Runboard.com
You're welcome.
Community logo


runboard.com       Sign up (learn about it) | Sign in (lost password?)


Page:  1  2  3  4 

 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Kat's Corner


A month or two ago I went to a friend's poetry reading. Afterwards there was an open mic, and a number of other friends read a few poems, but I didn't because I hadn't brought anything to read. One woman read a piece which she prefaced by saying, "I'm going to read this so people can get to know me better." My poet friend leaned over and whispered to me, "Now see, if you had brought something to read, people could have gotten to know you better." I said, "You're right. I'll remember that and bring something next time." He said, "Yeah, that's your lesson for this evening."

I've been following Tere's Word Hoard threads and got to thinking maybe I should start a thread where I can post old poems so people can get to know me better. Not really sure how to go about this, but I guess I'll figure it out as I go along. So, MJ, although you'll probably never read it, this thread is inspired, in part, by you. emoticon

Last edited by Katlin, May/30/2012, 9:27 pm
May/30/2012, 2:14 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Since I was discussing "you" poems elsewhere on the board, I decided to start with one of my own:

Journey

You never think
it can happen
until it happens to you—
pick up the phone
and a voice tells you
a loved one is gone.

Your head resists,
but your body knows.
Your heart plummets
with your loved one
into the unknown.

What was it
that seemed so important
a moment ago?

Bend down, if you can,
scoop up that certainty,
cradle it in your pocket.

It could be your talisman
in the new world.


Last edited by Katlin, May/30/2012, 2:22 pm
May/30/2012, 2:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Speaking of writing rules, have you heard the one about not using dashes in a poem? I have. Emily Dickisnon, apparently, be damned.
May/30/2012, 2:20 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Yes, Kat. Yes to the poem and yes to your decision.

Tere
May/30/2012, 7:31 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Yes, "the new world." I love your way of saying big things softly. I'm so glad you're
doing this,

Chris
May/30/2012, 9:41 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Thanks, you guys, for the encouragement. I really need it. I'm having to force myself to post at this point.

For today's poem I decided to post the first poem I ever wrote at age 17. I was a senior in high school and taking a class in poetry. Not the writing of poetry but the reading and studying of it. We used Perrine's Sound and Sense as our textbook. We were required to write 10 poems, however, which would not be graded but which we had to hand in.

scraps

each day
for the past seventeen years
you have taken me
           apart
    word by word
    fault each fault
    emotion by emotion
until now
I am a picked over
chicken leg--
    fleshless
    dry
    and brittle.
I have nothing more
than what I am not.
only the skeleton remains.
and not even dogs
eat chicken bones.

Now here's the kicker. One spring evening I was sitting at the kitchen table organizing my 10 poems, which were written on separate pieces of paper, so that I could copy them over into a composition book, when my mother happened into the room on her way downstairs. As she walked by the table where I was working, she stopped and randomly picked up a piece of paper. Her interest was out-of-character; as long as I brought home A's, she never paid much attention to my school work. I held my breath as she read through the poem she had selected: it was "scraps." After she finished reading, she the laid the poem back down on the table, looked at me and said, "I know it's about me." Then she turned and walked down the stairs. I don't know how long I sat there after that, afraid to move, my mind and heart in a swirl.

Today is my mother's birthday. Happy Birthday, Mom! We get along okay now, although granted I don't see her very often, but I figured out a while ago that if the two of us were going to have a workable relationship, I'd have to be the grown up, the one who gave more than she got back. At first I didn't like that idea too much, but over time I came to realize that my mother couldn't give me what she didn't have to give. Not back then and not now. Also, she has mellowed somewhat over the years. More recently towards me, but not so much towards my one sister yet. But that's a poem and a story for another day.

Last edited by Katlin, May/31/2012, 6:24 pm
May/31/2012, 6:09 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Oh, what [sign in to see URL]. I value getting to know you better, thanks,

Chris
May/31/2012, 6:37 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Kat, that is a huge story and a larger moment. Of course the mother would recognize herself. Of course the writer, age 17?, would recoil in abject fear. Okay. If this is what it takes to get to duende do please go for it.

