Soo thanks to my parents really old computer the poem I though I posted is not in fact up. Anyway here's something else I'm working on. It's not done yet. And it's not very good. But something posted is better than nothing.
“It’s my anxiety Ellie, the anxiety.”
Anxiety isn’t an excuse to be such an exhausting prick, I think to myself.
“My life is a mess Ellie. My mom, Kelsey, Aubrey, and I never met my dad! They’ve all damaged me. You don’t get it. No one does. I’m just so messed up.” Joe rattled on.
So this is it. Three long months of driving him around, buying him lunch when he had no money, doing his laundry. All to be dumped for his ex-girlfriend, who is apparently, just that special. And to top is all off, he’s not even apologizing. It’s just the same old sob story. Poor Joe had a hard life. Poor Joe has anxiety. Poor Joe is an irrefutable jackass.
I stopped listening somewhere in between when he said “she makes me feel like I’ve never felt before” and when he proclaimed “she is my soul mate”. How cliché. For someone who calls himself a writer, he isn’t very clever with words.
I look around his bedroom. It’s a mess. His clothes are strewn on the floor, bed, and hanging on the back of the door. I’m sure if I asked him he’d say that they were there to dry. His bed is unmade, and its apparent to me by bra that’s half under the pillow he wasn’t alone last night, as he had been claiming earlier.
I glance up and look at the poster on the wall. That poster was one of the reasons I fell so hard for him. There on the bedroom wall of a 23year-old man is an illustration from Where the While Things Are, my all time favorite children’s book. I stare at it. The happy child is frolicking with his beastly companions. I should have known then that no normal guy hangs pictures from children’s books on their walls.
I look back at him, snapping to attention.
“Ellie, there’s one more thing”.
“What’s that?” I reply.
“Well, the thing is, Kelsey goes to school here. I just don’t want things to be awkward if you see her. If you see us.” he began to stammer a little “…you know, together.”
I just starred at him. I knew what he was asking me. He had confided a lot in me these past three months (2 weeks, and four days, but whose counting). He told me enough to write a book of my own, really. If I ever had the energy to sit down and put it on paper, which I doubt I would, I could call it Confessions of a College Sociopath or perhaps The Hipster’s Guide to Anxiety. Or maybe not, those are terrible titles. Then again I’m not the writer. Anyhow this doesn’t really matter I think trying to clear my head.
He just looks at me waiting for my response. He’s waiting for a promise. A confirmation. A smoke signal. Anything from me saying that I won’t tell Kelsey what I know.
I just look at him and smirk. Then without guilt or hesitation I respond by saying…
“Sure. Whatever.”
Damn!, I think. That is not at all what I wanted to say. I wanted to say something like “Awkward for me? Not a chance. You on the other hand are going be a little more uncomfortable when I tell her…” Well I lost my chance.
A look of relief spreads over his face.
“Good. I mean I wouldn’t want you to feel weird or anything.”
“Thanks for the concern” I reply, trying very hard to sound icy. “Well if that’s it, I better go.”
“Ok, sure. See you around?” Joe says.
“Maybe” I respond.
I walk out his bedroom door. Take a left on down the hallway. Walk down the rickety old stair case, through the living room, trying to avoid his roommates. I walk out the front door, hop into my car. And then I loose it. My eyes well with tears. I feel the saline stinging my cheeks. I take a deep breath, turn on my car and head home.
Why didn’t I listen to Caitlyn. Or Dan. Or Rich. Or Melissa. Or Anyone for that matter. I told them that I was a fine judge of character, and Joe was a great person who had a hard life.
When I told people about what he did to his ex-girlfriend, they would gasp in horror. Telling me to “get out now”. But what did they know. I knew that he had anxiety attacks. I knew that he had been seeing someone. He had made a mistake, we all make mistakes.
As I drive I begin to fantasize about what I would say if I saw them together. I would see them on the opposite side of a faded crosswalk. I would walk right up to them and say brightly…
“Hi Kelsey! I’m the girl Joe here was dating when you came back into the picture! You are not going to believe what he told me!”
If only, I think.
I notice I’m almost home. I take the right onto my street, and then the left into the driveway. I get out of the car, and wipe my cheeks. I don’t want my parents to know that I’ve been crying.
When I get inside I go straight to my computer. Not taking the time to pat my dog, or to say hello to my father. I sit at my desk, and move the mouse until the screen lights up.
If he can write so can I, I muse. I mean I have all the material to write a really good novel. I know it’s not fiction, but with a few name changes, and location swaps, I bet he won’t even recognize the story. Not that he would read it. Not that anyone will ever read it.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Journal Project
Pocket Myth Zine
Editor-Andrea Lawlor
Pocket Myth publishes issues yearly.
Each edition of Pocket Myth is simple is appearance. The name of each edition is written in large print, followed by the names of the contributors. The third edition, Orpheus, came with a CD attached to the front cover.
The magazine is published from Philadelphia, but has some roots in Western Massachusetts.
Submission guidelines for the Pocket Myth are quite loose. Editors ask that contributors send a sample of the work they wish to submit with a brief note describing where they heard about the journal from. Submissions should be pertaining to the theme of each edition. Currently Pocket Myth is taking submissions for their newest journal which will be titled Dionysus. In edition to poetry and prose, submissions of art, sound clips and computerized moving images.
Pocket Myths publishes poetry and prose as well as art work, sound, and moving images.
6 X 6
Publisher- Ugly Duckling Press
Editors- Anna Moschovakis, Matvei Yankelevich and G. L. Ford.
6 X 6 comes out two to three times a year.
The appearance of 6 X 6 is relatively conservative. The name of each edition, along with the number of the addition is printed in large letters, on a colored background. The whole journal is bound with a large rubber band.
6 X 6 publishes from Brooklyn, New York.
Submissions are encouraged to be in the format of the journal. Each poet is allowed six pages to display their work. The works of six poets are accepted for each edition of the journal. Also 6 X 6 tries to publish at least one poet in translation per edition.
6 X 6 publishes only poetry.
Editor-Andrea Lawlor
Pocket Myth publishes issues yearly.
