I am pleased to announce that I have started a twitter for this blog @ECWPoetry
Please oh please follow me for all my poetry thoughts and tidbits.
I am starting a new-new-new project coming soon to involve typewriters and watercolor that will appear through twitter and this blog, so keep a keen eye!
Also, I am not especially short-winded so twitter will for sure be a challenge! Wish me luck!
(Apparently there is a band called PoetInProcess–go figure!)
My fiance and I stayed up past midnight with our flashlights and read the first five sections of
It felt like camping; like a secret.
I can remember loving poetry all my life. I remember loving the intricate lace of language. The taste and tecture of words. But this was the first time I shared it with someone that way.
The phrases popped in my mouth, on my tongue, in the way they were meant to…
I am certain now that poetry is meant to be shared in love, lamented in loss, raised up and out of our throats in heightened states so that we may see the light in it: the spaces between each and every vowel waiting to be wrenched open.
Share some Poetry with those you love!
I’ve started looking at conversations as poem starters. The first line is from a movie and the rest is what it brought out of me:
I miss the days that never came
summertime wet and sweet melon
rinds fly nibbled and misty wide
the days made of waiting, hungry
for tomorrow, lush with hope
when each moment could be anything
had yet to define itself by name
was aching with opportunity
filling itself up with honesty
and slowly, as not to alert my sense
of self, I became the average
of each noon passing, together
infinite, suddenly—done. Quietly
completed, without stout, full victories
one does miss the maybe-days.
As you may (not) know, I am getting married in 300 and something days from now and need to make all these bride-zilla decisions that I don’t particularly care about. However, I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely MUST have poetry at the wedding in some way.
So I have been all over the internet and rummaging through my old anthologies (English Major Pride!) to find the best poems that would translate well to people who might not know how to read poetry, but would still enjoy a good one.
I wanted to share one that touched me the other day:
It made me feel as if I had just fallen in love!
Let me know if you love it with a Like or a Comment below, and feel free to share your favorite love poem with me! I would really enjoy your thoughts!
the ones who feast on left-overs
in upturned bins and grin
through sooty wooden teeth
overpass-crass, the yellow
cuticles of freedom; trust
funds and red lungs
aching for marboros & skunk
we sunk our feet in, ankle deep
and watched the sun set on some
one else’s sunday! Holiday! to be
young and effortlessly cool
in the night, fireside tinder headlines
and crumpled comic strips
make for shadow puppet slumber.
We live vivid in an instant;
don’t make me grow old with employment
let there be sunrises always on my window,
which is open, which is everywhere
and lay me down under the passing lights
of communter busy with deadlines
watching for nothing out the side
view, knowing only that tomorrow
will be the absolute endless same.
From the outside, your music is a blues tune
played over and over to a white moon
with a face like a resting doll,
we watch her while you’re sleeping
in your ninetofive daydreams
and keep her secrets from your policies.
We are well paidfor in sensations,
richly alive while we hitch-hike
across roads others dare not go—for fear
of safety. It’s the poor kids who wear
slacks and blazers: shuffling their papers
staplers and budgets, who will die of loans
and live anonymous in their ambitions.
Someday, when we are all lined up
in a train station awaiting the arrival
of eternity, you might ask who was happy
and neither class will answer,
but one of us will know.
Thinking of you all and hoping it is a moment in a long memory of your home.
American Dream Houses
Losing a house is more about losing doors and hinges
the borders between outside and inside
and the everything beyond the fine line of what is mine
losing a home is about kitchens and toilets
and porceline enclaves which have only been touched by us
what long list of sacred cabinets to hold our yearly intake
of nusances, now to be woken suddenly and purged
Because without a home there is no time-kept
we have no memory of what is now and what was then
cataloged in sameness and changes – high contrast
on minutia that is everyday boredom. We are street lamps
on and off and on and off and on and off and everyone
watches us to see if someday the light will go out.
Even dream homes have rooms one never enters.
Which are left un-cooled in June and the furnature sweats
on its lion’sfeet, and we live down in the kitchen,
running the faucett longer than we needed and laughing
at ourselves for being so poor at domestic arts and so
remiss about dishes.
Yard sales full of dishes; 10 cents a piece. Each one
comfortable with deflated caserols and pittiful
on display, outside of their cabinets, watching passerbys
in perfect wonder of their houses, which would also
have cabinets full of dishes, equally succeptable
I get asked all the time why poetry.
Like it was a choice, or I had some conscious investment in the matter.
The fact is, poetry chose me. It was the way in which I was able to express myself best when common phrases were fleeting. I have found poetry to be a hyperbole of two-tongued thoughts.
If I am pressed to make an argument for poetry it is this:
Poetry presents a certain duality meant to foster opportunities for connection and personal growth in a way other on-the-nose writing styles fail to offer.
With poetry we can both shelter and reveal.
Poetry is body language of the soul, bending and coiling around a truth that is both simple and profound.
Poetry is a love letter to the parts of us that are extinguished and not yet formed.
Poetry is a timely absolute, a human extract, distilled and reduced to its lowest common denominator, which all can digest but few can conquer.
Poetry is a flash of joy – caned and labeled – to be taken at the first sign of melancholy.
Poetry is the shortest distance between two people or two episodes in time.
Poetry is nonsense.
Poetry is conflict without happenstance.