Tere
Jun/1/2012, 12:04 am Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Thanks again for your encouragement, C & T. I seem to have gone back to the beginning of my so-called writing life, so I think I'll continue. This is the second poem I wrote:

Love Token

i am broken shell
upon the beach,
fingered by many
but always tossed aside.
perhaps someday
a tattered beachcomber
will pocket the fragments.

we will live together
on the windswept sand,
loving each other for the broken parts.
the lapping waves will touch us;
two sea creatures
destined to land
while dreaming
the dreams
of the shattered.

My freshmen year in college I submitted that poem and several others to the Gyre, the school’s literary magazine. That was in the fall. One day in the spring my “big sister,” as she was called, came knocking on my dorm room door all excited to tell me my poem had won first place in a poetry contest the magazine had sponsored and which my poem had been entered into without my knowledge . Wow! Except for the fact that I had to read it at an upcoming awards ceremony when the poet-judge came to campus to give a reading. Uh-oh. The thought of having to stand up and read my poem terrified me. Although I would often speak up in class, I hated having to get up in front of a group of people and talk. The poet who came to campus was Menke Katz:

[sign in to see URL]
 
He was the first "real" poet I every met, and what a Jewish mystic, poet and scholar was doing at a conservative Christian college is anybody’s guess. Fortunately for me, the English department back then was a real rogue element, operating without Bible Belt constraints, under the guise of literature and the classics. emoticon

Last edited by Katlin, Jun/1/2012, 6:09 pm
Jun/1/2012, 9:27 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Loving what you are doing, Kat. Following it closely. Do you ever sometimes wish you hadn't gotten so "smart", so concerned with the technics of poetry, not so raw? Speaking for myself I know I do. Then again I remember that the real trick to turn is to scrape away, peel away at the callouses and covers and scabs of "smartness" to get back to the raw. Can't help but wonder if that is something of what you are after.

Oh. Do you mean "two land" or to land?

Tere
Jun/1/2012, 4:56 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Oh, I did mean to land. Thanks, Tere, for catching the typo. I don't know what I'm going after in this thread. I don't have much of a plan, more of an urge which I am following to see where it goes.

No chronicle of my early writing life would be complete without mentioning my two high school English teachers, Mr. M, who taught fiction, and Miss O, who taught poetry. I am sure I wouldn’t have thought about writing anything at all if it wasn’t for them. In addition to reinforcing my interest in writing, they both piqued my interest in spirituality beyond the mainstream, mainline Protestant religion I grew up in.

One time Mr. M was proofreading an article about The Bhagavad Gita and The Upanishads. He gave the article to me and said, “Here, take this home, and see if you can find all the spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors in it.” Dutifully, I did. Later, when I asked him "how I did," Mr. M just smiled. After that I bought a copy of each book, and I still have them: Penguin Classics that cost 95 cents each.

One night as I was drifting off to sleep but was still awake, in that dreamy in-between state, I saw the image of Miss O in my mind and she said she had a book she wanted to loan me. The next day I went into class and told Miss O about my vision. She said, “Yes, I do have a book for you,” and then she handed it to me. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the book, but I do remember the question she asked me next. “What time did you have this vision?” When I told her the time, she explained that she had been meditating then and apparently the thought of giving me the book had crossed her mind. Meditating? I wondered.

I say all this to preface some of the other poems I wrote in high school, which were obviously influenced by these two experiences. The poems themselves aren’t very good, but seeds were planted. Since the poems aren’t that good, I won’t bore you with too many of them.

Karma

You only get
what you have
given.

Play at life
and it plays back
again.

Pulse

Life beats
once.
Time is
only the age
of circulation.

Reflection

He searches.
He always has.
He hunts for himself
in the quiet woodlands
and peers about in the noisy cities.

To find himself he enters
into crowded buildings
or flees to a vacant lot.
He looks for himself
beyond the mountains
and passed the stars.

He gazes North, South,
East and West.
When a quick glance
in the mirror would
do the trick.