Each edition of Pocket Myth is simple is appearance. The name of each edition is written in large print, followed by the names of the contributors. The third edition, Orpheus, came with a CD attached to the front cover.
The magazine is published from Philadelphia, but has some roots in Western Massachusetts.
Submission guidelines for the Pocket Myth are quite loose. Editors ask that contributors send a sample of the work they wish to submit with a brief note describing where they heard about the journal from. Submissions should be pertaining to the theme of each edition. Currently Pocket Myth is taking submissions for their newest journal which will be titled Dionysus. In edition to poetry and prose, submissions of art, sound clips and computerized moving images.
Pocket Myths publishes poetry and prose as well as art work, sound, and moving images.
6 X 6
Publisher- Ugly Duckling Press
Editors- Anna Moschovakis, Matvei Yankelevich and G. L. Ford.
6 X 6 comes out two to three times a year.
The appearance of 6 X 6 is relatively conservative. The name of each edition, along with the number of the addition is printed in large letters, on a colored background. The whole journal is bound with a large rubber band.
6 X 6 publishes from Brooklyn, New York.
Submissions are encouraged to be in the format of the journal. Each poet is allowed six pages to display their work. The works of six poets are accepted for each edition of the journal. Also 6 X 6 tries to publish at least one poet in translation per edition.
6 X 6 publishes only poetry.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The End
Mary sat in the dimly lit room. The only source of light came from a lamp that was placed in the middle of the floor. The lamps glow reflected delicately off the pale blue paint on the walls.
She surveyed the room. The bookcase that once burst with books and photographs was now bare. She could almost see the outlines of where each worn out novel had sat just a few days ago. In the corner were stacks of boxes that she got from the liquor store. Words like “clothes, toiletries, books, and kitchen” were scrawled in her hand writing on the side of the boxes that once held Mount Gay’s Rum, Svedka Vodka, and Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch.
Her computer desk was disassembled and was resting so that it leaned partly blocking the doorway. The bed that she once shared had already been moved to her parent’s basement, and was now replaced by an air mattress that she would use just for tonight.
The room looked so strange and empty, but then again that’s how she had been feeling for the past month or so. Mary was brought back to focus when she heard a key turn in the door. She braced herself for what was coming. Her hands started to shake. Her eyes darted through the open door, her view being obscured by the desk.
Before she could see, Mary could hear the familiar footsteps. Each small thud was like a stab to her soul. Then came the familiar smell. His cologne always preceded him into a room, and always lingered long after he did.
“Hi.” said Paul, his head appearing through the vacant space in the door way.
“Hi” Mary responded, trying to control the spastic movement of her limbs.
“How’s the packing” he snarled, in a voice that unlike everything, else was unrecognizable to Mary.
“Don’t be like that” she said softly, standing up.
Paul looked at her for a moment. She was beautiful. The soft light of the lamp made her skin look like it was glowing. Her eyes sparked in the way her eyes always did when she had been crying.
“Be like what?” he responded. “I’m like nothing, that’s what you want me to be, anyways.”
“Paul, honestly!” she moaned. “You know it’s not like that. Things have changed and you know it.”
“Yeah things have changed. But that doesn’t make it bad. You did this to yourself. To us. All of it was your choice.” He moved in closer. “I didn’t want this for us. I wanted us to be happy.”
“I did too!” she cried. “I did too. But happiness is fleeting, it’s not permanent. Nothing’s permanent. We both learned that the hard way.”
Paul glared at her. His eyes looked black in this lighting. Mary though to herself that he looked like a wild animal before it pounced on its prey. She knew at this point there was nothing she could say to comfort him. She just sighed.
“I didn’t think you’d be here until later tonight.” She said, doing her best to sound casual, which was hard since her throat was still swollen from the fit of tears she had just minutes before he walked in. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“I though you’d be here forever” he responded callously. He watched as the startled expression on her face turned into pure dejection and then again to anger.
“You can’t blame me for everything” she yelled, a little louder than she had meant to. “You know it wasn’t on purpose. Don’t you remember how upset I was after the whole thing? I didn’t get out of bed for a week. I punished myself”
She looked away. “I still am punishing myself” she whispered.
Paul looked remorseful for a split second. Then his face wound into the look of contempt that Mary was now so used to seeing.
“The only person you’re punishing is me. You are leaving me. You have deprived me. I could get over this. I could move on. But I need you for that to happen.”
Mary sighed again. “You act like this hasn’t hurt me. It has. Physically, emotionally. But I need to focus on myself now. I need to heal. I can’t save you, just like I couldn’t save her.”
Paul didn’t say a word. He turned his back. Mary stood in the middle of the room, tears flooding her face. He walked through the apartment, familiar foot steps echoing. She heard the door knob turn, the familiar creek of the door, the snap closed, and then nothing.
She turned to face the window. She breathed in deep, sucking in the smell of his cologne. The wind outside started to pickup. It sounded like a baby crying she thought. She sighed, sat back down, scanned the barren room.
She surveyed the room. The bookcase that once burst with books and photographs was now bare. She could almost see the outlines of where each worn out novel had sat just a few days ago. In the corner were stacks of boxes that she got from the liquor store. Words like “clothes, toiletries, books, and kitchen” were scrawled in her hand writing on the side of the boxes that once held Mount Gay’s Rum, Svedka Vodka, and Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch.
Her computer desk was disassembled and was resting so that it leaned partly blocking the doorway. The bed that she once shared had already been moved to her parent’s basement, and was now replaced by an air mattress that she would use just for tonight.
The room looked so strange and empty, but then again that’s how she had been feeling for the past month or so. Mary was brought back to focus when she heard a key turn in the door. She braced herself for what was coming. Her hands started to shake. Her eyes darted through the open door, her view being obscured by the desk.
Before she could see, Mary could hear the familiar footsteps. Each small thud was like a stab to her soul. Then came the familiar smell. His cologne always preceded him into a room, and always lingered long after he did.
“Hi.” said Paul, his head appearing through the vacant space in the door way.
“Hi” Mary responded, trying to control the spastic movement of her limbs.
