Megan Falley's Blog, page 89
February 19, 2013
Poetry Bonanza
I woke up at 6:15 this morning with one thing on my mind. POETRY! The sharing of poems. The mentoring of poets. The luscious thighs of pantoums. Poems as activists and or slingshots and or prayers and or anthems.
So, like, for real (and finally) I am starting to book for spring, summer and next fall. If you think my voice has a place in your ear, contact bookingrachelmck at gmail dot com. SACAJAWEA!
If you know what’s good for you! BOOK RACHEL.
February 18, 2013
February 16, 2013
laurenzuni:
THIS IS B (right) and his lovely wife Andryn. B is...
THIS IS B (right) and his lovely wife Andryn. B is a dear friend of my dear friend Andrea Gibson and has become a friend to me too. Also: B went to the University of Oklahoma! Now living in Boulder and doing incredible work with Out Boulder. Please help B raise funds for top surgery. And follow his progress on Tumblr! If you donate $25 you will get a signed copy of Andrea Gibson’s CD FlowerBoy!
February 12, 2013
Interviewer: Why did you become a poet?
Megan Falley: I was frustrated that there is only on word in the English Language for “dream.” That is why I became a poet.
February 10, 2013
a short, beautiful song for anyone whose ever lost someone to...
a short, beautiful song for anyone whose ever lost someone to illness and wants to cry today.
February 9, 2013
sierrademulder:
“When you say “no,” and you mean “no,” and the...
“When you say “no,” and you mean “no,” and the other person, regardless of whether it’s in a situation where somebody wants to attack you or a situation where somebody wants to change your opinion…
When you say no, and the other person continues, you should think immediately — not “how do I make it nice, how do I make it better” — but immediately think why is this person trying to control me because “no” is a complete sentence.”
February 8, 2013
Forgetfullness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-Billy Collins
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