Funny
that god does not
know who god is.


You get the drift, but for someone who had to attend Christian church services each week, and had a collection of perfect attendance pins to prove it, these thoughts were potentially revolutionary.


Last edited by Katlin, Jun/5/2012, 4:50 am
Jun/2/2012, 7:13 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Oh, I think those teachers saw something in you. Guess you've always had it. Love the poems, by the way. Very fine for 'juvenilia.'

Chris
Jun/3/2012, 1:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Drift comes across, travels the distance, Kat. Funny to think on what starts a poet out, turns her down poetry's way, as I think of it. For me it might have been Robert Frost reading a poem for JFK's innaugaration. Or reading the Alfred Noyes poem, "The Highwayman", my junior year. Or the following summer involved in a garage rock n roll band and someone had to write a song lyric, then going home that night, sitting on my bed, writing my first poem. Anyway, I'm certain a poet is not made but born. Also certain it is a hunger you either have or you don't, are willing to give everything up for or not.

I wrote nothing similar in quality to yours at that age.

Tere
Jun/4/2012, 6:24 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Hey Chris and Tere, my dear, dear friends, now that I think about it, you guys are much like those early teachers, who saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and I thank you for that.

I noticed while going through these old poems that I’ve always had a penchant for the aphoristic. For example:

Imagination
is the map of your mind
that shows the unexplored.

Curiosity
is trying to read inked out
parts in love letters.

Ten Cents Buys a World

Who
  can expect
     to
lick
   the
   sucker
   of life
and not
   find
        the
stick?

I noticed, too, the themes that interested me were basically set way back then: familial relationships, love relationships and spiritual musings, but it would be a good twenty years before I returned to the spiritual musings and when I did, the poems were very different and less formulaic. To wit:

What Beguiled Eve

Before the man’s unsettling
hands touched me, I took
a little trip to the tree.
And, oh, when I saw it,
I made the first poetic leap.

Hidden in the crotch, between
budding branches, I felt
sun tousled, breeze blowsy,
as fragrant as apple blossoms
before the crumpled
petals fell into a scented,
satin carpet.

After such a maiden journey,
I didn’t need a serpent’s
urging. I felt the forbidden
fruit of that tree would
surely taste sweet.
  

Last edited by Katlin, Jun/16/2012, 7:40 am
Jun/5/2012, 6:27 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Now I am going to transition into my college writing years. Although I wrote no spiritually themed poetry at that time, I did discover two poem/poets I was spiritually drawn to, so much so that I was reduced to acts of thievery to obtain one book by each of them. Oh boy.

During my freshman year in college, I took an American Lit survey course, and in the second semester, we read Eliot’s “Burnt Norton,” which I immediately fell in love with. The anthology informed us that BN was part of a larger work, Four Quartets. I wanted to read the other Quartets and went in search of them. As it happened, I came across the book while out shopping with my best friend at the time. Actually, my friend found the book first, and when she showed it to me, I literally grabbed it out of her hands and bought it. Did she want it for herself? I don’t know, and at the time I did not care. She didn’t vocally object to my purchasing the book, so I assumed her desire, if it existed, to read the book was not as great as mine. I spent the summer sitting on my bed reading the poem aloud to myself before I went to work as a waitress at a local golf course restaurant. I loved the music of the poem and the bits and pieces of it I could understand. My lack of understanding was complicated by the fact that the book I bought contained no footnotes, unlike the Norton anthology, which was heavily annotated. Not that I really understood the annotations, but at least they were there.

The second book I absconded with was one I discovered a few years later in the college library: Tagore’s The Gardener. I smuggled it out of the library and never returned it. I still have both books, which even now burn a little in my hands when I hold them. I swear I never stole another book after that, and, by way of Providence, have had a few books permanently “borrowed” from my shelves, which is only fair I suppose in love, war and mercenary book chicanery.

