New Work – 10 Commands

our charge – write 10 commands, pretty much as fast as we could write them down. These, or variations of them, will keep popping up in the various new work workshop poems. And they were fun to write!

10 Commands

Love your neighbor as yourself.

Love yourself as you could love another.

You are obligated and you damn well know it.

Love me damn you.

Fix it. Just shut up and fucking fix it.

Do everything, anything, everything to find an answer, and then act on it already.

Stop searching and start seeing.

Make it so!

Act as if women mattered.

Get out of the middle of your life.

New Work Workshop #1

assignment – write a 5 line poem using images from three earlier brainstorming exercises. Make it image heavy.

It’s a first draft, folks, and that’s rarely pretty.

The World is a Moon Bounce

The world is a moon bounce and falling off
is inevitable. But easy, landing ass first
in soft hay at the bottom of the old barn, in the middle
of your life where your grandmother’s skin
waits to wrap you warm. Just so.

________________________________

The World is a Moon Bounce

and falling off is inevitable but
easy as landing ass first

in soft hay in the old barn
in the middle

of your life where your grandmother’s
skin waits to wrap you warm,

just so—as if her flesh could pull you
back from over the edge of the world.

Miriam (and why one should clean from time to time)

Today was Clean Out the Office Day. Well, step one, anyway, with several steps to go. My reward is that I found an entire outline of a novel I meant to start but had mainly forgotten about. And I still like it. Yeah!

It grows from this poem, Miriam speaking about the plague of the killing of the first born children and exactly how that act of tremendous violence came about.

Miriam

Who killed the children?
Can you bear to know the answer?
Would you rather revere
ancestors who killed children
or worship a God
who killed children?
Can you possibly tell the story
of the killing of the children
without keening
as if the world itself were dying?

study the masters

study the masters
Lucille Clifton

like my aunt timmie.
it was her iron,
or one like hers,
that smoothed the sheets
the master poet slept on.
home or hotel, what matters is
he lay himself down on her handiwork
and dreamed. she dreamed too, words:
some cherokee, some masai and some
huge and particular as hope.
if you had heard her
chanting as she ironed
you would understand form and line
and discipline and order and
america.

New Work Up

I’ve started a new set of pages for my craft essays and poetry reviews, accessed through a new tab at the top of this page. First up are two essays using Scott McCloud’s theory of transitions from Understanding Comics to consider how poems are sequenced in collections. If you like comics or syntax, you’ll probably be as geekily thrilled as I was when I wrote them. Heather McHugh and Ellen Bryant Voigt also make big appearances in these works. No surprise there, after this fall.

More coming to this area soon.

on poems suspicious of meaning

from “Association in Poetry” by Carl Phillps in his essay collection The Coin of the Realm. Emphasis is mine.

Part of the point in the associative poem is that the reader should be unsettled, should not know at first what to make of what has been read. As poets, when we liken X to Y—unless we are resorting to cliche—we are presumably the first to have made such a connection. Which means it may not be immediately intelligible to the reader—but it should be eventually accessible. Otherwise, we are guilty of a self-indulgence that, it seems to me, mars much contemporary American poetry, producing work that calls itself oblique or mysterious or vatic, when in fact it is merely obfuscated, not very well thought-out, is suspicious of meaning, and privileges the arty over art itself. However, when applied successfully, the associative method makes for a poetry that demands—both of poet and reader—that the mind be athletic, not just able to negotiate the leaps, but able to find in such leaps restorative vigor that is among the pleasures of reading great poetry.

Yusef Komunyakaa “Back Then”

I’ve eaten handfuls of fire
back to the bright sea
of my first breath
riding the hipbone of memory
& saw a wheel of birds
a bridge into the morning
but that was when gold
didn’t burn out a man’s eyes
before auction blocks
groaned in courtyards
& nearly got the best of me
that was when the spine
of every ebony tree wasn’t
a pale woman’s easy chair
black earth-mother of us all
crack in the bones & somber
eyes embedded like beetles
in stoic heartwood
seldom have I needed
to shake a hornet’s nest
from the breastplate
fire over the ground
pain tears me to pieces
at the pottery wheel
of each dawn
an antelope leaps
in the heartbeat
of the talking drum

gold soup made of sex and light

Endangered bees rage in the wisteria.

Loss of pollinators and their honey—
that gold soup made of sex and light.

“XI (What If One Has To Go On)” Anne Marie Macari She Heads Into the Wilderness