Poem-A-Day #129 : Ars

One of the first things people say when they discover I write poetry is "I didn't know people still did that." As if the art form died with the Beats. Another thing people say is "That's cute." As if poetry were a baby or a puppy to goo goo at.

One could make the argument that poetry DID die mid-20th century and we are all just writing out our feelings these days. One could perhaps even call it cute, many writers are definitely that. I've been obviously sensitive to this issue for a long time. Even in high school.

The original:

Why I Do It (1/27/99)

I try to write with conviction
1000 years standing behind me
I write at the edge of an era to keep it outside of me
I write to see if anyone agrees
Because I can do it
I write because though there is no special place where writers gather and hand out gold stars it makes me matter
I write to make me think that I could someday be happy
I might grow to be happy
I write to feel better
To communicate my thoughts
I write to put a word      here
To exert what little control I have
I write my emotions out of me
It has helped me out of dark things that I am amazed I survived
I write to escape myself
To stop suicidal thoughts
I write to tide me over until my next meal
To take space
Make myself larger
I write to fill in the lies, inadequacies
I write with guilt that I have the time to do it.


The edit:

Ars

There is the idea - a sort of cracked crysalis
          it is a word - on a page - in a rain storm

So much history in that liquified body
          a compact overlay of evolutionary fact

We write to feel ourselves - to take that pool and make it again
          let's no pretend we can fly - let's pretend we can emerge

Poem-A-Day #126 : Red Maple Bonsai

Day 4 of Remembering the past. A nice little study on a bonsai. I'm not going to edit this one.


Red Maple Bonsai (4/28/99)

Stood hunched over

bent slight quasi tree

twisted to wire-like

beauty hunched

Quasimodo in a planter

blood hued leaves banked

by dark black stems

and branched arms

reaching for the sun

the ends curled

towards the blue sky.

Poem-A-Day #125 : Blankets

For the thirds day of the Salon, a very short Remember.

The original :

Untitled (2/17/99)

The surface is texture
It is hilled and mountained
The fibers conjoined


The edit :

Blankets

surface          texture and conjoined          and
          the fibers          mountain

Poem-A-Day #124 : Guernica

Day 2 of my Remember project stumbles to the starting point of my obsession with Pablo Picasso's Guernica. It began with a really odd piece of theater. A high school did an original dance/movement piece that slowly revealed the full tableau of the painting across the stage. Each of the figures in the painting was given a solo dance. It was crazy and wonderful.

The original:

Guernica (12/6/98)

Came from above the rain
The purple is broken open
Tossing summersaults in the air it falls
Something inside me makes me want to run
Something inside me makes me want to put my arms up like I were crucified
Someone inside me runs away and is gone
Came down to earth
The red is spread out
Twisting summersaults in the air it falls
Guernica is confronted
Guernica is gone


The edit:

Guernica

From above the purple
          above the rain
the sky is open

The pouring face tosses itself in the air
          it falls

          You want to run

          You want to be crucified

          You are both

Red spreads like paint
          summersaulting over the earth

It ignites
          and within moments
it is gone

Guernica (1937) - Pablo Picasso

Poem-A-Day #123 : Night

For the month of July I am hitching my Poem-A-Day wagon to Ariana Lombardi's amazing Salon project wagon to do some amazing wagon things!

I dug out my journals from when I was in high school and will be re-working the poems into ... something. I'm calling this project 'Remember'.

I will post both the original and the new edit. Original first!


Untitiled (May 27 1998)

The puddles shimmer with the skins of soil. The floating edges of night. The skins of crab-starred beings light the endless night. The fireflies fall gently like fireworks sparks. Can I see the night life of the unopened door. Crack the lock.


The edit!


Night

The lock of night - the closing in of our vision - we are helpless in the dark but stumble forth to bury ourselves in wet soil -

Out here in that darkness - beyond ourselves - the skin of the earth cracks open and the boundaries between this and that soften - it rains -

After the storm the puddles begin to settle - stars reflected look like crabs tracing their way to the ocean - the sparks of distant fireworks become lightening bugs they dance -