“How’s the packing” he snarled, in a voice that unlike everything, else was unrecognizable to Mary.
“Don’t be like that” she said softly, standing up.
Paul looked at her for a moment. She was beautiful. The soft light of the lamp made her skin look like it was glowing. Her eyes sparked in the way her eyes always did when she had been crying.
“Be like what?” he responded. “I’m like nothing, that’s what you want me to be, anyways.”
“Paul, honestly!” she moaned. “You know it’s not like that. Things have changed and you know it.”
“Yeah things have changed. But that doesn’t make it bad. You did this to yourself. To us. All of it was your choice.” He moved in closer. “I didn’t want this for us. I wanted us to be happy.”
“I did too!” she cried. “I did too. But happiness is fleeting, it’s not permanent. Nothing’s permanent. We both learned that the hard way.”
Paul glared at her. His eyes looked black in this lighting. Mary though to herself that he looked like a wild animal before it pounced on its prey. She knew at this point there was nothing she could say to comfort him. She just sighed.
“I didn’t think you’d be here until later tonight.” She said, doing her best to sound casual, which was hard since her throat was still swollen from the fit of tears she had just minutes before he walked in. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“I though you’d be here forever” he responded callously. He watched as the startled expression on her face turned into pure dejection and then again to anger.
“You can’t blame me for everything” she yelled, a little louder than she had meant to. “You know it wasn’t on purpose. Don’t you remember how upset I was after the whole thing? I didn’t get out of bed for a week. I punished myself”
She looked away. “I still am punishing myself” she whispered.
Paul looked remorseful for a split second. Then his face wound into the look of contempt that Mary was now so used to seeing.
“The only person you’re punishing is me. You are leaving me. You have deprived me. I could get over this. I could move on. But I need you for that to happen.”
Mary sighed again. “You act like this hasn’t hurt me. It has. Physically, emotionally. But I need to focus on myself now. I need to heal. I can’t save you, just like I couldn’t save her.”
Paul didn’t say a word. He turned his back. Mary stood in the middle of the room, tears flooding her face. He walked through the apartment, familiar foot steps echoing. She heard the door knob turn, the familiar creek of the door, the snap closed, and then nothing.
She turned to face the window. She breathed in deep, sucking in the smell of his cologne. The wind outside started to pickup. It sounded like a baby crying she thought. She sighed, sat back down, scanned the barren room.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Carver Imitation
I was sitting near the window watching Wes, so I saw Chefs car turn into the driveway. I walked outside, glancing up at the clouds that hung in the sky. Chef said he had news about Bobby in Washington, bad news. I said what kind of news, Chef? Wes said “Why didn’t Bobby just tell us himself? Chef said couldn’t call, you ain’t got a telephone. Bobby’s hurt an’ he’s coming here. Come here? I said. Chef said yes, coming here. Told him I’d pick him up from the bus station myself.
The look on Wes’s face showed the words I was thinking. We were making a new life in the old way. We loved Bobby and his sister, but having him here would get in the way of the quiet life we had made for ourselves, here at Chefs house. Wes left he first time, partly because of the children. He got a girlfriend when Cheryl was 12, said her incessant talking drove him mad. Wes said his girlfriend was quiet. I tried to be quiet for him now.
Wes said Chef, when’s that bus going to get here? Chef said tomorrow, round dinner time. I said that doesn’t give us much time to make up a bed and catch enough trout for the three of us. Wes said are you sure he wants to come here Chef? Chef said sure as day, he said he wanted to be with his family.
A family wasn’t something I though of us being in a long time, not since Cheryl and Bobby were little, not since before Wes left the first time. Now things aren’t the same. Things are new. Wes and I have each other. We love those children of ours, but they aren’t children and they aren’t ours, not anymore.
I said I better get inside and start fixing things up. Chef said I need to get home. Wes just stood there trying to make sense of this invasion on Chef’s house. Chef climbed back into his car and pulled out of the drive way. I went inside and Wes stood in the drive way.
I went into the kitchen and started to get things ready to make a meal. I wanted to show Wes that things were going to be the same. I could see him from over the sink, still standing. I washed the string beans. I dried them. I put them in a pot, and move it to the stove. Wes still stood in the driveway.
I walked outside. I said things will be the same. I said Wes come inside and have a meal. I said Bobby is our son, we need to care for him. Wes looked at me. Wes said the clouds are moving, looks like rain.
The look on Wes’s face showed the words I was thinking. We were making a new life in the old way. We loved Bobby and his sister, but having him here would get in the way of the quiet life we had made for ourselves, here at Chefs house. Wes left he first time, partly because of the children. He got a girlfriend when Cheryl was 12, said her incessant talking drove him mad. Wes said his girlfriend was quiet. I tried to be quiet for him now.
Wes said Chef, when’s that bus going to get here? Chef said tomorrow, round dinner time. I said that doesn’t give us much time to make up a bed and catch enough trout for the three of us. Wes said are you sure he wants to come here Chef? Chef said sure as day, he said he wanted to be with his family.
A family wasn’t something I though of us being in a long time, not since Cheryl and Bobby were little, not since before Wes left the first time. Now things aren’t the same. Things are new. Wes and I have each other. We love those children of ours, but they aren’t children and they aren’t ours, not anymore.
I said I better get inside and start fixing things up. Chef said I need to get home. Wes just stood there trying to make sense of this invasion on Chef’s house. Chef climbed back into his car and pulled out of the drive way. I went inside and Wes stood in the drive way.
I went into the kitchen and started to get things ready to make a meal. I wanted to show Wes that things were going to be the same. I could see him from over the sink, still standing. I washed the string beans. I dried them. I put them in a pot, and move it to the stove. Wes still stood in the driveway.
I walked outside. I said things will be the same. I said Wes come inside and have a meal. I said Bobby is our son, we need to care for him. Wes looked at me. Wes said the clouds are moving, looks like rain.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Rice Krispies Treat
“Lynn! Why aren’t you listening to a goddamn word I’m saying?” Rob screamed into the telephone in his thick Boston accent.
