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Medusa in San Francisco

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

Ok, I was a little nervous
in the airport, but I looked at her
right in her eyes, and sure
she had her hair up sometimes,
but why would that make any
difference? What I am saying
is that a thousand times I smiled
into her sweet face, at the restaurant
where the owner also took her hands,
in the sleepy park, at pizza—she
even drank some of my soda—in the bath
where I made love to her dirty hair, all that
and the moment of parting, waving
and waving at her, even when her head
disappeared up the escalator and then
her collarbone, hips, knees and perfect feet,
and my heart lost whatever small bits
of stone it ever could have had, and yes
time stopped and now everyone everywhere
looks like they are from out of Vigeland Park,
stone, sure, but smooth and naked and tangled.

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(added few months ago!) / 80 views

Bottoming Out

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

Midsummer and no moon. Low beams on the dry highway.
And that twang from a silver disk? It's Sister Rosetta Tharpe
On her gitbox, raw voice argufying for the Lord.

I no longer know what music suits me. For some moods,
The skeletal airs of oboe and bassoon. And then I give in
To a pigfoot piano, to the bark of a swollen saxophone.

Sometimes beauty becomes so neurotic it can't look at itself.
In the arc of the car, maybe I've taken the last wrong turn,
Gravel under the wheels, gravel under the tongue.

How little we change over the stale years, living
On this small blue stone, not on some planet of tilting rings
In a cauldron of stars. And not even a rumor of moon tonight.

Gauges waver in the radium glow of the dashboard lights.
Beyond the windshield, vapors hang from the vanishing point.
I steer by instinct now, by nudge and muscle and spin.

The mind at midnight travels out on vectors of exhaust,
On its own drone and grind, moving toward some great capacious phrase
Fluent as itself, the nomad mind, free among the rude mechanicals.

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(added few months ago!) / 205 views

Villanelle on a Line from Macbeth

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

Stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more.
I don’t want the house, I want its ruins,
cracked panes, grandfather clock, paper-like door.

I want the vines that engulfed exterior walls,
petrified forests of books and manuscripts,
dust-filled afternoons that opened like doors

Onto Hesse’s wind-silvered fields, onto myths
surging up out of the earth. I want the man to say,
“Stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more,”

as he did at the end of every long conversation,
saying “imperfect” and meaning “unfinished,”
saying it always as I moved toward the door,

as I say it now, again and over and again,
I want the words to rebuild the house in shambles:
stay, imperfect speaker, tell me more.

I know: if I went back, there would be nothing
or worse: a new house, pristine, immaculate,
even the vine-filled library gone. I left and shut the door.
Imperfect memory, please, stay, tell me more.

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(added few months ago!) / 71 views

Poetry in Motion

Posted in : Poets

(added few months ago!)

Outside of the Brooklyn Museum a small sign of a crash test dummy, attached to a pole near a crosswalk, attracted little attention from its intended audience: pedestrians crossing Eastern Parkway.

The colorful sign, which has a QR code that reveals a haiku when scanned with a smartphone, is part of the Department of Transportation’s new safety campaign called “Curbside Haiku” and is meant to engage pedestrians and alert them to the dangers of crossing busy streets throughout the five boroughs.

But pedestrians crossing Eastern Parkway on Tuesday didn’t seem to notice. “In all honesty if I noticed it I would have thought it was an ad because of the QR code,” said Hayley Thornton-Kennedy after she crossed Eastern Parkway near Washington Avenue. “The problem I can see happening is that people will snap the code and read the haiku while jaywalking.”

As of Tuesday 12 out of 216 signs, which were created by an East Village artist, John Morse, were hung in high-crash zones near cultural institutions and schools to help keep New York City’s streets as safe as they can be in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island and Queens.   

The campaign was paid for by a state grant funded by DWI fines. The set of 12 different eight-inch by eight-inch signs were installed by DOT’s Urban Art Program. In the past decade New York City has seen a 25 percent drop in pedestrian fatalities. The DOT is hoping to cut the fatalities by 50 percent by 2030 through creative initiatives like this one.

The signs will be on view from now until next fall at a dozen hubs across the five boroughs, including near Brooklyn’s Transit Museum, the Brooklyn Museum and in Downtown Brooklyn.  After scanning one of the two signs outside of the museum the haiku below appeared on the smartphone:

“Aggressive driver/Aggressive pedestrian/Two crash test dummies.” About half of the signs have the haikus written on them and the others have the QR code that reveals the three lines of poetry.

