But just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in!

I am back, even though I said I wouldn't be for several weeks. But I can take comfort in the knowledge that this post is for a good cause.

Hobble Creek Review is now up and going with its latest issue. Please take some time to stop on by and read. This time around, we are featuring the writing of:


Cristina Baptista

Frank DePoole

William Doreski

Thomas Hyland

Paul Handley

Thomas Hyland

Corey Mesler

M.E. Silverman


After you stop by and have a read, please consider getting some poems together and submitting them when we start accepting new submissions in late June or early July. I know there are a lot of people who come by this blog I would love to include in an upcoming issue. Chew on this for a while: I don't give a tinker's dam for what people think about my publishing writers I personally know. Well crafted writing is the only criteria, and I know a helluva lot of really good writers.

Well, I'll be back in a while. No go forth. Read. Write. Have a Coke and a smile.

Closed on Account of Rabies

Well, not literally. I mean, I don't have rabies. What I do have, is a ton of grading, school work, and responsibilities which are going to take me away from the blogging world for a while. Usually these little breaks of mine last for a few days. You should count on this one lasting for a few weeks.

What does this mean for you, the consumer?

Aside from the occasional hike in gas prices, little else. Like so many things in this age, this blog is probably one of the very last rungs in both my life, and yours. As such, it is one of the first things that must go in order to maintain a healthy balance.

I will still surf blogs, but I really don't have the time right now to think about writing my blog. I wish that I was one of Nietzsche's ubermen, but I am not, and must give in to my vast limitations.

I think you will do fine for a while without me. I also think I will be able to return to you all with a sense of renewal: Brighter, more in tune with who I want to be, and of course, full of the silly little observations which amuse you so.

So have no fears. I will return to you all. Until then, might I suggest visiting one of the many blogs to your right, which you have not yet had a chance to explore. It's one of those lo-cal activities certain to help you shed those unwanted pounds while building up that ever important wrist callus. Or perhaps you could rent a movie from Netflix.

Whatever you do, be sure to check back in a few weeks to see if I have returned.

Update-O-Rama

1. Buddy Guy was fantastic. I ended up trading seats with another guy who was there was with his friends. We both has front row seats, but his friends were on the other side of the hall, so I obliged, which was the best move ever. It ended up that Buddy Guy played most of the show standing by his keyboard player, who was right in front of me. What's more, 5 minutes into his first song, he threw me his pick. Later, he threw out a lot of picks, but those were just in his pocket and it was at the end of the show. He made eye contact with me at least three or four times and above all, played an amazing set. He played a lot of covers (Howlin' Wolf, John Lee Hooker, Cream, Clapton, Hendrix, Little Walter, etc) and told a lot of jokes, but also jammed quite a bit. It was simply one fantastic show.

2. I have started to send out my newer poems, the ones from my new chapbook contest. I have sent them out to five places already, and I have one or three more places to submit them in a few weeks. It's weird, because the same thing happen every time I send out a batch of new poems---I immediately feel like I just sent out a truckload of crap. I know my poems are okay, but I don't want them to be just okay. I want them to be amazing! I want to get the editors excited about what I have written. Unfortunately, I always feel like I have sent out junk, no matter what I tell myself about my previous successes. I always feel an instant pang of inadequacy and inferiority every time I drop off a submission or hit that "send" button. The truth is my poems are good, and I need to trust that, but I never seem to be able to. I always hate what I've just sent.

3. The end of the school year is drawing nigh. I want to make certain everyone here knows I have the potential ( I originally typed "poetential") to go insane over the next few weeks. Even more so than you already think I am.

4. I am about to send off an amazingly huge Amazon order, but most definitely NO poetry books. I am going to do the noble thing and order directly from small presses for my fix. At least for this coming month when I get to buy MONDO amounts of books.

5. I like cheese

Old School

I am going to be going to see Buddy Guy on Saturday. I don't know if I can express the kind of excitement I am feeling right now because I have this chance. I am going to be right up front, and I know the show is going to be incredible.

For those of you who don't know who Buddy Guys is, he's one of the musicians who Eric Clapton cites as a major inspiration and influence. Buddy Guy is known to ba able to play guitar in almost any other famous gutarist's 'signature' voice, as wll as prove that he is an innovator with his own.

