They are still confessional. I am certain some would be able to relate, and they could others to understand the topic. However, I am not at a point where I can share them with the public because the topic is too fresh.
I meant to make this post two or three weeks ago-- I'm horrible at tracking time. Anyway, sometime over the past few weeks I ran into Tania Rochelle while having lunch with the boyfriend (AKA Paul) at Starbucks near my place of employment. I adore Tania's first book of poetry titled KARAOKE FUNERAL, which I recommend you purchase because you'll find it to be a great use of your money. I always rave about my favorite poem from the book, "Valet Parking At The Salvation Army," to the point of probably driving people crazy; however, if you buy the book and read the poem you'll understand.
Since I ran into Tania I wanted to share some of her talent; she said she no problem with me posting some of her work, so here I go:
THE REPLACEMENT
For months I've imagined brass and polish, sharp edges-- a food critic, maybe, or a stripper-someone agnostic enough to tolerate an indifferent lover, reluctant father, petulant payer of bills; and all that time, she's just got to get to class. Ten years younger, she shakes her long brown hair from her clueless face, asks if I want my husband back. She tells me she wouldn't compete, as if it were a gift, more lead crystal to leach slow poison into my daily cocktail. So fresh I could bite her, this girl, twenty-one, still smelling of grass and Kool-Aid, is asking permission. But I'm not her mother-- to care if she runs with a pencil in one hand, a fork in the other. Let her keep her prize: his glass-green eyes, a gold-plated tongue that ferrets out soft spots where promises grow wild as ivy, as fire through parchment. Searching her flat baby-blues for ripples, the slight wave that might suggest she stands a chance, I see only a plain beauty, hands in her pockets.
Love that poem. I remember when I first read it I called up Chris and read it to him. We both loved the same parts of the poem:
"this girl, twenty-one, still smelling of grass and Kool-Aid,"
and
"But I'm not her mother-- to care if she runs with a pencil in one hand, a fork in the other."
I can't really describe how I feel about my favorite parts except to say they are so fucking beautiful.
Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. Off to bed because I'm getting up early to head to Huntsville for most of the day with Paul.
I found out today that I was accepted into a workshop taught by Stephen Dunn at the 3rd Annual Palm Beach Poetry Festival. I'm thoroughly excited; however, I can't spend too much time concentrating on that because I need to raise the funds rather quickly. Dunn judged The Quentin R. Howard Poetry Prize back in 1996 and selected my self proclaimed poetry mentor Beth Gyly's chapbook, Balloon Heart, as the winner--- only proves he has such good taste in poetry.
I used LJ to start a poetry group; we had our first monthly meeting this past Thursday, and it was fantastic. I think we have a nice group of writers who will be able to help each other grow in some way, shape, or form. I'm excited about this--- it's my first time starting a serious group like this. I had tried before when I lived in Athens, GA; however, there wasn't enough interest.
A week or so ago I found a lovely copy of Anne Sexton's Transformations at A Cappella Books. The copy was printed while Sexton was alive, so I had to purchase it for my collection. A Capella had a few more Sexton books, but I'll have to wait for another day to purchase them.
Anyway, guess I need to finish getting ready. A group of us are going to a haunted house, out to eat, and dancing at a breeder bar. Good times.
-P-, my boyfriend, loves Tori Amos. Honestly, I've never really listened to much of her music; however, that's changed since we've been dating. And now, I have a line from a Tori song stuck in my head--- "Sometimes God you just don't come through." The line has been stuck in my head for a few weeks. Simply, the line speaks to me; I'll have to use it some how.
Sharing an email from Collin Kelley: Poetry Atlanta will host Voices Carry 3: An Afternoon of Poetry & Spoken Word on Sunday, Sept. 10, from 2 - 4 p.m. in the rotunda of the Kapelovitz Pavilion of The Carter Center (NOT the library) in Atlanta. Admission is free! Poets will be selling and signing books...bring your cash and checks. Performers include:
Delisa Mulkey - Winner of the 2005 Poets & Writers Exchange Award Rupert Fike - Poet and editor of the Voices from The Farm anthology Stephen Bluestone - Winner of the Thomas Merton Award for Poetry Chelsea Rathburn - Winner of the Richard Wilbur Award for The Shifting Line Karen Head - Georgia Tech professor and author of Shadow Boxes Theresa Davis - Spoken word artist and member of Art Amok Slam Team Robin Kemp - Poet and journalist, editor of The End of Forever: New Orleans Poets Post-Katrina Collin Kelley - Award-winning playwright and poet, author of Slow To Burn Cecilia Woloch - Winner of the 2006 Tupelo Press Chapbook Award
Musician, spoken word artist and Java Monkey Speaks curator Kodac Harrison will host.
For the past week I've had the desire to write about Eve; however, there was no other thought with the desire. Then an incident occurred that stirred some ill will (that I of course kept to myself)directed toward another, and the idea came....
Eve: The Untold Story
When Eve realized the serpent stuck it to her like Deepthroat did Nixon, she was mad. After Eve menstruated for the first time, had the first child, and recovered from post-partum, she was mad as hell. Saying she had it out for the serpent is like saying the nails from the crucifixion were like pricks from a rose. She had it out for any serpent, really, not caring if red was touching black or red touching yellow, she struck them all down-- easily offered as sacrifices to the Lord since he preferred blood over crops, since in her day they weren't saved by Grace like a couch covered in plastic is saved from a spilled drink. Eve easily offered up her vengeance on the Lord's altar, like Martha Stewart with a freshly baked cake.