“A Hyundai? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Here on the fifteenth floor we have a lot of characters, Rob being one of them. Everyday I come to work, take the elevator upstairs, walk over to my desk, and sit down. Everyday Rob, otherwise known as Rice Krispies (I have no idea why), sits at his desk bellowing into the phone at some poor unsuspecting soul. Today it’s his girlfriends’ mother.
“Lynn, let me tell you something about Hyundai’s… they fucking suck, and you are a complete idiot for even considering buying one. No Lynn...okay… right… good I’ll pick you up at 7 and we’ll go over to the Honda Barn... peace out.”
Rice Krispies Rob, as I like to call him when he isn’t in earshot, is what one might call the quintessential meat head. He goes to the gym twice a day, as he likes to remind us regularly. His biceps are about the size of a 6 month old child, and if he has a neck, I certainly can’t see it. On a semi regular basis I must endure his screeds about the other people at the gym.
“Dude, like those people just make me sick. I bet they work out, what? Three times a week. Fucking pussies. I go twice a day, you gotta man. You just gotta”.
I usually just sit still trying not to make eye contact with him, especially since I’m one of those disgusting people who only goes to the gym three times a week. Even with this semi regular workout routine, you wouldn’t know it, since at a lofty 6ft 2, I weight in at a whopping 170 pounds, and I have no ‘cepts, pecs, or gluts to speak of.
Even though I sit next to Rob, I don’t know a ton about him. Technically he doesn’t work for the same department as me, so there’s almost no reason we would speak. What I know about him comes mostly from what he bellows into his phone.
Rob is from Revere (figures), he is currently living in the North End of Boston (also figures). His girlfriend teaches Yoga classes at his gym, and her name is JoJo. He’s a slum lord in his spare time. And finally, his favorite movie is Scent of a Women, go figure.
In addition to cursing out his girlfriends mother today, he has also talked to his dentist, his brother, his personal trainer, his therapist (rage issues), and his nutritionist. Apparently he’s starting a new diet before the holidays, which is funny since all I’ve ever seen him consume is protein shakes.
Soon after hanging up the phone with his nutritionist he glanced over at me and declared:
“Bro, those legumes will ruin you”.
I don’t even know what that means.
“A Hyundai? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Here on the fifteenth floor we have a lot of characters, Rob being one of them. Everyday I come to work, take the elevator upstairs, walk over to my desk, and sit down. Everyday Rob, otherwise known as Rice Krispies (I have no idea why), sits at his desk bellowing into the phone at some poor unsuspecting soul. Today it’s his girlfriends’ mother.
“Lynn, let me tell you something about Hyundai’s… they fucking suck, and you are a complete idiot for even considering buying one. No Lynn...okay… right… good I’ll pick you up at 7 and we’ll go over to the Honda Barn... peace out.”
Rice Krispies Rob, as I like to call him when he isn’t in earshot, is what one might call the quintessential meat head. He goes to the gym twice a day, as he likes to remind us regularly. His biceps are about the size of a 6 month old child, and if he has a neck, I certainly can’t see it. On a semi regular basis I must endure his screeds about the other people at the gym.
“Dude, like those people just make me sick. I bet they work out, what? Three times a week. Fucking pussies. I go twice a day, you gotta man. You just gotta”.
I usually just sit still trying not to make eye contact with him, especially since I’m one of those disgusting people who only goes to the gym three times a week. Even with this semi regular workout routine, you wouldn’t know it, since at a lofty 6ft 2, I weight in at a whopping 170 pounds, and I have no ‘cepts, pecs, or gluts to speak of.
Even though I sit next to Rob, I don’t know a ton about him. Technically he doesn’t work for the same department as me, so there’s almost no reason we would speak. What I know about him comes mostly from what he bellows into his phone.
Rob is from Revere (figures), he is currently living in the North End of Boston (also figures). His girlfriend teaches Yoga classes at his gym, and her name is JoJo. He’s a slum lord in his spare time. And finally, his favorite movie is Scent of a Women, go figure.
In addition to cursing out his girlfriends mother today, he has also talked to his dentist, his brother, his personal trainer, his therapist (rage issues), and his nutritionist. Apparently he’s starting a new diet before the holidays, which is funny since all I’ve ever seen him consume is protein shakes.
Soon after hanging up the phone with his nutritionist he glanced over at me and declared:
“Bro, those legumes will ruin you”.
I don’t even know what that means.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Close Your Eyes
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn.
It lies some where only you can see
It makes you feel less alone.
There was a time right after we met
When I trusted you with my heart
But I lost that bet
Now I count my blessings that we are apart.
You spend all of your time
Wearing that suit
Bathing in quarters, nickels, and dimes
You don’t enjoy the bounty of your last pursuit.
Her dark hair and smooth slender thighs
Are as empty
As you and your lies
Glossy hair won’t make you happy.
When you look deep inside of her eyes
Straight through to her soul
Does what you see make you cry?
Or is that you, see nothing at all?
You have your girl.
You have you’re money.
But what you’ve lost is
But what you’ve lost is
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn
Close you’re eyes and you will see
I guarantee it’s there.
So close your eyes and look at me
Close you eyes, can you see me?
Close you eyes.
Handcrafted and carefully sewn.
It lies some where only you can see
It makes you feel less alone.
There was a time right after we met
When I trusted you with my heart
But I lost that bet
Now I count my blessings that we are apart.
You spend all of your time
Wearing that suit
Bathing in quarters, nickels, and dimes
You don’t enjoy the bounty of your last pursuit.
Her dark hair and smooth slender thighs
Are as empty
As you and your lies
Glossy hair won’t make you happy.
When you look deep inside of her eyes
Straight through to her soul
Does what you see make you cry?
Or is that you, see nothing at all?
You have your girl.
You have you’re money.
But what you’ve lost is
But what you’ve lost is
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn
Close you’re eyes and you will see
I guarantee it’s there.
So close your eyes and look at me
Close you eyes, can you see me?
Close you eyes.