Here then, to round out this Old School Post, is a performance by Buddy Guy.

From the Springville Museum of Art

Here are a few pictures from my recent visit to the Springville Museum of Art. It was really nice to show off my small home town to my students and see how they reacted to everything 'small town' still hanging on by the fingernails.

I never look at the names of artists when I go to the museum. I like my visual art to be anonymous. I like to know who poets are, and obsess over by-lines and bios, but I never care who a painter is, even when, as above, the art really catches my attention.

* * *

As for my own writing, I think I am going to start submitting my newest explosion of poems in a few weeks. Like I said, several are ready to submit. Even though I like to submit via e-maul (spelling intentional), I have formatting issues to consider, and a great deal of these new poems may have to go out through more traditional means. Either that, or arrange to send along MS Word attachments.

So far, I have about 14 pieces. They are intended to be very short bursts of poetry, and their ideas are coming easily enough. I have decided on 24-25 for the final draft of the chapbook, but I want to over write so that I can choose the best and strongest. I have 4-5 very strong pieces set to anchor the book, but I wast everything to be just so. This is the second time my idea for a chapbook (of the now four I have decided to do) which has had an extremely clear and focused format. The other one was Gathering up the Scattered Leaves. With Four Way stop, I didn't even know I was writing a chapbook until I had most of it written. With Working in the Bird House, I had an idea I wanted to work with, but the manuscript went through a dozen solid incarnations before its final form. If it ever gets printed (now lingering a full year in Acceptance Limbo) you will get to see that it took a long time to establish its narrative arc. It may even still be too subtle.

As for my full length manuscript, there is some question as to whether it will ever see the light of day. I adore the poems in there, and the bulk of them is found in my first two chapbooks, but there are some hidden gems which have never quite fit into the constraints of a chapbook. I have mentioned this before, but I may end up creating a book based upon 10 years of Utah poems. As I write this, two presses are supposedly considering my full length book. It will never win any contest, nor will it ever be considered hip or vital, so submitting it with reading fees was never an option. If these two say "no," then I will never send it out again. Don't cry for me, Argentina and all that crap, I suppose. The truth is, that I really do believe poems have a shelf life, and there's nothing more smelly than spoiled poems.

* * *

CODA

I suppose everything is relative, and as such, will eventually work itself out.

Fade out music: Michael Buble's version of "Come Fly with Me."

Laying on the horn

Thanks to all of you who have stopped by in the past few days to read my review of Theories of falling. It is much appreciated. You should go out and get your copy now.

In other news, I was just informed that my poem, "Red Dawn" was accepted to If Poetry Journal. I am thrilled because I wrote it a long time ago and never imagined it would find a home beyond my own pleasure. As information becomes available. I will let you know about it.

Apparently, another journal out there wants to recycle one of my poems which appeared in RE:AL last year. I will hold off until I know all the details on that because they want to see other poems of mine, and I don't know if I can get even luckier than I already have. that would really be a cool way to end the school year!

* * *

I have also started a new writing project. I have 12 small pieces I am going to try and fashion (with the addition of more poems) into yet another chapbook. What is it with me and chapbooks? Again, not much talk about it, but I am going to try and have about 20 strong pieces to start submitting as a chapbook by the end of summer (writing them is not the problem, it's going to be revision and ordering). Unitl that time, I am going to be looking for several journals to submit smaller packets of five or so poems to, hoping to get a few publications going. Right now I have at least 5-6 which are strong and ready to go. I just need to find the right places to send them to since once again, my poems have a narrow scope.

Thus ends the horn tooting portion of our broadcast, and since that's why I am posting in the first place, I will be going now.

Have a great evening.

Thursday Poetry Review: Sandra Beasley

Theories of Falling
Sandra Beasley
64 pp., New Issues
$14.00


Having been quite lucky so far this year in my poetry selections, I decided to go ahead and pick a safe winner for April with Sandra Beasley's Theories of Falling. That is not to say that the book is safe, only that it was an easy decision as to which book I should buy. I have been a hanger-on at Sandra's blog for a little while, captured by the all too infrequent poems she posts for a few hours. When her book was available, I immediately ordered it.

