Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Craig Arnold is Missing

If you're learning about this for the first time, catch up:

There's also a facebook group with a lot of information and updates on the status of the search for Craig Arnold.

Crossed fingers, hopes.


Sunday, April 19, 2009

What day is it?

Sunday Sunday Sunday!

Head to Tattoosday, where I'm showing some skin.  

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Now Reading Full-Length Submissions

The reading period is open.  

Cooper Dillon is an independent poetry press founded on promoting and maintaining the values which make poetry a high art.  Through the publication and distribution of full-length collections and chapbooks, our intention is to nurture the poet and reader who finds joy in aesthetic, beauty, honesty and intimacy. 

Guidelines can be found at  Cooper

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Tuesday, the 14th

First, for the month of April, Bill of Tattoosday is featuring writer's tats.  Check it out!  If you back track to the 4/1, you'll see Jill Essbaum's feet.  

Moving on, do you know Le Pink Elephant?  Here's their call for submission for their new journal, A Trunk of Delirium:

A Trunk of Delirium is a new bi-annual publication of literary and artistic works seeking the finest available from both established and as yet known creators. A subsidiary of Le’ Pink Elephant Press, we open the lid to accept poetry, prose, flash fiction, reviews, interviews, translations, essays, plays, and artworks of all printable forms. Submissions are now giddily accepted at
Editors: Suzanne Savickas & Cheryl Townsend
Publication will be in both web space and print, the later being perfect bound and truly a delight to behold.
Subscriptions $15.00

A Trunk of Delirium seeks to hold the diverse expressions of today’s most memorable creators, preserving such evoking delights for future consumption of the masses. By offering up its collectives in both web and print spaces, it is intended to make available more avenues to delight in the pulse of our present, yet ever changing, artistic scene of delirious exudence. Let creative liberty prevail!

Now, you probably want a poem for this day.  From Nin Andrews little book,  Dear Professor, Do You Live in a Vacuum? (Subito Press, 2008):

Dear Professor, 

I heard you complaining
about our class.
A huge class, you said.
No one is learning a darn thing.
Consider Newton's 
2nd and 3rd laws.
We have a lot of mass.
The more you push us, 
the more we push right back.  

Sunday, April 12, 2009

The Twelfth Day

I'm heading to the beach to sit around in the sun for Easter.  Then I'll enjoy something with ham.

From Zachery Schomburg's The Man Suit (Black Ocean, 2007): 

Experiment in Invisibility

Today I held two bananas
over each of my shoulders

and presented myself
as a quotation.

I've been a cry for help mostly,
sometimes a joke.

When you stirred from 
your sleep you wanted breakfast

but I was too late.
I had become the urgent

prayers of a desperate pilot.
I had become a marriage

proposal blown by a strong arctic
wind across Lake Ontario.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Day 11

First, some thoughts from Jason Schneiderman--excellent poet, intelligent reader of comics.  

And now:

From Christina Davis's Forth A Raven, from Alice James Books:

The Humanities

Tomorrow the man comes
to school me in the Fire.

You can lead a whole life surrounded by firemakers
and the putters out of fire
and think you have built a fire, and not have.

If the taming of blazes was the making of man,
I will have been a beast
until that hour when the man and I kneel down
with the tinder.

Also, no one has taught me how to die.

It is not listed
among the disciplines.  

Friday, April 10, 2009

Day 10

Parable That Takes Place in Little Nathaniel's Closet

Just when you throw up
your hands

and say "I'm really a horrible
person," there's an-

other selfsame self that
assures you you are in-

deed more horrible
than previously suspected.

How dis-

It follows, then, that hidden
in this haunted mansion

a nuisance ghost
dressed up as grandpapa

pecks out your sleep and just
when you recognize that it's you

this you has re-
ceded into the cedar splintered

closet of the flesh saying--
"you see you're worse than me."

Thursday, April 9, 2009

No Dice

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Day 8, from the Dead-guys shelf

A little William Carlos Williams for your funky soul.

Fine Work with Pitch and Copper

Now they are resting
in the fleckless light
separately in unison

like the sacks
of sifted stone stacked
regularly by twos

about the flat roof
ready after lunch
to be opened and strewn

The copper in eight
foot strips has been 
beaten lengthwise

down the center at right
angles and lies ready
to edge the coping

One still chewing
picks up a copper strip
and runs his eye along it

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Day 7

From Wendell Berry's 1964 collection The Broken Ground:

The Plan

My old friend, the owner
of a new boat, stops by
to ask me to fish with him,

and I say I will--both of us
knowing that we may never
get around to it, it may be

years before we're both
idle again on the same day.
But we make a plan, anyhow,

in honor of friendship
and the fine spring weather
and the new boat

and our sudden thought
of the water shining
under the morning fog.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Day 6

From Ravi Shankar's Instrumentality, from Cherry Grove Collections, 2004:


The clearing in the hills entreats
Empty rapture, shepherding hours'
Stray flocks until nothing bleats
Under the skies; insures the dower
Left for us will never cease to remain
Itself if only we proceed by twos
Into duration--spiky vervain
Is ubiquitous regard malentendu,
Our home's away, the sun's ablaze,
The way you hold up the spheres
Forms a love opaque to paraphrase
But I'll try: we've abolished fear.  