Clementine is Missing
The face on the missing children’s poster was that of Clementine. The missing children’s poster showed Clementine looking sad and lonely. Clementine’s eyes pleaded with all those who looked at the missing children’s poster. Clementine’s rusty red hair was distorted on the missing children’s poster, so that it was more of a putrid shade of gray. The black and white of the missing children’s poster did not do Clementine justice; she was a beautiful child who simply radiated in life. But here on the missing children’s poster, Clementine just looked dull.
The missing children’s poster was hung on every street corner, so that Clementine’s face could see all who passes her. Clementines’ desperate pleads started to become unnoticed because her missing children’s poster hung around for days. As weeks passed Clementine’s became worn and translucent as the missing children’s poster got pelted with rain. As months began to pass Clementine on her poster slowly started to disappear as she was covered with the faces of other missing children.
The missing children’s poster was hung on every street corner, so that Clementine’s face could see all who passes her. Clementines’ desperate pleads started to become unnoticed because her missing children’s poster hung around for days. As weeks passed Clementine’s became worn and translucent as the missing children’s poster got pelted with rain. As months began to pass Clementine on her poster slowly started to disappear as she was covered with the faces of other missing children.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Frostbit
Each delicate petal
dotted with black tears,
stands beautifully unique
in the Californian hills.
“It’s a dry season”
the farmer said to his wife.
“The cold air is coming”
she responded.
Colors flood the hillside.
Virulent reds, oranges and browns
take siege over what was,
at one time a life.
Standing in the field
of baby blue eyes,
the annual flowers writhe
as frost blankets the ground.
dotted with black tears,
stands beautifully unique
in the Californian hills.
“It’s a dry season”
the farmer said to his wife.
“The cold air is coming”
she responded.
Colors flood the hillside.
Virulent reds, oranges and browns
take siege over what was,
at one time a life.
Standing in the field
of baby blue eyes,
the annual flowers writhe
as frost blankets the ground.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
AllPoetry
Anne Sexton
Born: 1928- 1974
Years Active: 1956- 1974
Genre: Confessionalism
Born: 1928- 1974
Years Active: 1956- 1974
Genre: Confessionalism
Biography
Anne Gray Harvey was born in Newton Massachusetts in 1928. Anne grew up in a middle class family is Weston, a suburb of Boston. Despite the comfortable economic situation, Anne childhood was not always pleasant. Her father was an alcoholic, and her mother a failed writer.
In 1948 she eloped with Alfred Muller Sexton, although she was engaged to be married to another man. Soon after wedding Anne gave birth to two daughters Linda and Joyce. Anne battled with bout of depression, and sought therapy after committing adultery while her husband was overseas in Korea.
After the birth of second daughter and the death of her grandmother, Anne found herself to be extremely depressed. She attempted suicide, and on a few occasions abused her children. Again, Anne began therapy sessions, where she was encouraged to write, as an outlet for her emotions.
She attended workshops where she met other poets (who included Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell) and this encouraged her to continue writing and publish poems. Anne published poetry collections, children’s books, and “self portrait”. She received many awards for her work including a Pulitzer Prize in poetry for Live or Die, in 1967.
As she grew older Anne’s depression worsened. On October 4, 1974, after completing her last collection of poems “The Awful Rowing Toward God”, Anne Sexton committed suicide by asphyxiation from carbon monoxide in her garage.
Works
To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960)
All My Pretty Ones (1962)
Live or Die (1966)
Love Poems (1969)
Mercy Street (1969)
Transformations (1971)
The Book of Folly (1972)
The Book of Miguel Flores' Dad (1972)
The Death Notebooks (1974)
The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975; posthumous)
45 Mercy Street (1976; posthumous)
Words for Dr. Y. (1978; posthumous)
Selected Poems of Anne Sexton (1988, posthumous)
Children's books (all co-written with Maxine Kumin)
1963 Eggs of Things (illustrated by Leonard Shortall)
1964 More Eggs of Things (illustrated by Leonard Shortall)
1974 Joey and the Birthday Present (illustrated by Evaline Ness)
1975 The Wizard's Tears (illustrated by Evaline Ness)
Prose
Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters (1977)
No Evil Star: Selected Essays, Interviews and Prose (1985)
Moods
Vivid: “…the color of a rose when it bleeds.” (Song for a Red Nightgown)
Bleak: “My under taker waits for me” (Hurry up Please It’s Time)
Personal: “I am delicate. You’ve been gone./ The losing has hurt me some” (Song for a Lady)
Anguished: “…I am unfit/ to know just who you are/ hung like a pig on exhibit.” (For God While Sleeping)
Morbid: “‘The baby turned to ice./ Someone put her in the refrigerator/ and she turned as hard as a Popsicle’” (The Death Baby)
Groups or Movements
Anne Sexton was a participant of the ‘confessionalists’ movement of poetry. Confessional poets write in a manor that tends to be honest and telling about personal situations, such as illness, death, sexuality and relationships. Confessional poetry surfaced in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Before this time period poems on such topics were not seen. Confessional poets strived to record deeply personal thoughts and emotional, while maintaining the integrity of the poem. Often their words were highly structured, which was surprising to readers given the innovative content.
The poetry of Anne Sexton is inarguably ‘confessional’. Sextons poems included topics such as abortion, drug addiction, and death. In Sextons All My Pretty Ones, she expresses grief and loss as a result of the death of her parents. The Death Notebooks and The Awful Rowing Toward God, her last published works, are a reflection on death, and the her own desire for her life to end.
Similar Artists, Followers, Influenced by
Influenced By:
Sexton met Robert Lowell in 1957 at a workshop that he was teaching. This workshop had a huge impact on the way Sexton wrote. Lowell taught about confessional poetry and the importance of its construction.
William De Witt Snodgrass was Sextons mentor. They met at the Antioch Writer's Conference in 1957. Anne related to Snodgrass’ poetry, and thusly encouraged her to write in a similar manor, that was honest about her relationships with her children. Snodgrass’ most influential poem on Sexton was Heart Needle.
Similar Artists
Sexton and Sylvia Plath became friends while attending the same workshop in 1957 taught by Robert Lowell. Both Plath and Sexton write poetry in confessional form. Both also focus intimately on death and the dying process in their writings. Also both Plath and Sexton seem to have similar experiences in regard to mental health which affected their writing.