My friend subsequently evened the score between us by accidently, she said, breaking the lovely porcelain antique tea pot my grandmother had given me. As for the ill-gotten library book, the college I attended has a policy of purchasing a library book in the name of every graduate who passes away, if they are notified of said graduate’s demise. I have often thought I should leave a request that The Gardener should be the book donated in my name, if the school has not yet replaced that lost volume. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been willing to give up everything for poetry, Tere, but I was sure willing to give up a few scruples in my late teens and early twenties. Here’s hoping the poetry gods and goddesses grant me some leniency. emoticon

PS Maybe this getting to know me better thread wasn't such a good idea, eh? And if only stealing a couple of books was the worst thing I ever did in my life. . . . emoticon

Last edited by Katlin, Jun/5/2012, 7:43 am
Jun/5/2012, 7:37 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Well, the first one doesn't count. You bought the book without acknowledging your friend had dibs on it. [sign in to see URL] in a desperate, poetry-overcomes-good manners-kind of [sign in to see URL] is almost admirable. Stealing from the library, however, is depraved. Just hard core. The act of an addict or a true believer.

Can't wait to read more,

Chris

Last edited by Christine98, Jun/5/2012, 6:22 pm
Jun/5/2012, 8:14 am Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


I looked more closely at The Gardener, which is dedicated to Yeats, this afternoon. The book was almost 50 years old when I swiped it and had only been checked out once and that was 10 years before I took it. I seem to recall rationalizing to myself that no one would miss it. This is the last poem in the slim red volume:

The Gardener 85

By Rabindranath Tagore 1861–1941

Who are you, reader, reading my
poems an hundred years hence?

I cannot send you one single flower
from this wealth of the spring, one
single streak of gold from yonder clouds.

Open your doors and look abroad.

From your blossoming garden gather
fragrant memories of the vanished
flowers of an hundred years before.

In the joy of your heart may you
feel the living joy that sang one
spring morning, sending its glad voice
across an hundred years.
  
Here are a bunch of the poems published in June 1913 in Poetry Magazine:

[sign in to see URL]#/20569769/0

Last edited by Katlin, Jun/6/2012, 6:09 am
Jun/5/2012, 5:00 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


No rationalization, Kat. You were meant to have it. Thanks for introducing me to this remarkable person and his poetry. I'm embarrassed to admit I hadn't heard of him before I read your references in this thread. emoticon

Chris
Jun/5/2012, 6:22 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


"The act of an addict or a true believer."

"You were meant to have it."

Chris, you are so insightful! I can’t thank you enough for your comments, which forced me to look deeper into the stolen book.

Tagore was born in India and was influenced by Sufi poetry and in fact translated Kabir:

[sign in to see URL]

The Sufis I am most familiar with came out of India and to the West around the time Tagore was writing The Garden. Many years before I knew anything about Sufism, I found Tagore and something in his words spoke to my heart. I think you are right that the library book was meant for me, and I guess I would have to say my stealing it falls under the act of a true believer, albeit long before I consciously knew there was anything to believe! So, here I sit nearly a 100 years later, knowing at last I am truly one of Tagore’s intended readers. I just realized all of these things this afternoon, along with Yeats' wonderful introduction to Gitanjali, another book Tagore wrote:

"These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies' tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master's home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God Himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us, seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image, as though we had walked in Rossetti's willow wood, or heard, perhaps for the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream.

. . . We had not known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. `Entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment.' This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.

We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics---all dull things in the doing---while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity."

[sign in to see URL]



Last edited by Katlin, Jun/5/2012, 8:28 pm
Jun/5/2012, 8:27 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


 And if all of the above wasn’t enough, I am reminded of what I’ve always found to be one of the most intriguing parts of parts of Joseph Campbell’s interview with Bill Moyers:

“Schopenhauer, in his splendid essay called "On an Apparent Intention in the Fate of the Individual," points out that when you reach an advanced age and look back over your lifetime, it can seem to have had a consistent order and plan, as though composed by some novelist. Events that when they occurred had seemed accidental and of little moment turn out to have been indispensable factors in the composition of a consistent plot. So who composed that plot? Schopenhauer suggests that just as your dreams are composed by an aspect of yourself of which your consciousness is unaware, so, too, your whole life is composed by the will within you. And just as people whom you will have met apparently by mere chance became leading agents in the structuring of your life, so, too, will you have served unknowingly as an agent, giving meaning to the lives of others, The whole thing gears together like one big symphony, with everything unconsciously structuring everything else. And Schopenhauer concludes that it is as though our lives were the features of the one great dream of a single dreamer in which all the dream characters dream, too; so that everything links to everything else, moved by the one will to life which is the universal will in nature.