If you are already familiar with Beasley's poetry, you know her elegance, how her language is always a few yards in front of you, leading you somewhere wonderful. If you are not familiar with her poetry, this first book is certain to please. From the very first line in the opening poem, "Cherry Tomatoes," I was struck with the sense that I was in for a real treat. Beasley is a poet who knows how to control the language, and her use of sentence is astounding.

I really don't want labor the fact that this won the 2007 New Issues Poetry Prize, because the book does not follow the pattern of the typical contest winner. This is a fist book full of mature language, a confidence in the stories it tells, and poems which stay with the reader. In the longest poem of the book, "Allergy girl," Beasley boldly exposes her past in episodic poems which are not afraid to shift from one form or tone to the next, each doing what it must to get the job done. Take for example these lines from the first section of the poem:


My parents agree on one rule: Don't break the baby.
They pour quarters into the arcade game of adulthood
working the mechanical claw right, left, right, back,
aiming for the stuffed bear, missing.

Later, in another section of the poem, we read how the adult deals with the allergies:


Now, I have learned to be a bad patient.

I refuse IVs. I knock back two Benadryl
with vodka, asleep before asking
anyone to check, each hour, for breath.


Beasley goes on to talk about her ex-lovers, the strangeness and difficulties of putting up with non-believers, and risks the girl, now a woman, is willing to take. All in all, this poem, early in the book, sets the stage for more like stories to be told---some a delight and some cutting close to the bone.

I feel a need to express my delight at this time for the ordering of the poems. There is a certain intuition, almost a devine hand at play in their compositions. Beasley seems to have known exactly which poem should go next. I cannot find a single misstep in the book's organization. For example, after telling stories, the second section of the book (also the title of the book) begins to tumble into the sensual and carnal. I only half meant to use that pun. The section starts off by alluding to the body, and by the time the reader encounters the poem "In Which I Fail, Again, to be Vestal" we are sucked into the erotic before we know what's going on.

While the title poem is compelling in its own right, I would like to showcase a few lines from the poem, "The Parade." It's here we see a deeply vulnerable figure, one that while female, is still able to communicate across gender lines:

I throw a parade of thirty reasons you shouldn't love me.
Shut up, you say, I know what I love.
What can you know? I know

there is no constancy to this body---


By the time the second section ends, there is a certain urgency in the poems. We want more because we need to know what happens, what can happen next.

As has been shown by the sample line I have given, the use of dialogue is an important element to this book, and Beasley knows how to measure it very carefully. Along with sentence and line, dialogue is sharp, never overbearing, and always inspired.

The subject matter for this book of poems is delightfully broad in spectrum. Longing, regret, even a magician's assistant, all make appearances. But at the book's center is the same, wonderful voice, always whispering secrets, telling stories out of school, and hinting at the extraordinary magic of this world just out of reach from our fingertips as we find ourselves falling (alright, so I meant that one) through our lives, tring to land on our feet. To paraphrase Beasley, I love the trick of poetry, but what I love is the reveal. This book reveals much to the reader.

NaPoWriMo day 30: Darkness at last

This is the last NaPoWriMo day, and I am going to do several of these over the next few minutes. the first draft is a poem I just now finished. After, I am going to go see what RLB is up to with his final prompt. Here we go.



Putting it Behind Me

I have lost track
of my past, given up
all my yesterdays,

moved on. I eagerly wait
for the tragic fall, sure to break
my hip bone in two,

fracture me from myself.

When I look up to stare
at the sun, unable to move
or regain my feet

I will marvel how
the sun is obscured
by the leaves on the trees,

their color bleached out.

When everything fades
to white (and I mean
everything) I will

faint from the beauty
mingling with the pain
flooding my entire body,

acting with no remorse.


* * *

Well, the prompt was about endings, so i went ahead and posted this draft to satisfy that prompt as well. I kinda had a feeling the prompt would be about ends or last things.

Re-cap

I am proud of myself on several levels this year for NaPoWriMo. First, I wrote a lot more real poems, relying less upon haiku to get me through the month. Second, the poems I did write this year were much better than last year's offerings. I also think the writing came much easier to me this year than last year.

I am very happy that all of my poems (with the exception of this last one) were written in the open blog window, live and without leaving the computer for more than two minutes. That means all of my poems were written impromptu, so to speak, without any forthought or prior prep work. All are original thoughts to the time I opened the window (again with the exception of this last one, which I wrote while waiting for my school computer to work correctly).