I discovered Bosselaar at the 2006 Palm Beach Poetry Festival. She won me over when heard her read her poems; then I fell in love when I heard her lecture. Seriously, check her out-- you won't regret it.
My senior year of high school I took AP English, which was one of the best decisions I ever made in school simply because of the teacher, Mrs. Darlene Callan. I can't even begin to describe her intelligence, passion for education, and desire to see her students succeed. She always encouraged my passion for poetry.
Once in class we had an assignment that required us to write a villanelle or a sestina. For some reason, I can't remember why, I was horrified of the format of the villanelle. I told myself I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pen, so I wrote a sestina about a whore. (I've always been one to push the envelope a little bit.) Now, let's speed forward to now--- I took a class with Beth Gylys a summer or two ago, and the same assignment came up-- write a villanelle or a sestina. Again, I wrote a sestina; however, I wrote a villanelle as well. I'm going to sound like a huge nerd for saying this, but I fell in love with the villanelle; it's a beautiful form.
I'm going to share one of my favorite villanelles:
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
My crush on the poems of Denise Duhamel continues. Enjoy the poem below:
Buying Stock by Denise Duhamel
"...The use of condoms offers substantial protection, but does not guarantee total protection and that while there is no evidence that deep kissing has resulted in transfer of the virus, no one can say that such transmission would be absolutely impossible."
--The Surgeon General, 1987
I know you won't mind if I ask you to put this on.
It's for your protection as well as mine--Wait.
Wait. Here, before we rush into anything
I've bought a condom for each one of your fingers. And here--
just a minute--Open up.
I'll help you put this one on, over your tongue.
I was thinking:
If we leave these two rolled, you can wear them
as patches over your eyes. Partners have been known to cry,
shed tears, bodily fluids, at all this trust, at even the thought
If you live in the metro-Atlanta area and heard what sounded like an excited squeal of an eleven year girl, well, that was me when I received the email containing various drawings to consider for the cover of my first chapbook ANOREXIA WITCH. I love all of the drawings; and I am pleased to share my favorite. The final drawing that will appear on the cover is still in the works; however, it will be a variation of the one below.
The lovely drawing is by a talented friend, Steven Womack--Illustrator/Conceptual Designer. Feel free to contact him at heyguy82@yahoo.com.
I think I might be falling in love with Denise Duhamel. Well, ok... maybe that's not so much the case since I'm a big ole 'homo, and she's married (hetero style). However, it is safe to say I'm in love with her works that I've read; I definitely foresee myself purchasing one of her books once classes have started--- tuition, books, and other college expenses come first.
So here you go.... enjoy some Duhamel:
Yes by Denise Duhamel
According to Culture Shock:
A Guide to Customs and Etiquette
of Filipinos, when my husband says yes,
he could also mean one of the following:
a.) I don't know.
b.) If you say so.
c.) If it will please you.
d.) I hope I have said yes unenthusiastically enough
for you to realize I mean no.
You can imagine the confusion
surrounding our movie dates, the laundry,
who will take out the garbage
and when. I remind him
I'm an American, that all has yeses sound alike to me.
I tell him here in America we have shrinks
who can help him to be less of a people-pleaser.
We have two-year-olds who love to scream "No!"
when they don't get their way. I tell him,
in America we have a popular book,
When I Say No I Feel Guilty.
"Should I get you a copy?" I ask.
He says yes, but I think he means
"If it will please you," i.e. "I won't read it."
"I'm trying," I tell him, "but you have to try too."
"Yes," he says, then makes tampo,
a sulking that the book Culture Shock describes as
"subliminal hostility . . . withdrawal of customary cheerfulness
in the presence of the one who has displeased" him.
The book says it's up to me to make things all right,
"to restore goodwill, not by talking the problem out,
but by showing concern about the wounded person's
well-being." Forget it, I think, even though I know
if I'm not nice, tampo can quickly escalate into nagdadabog--
foot stomping, grumbling, the slamming
of doors. Instead of talking to my husband, I storm off
to talk to my porcelain Kwan Yin,
the Chinese goddess of mercy
that I bought on Canal Street years before
my husband and I started dating.
"The real Kwan Yin is in Manila,"
he tells me. "She's called Nuestra Señora de Guia.
Her Asian features prove Christianity
was in the Philippines before the Spanish arrived."
My husband's telling me this
tells me he's sorry. Kwan Yin seems to wink,
congratulating me--my short prayer worked.
"Will you love me forever?" I ask,
then study his lips, wondering if I'll be able to decipher
Lately the writing has been a little different. I don't know if it'll seem that way to others, but it seems that way to me.
The Liar, The Cheater, & The One Who Got Away
He never thought at thirty five the highlight of his life would have to be a big turn out at his funeral, but as he held the knife to his left wrist he wondered if that would even happen.
As he turned the blade over tracing a path like a surgeon uses a marker, he thought of the few failed relationships he endured: the liar, the cheater, and the one who got away. Would they attend? Cry? Dare ask, miss him when he's gone?
While flipping the blade back over he was thankful his mother was already dead, she would blame herself. His father would handle it; he'd place the blame as if it were light as salt on his son and never think twice about it.
When the blood started to run down his left arm he felt bad for a moment; this was the thanks he'd leave the maintenance staff he'd befriended.
After finishing the cut on his right arm he felt as if he were going to sleep, as if he were a child again at a sleepover lying on his back with his friends around him chanting "light as a feather, stiff as board," and it was actually working. His thoughts fleeting, he wouldn't know the liar didn't show, the cheater didn't show, but the one who got away did, and that was the day he stopped missing him.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
dbwriter's journal