Blondie and The Six year old

January 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

This is very much a work in progress. I’m not sure how I want the stanza or the mood or anything for that matter. I was doing some imagery exercises and this game out of that, but there is a lot of work to be done on it.

Almost midnight,
Ten minutes till the Debbie Harry Interview.
mother is in bed
pressed against the boyfriend,
the one with the black beard, like a pirate’s.

The living room, my new bedroom,
holds the key to my mistress of music.
I crawl from the sheets, flannel,
pj’s spark blue and crack,
soft palms press against tweed plaid
couch, hard and rough on my skin,
but I’m young I can handle the couch.

White ghost feet, toes spread
to slip into the brown shag carpet
like sand slipping between my toes
and to my knees and hands
as silent as a cat on the
kitchen counter, I crawl
breathless to the black stereo.

The record player with the Am/FM radio.
I pinch the dial and carefully,
slowly, slowly,
turn the black metal knob.
The click is like bones cracking
and the rooms echos
like a scream into a cavern.
I lie still listening
to the sounds in the next
New boyfriend does not
find my behaviors cute
and does not spare the rod, but she is worth it.
Crickets orchestrate classical melodies from behind
sealed glass, but there is no other sound except the exhalation of the house and my breath.

I slide closer to the speaker,
the hiss and crack of airwaves
tickle the hairs in my ear
as I press my cheek into the
soft but scratchy fabric that
stretches like a band over the
speaker. It is like a seal that
separates her from me.
I know if I could peel back the fabric and climb inside that I
would fall into the studio, like
Alice fell into the rabbit hole,
I would fall to her white pumps
and she would kneel down to
smile at me
her platinum blonde shag
falling about her delicate cheekbones.
“Why hello. I’m Debra Harry. Aren’t you up
way past your bedtime?”

I close my eyes at the first sound of her voice
and fall asleep like
a content serpent around a hot stone.


When I spend too Much Time at Work…

January 11, 2011 § Leave a comment

When I spend too much time at work,
I forget I am a writer,
I forget that it is words that feed me
not dollars,
but the necessity causes me to forget.

When I spend too much time at work,
I forget what my work really is,
craft, poetry, learning, reading, ascension
to language,
it’s easy to forget.

When I spend too much time at work,
I am lost, and my heart aches,
why so blue? “At least you have a job.”
Yes, yes, I have a job,
but I keep forgetting my true work.

Mary Oliver certainly pulls me back into the light.

Thank you to lannanfoundation for posting this to youtube.

Something from Anne

January 6, 2011 § 1 Comment

Thank God someone recorded this and someone posted it to youtube so that we could listen to Anne Sexton read this poem. In honor of the Confessional poets (since I posted something from Sylvia Plath previously) I found this youtube post. Her Kind is an amazing poem, but listening to her speak it sends chills through me. I wish I could have been alive to listen to her read it live.


Something from Sylvia

January 4, 2011 § 1 Comment

I love Sylvia Plath. She is the one poet I continue to return to. I think that even though she is not considered a beat writer and that she is placed in the category of the confessional poets, I find her to seem very beat. This is a clip that is posted on youtube of her reading her poem Daddy. I love to hear her read this piece. I had never heard her voice before and I have yet to listen to the other recordings, but the powerful cadence of her reading has drawn me even more to this poem that I had never really connected to until now after hearing it read from the poet herself.

The year in my Poetry World

January 2, 2011 § Leave a comment

In 2010, I was introduced to Write Bloody Publishing and was able to meet and watch many new and talented poets.

I was accepted into the Attic’s Antheneum writing program, not as a poet, but I have the pleasure of working with poets.

I was reintroduced to Philip Larkin’s poetry.

My wish in the poetry world of 2011, is that I see Howl, and that I am able to go to more readings, engage with exciting new writers and influential artists, and that my poetry will improve in quality craft and skill.


Where Am I?

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