Thank you to everyone who stopped by and commented on my poems, giving me both compliments and encouragements. All were appreciated, and I hope this month passed by with a little bit of genuine and worthwhile entertainment on my part.

I want to take a small break from this and start in earnest on a new full length manuscript. I have all but given up on my first full length book.

My experience with Lulu has given birth to the idea of creating a self published collection of my first two chapbooks and poems about Springville which I have written between 1997-2007. There wouldn't be much to it, but i think I would really like to see all of my "Springville" poems in one place.

Talk to you all later. I have had a lot of fun and I hope you have, too.

Just a wake up

Tomorrow is it. One more poem to go to finish up NaPoWriMo.

Can I get an "amen!"



Where I live

For the lack of a fly-swatter I am forced to watch
a housefly make a fool out of me, its buzz
irritating as old woman gossip in the checkout line;
crawling all over my patio window, stopping
to rub its legs, finding a place to lay eggs,
start off the summer going insane. Every time
I try to smash it or even brush it aside
it merely circles the room, findings its way back
in time to distract me from my work again.
I suppose my work cannot be all that urgent
if I can be distracted by a housefly, drawn away
by the machinations of an insect who forgets me
even before it's reached the other side of the room.
Look at me, I think, Who is the pest and who is evolved?
Even putting on my music and headphones
doesn't allow me to return to my books,
always that stupid fly in the back of my mind
as if he has actually entered my skull, crawling
all over my brain, picking at it, rubbing his legs
against his abdomen, stealing from me
the smallest part of my intellect or my ability
to tell the difference between left and right,
leaving in its place the urge to lick the table clean.

I've been sestina'd (Not a sexual reference)

From RLB:

Today's prompt is to write a sestina. (If you need a subject, you can write about catastrophe or loss or hope . . .)

For anyone who has followed this blog for a while, you know that the sestina, for me, is both the elusive mythical poem I have forever been trying to write, as well as an impossible hurdle for me to leap over into the world of poetry. Yes, I am afraid that I have always given myself a discount on the title of poet because of my inability to write a decent sestina.

That in mind, I will not be writing a sestina. I just tried and it was horrid. No, I think the only way I am going to write a sestina is to simply let one come to me naturally. Hence this poem:


A Poet Like Me

There once was a man from Manilla
Who was there to fight in the thrilla.
His name was Ali
and he stung like a bee
But never, ever, wrote a sestina.

Decline of Western Civilization

Today, however, there are at least ten thousand publishing poets working in the English language in & around North America. Unless all the MFA factories shut down at once, that number can be expected to double in the next decade. And there are more books of poetry published – roughly 4,000 a year. The 150 books I got to wade through for PSA was less than five percent of the ones I could have gotten (another way of looking at it would be that just submitting a book for an prize like the PSA Williams Award puts one up ahead over 95 percent of what is out there). These numbers too will grow. If you think it’s Babylon now, just imagine what it will be like in another ten years.

(by way of C. Dale Young)



I am by no means a poetry elitist. I believe in the proliferation of poetry. I also agree with Ron Silliman in his estimation that the high number of MFA programs is not the end of the world, and may be healthy on some levels. However, I also believe that we can, as a civilization, evaluate our place by the number of artists and (for the purposes of this short essay) poets we are willingly producing.

I see the proliferation of poets, and as a result, the high demand for MFA programs as a sign that we are in fact in sharp decline. Another sign of decline would no doubt be turning food into gasoline, but I am speaking of how we view ourselves. As Americans, we seem to have a sense of entitlement which has spilled over into the realm of aesthetics. Critics have long held a place in adjudicating art and it's place/function in our world. But now, we are finally to the point where a far greater number of young people (those entering college and graduate school) see their place and function tied to writing. Not necessarily literature, but writing.

Historic Precedence:

The Baby Boom Generation earned its distinction in many fields, but most notoriously in the arena of political activism/counter culture optimism. Those who preceded them, the World War Two generation, after suffering through the Great Depression, wanted to ensure their children never lacked for the things they wanted. This created a sense of entitlement, but more important, afforded Baby Boomers the luxury of rebellion. Not all Boomers rebelled, nor can all of their actions, successes, or failures be placed at the feet of their parents. However, the opportunity, the possibility, the breathing room, if you will, was a product of the previous generation, and it is that space which was filled with political and cultural optimism. While the success and/or failures of the Baby Boom Generation can be endlessly debated, no generation in the U.S. has rivaled them for the amount of radical opposition in which they ventured.