Sexton’s poetry was also similar to one of her mentors, Robert Lowell. Both Sexton and Lowell are true confessional poets. Although Sexton and Lowell do not share similarities in some topic area (areas of abortion, menstruation, etc), they do share certain themes in their writing, including death, birth, and nature.
Follower:
Sexton does not have any proclaimed followers. Although confessional poetry is still written by many poets, few are willing to admit that Sextons psycho/ suicidal writings are their motivations for writing. Sexton is studied by both High school and College students in the United States and throughout the world.
Anne Gray Harvey was born in Newton Massachusetts in 1928. Anne grew up in a middle class family is Weston, a suburb of Boston. Despite the comfortable economic situation, Anne childhood was not always pleasant. Her father was an alcoholic, and her mother a failed writer.
In 1948 she eloped with Alfred Muller Sexton, although she was engaged to be married to another man. Soon after wedding Anne gave birth to two daughters Linda and Joyce. Anne battled with bout of depression, and sought therapy after committing adultery while her husband was overseas in Korea.
After the birth of second daughter and the death of her grandmother, Anne found herself to be extremely depressed. She attempted suicide, and on a few occasions abused her children. Again, Anne began therapy sessions, where she was encouraged to write, as an outlet for her emotions.
She attended workshops where she met other poets (who included Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell) and this encouraged her to continue writing and publish poems. Anne published poetry collections, children’s books, and “self portrait”. She received many awards for her work including a Pulitzer Prize in poetry for Live or Die, in 1967.
As she grew older Anne’s depression worsened. On October 4, 1974, after completing her last collection of poems “The Awful Rowing Toward God”, Anne Sexton committed suicide by asphyxiation from carbon monoxide in her garage.
Works
To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960)
All My Pretty Ones (1962)
Live or Die (1966)
Love Poems (1969)
Mercy Street (1969)
Transformations (1971)
The Book of Folly (1972)
The Book of Miguel Flores' Dad (1972)
The Death Notebooks (1974)
The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975; posthumous)
45 Mercy Street (1976; posthumous)
Words for Dr. Y. (1978; posthumous)
Selected Poems of Anne Sexton (1988, posthumous)
Children's books (all co-written with Maxine Kumin)
1963 Eggs of Things (illustrated by Leonard Shortall)
1964 More Eggs of Things (illustrated by Leonard Shortall)
1974 Joey and the Birthday Present (illustrated by Evaline Ness)
1975 The Wizard's Tears (illustrated by Evaline Ness)
Prose
Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters (1977)
No Evil Star: Selected Essays, Interviews and Prose (1985)
Moods
Vivid: “…the color of a rose when it bleeds.” (Song for a Red Nightgown)
Bleak: “My under taker waits for me” (Hurry up Please It’s Time)
Personal: “I am delicate. You’ve been gone./ The losing has hurt me some” (Song for a Lady)
Anguished: “…I am unfit/ to know just who you are/ hung like a pig on exhibit.” (For God While Sleeping)
Morbid: “‘The baby turned to ice./ Someone put her in the refrigerator/ and she turned as hard as a Popsicle’” (The Death Baby)
Groups or Movements
Anne Sexton was a participant of the ‘confessionalists’ movement of poetry. Confessional poets write in a manor that tends to be honest and telling about personal situations, such as illness, death, sexuality and relationships. Confessional poetry surfaced in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Before this time period poems on such topics were not seen. Confessional poets strived to record deeply personal thoughts and emotional, while maintaining the integrity of the poem. Often their words were highly structured, which was surprising to readers given the innovative content.
The poetry of Anne Sexton is inarguably ‘confessional’. Sextons poems included topics such as abortion, drug addiction, and death. In Sextons All My Pretty Ones, she expresses grief and loss as a result of the death of her parents. The Death Notebooks and The Awful Rowing Toward God, her last published works, are a reflection on death, and the her own desire for her life to end.
Similar Artists, Followers, Influenced by
Influenced By:
Sexton met Robert Lowell in 1957 at a workshop that he was teaching. This workshop had a huge impact on the way Sexton wrote. Lowell taught about confessional poetry and the importance of its construction.
William De Witt Snodgrass was Sextons mentor. They met at the Antioch Writer's Conference in 1957. Anne related to Snodgrass’ poetry, and thusly encouraged her to write in a similar manor, that was honest about her relationships with her children. Snodgrass’ most influential poem on Sexton was Heart Needle.
Similar Artists
Sexton and Sylvia Plath became friends while attending the same workshop in 1957 taught by Robert Lowell. Both Plath and Sexton write poetry in confessional form. Both also focus intimately on death and the dying process in their writings. Also both Plath and Sexton seem to have similar experiences in regard to mental health which affected their writing.
Sexton’s poetry was also similar to one of her mentors, Robert Lowell. Both Sexton and Lowell are true confessional poets. Although Sexton and Lowell do not share similarities in some topic area (areas of abortion, menstruation, etc), they do share certain themes in their writing, including death, birth, and nature.
Follower:
Sexton does not have any proclaimed followers. Although confessional poetry is still written by many poets, few are willing to admit that Sextons psycho/ suicidal writings are their motivations for writing. Sexton is studied by both High school and College students in the United States and throughout the world.
Kenneth Koch
Born: 1925- 2002
Years Active: 1950s- 2002
Genre: surrealism, satire, irony
Biography
Kenneth Koch was born in 1925 in Cincinnati, Ohio where he spent most of his youth. Kenneth began writing and reading poems from an early age. In 1946 at the age of 18, he served in the U.S. military during World War II. After completing his service Kenneth attended Harvard University and subsequently Colombia University.
While attending Harvard, Kenneth became affiliated with members of the “New York School”. The New York School was a group of artists who wanted to break free from the contemporary art of the time. Many of Kenneth’s ideals about poetry and art in general align with the major beliefs of those involved with the New York School.
