After four long years and treacherous swampland adventure of humidity and Spanish moss. But wait. Spanish moss doesn't really grown much in this area. So if I see some maybe Ill snap a couple of shots for the blog.
here is a short poem about drinking beer in the dark.:
I'm going to Henry's Place to cry
While I sip diet Coke in the dark
Alone in a crowd of shadows
between me and the internet
jukebox.
Im working on this one that began like two images of word salad. So I think I am headed in the right direction.
I might say that I am studying mindfulness. This may be the hidden key to understanding the place my poems are molded
the Blues is also a ubiquitous force as the Mississippi River tumbles southward past Memphis. So this I imagine because I don't travel. I live vicariously more often than I even realize.
And the tao quotes and the Zen quotes for David
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Thursday, July 16, 2015
3 Haiku for you
Haiku #1
Night plum tree bough,
Crow looking down.
No stars, only you.
Haiku #2
Leaving the islands
Rain like tears falling down
Ripples run round
Haiku # 3
Flower scent lingers.
Shower curtain, orchid seed.
Locks on my sweater.
A poem from me. Finger Snaps I should call this one.
For the Gardenias
Leave
my heart alone
These
thoughts of her,
Innocent
and cunning
At
once, like a blade of wheat,
To
catch and cut the skin
Her
sunshine days are in vaulted light
And beneath indigo pinpoint night
Where
I saw her face among the stars,
And I know now why ships are launched to wars.
Watch your
face like cherub’s cloud
Wrapped
‘round your shoulders silky
Remember:
Your
cheeks of bone, and jaw,
As
they work out your forehead’s flesh.
Perhaps
to know the softness of your lips
And
the gentle passions which they press
American Life in Poetry: Column 536
American Life in Poetry: Column 536
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
I love short poems, and Wendy Videlock is very good at writing them. This is from her book Slingshots and Love Plums, from Able Muse Press. She lives in Colorado.
A Relevance
One
teeny tiny
worm
making the earth
turn.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of
Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of NebraskaLincoln.
Poem copyright ©2015 by Wendy Videlock, “A Relevance,” from her book of poems, Slingshots and Love
Plums, (Able Muse Press, 2015). Poem reprinted by permission of Wendy Videlock and the publisher.
Introduction copyright © 2015 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as
United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 20042006.
We do not
accept unsolicited manuscripts.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
I love short poems, and Wendy Videlock is very good at writing them. This is from her book Slingshots and Love Plums, from Able Muse Press. She lives in Colorado.
A Relevance
One
teeny tiny
worm
making the earth
turn.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of
Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of NebraskaLincoln.
Poem copyright ©2015 by Wendy Videlock, “A Relevance,” from her book of poems, Slingshots and Love
Plums, (Able Muse Press, 2015). Poem reprinted by permission of Wendy Videlock and the publisher.
Introduction copyright © 2015 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as
United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 20042006.
We do not
accept unsolicited manuscripts.
American Life in Poetry: Column 537
American Life in Poetry: Column 537
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
One of the first uses of language must surely have been to tell others what happened beyond the firelight, out
in the forest. And poems that do just that seem wonderfully natural and human to me. Here’s Anya Krugovoy
Silver telling us something that happened far from home. She lives and teaches in Georgia.
Doing Laundry In Budapest
The dryer, uniform and squat as a biscuit tin,
came to life and turned on me its insect eye.
My tshirts
and underwear crackled and leapt.
I was a tourist there; I didn’t speak the language.
My shoulders covered themselves up in churches,
my tongue soothed its burn with slices of pickle.
More I don’t remember: only, weekends now
when I stand in the kitchen, sorting sweat pants
and pairing socks, I remember the afternoon
I did my laundry in Budapest, where the sidewalks
bloomed with embroidered linen, where money
wasn’t permitted to leave the country.
When I close my eyes, I recall that spinning,
then a woman, with nothing else to sell,
pressing wilted flowers in my hands.
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry
Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department
7/6/2015 Gmail American
Life in Poetry 537
https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=79b965383d&view=pt&search=inbox&th=14e63e49b5998b9e&siml=14e63e49b5998b9e 2/2
of English at the University of NebraskaLincoln.
Poem copyright ©2014 by Anya Krugovoy Silver, “Doing
Laundry in Budapest,” from I Watched You Disappear: Poems, (Louisiana State Univ. Press, 2014). Poem
reprinted by permission of Anya Krugovoy Silver and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2015 by The
Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant
in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 20042006.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
One of the first uses of language must surely have been to tell others what happened beyond the firelight, out
in the forest. And poems that do just that seem wonderfully natural and human to me. Here’s Anya Krugovoy
Silver telling us something that happened far from home. She lives and teaches in Georgia.
Doing Laundry In Budapest
The dryer, uniform and squat as a biscuit tin,
came to life and turned on me its insect eye.
My tshirts
and underwear crackled and leapt.
I was a tourist there; I didn’t speak the language.
My shoulders covered themselves up in churches,
my tongue soothed its burn with slices of pickle.
More I don’t remember: only, weekends now
when I stand in the kitchen, sorting sweat pants
and pairing socks, I remember the afternoon
I did my laundry in Budapest, where the sidewalks
bloomed with embroidered linen, where money
wasn’t permitted to leave the country.
When I close my eyes, I recall that spinning,
then a woman, with nothing else to sell,
pressing wilted flowers in my hands.
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry
Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department
7/6/2015 Gmail American
Life in Poetry 537
https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=79b965383d&view=pt&search=inbox&th=14e63e49b5998b9e&siml=14e63e49b5998b9e 2/2
of English at the University of NebraskaLincoln.
Poem copyright ©2014 by Anya Krugovoy Silver, “Doing
Laundry in Budapest,” from I Watched You Disappear: Poems, (Louisiana State Univ. Press, 2014). Poem
reprinted by permission of Anya Krugovoy Silver and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2015 by The
Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant
in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 20042006.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
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