Art & Rebellion:

Every aesthetic system or movement in art is in part based upon the idea that the previous leaders of the art community were doing it all wrong. This is where art grows. This is where art goes in new directions. This is why we assign the label of 'movement.' Some art movements succeed and some fail miserably, but they all rebel in some way to what has come before. It's a natural fit as we know that each generation rebels in some way from the past, children go against the grain, forge their own language. Nothing new is revealed in saying these things, but I did want to highlight the relationship between art and generational structure in culture. What is of significant difference is the length of staying power that art seems to have. It seems that aesthetics have a longer hold in their own worlds. In part, this longer hold is because art and aesthetics seem to inform us as a people and culture rather than people influencing art. In fact, Art creates culture rather than merely influencing it.


Contemporary Confluence:

If the numbers of writers and MFA schools have sharply risen, it is because the previous generation (Baby Boomers and Yuppies) have provided the space for the younger generation to see the possibility to normalize what was once seen as outsider, or different. Do we all of a sudden have more people interested in writing and art? No. We have a greater sense of entitlement, which makes the prospect of living one's life as an artist more plausible.

What is unique is that culture and society has not changed as of yet to make allowances for this new perspective. The proliferation of writers is not supported by the job market. Still, this does not deter as many people as one might think. In the past, the poor prospects of supporting one's self and family had an impact on those who actually pursued writing as a career. Most in fact, followed the route of the likes of Steven King, who taught high school English while feverishly writing in his laundry room. No longer. Entitlement of this latest generation has given the green light for the increase of coursework and programs. Where there is a need, someone will fill it. Unfortunately, there already is a glut of writers who work as adjunct professors, ad writers, journalists, and food servers while waiting for an academic position to open up with great fanfare.

What is going to happen? If my observational experience as a high school teacher for the past decade is any indicator, we will soon be audience to the latest version of thousands of 'entitled' writers holding their collective breath until they are given their candy, or latest ipod, or whatever it is they feel entitled to for all of their hard work of attending two writing workshops per semester and teaching a section of freshman comp.

Conclusions and Assertions:

I am not saying that every MFA grad or candidate shouldn't be writing poetry, but a proliferation of programs does on some level connote a lowering of standards in order to capitalize on the boom of potential income a program can provide.

I also believe a majority of the students who have graduated in the recent past or who are entering grad school are very competent writers and lovely poets in their own rights. In fact, I am the first to admit that I question my own writing and the quality level of it far more than I even begin to doubt the writing from someone who has been through an MFA program. If anyone should be taken to task for poor writing, I should be at the head of the line.

The proliferation of artists by itself is not the sole hallmark of a decline in civilization, however, the sense of entitlement does raise some very important questions about why poetry has become so popular in recent years.

The proverbial holding of breath may in fact revitalize poetry rather than contribute to the decline of our civilization. I'm serious. It might be just what we need.

__________________________


Writing Prompt

Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.
---Friedrich Nietzsche



It starts with a word, or a song.
Maybe a phone call---something quirky
about your aunt or cousin who died
while walking his dog last summer.
You take the smallest fine thread
and begin to pull at it, waiting to see
what unravels, what is revealed.
Instead of allowing it to increase
your understanding of the world, you share
it with strangers, giving them
a front row seat to look at your wrists,
splayed open by the box cutter
you have been hiding beneath your bed
since you first knew the exact odor
of death, stale and gentle in those early hours.
You write it all down: The first kiss,
the first time you had sex, said "fuck"
in front of your mother, stabbed a friend
in the back. Sharing is all a part
of a writer's life you say so sleep will come
in the early hours of morning,but you know
it's a lie. You bleed on the floor
waiting for someone to stop, ask
if they can help you clean up.

Ars Poetica

From RLB:

Today's prompt is to write a poem with the title of "I'm so over (_____)." You get to choose what you're "so over" with, and write a poem about it. I'll be looking forward to reading these.


I'm So Over Writing Poetry

It's finally happened. Last night
I wrote my last for real poem. As soon
as I'd finished it I knew
there was nothing left to do
but lay down and sleep the sleep
of the dead, my life's work finished.

