30 April 2013

That's it? That's it--it's the 30th of April 2013 and the month was far less cruel than ever before.

I followed the prompt this time and was glad about it. The suggestion was to take a shortish beloved poem and rewrite it, line by line, replacing words with words that mean the opposite. 

I chose an old sentimental favorite, "Of Mere Being," by Wallace Stevens. It's possibly one of Stevens' most sentimental poems and I don't believe it was published until after he died. What's more, his daughter later complained that there was a wrong word in the poem (it's decor), but I didn't want to get into all that today. 

I had a noonday stab at it and then an evening stab at it, and I put them both here--they are so different. In the betweentime I did an N+7 noun replacement with the original, since I've been so intrigued by those interventions for a couple of months, and enjoyed the result at N+12. So I threw that in here, too. I'm missing my Robin terribly this go-round but am grateful for Alan Kleiman joining me and for the editor(s)(?) at NaPoWriMo calling out my blog. 

Until next year. 

(10 p.m.) After oblivion

The rhizome at the onset of body
before the first instinct, descends
on the blue-white floor.
A silver-scaled fish
is mute in the rhizome, all animal nonsense,
a mineral indifference, a local silence.
You forget then that it is the consequences
that break us, unhappy or happy.
The fish is silent. Its scales eat light.
The rhizome lolls in the center of time.
A fire quickens at the root.
The fish’s water-wimpled scales spark alive.

(Noon) On all death

The grass at the start of the heart,
before the first instinct, falls
in the gilt morass.
A silver-furred beast
chokes in the grass, with animal meaning,
with mineral indifference, a local silence.
You misunderstand then that it is the result
that makes us unhappy or happy.
The beast chokes. Its fur dulls.
The grass lays in the center of time.
The wall rushes quickly in the roots.
The beast’s water-wimpled skin rises.

The parent at the enquiry of the misery,
Beyond the last tile, roofs
In the bunch decor,
A grammar-feathered blood
Sings in the parent, without human member,
Without human fig, a foreign specialist.
You know then that it is not the reconstruction
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The blood sings. Its festivals shine.
The parent stands on the election of spell.
The wolf moves slowly in the breezes.
The blood's flash-fangled festivals dangle drink. 

Of Mere Being
      by Wallace Stevens

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

28 April 2013

AQ's 28 April Twitter poem almost in response to NaPoWriMo

Poem-ish result of Twitter search of mourning + Freud

“If you read
if you read
and Melancholi-a-muses
of working through
Judith Butler+
if you read thought
about Lois...
remind me to explain
intimate process. But Brazil
if you read reality
out of this tragedy
efendim my master
if you read we show
what happens
next muses, tiny
(I Want The Future,
I Also Want to Hold Onto 
museum remembrance
late open if you read
muses until
poetry if you read
from doc forward
(This content is available only to Premium Members. It is copyright)  
if you read
of melancholia?
I'd lv 2C more attn
paid 2 processes,
medicalizing them
isn't the way. if you read
Psychology Books:
to perform tiny tiny
From Sigmund?: Question
arts brief tiny
journey into nostalgia:
To borrow such
runs risk
-- pathol...
too real to be tolerable.
Positive effects
of depression
genius if you muse.

16 April 2013

Alan K's for 15 April

How i feel

I'm a bear in a room
[A bull in a china shop]
Raging on tip toes
At mosquitoes
That dot my air
Make an appointment
if you want to visit
So I can comb my hair
And brush my teeth
Giving the appearance
of civility
I will not repeat not step on you
Or scare the be Jesus
If I can help it

11 April 2013

First, a little Kit Smart on his birthday. I hope he got what he wished for.

For God has given us a language of monosyllables to prevent our clipping.
For a toad enjoys a finer prospect than another creature to compensate his lack.
Tho' toad I am the object of man's hate.
Yet better am I than a reprobate.       who has the worst of prospects.
For there are stones, whose constituent particles are little toads.
For the spiritual musick is as follows.
For there is the thunder-stop, which is the voice of God direct.
For the rest of the stops are by their rhimes.
For the trumpet rhimes are sound bound, soar more and the like.
For the Shawm rhimes are lawn fawn moon boon and the like.
For the harp rhimes are sing ring string and the like.
For the cymbal rhimes are bell well toll soul and the like.
For the flute rhimes are tooth youth suit mute and the like.
For the dulcimer rhimes are grace place beat heat and the like.
For the Clarinet rhimes are clean seen and the like.
For the Bassoon rhimes are pass, class and the like. God be gracious to Baumgarden....

08 April 2013

Welcoming another guest blogger: Ryan Nowlin (lately of the Poetry Project). He will be joining me sometimes henceforth.

I don’t get Brooklyn

My boss thought the catnip
on my desk was pot.  Go figure!
The reason why I like you 
may stem from unresolved
issues from jr. high school
Atari was my personal hell.
 See where this behavior gets you?
Newark has the feeling of being
affixed, but not New York City.
Prudential Building is mostly
underrated in New Jersey.
Teens who hang out on street
corners become bus drivers.
Every stale breeze seemed
to whisper “Louise”
I have this recurrent dream
of a starry carousel creaking
After days of retrofitted murmurs
soft hypnotic laughter
approaching fresh fantasies
a licked window.

by Ryan Nowlin

05 April 2013

Just under the 5 April wire: The really great thing is to go bananas

The really great thing is to go bananas

and get put in the attic for one of your transgressions--
a broken nail, say, or murder--and then begin the
tremendous game of pretending you're not
in the attic, even get a whole bunch of people
to strut by, make campy entrances, take sharp
exits, play like they're on the ground, play
you're also on the dirt, everyone on terra
firma, we're all test-touching it, tasting
sweet thick loamy in spring
when it's interrupted by roots
spreading worms digging life
and (hey) you like to write about it even
though you don't know that metal smell,
haven't whiffed it in years (ever?) but perched
(above) you keep on writing about it. Aw, poetry!