Category: poet-love

“Like torpedoing birds” (photo story) (mine).

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Last week I met this man in the coffee shop. He was well-spoken and friendly and we chatted. Here he is:

(from Peter Money’s website)

I didn’t meet Allen Ginsberg; he’s dead and likely never visited White River Junction. The man I did meet recommended that I read Joanne Kyger. As it turns out, she’s great! She’s beautiful!

Then the other day I got in the truck and there were four pumpkins sitting shotgun. I put one out by the mailbox and two along the driveway and one is still riding shotgun.

(from this isn’t happiness)

It’s autumn and the mums are on display. I’ve been reading The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard and oh I love it so much I love it so much.  Also, we’ve been drying sliced tomatoes, storing them in oil, stacking them in the cupboards where they’ll wait until they’re given as gifts. Here’s a painting by Joe Brainard, of a tomato.

(from The Met)

Outside, everything is in motion from the wind, the leaves flying to the ground like torpedoing birds.

(from Misha’s flickr)

 

The end.

 

A quiet little blessing of a poem (lucille clifton).

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I’ve given this poem to people before. Today, I give it to myself. And, of course, to you.

 

blessing the boats

 

may the tide

that is entering even now

the lip of our understanding

carry you out

beyond the face of fear

may you kiss

the wind then turn from it

certain that it will

love your back     may you

open your eyes to water

water waving forever

and may you in your innocence

sail through this to that




		
	

			
		

	
	



			
				


			
				


			
				



	
	

		
		
“I want to shake out a fat broom” (poem by Alice Walker) (hand-lettered).

				

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It’s funny to me that I don’t even know Lisa Congdon and yet I post things she’s made, like the above Alice Walker. I guess that’s what blogs do, let us be in touch with people we wouldn’t otherwise. I like it when people tell me that they read my blog–it’s always a confession. If you’re reading this, thanks for reading this. When you tell me that you read this, I get pretty joyful.


 


			
		

	
	



			
				



	
	

		
		
Poem about eras ending (mine).

				

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For Later


 


We drove through bikinis, walked the paved strip


by the water as kids flirted and cursed. Clouds were low,


unmelting; dolphins moved through metallic


 


ocean. Sean found a piece of unopened candy on the road


and pocketed it. I wasn’t cold or sad or verbose; I was happy


he’d found something to eat later.  I’m always thinking


 


of the delight eating provides  me and how to dispense that.


At the party, Dean’s family was casual and kind, circles


of Ritz crackers beaming on trays. We saw the solar


 


eclipse, made watchable  by the thick sea’s clouds. Night


light over sun. She was scooped, our bulb; we watched


her portioned. Whether you care about weather or not,


 


you could see it. And on cement, below, a group of us


talking, all seemingly young, hands at our sides, no


stones in our pockets to smooth down, to hold.


 


			
		

	
	



			
				



	
	

		
		
Sideyard success. Serious joy.

				

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The sideyard was so much fun. I was this happy:




Except I was wearing a blue crown with curled ribbons longer than my hair, a patterned poncho, and wings made out of leaves (made by Jen), and not a clown costume. As Frankie puts it,


best thing about the sideyard poetry readings:


the folks walking past on the other side of the hedge


on their way to friday-night-party


catching clips of outloud poetry


and the quick image of


a writer in the light


as they pass


What was also wonderful was how many people there were (estimates are in the high 90s), and the flower bouquets with artichokes in them (made by Ellie of course):




and how everyone got so drunk that no one bought books like these:




and perhaps the greatest miracle of the whole event is that not a single neighbor yelled at us. And people bought Misha’s photographs! And I didn’t even have a hangover the next morning! And the next morning was Saturday, and Ellie and I split a mushroom and bacon fritatta covered with blue cheese with whole wheat toast and raspberry jam. The end.


			
		

	
	



			
				


			
				



	
	

		
		
Springtime in the sideyard (EVENT)!

				

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This Friday is the Spring Sideyard! All the info is on the gorgeous 70s poster below, designed by Misha. The only thing about this event is that you must now, right this minute, please I am asking you nicely, do a No Rain on Friday dance. Please just do a little shimmy for no rain on Friday. Normally I shimmy FOR rain, but this week my shoulders are aligned with the sunshine.


 


I hope to see you there! I will be thinking of all my friends and loved ones who live far away who I know would love to be there! I miss you all!


 




 


 


			
		

	
	



			
				



	
	

		
		
“Cutting Bread” (poem by a woman I just wrote fan mail to).

				

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The poet’s name is Shannon Burns. I searched all over the internet for her and finally found her on goodreads of all places. I wrote her a message because I bought her little book in Chicago and I love it. The look of it, the size, the poems. But whoever checks their goodreads messages? I didn’t even know there was such a thing until this week. But I hope she reads it and thinks I’m crazy-in-a-good-way. I like her poems. Here’s one:


 


Cutting Bread


 


I could be cutting bread. All the sharp knives


are dirty, ragged edges, sesame seeds on my hands,


on the sticky counter, on the cool floor. They could bloom.


But I am swinging, feeling the slight curve of my back


 


against the wood, feeling my face flush and numb,


watching movement in windows. People are cutting bread.


Their sticky hands live in cabinets. Mine are hot and full


of blood, melting watermelon candy in my pockets.


 


I am making noise. People cut bread to the rhythm


of my creak and whine. Weeks ago the wind blew


a child’s pool in the shape of an elephant over the wood


fence. You can see it from the road. Some day


 


it will be warm again, I think.  I think: joints, gums, children,


knowing where to go. I remember this swing overturned


in the yard, my father painting it green. I remember standing


at the kitchen counter with my mother, cutting bread.


 


***


 


click to hear her reading her sweet little poem “What’s the Scoop?” on the jubilat site!