I can't explain how I knew that last
small metaphor, the one about my dog
was it, but after I caught my glance
drifting between dog and poem,
then back to dog, that was it. It was over.

Waking this morning I saw the sun,
knew I had freed myself from the chain
of line, half line, line breaks, and ego.
This is my declaration of independence,
my barbaric yawp, my final death rattle
before I sputter and give up the ghost.

Poetry I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
Poetry three dollars and seventy-four cents April 26, 2008.
I can't stand my own mind.

Now that I've given you up, I'll go buy
some tan Dockers and loafers, get a job
selling ad space in men's magazines, plan
for retirement and two week vacations.
Now, go away. I'm finished with all of it.

After the War (pt. 2)

From RLB:

. . . write an occupational poem today. You can write about your own occupation or that of another. Had a favorite job from the past? A least favorite job? A funny story from a job? Consider these questions before tackling your poem today.



After the War

I would sit alone writing letters to anyone I knew, trying to convince them to write me, trying to convince myself I was still alive. The pens I wrote with were cheap and my hands shook. Being left handed, I would smear my letters, rubbing in the dust which was everywhere, After years of thinking over the past, I believe now I was actually trying to send myself home, one tiny layer at a time.

I think about writing letters to soldiers in Iraq now, mirroring the kindness of those who wrote anonymous letters to me, but they've stopped all of that: Too much hate mail finding its way to soldiers who don't know how to shrug off their anger. I can't help but think now that in some small way, I should be sending myself back to the desert where I know none of these soldiers belong.

Haiku cop-out

Last day of Spring:
robins at my door
to say goodbye


* * *


It certainly doesn't look like a lot, but I have been out on the road and doing teacher observations all day, so that is about as much as I can manage tonight. Better things are coming, I am certain.

32 lines for NaPoWriMo # 23

From RLB

Well, today's prompt is sympathetic of the fact that time continues its march and that things continue to change and stay the same all at once. Today's prompt is to write about getting older.



Standing in front of the Mirror

It starts with the music you listen to,
stopping the influx of anything new
after you have passed your 23rd year---
everything sounding too loud, disingenuous,
or just plain stupid. After, you start
tuning into watch the 6 o'clock news
once in a while, catching up
on the latest primary or rising gas prices.

Soon you are shopping for clothes
that will impress the boss, let it be known
your star is on the rise. You've got
places to go, no time to stop for idle talk.
Double knotting your shoes comes later,
when you are teaching your child
how o be safe, look both ways, and be wary
of strangers in public and private places.

The car which fueled your youth is no longer
out of reach, but young girls would giggle
to see you in mid-life crisis. Instead
you settle for the domestic minivan
with 30mpg/hwy, power doors and mp3
you will take the life of your loan to learn.
At least you can still get away with the lie
about a naturally receded hair line one more year.

40 is the new 30. No, it's true, you hope.
A few gray hairs look good on you. Honest.
Retirement planning in this market is a type of risk.
Student loans are almost a thing of the past.
If you've got your health, you've got everything.
You're not as old as your parents, thank god.
Youth is a fine trade off for the wisdom of age.
At least you've always got the good old days.

A No Brainer

From RLB

Prompt 1: Write a nature poem. This can about how much you love or hate nature. It can be optimistic or not so. You can write about global warming or about that time when a deer walked up so close you could almost pet it. I'll leave the specifics up to you, but it should be about nature.



Naming

"and then awakening naked
to be tattooed by the rivers"
---Pablo Neruda


Rivers all leave their mark
as easily as ink---
your pink flesh stamped
blue-green forever,
colors shifting in the sunlight
turning muddy brown
when your mind
is troubled with grief.

The pain of the rivers' needle
will never fade. Each prick,
10,000 tiny stabs, will all
prove unique, seperate pains
& while you lay beneath the stars
rubbing the place they claimed,
the rivers will call to you
& you will remember their many names.

Business & Poem

First and foremost, I need to thank a few bloggers for doing wonderful write-ups about my Karl Rove book.

Thank you Kate.

Thank you Collin.

I really appreciate what you have done for me, and I am happy you liked the book enough to post about it on your blogs. Please let me know when I can repay your kindness.