It’s a magnificent idea – an idea that appears in India in the mythic image of the Net of Indra, which is a net of gems, where at every crossing of one thread over another there is a gem reflecting all the other reflective gems. Everything arises in mutual relation to everything else, so you can’t blame anybody for anything. It is even as though there were a single intention behind it all, which always makes some kind of sense, though none of us knows what the sense might be, or has lived the life that he quite intended.”

Does Eliot’s Four Quartets tie in to this? Yes, in a number of ways. There are many spiritual and mystical references in the poem, of course, and many resonating lines, including these two:

“In my beginning is my end.”
“In my end is my beginning.”
Jun/5/2012, 8:49 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


On June 5 (June 6 in some time zones) Venus and the Sun form a precise conjunction, called a transit of Venus. Venus and the Sun align about once a year—though this one is different due to the fact that Venus will not pass above or below the Sun but rather directly cross its path. Considered one of the rarest predictable astronomical events, transits of Venus arrive in pairs separated by eight years; the pairs themselves are divided by more than a century.
 
. . .The world will not experience another transit of Venus until 2117, 105 years from now. It’s a bit ominous that, barring some life-extending genetic therapy, nobody who sees this one will be alive to see the next one.

. . .The transit of Venus presents us with a compelling metaphor and also a palpable moment of transition. It’s a junction (literally, a conjunction) where we can make a conscious choice. Think of this as starting within, where most (some would say all) of our conflict originates. Think of it as an inner reunion between the masculine and feminine elements of ourselves, appropriately happening in the sign of the interplay of opposites—Gemini.


[sign in to see URL]+%26+Culture/Transit-of-Venus-Embracing-the-Solar-Feminine
 
Jun/5/2012, 9:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Thanks Kat, for the Tagore, Yeats, Campbell, Schopenhauer and Eliot. Yes, that is a wonderful introduction by Yeats. Just what I needed to read this morning,

Chris
Jun/6/2012, 1:22 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Again. Loving what you are doing with the thread, Kat.

As for book thievery I think I can say I'm as guilty.

Once a college girl had a crush on me. I was in my thirties, recently back from Spain. We worked together in a restaurant. Somehow she knew I was wanting a certain out of print book. She found a copy of it in her small college library, checked it out, and gave it to me. I still have it like a lodestar. Never could bring myself to thank her the way she wanted. Too young. How is that for duplicitous behavior?

Tere
Jun/6/2012, 6:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Thanks for following along with me, Chris and Tere. Ah, the things we do for love, huh, Tere?

I decided to take a break from the chronological approach to this thread, because I don't feel like typing up old poems today. (I never put my old poems into the computer.) Instead, just for fun: Most poets have a few poems about poetry, and I am no exception.

         Poetry Practicum
       Lesson One: Sound Vision
    
Listen to the poem in the downbeat
of heavy rain, the slippery swish
of old tires on concrete.

Walk with Tiresias
down unlit corridors.
Move by sound-—a tongue’s
tentative tappings.

Talk to the living,
but be conversant with the dead.

Write: her permed brown hair.
Then try, for the fuddy-duddy
fun of it: those curly
auburn tresses
.

(Most good poems are love poems.)

Remember—
only birdsong flits
in the gray sky near heaven.
Breathless feathers fall
to the earth’s clay limbs and heart.

Snuffed out by the bell!
Shuffles and scuffles.
One-handed clap
of the door. Emptiness
with arms crossed
confronts me now.

Lesson number two: silence
and indirection.



Last edited by Katlin, Jun/9/2012, 12:41 pm
Jun/9/2012, 12:34 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user (premium)

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


This is a poem. It carries all the way over and carries me back to it.

