Laurel Garver's Blog, page 23
April 14, 2014
L: A Lot
By Scott Cairns (1954— )
A little loam and topsoil
is a lot.
—Heather McHugh
Photo credit: ronmerk from morguefile.com A vacant lot, maybe, but even such lit vacancy
as interstate motels announce can look, well, pretty
damned inviting after a long day’s drive, especially
if the day has been oppressed by manic truckers, detours,
endless road construction. And this poorly measured, semi-
rectangle, projected and plotted with the familiar
little flags upon a spread of ne...
April 12, 2014
K: Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand (1934 —)
In a field
I am the absence
Photo by grtguru for morguefile.comof field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
Source: The Contemporary American Poets. New York: New American Library, 1969. p. 330.
Spare and deceptively simple, this poem addresses the nature of reality. What is presence? What is absen...
In a field
I am the absence
Photo by grtguru for morguefile.comof field.This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
Source: The Contemporary American Poets. New York: New American Library, 1969. p. 330.
Spare and deceptively simple, this poem addresses the nature of reality. What is presence? What is absen...
April 11, 2014
J: A Jar of Fireflies
by Angela Felsted
Photo credit: hotblack from morguefile.comprecisely when night fingers
brush the ankles of the cherry tree
precisely when a freckled
bullfrog starts its croon
up at the moon
precisely when the screams
of children fade into the pliant mud
when splashing rocks
peruse the river bottom made of pebble dots
the shadow of breath of dusk
exhales across the gilded ground
a silver cloud sent heaven bound
aches for mother, father sun,
tries to run
on red-striped wings
past the ring of p...
Photo credit: hotblack from morguefile.comprecisely when night fingersbrush the ankles of the cherry tree
precisely when a freckled
bullfrog starts its croon
up at the moon
precisely when the screams
of children fade into the pliant mud
when splashing rocks
peruse the river bottom made of pebble dots
the shadow of breath of dusk
exhales across the gilded ground
a silver cloud sent heaven bound
aches for mother, father sun,
tries to run
on red-striped wings
past the ring of p...
April 10, 2014
I: Independence
by Laurel Garver (that's me)
photo by Edumigue for morguefile.com
Under a smooth moon
we watch fireworks
heave purple fluff
and spray a thousand blossoms
that petal-dance
down summer shadows
to where we cuddle,
flame-drunk, bliss blistered,
sighing, OH!
at the frantic pull
to soar away,
to be all light.
From Muddy-fingered Midnights , 2013. p. 44.
I composed this piece using magnetic poetry sets, and the image that got the whole thing going was "fireworks." I spread my collection of magnetic words across a t...
photo by Edumigue for morguefile.comUnder a smooth moon
we watch fireworks
heave purple fluff
and spray a thousand blossoms
that petal-dance
down summer shadows
to where we cuddle,
flame-drunk, bliss blistered,
sighing, OH!
at the frantic pull
to soar away,
to be all light.
From Muddy-fingered Midnights , 2013. p. 44.
I composed this piece using magnetic poetry sets, and the image that got the whole thing going was "fireworks." I spread my collection of magnetic words across a t...
April 9, 2014
H: Having it out with Melancholy
by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.
—A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard
1 FROM THE NURSERY
Photo by damoiselle at morguefile.com
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and sp...
If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may be certain that the illness has no cure.
—A. P. CHEKHOV The Cherry Orchard
1 FROM THE NURSERY
Photo by damoiselle at morguefile.comWhen I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and sp...
April 8, 2014
G: Ghosts That Need Reminding
by Dana Levin (1965— )
Photo credit: mimicry from morguefile.comThrough shattered glass and sheeted furniture, chicken
wire and piled dishes, sheared-off doors stacked five to a
wall, you're walking like cripples. Toward a dirty window,
obstructed by stacks of chairs.
And once you move them, one by one, palm circles through
the grime and cup your hands round your faces, finally able
to see through—
Charged night. Sheet-flashes of green, threaded with sparks,
the pale orange pan of the m...
Photo credit: mimicry from morguefile.comThrough shattered glass and sheeted furniture, chickenwire and piled dishes, sheared-off doors stacked five to a
wall, you're walking like cripples. Toward a dirty window,
obstructed by stacks of chairs.
And once you move them, one by one, palm circles through
the grime and cup your hands round your faces, finally able
to see through—
Charged night. Sheet-flashes of green, threaded with sparks,
the pale orange pan of the m...
April 7, 2014
F: Freeing Your Life with Words
Excerpt from Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words
by Susan Wooldridge
photo by Linzi, morguefile.com
I have a strong gathering instinct. I collect boxes, hats, rusty flattened bottlecaps for collages and creek-worn sticks to color with my hoard of Berol prismacolor pencils. When I was a kid I’d lie in bed imagining I was a squirrel who lived in a hollow tree, foraging for acorns, twigs and whatever it takes to make squirrel furniture.
Most of us have collections. I ask people all the time in w...
by Susan Wooldridge
photo by Linzi, morguefile.comI have a strong gathering instinct. I collect boxes, hats, rusty flattened bottlecaps for collages and creek-worn sticks to color with my hoard of Berol prismacolor pencils. When I was a kid I’d lie in bed imagining I was a squirrel who lived in a hollow tree, foraging for acorns, twigs and whatever it takes to make squirrel furniture.
Most of us have collections. I ask people all the time in w...
April 5, 2014
E: Eye and Tooth
by Robert Lowell (1944-77)
photo by Sebastian Ritter, wikimedia commons
I chain-smoked through the night,
learning to flinch
at the flash of the matchlight.
Outside, the summer rain,
a simmer of rot and renewal,
fell in pinpricks.
Even new life is fuel.
My eyes throb.
Nothing can dislodge
the house with my first tooth
noosed in a knot to the doorknob.
Nothing can dislodge
the triangular blotch
of rot on the red roof,
a cedar hedge, or the shade of a hedge.
No ease from the eye
of the sharp-shinned hawk in...
photo by Sebastian Ritter, wikimedia commonsI chain-smoked through the night,
learning to flinch
at the flash of the matchlight.
Outside, the summer rain,
a simmer of rot and renewal,
fell in pinpricks.
Even new life is fuel.
My eyes throb.
Nothing can dislodge
the house with my first tooth
noosed in a knot to the doorknob.
Nothing can dislodge
the triangular blotch
of rot on the red roof,
a cedar hedge, or the shade of a hedge.
No ease from the eye
of the sharp-shinned hawk in...
April 4, 2014
D: Dash it
Arranged by Annie Dillard (1945 —)
from Mikhail Prishvin, Nature’s Diary, 1925
Photo by messy cook at wikimedia commons
How wonderfully it was all arranged that each
Of us had not too long to live. This is one
Of the main snags—the shortness of the day.
The whole wood was whispering, “Dash it, dash it . . .”
What joy—to walk along that path! The snow
Was so fragrant in the sun! What a fish!
Whenever I think of death, the same stupid
Question arises: “What’s to be done?”
As f...
from Mikhail Prishvin, Nature’s Diary, 1925
Photo by messy cook at wikimedia commonsHow wonderfully it was all arranged that each
Of us had not too long to live. This is one
Of the main snags—the shortness of the day.
The whole wood was whispering, “Dash it, dash it . . .”
What joy—to walk along that path! The snow
Was so fragrant in the sun! What a fish!
Whenever I think of death, the same stupid
Question arises: “What’s to be done?”
As f...
April 3, 2014
C: Constantly Risking Absurdity
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919 —)
Photo by Quinn Dombrowski, wikimedia commons
Constantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs ...
Photo by Quinn Dombrowski, wikimedia commonsConstantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs ...
