Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
NAPOWRIMO day 6, 7, 8, 9
April 6
response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
April 7
Declaration
I, having loved ever since I was a child, simple things, never having wavered
from looking for them
in a pine tree, first robin, last goose calls, first star,
Never, when surrounded by sidewalks and click of high heels, lose thought
that all can spell into Awe,
Never, when anxious to appear confident, discount, discredit, diminish
the power of the mourning dove or first bells of lily of the valley, or when
befuddled by lack of sleep, or drink, or heartache, even then, declare
my love for the dignity of being; no matter what country, what season,
what party in power, whatever combination of interests; Yes, this love
I declare.
**
APRIL 8
Silent L's
Silen(shhhhhh) tells.
April lips past sips
to sail pairing
seasons.
April 9
Left in the dust
is not a good feeling.
My Dad opens his agenda –
sees empty pages.
Each day, slips out the window
as he stares at the bay,
holding a book
a shell of dignity in his lap.
Now his second wife
is a stranger, the last thirty years
strangely erased.
He is still in love with my mother,
still, after 65 years
unable to understand why
she left him.
I feel doubly bereft
as the dust gathers.
response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
April 7
Declaration
I, having loved ever since I was a child, simple things, never having wavered
from looking for them
in a pine tree, first robin, last goose calls, first star,
Never, when surrounded by sidewalks and click of high heels, lose thought
that all can spell into Awe,
Never, when anxious to appear confident, discount, discredit, diminish
the power of the mourning dove or first bells of lily of the valley, or when
befuddled by lack of sleep, or drink, or heartache, even then, declare
my love for the dignity of being; no matter what country, what season,
what party in power, whatever combination of interests; Yes, this love
I declare.
**
APRIL 8
Silent L's
Silen(shhhhhh) tells.
April lips past sips
to sail pairing
seasons.
April 9
Left in the dust
is not a good feeling.
My Dad opens his agenda –
sees empty pages.
Each day, slips out the window
as he stares at the bay,
holding a book
a shell of dignity in his lap.
Now his second wife
is a stranger, the last thirty years
strangely erased.
He is still in love with my mother,
still, after 65 years
unable to understand why
she left him.
I feel doubly bereft
as the dust gathers.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
napowrimo day 6 -- see also poetic conversations
Reflections by Kitty Jospé, guest blogger:
P eople
Of
E very
T ribe
R egion
Y es to your voices!
Are you writing a poem a day? I love this challenge and have posted them under “NAPOWRIMO” on my blog. http://kdjospe.blogspot.com/2011/04/napowrimo-april-poem-day-april-45.html I am a teacher of language, poetry and art appreciation, and love preparing lectures on music, word, art, human expression.
Saturday April 2, in a gathering of poets, we all read our favorite poems and why they are among our favorites. I presented a topic of the day on Style and Performance and how we are captivated by tone and language more than content.
Here’s the “occasional” poem I wrote – i.e. the ditty for that occasion.
If by YOU – the world’s your oyster, you’re the one to tell—
the poem, your pick
to play open, or closed, or simply on the half shell
For the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, I picked, (Modern Declaration), I would not have enjoyed it as much, nor been able to read it convincingly without analyzing the syntax. By responding to it (on April 1), I was able to dig deeper not only into her poem, but find an echo in my own voice.
This idea of resonating with another voice in a conversation, might be called by some “imitation” – but it is deeper than that. We observe the style, the manner, linked to a time period, culture, affectation, but underneath it is a universal element of being human which makes us say, “I recognize that” – and if it is GREAT, we want to follow suit.
My poem for April 6 is a response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
P eople
Of
E very
T ribe
R egion
Y es to your voices!
Are you writing a poem a day? I love this challenge and have posted them under “NAPOWRIMO” on my blog. http://kdjospe.blogspot.com/2011/04/napowrimo-april-poem-day-april-45.html I am a teacher of language, poetry and art appreciation, and love preparing lectures on music, word, art, human expression.
Saturday April 2, in a gathering of poets, we all read our favorite poems and why they are among our favorites. I presented a topic of the day on Style and Performance and how we are captivated by tone and language more than content.
Here’s the “occasional” poem I wrote – i.e. the ditty for that occasion.
If by YOU – the world’s your oyster, you’re the one to tell—
the poem, your pick
to play open, or closed, or simply on the half shell
For the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, I picked, (Modern Declaration), I would not have enjoyed it as much, nor been able to read it convincingly without analyzing the syntax. By responding to it (on April 1), I was able to dig deeper not only into her poem, but find an echo in my own voice.
This idea of resonating with another voice in a conversation, might be called by some “imitation” – but it is deeper than that. We observe the style, the manner, linked to a time period, culture, affectation, but underneath it is a universal element of being human which makes us say, “I recognize that” – and if it is GREAT, we want to follow suit.
My poem for April 6 is a response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 4,5
April 4:
before a pilgrimage in Japan
Due, dew,
Do, too
(To do two)
heart’s dues
as dew dews.
Soon, we will walk, strengthen legs, heart, be visiting henro, the word for pilgrim and pilgrimage, perhaps holding a staff, tsue. I will look for circles of temples in the shape of lotus blossom and mist draped peaks, and clear my mind so that darkness can pass through without sticking.
