that red scent
from before, cut across the weedy pines
footprints from before, however long ago
maybe an hour, maybe millenia
the scent remains, consequence of time
what was lost there, what wore hooves
Decorated with girthy horns
the cornucopia biologico
and the bristled muzzle, teeth too
would speak no secrets of the sheath
or how they mounted, step by step
the cliff side miles
to taste the leafy wonder of the climb
however long
White men no college
never read Virginia Woolf
on the toilet in the morning
early morning, 5 am morning
not having woken up but
never having gone to bed
never having felt that sleep
was safe, or that time was plenty
holding her in hand like a white dove
Mrs. Dalloway on the roof
deck of a bus headed away toward the city
white men no college
will live forever without that scene
will grow old beautifully untouched by ache
dusted with golden flecks of hate;
white men no college
have in their canvas hands
the bald heads of daughter babies
whose eyelashes are infinite
and hold in them a future
empty of trees—perhaps—busy with busses
who might go away, far away, to college
and hold in her pale hands
a borrowed novel, a stream of conscious
a woman she might someday be.
—ECW
For anyone who feels like maybe their genius doesn’t fit into any right brain or left brain model, this chart is perfect. As a poet, I see myself on the linguistic-intrapersonal side of intelligence, knowing what I feel and being able to say it in a way that others can appreciate!
Written by Information Designer, Mark Vital, of Funders and Founders, this post, with an infographic, is enlightening and thought-provoking. Referring to the 9 types of intelligence introduced by Howard Gardener in his 1983 book, Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences, Vital shines a light on “whether talents other than math and language are indeed types of intelligence or just skills.”
These next few moves matter
this I know to be true
that the distance between us
grows stiff with years
and we are different now,
and we have never been this
way—far away; chasing the tail
of our twenties. I am something
in between this and then
and these next few moves speak volumes
thousands of expired encyclopedias
are shouting wait Wait WAIT!
but we are on an airplane
and the wheels are up
and our phones are off
and the last thing I said was I’m sorry
but I can’t remember what for
these next few moves matter
they are the scribble
with which we write our lives
and these are not apologies
as much as manafestos.
and these next few moves
are happening outside my body
a reflex, a habit, a whole.
—ECW
I haven’t been writing as much as I would like, after the wedding I kept finding “important distractions” but this article really spoke to me. She even mentions the process as more vital sometimes than the end result!
Perhaps it’s natural to equate creative success with happiness. Surely all those beautiful, clever, funny people we see on TV (and YouTube) are brimming with self-confidence and a sense of purpose, right? The reality, of course, is that our favorite actors, writers, and artists struggle with the same human conditions that we do, with the added pressure of being in the spotlight.
Felicia Day—who wrote, directed, and starred in her own web series The Guild before appearing in Supernatural, Eureka, Dollhouse, Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, and founding Geek & Sundry—is no stranger to success, nor to the anxiety and depression that may or may not be more common among creative people than the rest of the population.
Felicia’s memoir, You’re Never Weird on the Internet (Almost), came out in paperback yesterday. To celebrate, she’s coming to Chicago this weekend for a couple events (1 and 2). I spoke…
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you asked if I would invite them
the men who came before you;
you asked like you were giving
permission the way a hand picks
a lock; cautiously with carnal
self awareness; because a locked
door is a negotiation, a compro-
mise between what is and what
might have been, a weighing of
outcomes in the palm; supple
inviting: why is it locked? what
might I never know, you asked
if I would invite them to see what
the door looked like, and if this
like so many other secrets,
was worth picking at.
–ECW
I want this quiet to kill me
I want my last image of us
in this crooked wave to be endless
I want your words to come
out of my mouth like i’ve said them
I want everything in this house
to glitter with dust because
I’m not fidgeting, I’m contented
in the mess that is our nesting place
I want every book on the shelves
to be bloated with love notes
I want to hide my intentions
in a formfitting dress and imply them
I want coffee mugs stained with tree rings
because the conversation was sweet enough
I want the candles to burn out on their own.
I want a love song in e minor playing
low low low in the background
so low we dont hear it, but we feel it
low low in our bones.
–ECW
The trouble with numbers is
I’ve lost count of all the
quiet hopeful gestures;
to me you are one
singular graceful open hand.
Counting all those moments
would mean assigning you
a feebly fixed decibel,
when I know you are
a swirling whirling infinity
violet in the dark
reaching always for me.
—ECW drafts
I remember now
we were driving
and that song came on that I hate
but I didn’t tell you because we
had just met and I was
still on my best behavior.
I remember now
it was a Monday and you posed
another ultimatum – them or me
and I sat quietly a while until
you asked again, with a well
and a tell me.
And you took my wallet
Out of my open purse
And snapped my bank card
See! you said See!,
I was serious
I remember now
I was scared.
—ECW drafts
the girl in the marsh was me
when I was small and we were lost
I left the hurt there in the marsh
to be cleansed by mists
(to be) wavering weeds
the girl in the marsh was me
and I was younger then but
not so young
as to meet dread for the first time
he and I walked alongside
grassy heaps
and ferried our secrets
the girl(in) the marsh was me
I left her there to wait on my return…
the marsh, she knew all
about the low hanging fog
and the weight
of water
in the
quag
–ECW
