It was very dark One street lamp One cul-de-sac
He said he would watch me walk home to be safe
I walked past a recycling bin of beer cans I walked past a soccer goal
Not much can happen in a hundred feet of suburb.
Friday, December 31, 2010
In defense of lists in poems
Once upon a time
- i began a list in sentences
- one man found a sentence beautiful
- two man heard it easy to recreate
- two man founded an ugly sentence
- one man sighed
- two man smirked
- his victory was only apparent to himself
- this is an ugly sentence
- some people say numbers and letters cannot
- this sentence says they can
- q listed her favorite words
- e listed her favorite words
- no two lists are idientical
- this list is not identical
- this sentence is beautiful
- list
- i list in sentences
- sentences are a number of letter lists
- i choose letter e, as it begins my name
- list
- e
Driver's Ed
I wish he would just shave
but his eyes are nice. I explain
the sun makes two things
heat and light. leaning in,
his eyes told him they were
connected.
No connection, I said.
His face is one- planes of lips
bright bright eyes and teeth
that are beautiful
black hair black skin.
but curliness at the corners of the mouth- dirty
I dash out colloquialisms and
sprinkle grammatical errors (for to err is human)
in a nattempt. For he is beautiful.
but I wish he would shave. I wish my eyes would brighten.
but really (and this is private) I like my face better.
I'm finna apologize.
Fixin to.
Sorry.
but his eyes are nice. I explain
the sun makes two things
heat and light. leaning in,
his eyes told him they were
connected.
No connection, I said.
His face is one- planes of lips
bright bright eyes and teeth
that are beautiful
black hair black skin.
but curliness at the corners of the mouth- dirty
I dash out colloquialisms and
sprinkle grammatical errors (for to err is human)
in a nattempt. For he is beautiful.
but I wish he would shave. I wish my eyes would brighten.
but really (and this is private) I like my face better.
I'm finna apologize.
Fixin to.
Sorry.
Ms. Bosselaar (carried over)
Ms Bosselaar is, I think,
a lot older than I am. But
something about the way she lines lines up
is sibilant to the way I do,
except better and sadder.
A lot sadder. She followed a man in a museum once,
and some others other times,
and they looked the same- people- but meant different things
just like all of her repeated lines.
She's a little older than I am,
(Ms. Bosselaar is) I think.
Why is she sad though? I
follow her around a museum, and she looks at all the paintings unlike the man in her poem.
I watch her face, as much of it as I
can see because she turns away fast,
and ducks when it's apparent her
***
head might be blocking m view of the oil pastel,
and I guess a head might bother some people
but you are the real art here, and
I think Ms. Bosselaar knows that
as well as I do.
Or maybe she ducked out of the
way to see the art behind me,
because our eyes caught.
And as I watch her face change,
from looking at that oil to looking
at me,
I think I know her.
Then she ducks away again,
and I wonder. Was it the nunnery? The
death of a child, the poet lover, the-
everything is too close to be real,
and I wonder now if it was the painting that
didn't change her face at all (oh, what a watercolor!)
that really got to her. look! Now
she's walking away, and all I see
is hair.
I'm trying to follow you, Ms. Bosselaar, because you
are the real art,
the one I don't understand
no matter how sibilant.
Then again I'm not sure- I rarely read
in art museums. Are these painting yours,
all frames from a long film strip? I rarely read
the little placards- (Laure-Anne Bosselaar, all?)
It's the fun of an art museum.
Am I following correctly?
Is this where you stepped?
Why is your walking face soaking in that picture
there? I think you are a lot older
than me, and I stumble on these
polished floors that you've tread.
I might not follow very fast, but
you are the real art, Ms. Bosselaar.
a lot older than I am. But
something about the way she lines lines up
is sibilant to the way I do,
except better and sadder.
A lot sadder. She followed a man in a museum once,
and some others other times,
and they looked the same- people- but meant different things
just like all of her repeated lines.
She's a little older than I am,
(Ms. Bosselaar is) I think.
Why is she sad though? I
follow her around a museum, and she looks at all the paintings unlike the man in her poem.