“Curbside Haiku seeks to merge public art with public awareness to infuse a bit of beauty and joy into the public sphere with the images while underscoring the realities of the message with poetry,” said the artist, John Morse who also wrote each poem. “I’m aiming to engage, edify and inform and nothing does that better than art.”The signs are unique and if one catches an eye, it is sure to make a pedestrian stop, but hopefully they won't stop in the middle of the road.

“I like that it is a modern image. I think it will reach youths and help them not cross the street recklessly and help save lives,” said Taft Henderson, who jaywalked across Eastern Parkway yesterday and did not notice the sign until it was pointed out. “It’s a good location especially considering the construction. I hope the sign helps, but it should be way bigger.”

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(added few months ago!) / 96 views

Youth Poetry Book of the Year winners announced

Posted in : Book

(added few months ago!)

Tehran Times: Youth Poetry Book of the Year announced winners during a ceremony at the Iranian Artists Forum (IAF) on Monday. The winners received Qeisar Aminpur Awards which are named after the contemporary poet Qeisar Aminpur after his death in 2007. “On Memory of Consanguineous Ringdove” by Ali Abbasnejad won the award in the Classic Category.

In the Blank Verse Category, Roja Roshankar’s “Dying in Mother Tongue” was awarded as the best collection The ceremony was attended by great literati including Shams Langarudi, Ali Bbabachahi, Farzan Sojudi, Mostafa Rahamandust and Enayat Samiei and the winners read some of their poems for the audience.

A total of 154 poems were received by the secretariat of the event out of which 69 collections were composed in classic style, poet Mohammadreza Malekian, who is member of IAF board of directors, mentioned during the ceremony.

Collections by Javad Zehtab, Monireh Hosseini, Pantea Safaii, Roja Chamankar, Ali Abbasnejad, Hajar Farhadi, and Hamed Rahmati comprised the short list of the event. Speaking at the ceremony, Abdolmalekian advised the winners to consider their success at the event as a passage to another stages rather than an achievement.

Poets Mohammad-Ali Bahmani and Esmaeil Amini judged the poems in Classic Category and Shams Langerudi, Enayat Samiei and Farzan Sojudi judged the received works in the Blank Verse Category.

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(added few months ago!) / 103 views

Ephemeron

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

Those are windflowers glowing in the outer darkness
    just beyond the gateposts. If I squint,
I see them clearly: white windflowers, flicker of star gas,
    bridal-veil nebula—an infinity bent
By the gravity of dawn and rain, but opening.
    It astonishes me again: I am fifty and pregnant,
And beyond the bedroom window September is gathering
    its cosmological light. A child, the windflower says.
What's that? Nothing. Or hardly anything
    five weeks beyond conceiving. And that monstrous
Morning star above the neighbor's gable mutters,
    enough. What's one more human? Heartless,
These elemental things, mist on the sidewalk, litter:
    And so there are gods again, suddenly.
The windflower opens its oblivious scripture
    as the sun advances degree by omniscient degree.
In the street a shadow of sparrows echoes the oil slick
    left by yesterday's downtown express. Details gather ominously,
And that is the point, precisely, a god's favorite trick—
    the accrual, like money in the bank, of our undoing.
But an arm's length away, the anti-entropic womb
    of my sleeping wife is growing
A consciousness. Listen, zygote. The windflower's true name:
    Anemone. Its true vocation: to be blowing
Against a wooden gate at 6 a.m.
    in the broken dawn-light of the fiftieth September
Of a man old enough to refuse to be ashamed
    of his own joy. And the windflower's fate? No matter.
It is enough, now, to watch it being.
    It is enough to be myself—again almost a father,
Watching the newsboy wander the street—feeling,
    almost, the old gods' abstract hearts contract.
I smell them gather above me like ravens, wheeling
    over the promise my body makes. Black-
Hearted godhood has left them hungry.
    But it is they who assemble, in the amniotic sac,
Bits of star-grit, skeins of DNA, the holy chemistry
    of existence. What can I do but leave them to it, even
Knowing what I know? My spiritual autobiography
    is a shambles-in-progress, my unfinished Confessions
A creaking stylized fiction from a distant century—
    it reads like a pirated version of a bad translation
Of a novel the young Balzac wrote, then threw away.
    No god forgives such things. The gods have taste.
Smelling an uncouth sulfur in the aura of the coming day,
    the Supreme Will wrinkles the Great Face.
The Gaze averts, and here's our chance. A space
    opens—ambiguous territory, zygote. Translucent. Our place.