Tere
Jun/9/2012, 1:22 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Beautifully crafted, Kat. The line breaks are
eloquent.

This image: Emptiness/with arms crossed/confronts me now. Chilling. Then,
silence/and indirection. Less chilling,
something may (or most certainly will) come of this.

Chris
Jun/9/2012, 1:53 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


Hi guys, I'm really pleased that poem worked for you! Here's another one that comes in under the heading of sound in poetry:

Poetry Lover

Poetry is the safest of safe sex.
           Robert Hass

I have a friend, call him Henry,
who frequents slams and open mics
Because, he says, poetry is sexy.

I recall the photos of poets I’ve seen.
Poets are sexy?

That’s not what I said. Come see--
hear--for yourself. Friday night
at Snug’s Café. Or Saturday
at the Cubbyhole Coffee Klatsch.


Okay, yeah, sure, I’ll think about it.

But I do—
   snug and mug
   cubby and rubby
   hole and mole
   klatsch and—Oh, Henry!

And that is how I came to love
mocha lips and latte breath,
sweet frothing sound—the grunt
and moans of connection.


Last edited by Katlin, Jun/16/2012, 7:42 am
Jun/10/2012, 12:03 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


I recently watched this film about The Impressionists and was reminded of this poem:

[sign in to see URL]


Relinquishing Spell

I thought love was like an impressionist
painting, besotted with light. No
tin-plated November mornings.

Now I sit by the fire and coax
grief onto my lap—sharp claws,
rumbling. Or I spin

and slide across memory’s
ice, scissor angels
in a whitewashed landscape.

Sometimes cardinal or crow,
blood and scat, like a fantasy kiss
or the need for revenge,
disrupt the snowy canvas.

Good bye, lost love like apricot
light. Balmy frame of reference,
I bind you. Unabashed
breasts and lavender nights,
be gone. Go—just go.
Adios. Vamoose. Vanish.


Last edited by Katlin, Jun/12/2012, 7:34 pm
Jun/12/2012, 7:31 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


I remember "Relinquishing Spell," all those great descriptions of light, color and mood. I love the idea of a relinquishing spell; a perfect context for this poem,

Chris
Jun/13/2012, 7:53 am Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Katlin Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Kat's Corner


I'm happy you remember the poem, Chris. I take that as a compliment to the poem's effectiveness.

Today is my grandmother's 101st birthday. Happy Birthday, Gram! Today's poem is an old one, written not long before my grandmother went to live in an assisted living center. Last summer when I went to PA to celebrate her 100th birthday, my grandmother chided me when I said I felt like I was getting old: "Ach, you're young yet." So, here's to my grandmother, who has retained the knack for staying young at heart:

Variegated Blue

Great-aunt Lily died last week.
Grandmother said, I’m the only one
left now.


At eighty seven she lives
alone, eating TV dinners
and meals-on-wheels because
It’s too much trouble to cook
for one person.


Last winter after cataract
surgery, she passed the time
listening to country music
and making afghans for each
of her great-granddaughters.

I still have the one she made
for me before I went away
to college over twenty years ago.
The yarn is worn in places
but serviceable, still.

Would it be selfish to ask
for a new one? I do, and she
laughs. Then we discuss color,
settling on variegated blue.


I just remembered another poem that features my grandmother:


Today’s Lesson

I look at what the cat dragged
in—a mouse dropped dead
on the doorstep. It isn’t
eaten, just chewed a little
around the neck and forepaws.

Oh, I don’t want to touch it.
Still, I am drawn to something
in it, so I wrap the small,
gray body in discarded
leaves and toss it to rest
in the tall, dry weeds.

When I was a child,
my grandmother would say,
Why do you have
to learn everything
the hard way?


I think it’s a gift, untamed
nature’s quintessential
love offering.


Last edited by Katlin, Jun/16/2012, 7:44 am
Jun/13/2012, 10:08 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 


Add a reply

Page:  1  2  3  4 





You are not logged in (login)