Kenneth was married twice, first in 1954 to Janice Elwood, whom he had one daughter with, and following her death, he was married again in 1994 to Karen Culler. Kenneth was first published in the early 1950 and continued to write and be published up until his death in 2002 of leukemia. Kenneth published poetry collections, plays, and works of fiction. Kenneth received many awards for his work including Bollingen Prize for Poetry in 1995.
Works
Poems
Poems (1953)
Ko (1960)
Permanently (1961)
Thank You (1962)
When the Sun Tries to Go On (1969)
The Pleasures of Peace (1969)
Sleeping with Women (1969)
The Art of Love (1975)
The Duplications (1977)
The Burning Mystery of Anna in 1951 (1979)
From the Air (1979)
Days and Nights (1982)
On the Edge (1986)
Seasons on Earth (1987)
On the Great Atlantic Rainway: Selected Poems (1994)
One Train (1994)
Straits (1998)
Plays
Bertha and Other Plays (1966)
A Change of Hearts (1973)
The Red Robins (1979)
One Thousand Avant-Garde Plays (1988)
The Gold Standard (1996)
Fiction
Hotel Lambosa (1988)
The Red Robins (1975)
Moods
Surreal: “Create a great hole in the mattress and spring with/ you hatchet/ And then leap on her, covered with feathers and shiny/ metal springs” (The Art of Love)
Defiant: “One single piece of pink mint chewing gum contains more pleasures / Than the whole rude gallery of war!” (The Pleasure of Peace)
Comical: “If you do not have money, you must probably earn/ some/ But do it in a way that is pleasant and does/ not take too much time. Paint ridiculous pictures/ is one good way, and giving lectures about yourself in/ another.” (The Art of Love)
Honest: “We tell each other the names of writers in great secret/ secret but absolutely no one else cares so why keep it” (On Train)
Ironic: “The panda in the Beijing Zoo/ Is a minority nationality/ The panda in the American zoo/ Is overseas Chinese” (On Train)
Groups or Movements
Kenneth Koch was affiliated with the “New York School”, a group of artists (formed in the 1950s) whose arts often reflected surrealist ideas. In regards to poetry, the New York School was anti confessionalist, thus rejecting contemporary poetry of the time. Much of what was written by poets in the New York School was filled with surreal images, stream of consciousness, and messages that were impulsive as well as direct.
Koch’s poetry greatly reflects these values. Many of Koch’s poems are upbeat and humorous, especially The Art of Love (1975). In addition to being non confessional, much of Koch’s works include surreal images that challenge as well as engage the reader. Some of his most vivid surreal images can be found in When the Sun Tries to Go On (1969).
Similar Artists, Followers, Influenced by
Influenced By:
One poet that Koch was influenced by is Ezra Pound. Pound was a major figure in the ‘modernist’ movement in the early to mid 20th century. Koch is quoted as saying: “Artistically I was excited by Pound. In New Addresses I felt free to use tones and lines and phrases from other poets. For example, in the poem "To the Unknown", I have the line "Let me know in advance, and I will come down to meet you / As far as the open part in which you live."
Koch was also influenced by his friends Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery. Both O’Hara and Ashbery were members of the New York School with Koch, whom was quoted as saying “Some writers of my own generation have been very important to me. The ones I've been most moved by have been Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery”. Both O’Hara and Ashbery’s poetry is filled with surrealist images, which was a common thing among writers in the New York School. These artists and others shared ideas with Koch with heavily influenced his writing.
Similar Artists
In addition to being influenced by Frank O’Hara and John Ashbery, Koch’s work is similar in many regards to the work of both poets. Because they were all member of the New York School, they held to many of the same poetic values, and thusly their works are akin. All three poets use a great deal of surrealist images in their writings. Their poems also tend to include humor and witticisms.
Follower
Ron Padgett was a student of Koch’s while he studied creative writing at Wagner College. Padgett later became a poet and essayist of his own right. He was also a member of the New York School, and thusly embodied many of their principles in his writing. Like Koch, Padgett used surreal images in his writing, along with humor. Koch also encouraged Padgett to teaching poetry to children, which he did from 1969 until 1978.
Born: 1925- 2002
Years Active: 1950s- 2002
Genre: surrealism, satire, irony
Biography
Kenneth Koch was born in 1925 in Cincinnati, Ohio where he spent most of his youth. Kenneth began writing and reading poems from an early age. In 1946 at the age of 18, he served in the U.S. military during World War II. After completing his service Kenneth attended Harvard University and subsequently Colombia University.
While attending Harvard, Kenneth became affiliated with members of the “New York School”. The New York School was a group of artists who wanted to break free from the contemporary art of the time. Many of Kenneth’s ideals about poetry and art in general align with the major beliefs of those involved with the New York School.
Kenneth was married twice, first in 1954 to Janice Elwood, whom he had one daughter with, and following her death, he was married again in 1994 to Karen Culler. Kenneth was first published in the early 1950 and continued to write and be published up until his death in 2002 of leukemia. Kenneth published poetry collections, plays, and works of fiction. Kenneth received many awards for his work including Bollingen Prize for Poetry in 1995.
Works
Poems
Poems (1953)
Ko (1960)
Permanently (1961)
Thank You (1962)
When the Sun Tries to Go On (1969)
The Pleasures of Peace (1969)
Sleeping with Women (1969)
The Art of Love (1975)
The Duplications (1977)
The Burning Mystery of Anna in 1951 (1979)
From the Air (1979)
Days and Nights (1982)
On the Edge (1986)
Seasons on Earth (1987)
On the Great Atlantic Rainway: Selected Poems (1994)
One Train (1994)
Straits (1998)
Plays
Bertha and Other Plays (1966)
A Change of Hearts (1973)
The Red Robins (1979)
One Thousand Avant-Garde Plays (1988)
The Gold Standard (1996)
Fiction
Hotel Lambosa (1988)
The Red Robins (1975)
Moods
Surreal: “Create a great hole in the mattress and spring with/ you hatchet/ And then leap on her, covered with feathers and shiny/ metal springs” (The Art of Love)
Defiant: “One single piece of pink mint chewing gum contains more pleasures / Than the whole rude gallery of war!” (The Pleasure of Peace)
Comical: “If you do not have money, you must probably earn/ some/ But do it in a way that is pleasant and does/ not take too much time. Paint ridiculous pictures/ is one good way, and giving lectures about yourself in/ another.” (The Art of Love)
Honest: “We tell each other the names of writers in great secret/ secret but absolutely no one else cares so why keep it” (On Train)
Ironic: “The panda in the Beijing Zoo/ Is a minority nationality/ The panda in the American zoo/ Is overseas Chinese” (On Train)
Groups or Movements
Kenneth Koch was affiliated with the “New York School”, a group of artists (formed in the 1950s) whose arts often reflected surrealist ideas. In regards to poetry, the New York School was anti confessionalist, thus rejecting contemporary poetry of the time. Much of what was written by poets in the New York School was filled with surreal images, stream of consciousness, and messages that were impulsive as well as direct.