If any of you are curious to see what they are talking about, then click here at: Dear Mr. Rove: 32 Letters to Karl Rove


________________________________

Why I am not a Political Operative

with apologies to Frank O'Hara


I am not a political operative, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a political operative, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Karl Rove
is starting a campaign. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have RHETORIC in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The campaign
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The primary is
finished. "Where's the SUBSTANCE?"
All that's left is just
sound bites, "It was too much," Karl says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
the ocean. I write a line
about the sea. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of ocean, of
words, of how terrible the ocean is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
the ocean yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it OCEANA MAGNUS. And one day in a scandal
I see Karl's candidate, called LIAR.


___________________________________


Poem (What I Think)

I think one of the best songs
written in the 1980's
has to be "I Against Osborn"
by the Dead Milkmen. How else
can you explain that level
of prognostication?

I think the best movie ever
is Evil Dead II. You just can't beat
cutting off your own hand
then spending the rest of the film
locked in a battle of kill
or be killed. Hell yeah!

I think the best book written
in the 20th Century is Ulysses
by James Joyce. I've never read it
but I keep hearing about it from
people whose opinion I respect.
Just take my word for it.

Love . . .Exciting and New

...today's prompt is to write a Love poem with a capital "L" as in a loooooove poem. Think about wooing; think about being wooed; and then, write!



Preference

With you, here, asking night
to forgive us our need for sleep,
where else is there for me?
What more than you
is there ever for me to desire?
Together we contradict the world
while alone in the dark
I cannot find my own face
with my own hands. I'd not
want to, preferring to find
your hand, your face close to mine.

Riding Up the Thames River to Kew Gardens


It's not so difficult a journey these days
to be in London, 2008. The weather of course
is the same as it has always been, the Thames
will never change, and that is the English way,
to fight the day to day shift, pretend time
is not a river but rather, a destination.

Much better: Ignore how the scenery morphs
from country to suburb to city. Focus your eyes
on the small ripples of brown water. You can
find yourself lost if you are willing to try.

When you reach Kew Gardens, be sure to look
into the lake when the light is perfect, when you
can catch a glimpse of the past, lost just beneath
the surface. And when you see the Chilean Wine Palm
forget everything you read from Heraclitus. Instead
concentrate on the stoicism of Marcus Aurelius.

Millenniums may, in the end come and go
like water, but it is what we allow to enter us
which is most at stake, most likely to change
us over the course of a life. It is our place to say
what comes and goes, what we acknowledge.

No. In 2008 it is not so strange a thing to find
one's self in London, on the Thames in April,
going to visit Kew Gardens while contemplating
the weathered face of time. And after all is said,
looking out the window of a small river boat
while moving up stream is not such a bad place to be.

From RLB

Today's prompt is to take a line of my choosing and incorporate it into your poem in some way. You can use the line as the title of your poem, as the last line, as the first line, or even drop it somewhere in the middle--but you must use the line somewhere. And a special note to you "rule benders": No, you cannot break up the line into individual words or phrases. The whole line must be used, though you can definitely insert a line break or two if you wish.

So, what's the line anyway? It is: There is no connection.


Even Teachers Get to Have Fun Sometimes

Today in class one of my students, not
knowing how to start an English essay asked,
How is the past an indicator of the future?

I am a history teacher, and as you know,
teachers know everything. We have no life
outside of school. In fact, some of us
live in our classrooms, pulling our Murphy beds
from beneath the chalkboard, shower up
in the denizens of the faculty lounge. Her logic
in asking me was, shall we say, inspired.

Trying to act the clown, or just to see her face
I replied as straight as I could, There is no
connection, no way to tell from one day to the next
what is going to happen. I pause before adding,
Haven't you ever heard of Chaos Theory?

This is the part I always like best, when they
ask themselves if they heard me right, decide
if they can trust what I have told them.

Sometimes, they catch on right away, think back
to the beginning of the year when I told them
about Heraclitus, how you can never step
into the same river twice, how all things
are connected. Then their smile comes
and they know the real answer is yet to come.

That's when I know I have them, know when
they are going to really listen, give this whole
school thing at least one more shot, let in
just a little more light into the cave and
dust down the shelves of their minds.

__________________________


Yeah, I know it's a little lot cheesey, but I'm allowed to write one bad teacher poem.