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The "Kitchen Poetry Reading"
Friends, yesterday my friend and fellow poet Victoria H. did a marvelous thing.
A young lady of Victoria's acquaintance had been coming to some of the Valley poetry readings. She wrote great poetry but was shy about performing, though many people urged her to. So Victoria offered to host a reading at her own home, where, in a non-threatening setting, this young lady could read among friends.
About a dozen people were invited, and it was a lot like many other get-togethers: there were snacks and beverages and a lot of comfortable shooting the breeze. Then, though the event was referred to as a "Kitchen Poetry Reading," Victoria invited us into the living room, and we went around the circle, each "performer" reading a couple of pieces at a time.
The young lady performed her work with complete confidence, among friends, and it was thrilling. And now she says she's ready to feature, and since one of the invitees hosts a popular monthly event, she's got a gig!
And now we come to the reason I'm writing this: I suspect a few of you poets have a notion of performing publicly but are too shy to get up in front of a bunch of strangers. How about hosting "Kitchen Poetry Readings" of your own?
A young lady of Victoria's acquaintance had been coming to some of the Valley poetry readings. She wrote great poetry but was shy about performing, though many people urged her to. So Victoria offered to host a reading at her own home, where, in a non-threatening setting, this young lady could read among friends.
About a dozen people were invited, and it was a lot like many other get-togethers: there were snacks and beverages and a lot of comfortable shooting the breeze. Then, though the event was referred to as a "Kitchen Poetry Reading," Victoria invited us into the living room, and we went around the circle, each "performer" reading a couple of pieces at a time.
The young lady performed her work with complete confidence, among friends, and it was thrilling. And now she says she's ready to feature, and since one of the invitees hosts a popular monthly event, she's got a gig!
And now we come to the reason I'm writing this: I suspect a few of you poets have a notion of performing publicly but are too shy to get up in front of a bunch of strangers. How about hosting "Kitchen Poetry Readings" of your own?
down: a confession
officer down
low down
down in the dumps
down and dirty
down and out
black hawk down
economy down
down syndrome
get a bet down
double down
pegged declivity
negativity
sensitivity
nonproclivity
say what you want it is not quite reality
live it up down to the last of vitality
showcase in gesture the yinyang duality
speed the production despite loss of quality
whelm the ineloquent into banality
gray vibrant colour to silence to nullity
alas
i am down
near out
in a tough
rut of
truth
strugg
ling
to
re
me
m
br
dawn
low down
down in the dumps
down and dirty
down and out
black hawk down
economy down
down syndrome
get a bet down
double down
pegged declivity
negativity
sensitivity
nonproclivity
say what you want it is not quite reality
live it up down to the last of vitality
showcase in gesture the yinyang duality
speed the production despite loss of quality
whelm the ineloquent into banality
gray vibrant colour to silence to nullity
alas
i am down
near out
in a tough
rut of
truth
strugg
ling
to
re
me
m
br
dawn
shift
circumstance and age and pain
preference the tough sustain
major loss and petty gain
these will shift our lives
elsewhere wariness invoked
wouldbe partner merely joked
rivalry with conscience yoked
wretched force contrives
testing one two three four fail
want a pen but get a nail
effortsome yet no avail
buzzing in the hives
physicality betrays
goals and dreams of better days
keel on over pets and strays
lest they bring the knives
analgesic quells the hurt
cup of cof/tea helps assert
one more day above the dirt
spin o primal drives
preference the tough sustain
major loss and petty gain
these will shift our lives
elsewhere wariness invoked
wouldbe partner merely joked
rivalry with conscience yoked
wretched force contrives
testing one two three four fail
want a pen but get a nail
effortsome yet no avail
buzzing in the hives
physicality betrays
goals and dreams of better days
keel on over pets and strays
lest they bring the knives
analgesic quells the hurt
cup of cof/tea helps assert
one more day above the dirt
spin o primal drives
crew seal
crew seal
is one of the ways
to pronounce the word "crucial"
another pronunciation is crooshull
the former is british proper
the latter american common
and this common american
watching and hearing a brit he admires
suddenly wanted
a seal on his crew
is one of the ways
to pronounce the word "crucial"
another pronunciation is crooshull
the former is british proper
the latter american common
and this common american
watching and hearing a brit he admires
suddenly wanted
a seal on his crew
missteps
faw down go boom
is ok
a baby behind is designed for a one point landing
just a jolt
almost fun sometimes
and most babies transition to toddlers
and then the steps accrete in earnest
and then our missteps are few but memorable
gopher hole in lush grass twists an ankle
the stairtop nonstair makes you fallstomp
as do cracks in the sidewalks when they catch your shoeedge
when I was a kid in glendale arizona
in those as yet undeveloped (littleme and the town both) years
i walked onto a patch of bullheads aka goatheads aka stickers once
and my tender footsoleflesh was perforated
i remember standing crying no path out of the patch
pathetically vulnerable in shorts and no shirt
i don't remember how i got out
most of my missteps now are metaphorical
though three nights ago i impulsively decided to walk
barefoot into the cool nearmidnight neighborhood streets
discovering a galaxy of tinygravel here and there
that the manypoundsoverweight pressed hard