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(added few months ago!) / 80 views

Ruth Stone dies at 96; American poet

Posted in : Poets

(added few months ago!)

Ruth Stone, a leading American poet whose career was halted, then inspired by tragedy as her sharp insights into love, death and nature brought her widespread acclaim in later years, has died. She was 96.

Stone, who won the National Book Award at 87 and was a Pulitzer Prize finalist at 93, died Nov. 19 of natural causes at her home in Ripton, Vt., said her daughter, Phoebe Stone.

The poet was poised to publish her first book of verse, "In an Iridescent Time," in 1959 when her husband, poet and novelist Walter Stone, committed suicide by hanging at 42. Left with three daughters to raise, Ruth Stone struggled to feed her family, moving around the country to teach at a seemingly endless string of universities.

Yet his death both interrupted and informed her career. Decades later, Stone said she had never recovered from the suicide and considered her body of work "love poems written to a dead man."

He husband recurred, ghostlike, in poem after poem, through haunting and sometimes harsh images. In "Turn Your Eyes Away," she wrote of discovering his body: "on the door of a rented room/like an overcoat, like a bathrobe/hung from a hook."

In "All Time is Past Time," Stone was wistful: "Actually the widow thinks/he may be/ in another country in disguise."Of course she'd "rather not have had the loss," Stone told the Boston Globe in 2003. "We cannot make that choice. Life makes it for us. You either go down … or you can express yourself."

The second of her 13 books was not released until 1971, and for many years she remained an important if relatively unknown poet until major awards put her in the spotlight. She won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 2000 for "Ordinary Words" and the National Book Award in 2002 for her poem collection "In the Next Galaxy." Her many honors also include two Guggenheim fellowships.

Her poems were brief and cataloged what she called "that vast/confused library, the female mind." She wrote about milk bottling; her grandmother's hair; and of random thoughts while hanging laundry, which included Einstein's mustache and the eyesight of ants.

"I'm constantly amazed by this mixture of humor, profundity, pathos and sorrow in her work," Willis Barnstone, a poet and scholar, told the Boston Globe in 2003, when he called Stone "the best writer of poetry that we have today."

She was born Ruth Perkins on June 8, 1915, in Roanoke, Va., and spent much of her childhood in Indianapolis. Her father was a drummer and her mother made a point of reciting poetry to her.

By 19, Ruth was married and attending the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where she met Walter Stone, a graduate student whom she later called the love of her life."You, a young poet working/in the steel mills; me, married, to a dull chemical engineer," she wrote of their early, adulterous courtship in "Coffee and Sweet Rolls."

She divorced her first husband, with whom she had a daughter, Marcia, married Stone and had two more daughters, Abigail and Phoebe. She is survived by her children, seven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren, according to the New York Times.

Walter was also an up-and-coming poet on sabbatical in London when he killed himself, a suicide that Ruth later said she never completely understood.

A primitive farm in Vermont became the family's refuge, an anchor to return to between her teaching assignments. Her teaching life became more stable in 1990, when she became a professor of English and creative writing at the State University of New York.

Upon winning the National Book Award, Stone said, "They probably gave it to me because I'm old. I've been writing poetry, or whatever it is, since I was 5 or 6 years old. I don't know why I did it. It was like a stream alongside me. It just talks to me, and I write it down."

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(added few months ago!) / 100 views

Outlaw poet publishes second book

Posted in : Poets

(added few months ago!)

Jeff Barbee of Burlington has seen his share of heartbreaks and uses poetry to provide readers with a glimpse into his anguish.

Barbee, 52, spends his nights at the homeless shelter run by Allied Churches of Alamance County. It’s a place he’s called home for the past six weeks. Barbee suffers from bipolar disorder.

Barbee began writing poetry when he was a student at Williams High School. He has written hundreds of poems through the years and published some of his poetry last March. Barbee’s “Outlaw Poet” published by Publish America is available for sale online at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.com.

Barbee described “Outlaw Poet” as a collection of poetry and prose that runs the full gamut of poetry dealing with religion, darkness, manic depression and death. It tells the personal story of Barbee’s life, loves and confusion.

“It’s my memoirs,” Barbee said. “It tells about my life.”Barbee said the first half of the book contains mostly positive poems about life with darker works in the second half of the book. Barbee said his bipolar disorder drives him to write at night.

One of Barbee’s favorite poems is “Mistress Moon.” He begins it with “Oh, my sweet loving Mistress Moon.” The poem ends with “My sweet loving Mistress Moon the morning always comes to soon.”