I watch her face, as much of it as I
can see because she turns away fast,
and ducks when it's apparent her
***
head might be blocking m view of the oil pastel,
and I guess a head might bother some people
but you are the real art here, and
I think Ms. Bosselaar knows that
as well as I do.
Or maybe she ducked out of the
way to see the art behind me,
because our eyes caught.
And as I watch her face change,
from looking at that oil to looking
at me,
I think I know her.
Then she ducks away again,
and I wonder. Was it the nunnery? The
death of a child, the poet lover, the-
everything is too close to be real,
and I wonder now if it was the painting that
didn't change her face at all (oh, what a watercolor!)
that really got to her. look! Now
she's walking away, and all I see
is hair.
I'm trying to follow you, Ms. Bosselaar, because you
are the real art,
the one I don't understand
no matter how sibilant.
Then again I'm not sure- I rarely read
in art museums. Are these painting yours,
all frames from a long film strip? I rarely read
the little placards- (Laure-Anne Bosselaar, all?)
It's the fun of an art museum.
Am I following correctly?
Is this where you stepped?
Why is your walking face soaking in that picture
there? I think you are a lot older
than me, and I stumble on these
polished floors that you've tread.
I might not follow very fast, but
you are the real art, Ms. Bosselaar.
fitting
Hullo. No, I do think you are exceptionally important.
human civilization has always followed the rivers
and cried when the rivers flooded or shrank.
we need the water, please.
Hullo? You are exceptionally important! Please don't.
I need your water
in an effort to seem thinner in the mirror, you sucked it in
well when I look into a river I see myself and the bottom too
Hullo! Sorry, I can't hear above the roar.
the other one, when the rains come in the mountain, turn a muddy brown and there is water all over.
sometimes that's necessary for the ecosystem
but the civilization makes nice dams as well.
actually, not nice.
"I was just kidding." I am a bad joker- slurp! No, I am funny- whoosh!
I want a quiet rumble, a gigantic trickle.
Willowy lady, stepping one foot in front of the other with a pot on your head
you are a river as well as I
you fit your banks
do not parch us all. The ground beneath your feet gives a little as you run over it
little boy, squish squish. We all need water and banks.
fit.
human civilization has always followed the rivers
and cried when the rivers flooded or shrank.
we need the water, please.
Hullo? You are exceptionally important! Please don't.
I need your water
in an effort to seem thinner in the mirror, you sucked it in
well when I look into a river I see myself and the bottom too
Hullo! Sorry, I can't hear above the roar.
the other one, when the rains come in the mountain, turn a muddy brown and there is water all over.
sometimes that's necessary for the ecosystem
but the civilization makes nice dams as well.
actually, not nice.
"I was just kidding." I am a bad joker- slurp! No, I am funny- whoosh!
I want a quiet rumble, a gigantic trickle.
Willowy lady, stepping one foot in front of the other with a pot on your head
you are a river as well as I
you fit your banks
do not parch us all. The ground beneath your feet gives a little as you run over it
little boy, squish squish. We all need water and banks.
fit.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sitting in church tomorrows from today
I was sitting in church on Christmas Eve
16, and a little uncomfortable
with my comfortable mother on one side of me
and I might have been holding a round squirming three-year-old
but thinking
and I decided that I never ever wanted to hear Emmanuel
and think Kant instead of Jesus.
I walked home from church
all alone
and since we used to keep baked goods in the microwave
to keep bugs off,
I was thinking
that I never ever wanted to live in a place
where cupcakes lasted more than 24 hours
not because of allergies or wanting to save it for special
but just because they did.
Then I ate the last cupcake.
16, and a little uncomfortable
with my comfortable mother on one side of me
and I might have been holding a round squirming three-year-old
but thinking
and I decided that I never ever wanted to hear Emmanuel
and think Kant instead of Jesus.
I walked home from church
all alone
and since we used to keep baked goods in the microwave
to keep bugs off,
I was thinking
that I never ever wanted to live in a place
where cupcakes lasted more than 24 hours
not because of allergies or wanting to save it for special
but just because they did.
Then I ate the last cupcake.
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