into my older but perhaps even more tender footsoleflesh
shards bigger than grit smaller than pearls
when i got to safe clean cement i did a lightscuff dislodge
and pressed on
and in a mileplus quasiloop found myself back at home base
tendersoled yet resolved to toughen up that flesh
with consistent repetition
in the form of subsequent barefoot walks
that I have not so far and probably (sigh) will not
may be yet another misstep
is ok
a baby behind is designed for a one point landing
just a jolt
almost fun sometimes
and most babies transition to toddlers
and then the steps accrete in earnest
and then our missteps are few but memorable
gopher hole in lush grass twists an ankle
the stairtop nonstair makes you fallstomp
as do cracks in the sidewalks when they catch your shoeedge
when I was a kid in glendale arizona
in those as yet undeveloped (littleme and the town both) years
i walked onto a patch of bullheads aka goatheads aka stickers once
and my tender footsoleflesh was perforated
i remember standing crying no path out of the patch
pathetically vulnerable in shorts and no shirt
i don't remember how i got out
most of my missteps now are metaphorical
though three nights ago i impulsively decided to walk
barefoot into the cool nearmidnight neighborhood streets
discovering a galaxy of tinygravel here and there
that the manypoundsoverweight pressed hard
into my older but perhaps even more tender footsoleflesh
shards bigger than grit smaller than pearls
when i got to safe clean cement i did a lightscuff dislodge
and pressed on
and in a mileplus quasiloop found myself back at home base
tendersoled yet resolved to toughen up that flesh
with consistent repetition
in the form of subsequent barefoot walks
that I have not so far and probably (sigh) will not
may be yet another misstep
Poet of the Week: SearchingSoul49
Friends, our Poet of the week has shared with us a poem in a format normally associated with prose; make no mistake, though, this is poetry, AND the format suits the subject, tone and implications to a T. The title hints at why.
So Strange
The sun sets sooner, rises later...just yesterday I was warm and filled with sunshine. Now the darkness steals the light. The trees put on their brightest colors hoping to lure the sun into staying...but a sirens call from the other side of the world is stronger. They weep, the trees..pretty leaves fall like tears to the ground, turn brown and crumble. Shaken with disappointment the might oak stands naked, esposed, and turns within in shame. So follow the elms, the maples, the walnuts...Sleeping statues dark against the grey sky..so sad. The winter sneaks in...cold and unforgiving. Snow and ice...I jerk awake from too much sleep to the sound of bones breaking...no it's the trees heavy with ice, losing the weakest limbs...I hope they can't feel that. Wonder if they'll miss the pieces of themselves falling like thunder. Ironic that the sun rises just in time to make rainbows of the glistening cover that destroys with such brilliance, such beauty before the end. Fickle lover, the sun...staying just long enough to steal your heart...then leaving time and time again. But that time, that love given with such abandon is enough to make me wait year after year for it's return. Like the trees I so love, I the want the attention no matter how brief. I will sleep awhile and dream...of gentle breezes and thunderstorms, of bird sond and crickets...dream and hope for love to return.
So Strange
The sun sets sooner, rises later...just yesterday I was warm and filled with sunshine. Now the darkness steals the light. The trees put on their brightest colors hoping to lure the sun into staying...but a sirens call from the other side of the world is stronger. They weep, the trees..pretty leaves fall like tears to the ground, turn brown and crumble. Shaken with disappointment the might oak stands naked, esposed, and turns within in shame. So follow the elms, the maples, the walnuts...Sleeping statues dark against the grey sky..so sad. The winter sneaks in...cold and unforgiving. Snow and ice...I jerk awake from too much sleep to the sound of bones breaking...no it's the trees heavy with ice, losing the weakest limbs...I hope they can't feel that. Wonder if they'll miss the pieces of themselves falling like thunder. Ironic that the sun rises just in time to make rainbows of the glistening cover that destroys with such brilliance, such beauty before the end. Fickle lover, the sun...staying just long enough to steal your heart...then leaving time and time again. But that time, that love given with such abandon is enough to make me wait year after year for it's return. Like the trees I so love, I the want the attention no matter how brief. I will sleep awhile and dream...of gentle breezes and thunderstorms, of bird sond and crickets...dream and hope for love to return.
Anthology non-update, with video
Friends, I've been sidetracked from the anthology project by an upcoming poetry event at Bards Books. The event is "Other Lives of Other Poets," and will be based on my journal-page project of the same name. (The curious will find samples in the Photos section.) I have, with ever-increasing mania, been trying to confirm poet appearances, recruit more poets, produce more pages, and develop a Poer Point presentation to be screen-projected as part of the event.
Consequently, correspondence is down, participation in non-project activity is minimal, and eyestrain is way, way up. But I am having the time of my life. I hope you will all bear with me till the 24th, the day of the event, after which I'll be decompressing and normalizing.
As for the promised video, here 'tis:
Consequently, correspondence is down, participation in non-project activity is minimal, and eyestrain is way, way up. But I am having the time of my life. I hope you will all bear with me till the 24th, the day of the event, after which I'll be decompressing and normalizing.