Dew’s due
To do
What dews do.
April 5
50 words, soul-first
scrubbing the insides
So no churning stomach
No out-of-bound heart pound
(Not that organs are ever temple silent)
Such noise invites darkness to stick:
black tar
anger taut in the torso,
compressed sorrow
collapsed saltblocks in the throat.
Two days of scrubbing.
Ah! All’s clear!
-- even borrowed scenery.
before a pilgrimage in Japan
Due, dew,
Do, too
(To do two)
heart’s dues
as dew dews.
Soon, we will walk, strengthen legs, heart, be visiting henro, the word for pilgrim and pilgrimage, perhaps holding a staff, tsue. I will look for circles of temples in the shape of lotus blossom and mist draped peaks, and clear my mind so that darkness can pass through without sticking.
Dew’s due
To do
What dews do.
April 5
50 words, soul-first
scrubbing the insides
So no churning stomach
No out-of-bound heart pound
(Not that organs are ever temple silent)
Such noise invites darkness to stick:
black tar
anger taut in the torso,
compressed sorrow
collapsed saltblocks in the throat.
Two days of scrubbing.
Ah! All’s clear!
-- even borrowed scenery.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 1, 2
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 1
Here we go for April 1st. The first day our dog is officially 15 years old.
The 3rd day after my Uncle died.
April 1
Response to Heather McHugh’s “Etymological Dirge”
Let us pray for the dead, here in the
Dark of wee hours. They have no sun to wake them.
Let us rejoice in the calm of their silence.
The balm of working in the dark
Kindles word to thought, feeling
For instance, tall becomes grand,
as in high in stature mutated to gi-zal
as in quick and soon syllables
race into flame chasing figure eights
setting tunes to win our heart.
Let us pray for the dead, sing requiem
With a coda measured to bring
the idea of some Dominus,
who will comfort our fear
help us swing our invisible tails
as if we were again beautiful,
beyond someone’s idea of normal.
Let us pray for the placers of masks,
worn by living and dead, as we look
at a life, praying for light to define it.
APRIL 2
Grave wrappings
of words, able yet liable.
We wait, not knowing beginning,
not knowing if passing ends,
scattering bones of “if”
Si, si, that leading tone
in the oldest stone.
Nod to Tom Holmes: The Oldest Stone in the World
I wrote this poem for Dennis Adams' photograph and will read it this afternoon.
Here we go for April 1st. The first day our dog is officially 15 years old.
The 3rd day after my Uncle died.
April 1
Response to Heather McHugh’s “Etymological Dirge”
Let us pray for the dead, here in the
Dark of wee hours. They have no sun to wake them.
Let us rejoice in the calm of their silence.
The balm of working in the dark
Kindles word to thought, feeling
For instance, tall becomes grand,
as in high in stature mutated to gi-zal
as in quick and soon syllables
race into flame chasing figure eights
setting tunes to win our heart.
Let us pray for the dead, sing requiem
With a coda measured to bring
the idea of some Dominus,
who will comfort our fear
help us swing our invisible tails
as if we were again beautiful,
beyond someone’s idea of normal.
Let us pray for the placers of masks,
worn by living and dead, as we look
at a life, praying for light to define it.
APRIL 2
Grave wrappings
of words, able yet liable.
We wait, not knowing beginning,
not knowing if passing ends,
scattering bones of “if”
Si, si, that leading tone
in the oldest stone.
Nod to Tom Holmes: The Oldest Stone in the World
I wrote this poem for Dennis Adams' photograph and will read it this afternoon.
NAPOWRIMO -- April 3
Possibility
In a great city, a sky-scraper lyre,
Played by light arrowed into bull’s eyes
Nothing shakes the lines, caught as if tacked
by still-burst spots, starred eyes
Black and white singing or silent,
Depending on the ears of your eyes
No lack of good or bad luck for six keys
strumming vertical shine. Which are “I’s”?
Buildings saying, I, I, waiting to be seen.
Clean force, cleared forest, aye, aye
A chance to view in black and white
What might not strike the inner eye
Piano keys and rockets singing empty blues
two claps of sun revise
by Kitty Jospé
**
This poem is a response to a black and white photo by Dennis Adams entitled, X-Tower#1, the first photograph on this site: http://www.artdga.com/Art/gallery_4.html
It will be shown along with other work at the City Gallery in an exhibit starting June 17.
In a great city, a sky-scraper lyre,
Played by light arrowed into bull’s eyes
Nothing shakes the lines, caught as if tacked
by still-burst spots, starred eyes
Black and white singing or silent,
Depending on the ears of your eyes
No lack of good or bad luck for six keys
strumming vertical shine. Which are “I’s”?
Buildings saying, I, I, waiting to be seen.
Clean force, cleared forest, aye, aye
A chance to view in black and white
What might not strike the inner eye
Piano keys and rockets singing empty blues
two claps of sun revise
by Kitty Jospé
**
This poem is a response to a black and white photo by Dennis Adams entitled, X-Tower#1, the first photograph on this site: http://www.artdga.com/Art/gallery_4.html
It will be shown along with other work at the City Gallery in an exhibit starting June 17.
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