maybe it’s just because I’m stretched as thin as cheap stockings right now and prone to emotions, but I cried this morning hearing (again) about the passing of Galway Kinnell.

I learned to love his poems in college, by my professor who loves his poems. When I worked for the Dartmouth bookstore years ago, I sold books at a reading he gave at Dartmouth, sitting next to him as he signed new and wellworn copies. The reading he gave was equal parts wonderful and sad; he often lost his place while reading a poem, or seemed to drift away mid-thought. I witnessed the deteriorating mind of a poet whose poems have meant a lot to me.

His epic poem (note: I do not generally use the word epic so you know I mean it) “The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ Into the New World” has so much more of New York in it than Taylor Swift’s new song (that’s not saying a lot), and even more of New York in it than Jay-Z and Alicia Keys’ song. He was compared to Walt Whitman after that poem, and I see why: it contains multitudes, big time.

As Daniel Lewis of the New York Times writes, “The poem is a 14-part work about Avenue C in Manhattan, a mother lode of inspiration for someone with Mr. Kinnell’s photographic eye and intuitive sense of other people’s lives. In these verses and on this street, Jews, blacks and Puerto Ricans walked in the spring sunlight, past the avenue’s mainstays at the time — the Downtown Talmud Torah, Blosztein’s Cutrate Bakery, Areceba Panataria Hispano, Nathan Kugler Chicken Store Fresh Killed Daily and others.”

I’ve experienced a renewed love of Kinnell since moving to Vermont, as I read his poems again, many of which are set in this state, such as “Blackberry Eating”:

I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths and squinched,
many-lettered, on-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry-eating in late September.

And then there’s this poem, which has always blown my mind. If someone had told me in college that you could write a poem with the word “is” used three times in a row and it would be a stunner, I would not have believe him/her.

Prayer

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

kinnell

Harriet Richardson, a Student Organizer at Pennsylvania’s Juniata College, Presses a Cloth to the Wounds of Galway Kinnell, Who Was Then Poet-In-Residence at Juiata, Selma, Alabama, 1965.

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Filed under artiste, in memoriam, poet-love, poetics

The view from here (photos).

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The oh-so-autumn pumpkin display at Killdeer Farmstead, where we sampled teas yesterday.

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Misha, setting up those colorful tea tins, boiling water, being bearded.

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The sissy visit earlier this month, during which we wore each other’s scarves, ate zealously, drank at the local bar, picked out tiny pumpkins at Cedar Circle, and talked a lot about INTEGRITY.

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The photo taken the day we closed on our house, which actually wasn’t quite the real closing, but still we were happy, and afterwards we went to a barn to buy a guy’s old futon frame, and then he showed us his highland cattle, and the view on the top of the hill was stunning, and we like, almost kissed on the lips.

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New home hoop dreams. Suburban accents of our new home also include: 2 car garage, porch, vinyl, wood paneling, wood paneling, wood paneling.

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Sexy glass jars plus rosemary plus then I added the olive oil. Aaaaaand we’ll sell them with a cute little tag tied around their elegant necks around Christmastime.

***

These photos are a random smattering of what’s been going on. Not as photographic highlights (lowlights) from the past month include

packing things into cardboard boxes

doing yoga in the living room

threshing beans in the chilly barn

the return of celeriac

a lot of rain

listening to the Godspell soundtrack on high while Misha’s away

Cabot cheddar.

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Filed under autumn, country life

Poem of things I’m not doing (mine).

Rhyming Things I Am Never Doing With My Friends

 

Drinking cherry schnapps

in bikini tops

 

Picking out the best pajamas

beside a pair of just-married llamas

 

Waving atop a zamboni

as I eat a sandwich of cheese & baloney

 

Partaking in a teen movie montage

while gluing an aspirational collage

 

Eating a spoonful of mustard

as I slather my thighs with custard

 

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Filed under ain't that the truth, just sayin', poetics, poetry alive

Tiny revelation poem (mine).

Something I’ve Learned From Author Photos

 

I don’t have the right glasses

to be successful.

glasses ilya     glasses matthew dickman

  glasses ted berrigan        glasses allen ginsberg

 glasses ali warren      glasses kay ryan

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Filed under ain't that the truth, artiste, photography, poet-love, poetics, sigh

“Summer Simmer” (summertime flowertime poem) (mine).

Summer Simmer

 

Soil air sky breeze

available now

no lease no

contract all

yours & always

open free &

more where

that came from

Jeez you’d think

we’d be cherishing

all this so hard

by now (picture

it: generations

of women

& men in love

with earth)

but no

we are shitting

on it more

than ever &

convinced of

the truth

of machines

You know

what I think

technology is

mostly harmful

also ugly &

expensive unlike

these patches of

black-eyed Susans

dancing from the base

of their stalks up

to the petals

in the fields

all around me

 

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Filed under a beautiful fusion, country life, east coast, flowers, homelife, poetics, poetry alive, vermont