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Day of Rest

Saturday, April 4, 2009

NaPoMo Day 4

I hope you're digging my selections so far.  It's giving me a chance to go through some books I haven't tackled in while.  For Saturday, here's a piece from Maurice Manning' s Bucolics.


I'm happy Boss happy as a bird
hopping on a branch just a little branch
on one of your little trees that's all
it takes for me to wage no deeds
just the day-in day-out same old thing
it's okay by me you keep the sun
on it's string that's all I need that's
enough for me but also water O
every breath I draw I make
a little picture Boss a little bird
with a whistle in its bones hopping
on a branch like there's no tomorrow
no end in sight you might even say 
every day is like the day before

Friday, April 3, 2009

National Poetry Month, Day 3

From the Yale Young Poets Award Winning Shells, by Craig Arnold:


Baffling flower, barely edible,
camouflaged in a GI's olive drab
--out loud you wonder Who's it trying to fool?

It is a nymph that some god tries to grab
and have his way with, I explain.  She scorns
his lust, and when he sees he's met his match, 
he turns her into a flower, covered with thorns
to keep her other lovers out of reach.

You say You made that up.  You say That's sick.
You say The things men think of are so cruel.

Under the bamboo steamer there's a slick
of emerald-green water. I watch you pull
the petals off, each with a warm knot
of paler flesh left hanging at the root.

A "loves me, loves me not" sort of endeavor,
I say , but you don't laugh. It hasn't been
so long since liking me for being clever
stopped being enough for you.  Sly pangolin,
endearingly nearsighted, belly rolled
up in a spiky ball--that's how I keep 
my wits about me.  I notice how you'll polled
the petal-points an inch, how you scrape
each leaf with your incisors, the two
small grooves they leave.  It makes me sick to watch.

You're awfully quiet today.  What's wrong with you?

I want to tell you what...but there's a catch,
deep in my throat, that stops me, makes me choke
the words back, crack another pointless joke.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

A poem for your Thursday

From Anthony Piccione's The Guests at the Gate, from BOA.

Local Writer

It's a good stubbly face, tightening with pain.
He's sprawled over the chair, older than I am,
and seems always to know things oddly,
from the back woods farm he grew up on,
down quarry country, he tells me.
He turns away, blowing his nose.

Anything leaves tracks leaves a story,
he says sideways, opening the handkerchief.
See? Woodstove needs cleaned soon.
Cigarettes'll kill you long before you quit,
and there's way too much dust on those beams.

Jabbing at the bright flecks and fibers
spread out in his hand like alphabets,
he looks at me, suddenly grinning.
Imagination is just a remembering,
from the other side, of course.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

National Poetry Month, Welcome

It's April 1st, so it's National Poetry Month, and NaPoWriMo.  Festivities for the latter can be found all over the place, and particularly with the Bloofs, Reb's posse, and at Ada Limon's.  These are the places to be for daily poetry goodness.

I'm afraid I can't be counted on for these demands.  But my notebook is just about outta clean pages, so on today's agenda is picking up the cheapest notebook I can find where the binding is across the top.  That's the way we like it--also need one of those book stands for the desk so I can have books open without destroying binding.

 But just because I won't be writing a poem a day and posting it doesn't mean I'm not trying.  I'm gonna attempt to give you a poem a day by someone else.

I'm also going to go through the full notebook, and see what's what.  
I've also got a bunch of other projects that you'll hear about shortly.  
Let's do the damn thing: 

from Nick Flynn's Some Ether

Cartoon Physics, part 1

Children under, say , ten, shouldn't know
that the universe is ever-expanding, 
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it
acted out in silence.  At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock.  Ten-year-olds
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,
ships going down--earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

where they can be heroes.  You can run
back into a burning house, sinking ships

have lifeboats, the trucks will come
with their ladders, if you jump

you will be saved.  A child

places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,
& drives across a city of sand.  She knows

the exact spot will skid at which point
the bridge will give, who will swim to safety
& who will be pulled under by the sharks.  She will learn

that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff
he will not fall

until he notices his mistake.

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