Koch’s poetry greatly reflects these values. Many of Koch’s poems are upbeat and humorous, especially The Art of Love (1975). In addition to being non confessional, much of Koch’s works include surreal images that challenge as well as engage the reader. Some of his most vivid surreal images can be found in When the Sun Tries to Go On (1969).
Similar Artists, Followers, Influenced by
Influenced By:
One poet that Koch was influenced by is Ezra Pound. Pound was a major figure in the ‘modernist’ movement in the early to mid 20th century. Koch is quoted as saying: “Artistically I was excited by Pound. In New Addresses I felt free to use tones and lines and phrases from other poets. For example, in the poem "To the Unknown", I have the line "Let me know in advance, and I will come down to meet you / As far as the open part in which you live."
Koch was also influenced by his friends Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery. Both O’Hara and Ashbery were members of the New York School with Koch, whom was quoted as saying “Some writers of my own generation have been very important to me. The ones I've been most moved by have been Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery”. Both O’Hara and Ashbery’s poetry is filled with surrealist images, which was a common thing among writers in the New York School. These artists and others shared ideas with Koch with heavily influenced his writing.
Similar Artists
In addition to being influenced by Frank O’Hara and John Ashbery, Koch’s work is similar in many regards to the work of both poets. Because they were all member of the New York School, they held to many of the same poetic values, and thusly their works are akin. All three poets use a great deal of surrealist images in their writings. Their poems also tend to include humor and witticisms.
Follower
Ron Padgett was a student of Koch’s while he studied creative writing at Wagner College. Padgett later became a poet and essayist of his own right. He was also a member of the New York School, and thusly embodied many of their principles in his writing. Like Koch, Padgett used surreal images in his writing, along with humor. Koch also encouraged Padgett to teaching poetry to children, which he did from 1969 until 1978.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
A Summer's Night on Cape Cod
Molly’s house became the tradition.
A place to see old friends and make new ones.
A jaunt to P-town, a day at the beach, a homemade “family” dinner.
Crisco is
A shortening product
often used for baking.
Drew is
a little on the pathological side,
but none the less, entertaining.
“Bitch, I got Crisco and a knife”
He said he was from Philly,
But that didn’t answer the question,
What is the Crisco for?
A place to see old friends and make new ones.
A jaunt to P-town, a day at the beach, a homemade “family” dinner.
Crisco is
A shortening product
often used for baking.
Drew is
a little on the pathological side,
but none the less, entertaining.
“Bitch, I got Crisco and a knife”
He said he was from Philly,
But that didn’t answer the question,
What is the Crisco for?
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Workshop: Circles
I walk in circles that never seem to end
It’s impossible to tell where I began.
Time passes and it seems impossible to stop.
The endless motions
Of someone who is constantly trying to escape.
The circle sometimes stretches and the space in front of me seems vast.
This is an illusion,
because all the while I am walking on a curve.
I try to escape.
Take a sharp left,
or maybe a right, turn backward.
But this is impossible.
I am chained here,
and there is no direction to go other than forward.
The circle sometimes shrinks.
It becomes even more restrictive,
the world seems to collapse on top of me.
I pass each point more than once,
Revisiting over and over the places I tried to escape,
and failed.
It’s not for lack of trying,
that I remain walking in circles that never seem to end.
It’s impossible to tell where I began.
Time passes and it seems impossible to stop.
The endless motions
Of someone who is constantly trying to escape.
The circle sometimes stretches and the space in front of me seems vast.
This is an illusion,
because all the while I am walking on a curve.
I try to escape.
Take a sharp left,
or maybe a right, turn backward.
But this is impossible.
I am chained here,
and there is no direction to go other than forward.
The circle sometimes shrinks.
It becomes even more restrictive,
the world seems to collapse on top of me.
I pass each point more than once,
Revisiting over and over the places I tried to escape,
and failed.
It’s not for lack of trying,
that I remain walking in circles that never seem to end.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Dear Abe,
I'm sorry that your self confidence is lacking. It's true that I have learned to accept my height, and even embrace it. Just think, if I weren't so tall, I wouldn't have my part-time job stacking books on the highest shelves in my local library.
Honestly Abe, you have nothing to worry about. First of all you did a great job as president. That emancipation proclamation thing, that was pretty sweet. Freeing slave, totally mint. Secondly you are a very attractive dude. Where did you get that top hat man? I want to get one for myself.
I guess that bottom line is you I should try to focus on all of the good things you have going for you. That how I get through my days. When I get down I just remember how ruggedly good looking I am, and it's all good.
Be Well and eat your Peas,
Jolly Green
I'm sorry that your self confidence is lacking. It's true that I have learned to accept my height, and even embrace it. Just think, if I weren't so tall, I wouldn't have my part-time job stacking books on the highest shelves in my local library.
Honestly Abe, you have nothing to worry about. First of all you did a great job as president. That emancipation proclamation thing, that was pretty sweet. Freeing slave, totally mint. Secondly you are a very attractive dude. Where did you get that top hat man? I want to get one for myself.
I guess that bottom line is you I should try to focus on all of the good things you have going for you. That how I get through my days. When I get down I just remember how ruggedly good looking I am, and it's all good.
Be Well and eat your Peas,
Jolly Green
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