As for the promised video, here 'tis:
Someone Else's Problem
The lady was toppled from her electronic scooter chair
When the powerful dog leashed to her veered
Toward a telephone pole
To urinate.
There she lay, just shy of midnight,
saturated with yellow lamplight,
on October-Phoenix-cool asphalt,
unable to get to her feet, she being roughly spherical,
And she called HELP ME to the unheeding neighbors
Over and over again
For twenty minutes.
Then a door about a hundred feet away opened.
"Could you keep it down?" called a squat, disgruntled-sounding man.
The door closed again.
PLEASE HELP ME she called again.
The door opened again and the man
In bare feet, in cuffed blue jeans and a thin T-shirt stretched over a bulging belly,
Peered as he walked closer,
Then quickened his step when he saw
It wasn't just a bunch of stupid kids.
The dog didn't like him,
And growled as the man disentangled
The vehicle from the lady
And righted it.
The woman on the asphalt
Gave the man her home number,
And the man walked back to his house
And called her husband.
Ten minutes later the husband arrived walking
And the two men tried to get the wife to her feet
But her leg was wrong
And they had to be careful
Because she had diabetes,
And then the dog, leash-tied to a street pole
Broke the leash
And threatened the man he didn't know,
Running up to him
And jumping, PUSHING the man away
With his front paws.
Finally, husband and wife,
Spindly African-American man and short, huge, doughy older woman,
Performed the proper microballet
That got her vertical, uninjured, and able to remount her machine
While the man who'd been dog-shoved
Kept his safe distance.
The couple thanked the man seven times in all as they left.
The dog gave the man a dirty look.
The man looked at the nearby houses
Closer than his to the accident scene,
Some with lights on,
And wondered
Who had willfully ignored
Someone else's problem.
When the powerful dog leashed to her veered
Toward a telephone pole
To urinate.
There she lay, just shy of midnight,
saturated with yellow lamplight,
on October-Phoenix-cool asphalt,
unable to get to her feet, she being roughly spherical,
And she called HELP ME to the unheeding neighbors
Over and over again
For twenty minutes.
Then a door about a hundred feet away opened.
"Could you keep it down?" called a squat, disgruntled-sounding man.
The door closed again.
PLEASE HELP ME she called again.
The door opened again and the man
In bare feet, in cuffed blue jeans and a thin T-shirt stretched over a bulging belly,
Peered as he walked closer,
Then quickened his step when he saw
It wasn't just a bunch of stupid kids.
The dog didn't like him,
And growled as the man disentangled
The vehicle from the lady
And righted it.
The woman on the asphalt
Gave the man her home number,
And the man walked back to his house
And called her husband.
Ten minutes later the husband arrived walking
And the two men tried to get the wife to her feet
But her leg was wrong
And they had to be careful
Because she had diabetes,
And then the dog, leash-tied to a street pole
Broke the leash
And threatened the man he didn't know,
Running up to him
And jumping, PUSHING the man away
With his front paws.
Finally, husband and wife,
Spindly African-American man and short, huge, doughy older woman,
Performed the proper microballet
That got her vertical, uninjured, and able to remount her machine
While the man who'd been dog-shoved
Kept his safe distance.
The couple thanked the man seven times in all as they left.
The dog gave the man a dirty look.
The man looked at the nearby houses
Closer than his to the accident scene,
Some with lights on,
And wondered
Who had willfully ignored
Someone else's problem.
Happy Birthday, Urban123
To my friend Urban, the Full-Gainer Mainer of the woodburned masterworks and the masterful storytelling verse, I wish the happiest of birthdays. What I wouldn't give, Urban, for a group of us CAPpers surrounding a piano that you are playing, singing Happy Birthday To You! If my Ship ever comes in, I will try to arrange just that.
Hope your day is Glorious, Urban!
Hope your day is Glorious, Urban!
S3
S3
1
Sorry
If you're reading this,
I owe you two apologies.
One is this:
I polluted your air, I spent a nontrivial part of my life being mean-spirited, and I failed hundreds of thousands of times over to fulfill a destiny appropriate to one who was born to better the world.
The other: Details upon written request.
2
Sorrow
No one has the right amount of sorrow.
3
'Sawright
Did you hurt me? did you pollute my air? did you fail? did you fail? have you exceeding shame? is there a piece of your life missing? or a bad fit? or eating the other pieces?
It will be all right if you fix it.
You know how to fix it, and I don't.
What more is there to say?
1
Sorry
If you're reading this,
I owe you two apologies.
One is this:
I polluted your air, I spent a nontrivial part of my life being mean-spirited, and I failed hundreds of thousands of times over to fulfill a destiny appropriate to one who was born to better the world.
The other: Details upon written request.
2
Sorrow
No one has the right amount of sorrow.
3
'Sawright
Did you hurt me? did you pollute my air? did you fail? did you fail? have you exceeding shame? is there a piece of your life missing? or a bad fit? or eating the other pieces?
It will be all right if you fix it.
You know how to fix it, and I don't.
What more is there to say?