Many of Barbee’s poems are written to women he has known. Through all of Barbee’s life trials, poetry has been constant. He says he’s worked about 17 different jobs since he graduated from Williams High School in 1977, including at Burlington Industries. His most recent job was working in food services at Elon University, where he stayed for about seven years.

Today, his top priority is to find housing. Barbee said he appreciates the help that Allied Churches has provided him while living at the homeless shelter. Barbee said the public has the wrong impression about people living at homeless shelters. Barbee said all of them aren’t drug addicts or lazy, as some might believe. Many people who are living at homeless shelters face hard times because of the recent economic downturn or physical disabilities out of their control, Barbee said.

“Some people have nowhere else to go in this economy,” Barbee said. Barbee said he would continue to write poetry during the evenings at the shelter. He spends most days at the library, where he feels most comfortable around books.

Six weeks ago Publish America published Barbee’s second book, “Outlaw Poet Book Two: Eclecticism,” now available online as well. Barbee said he is also working on two novels.

Barbee said he looks for inspiration from such poets as William Blake, Emily Dickenson, Victor Hugo, Edgar Allen Poe, Dylan Thomas and Walt Whitman. His favorite poet was Massachusetts native Sylvia Plath. Plath committed suicide in February 1963 in London at age 30.

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(added few months ago!) / 88 views

Is It Time?

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

The children will be waiting for me
with blue veined arms and all tomorrow
slaked in the whites of their eyes.

They have knowledge, they assure me,
of how rain comes undone
and mornings thicken like milk.

And they remember the story of the night
that popped itself inside out
and forgot all of its songs.

'But what happened the moon?'
Picked up, shiny penny, by a woman
with too much air in her pockets,

spent on a word from a barrow-seller
and gifted, in turn, to a boy and a girl
who learn what becomes of it.

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(added few months ago!) / 84 views

Advice from the Predecessor's Wife

Posted in : Poem of the Day

(added few months ago!)

Learn Arabic—your husband won't have time.
At Carrefour Express, aisle one is the tax-free line.
For poultry, go to Sweifieh (the Palestinian
chicken man's shop); pig, on the other hand,
is impossible to find (frozen pork sometimes
turns up at the co-op). Basha _________'s
wife is pregnant with twins; expect to host
a spa date or two for his mistress. Never make
eye contact with local men. Read Married
to a Bedouin, the Expert Expat's Guide. (Skip
Queen Noor's book—she's from the Midwest.)
During Ramadan Crumbs' breakfast is the best;
everything else is closed. Never ride
in the front of a taxi with an Arab. If you're
near the Embassy, avoid hailing a cab (security says
we're sitting ducks). Help in Amman
runs cheap: hire a driver, a maid, a cook.
Mansef is made with lamb or goat, and stewed
in a hearty jameed. When dining with royalty,
keep conversation neutral. At private parties
be prepared to be the only woman in the room,
save the staff. Look the part, but don't
show cleavage. Lipstick is fine. Laugh hard
(but not too hard) at Colonel _________'s
dick jokes. Know how to properly cut and light
a cigar. When talk turns to politics, smile
and nod, then say something obscure
in Arabic—your husband will give you the cue
(the Jords will think it cute). Never ask
a woman how long her hair is
under the hijab. Don't call anyone
but your husband habibi. Explore the souks;
steer clear of the mosques. All Arabs hate dogs—
walk yours after dark; comb your yard
for poison and traps. Close your drapes
(Western women are common victims
of peeping toms). When moving among crowds,
expect children and strangers to stop
to stroke your hair. Always carry your passport.
The number-one reason a man's relieved
from his post? His wife's unhappy. Avoid this
from the get-go—get a hobby! Play tennis,
take a class, or find a job. (The field's leveled
for spouses: here, education and experience
equal nada.) The work week runs Sunday to
Thursday; your husband will clock in Saturdays,
Fridays, too. Pack at least four ball gowns;
stock up on shirts with sleeves. Gunfire means
graduation, or congratulations—a wedding's
just taken place. Don't be disturbed by
the armed guards outside your apartment
(their assault rifles don't have bullets,
rumor has it). "Little America" runs perpendicular
to Ring Six (a.k.a. Cholesterol Circle)—Popeyes,
Burger King, Hardee's—you'll find everything
you need. McDonald's Playland spans three
upstairs levels. Ship a year's worth of ketchup,
mayonnaise. Blonds are often mistaken
for hookers; consider dying your hair.
By September or October you'll learn to
tune out the call to prayer.

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(added few months ago!) / 74 views