poMotion poetry

Archive for June 2010

The Whip in the Temple.

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He smiled

At the palms crushed

To stain by the calloused hooves of the stolen donkey

And wonders

“Was anyone

The faces each like a little flame

With their halleluiahs

Getting the joke?”

The faces each like a little flame

With their serious halleluiahs

That knot like rope behind his smile

Growing

Forced

He pats the good neck of the donkey and the sinews of the scrawny neck keep his back straight

And this is where I came in

Caught

Between praise and expectation

Between the users at my back and the used up at my fingertips

The song and the sacrifice

Caught

Between the desire and the consummation

Between the lash and the coins

Piled like fortune on the fragile tables

My hallelujahs to turning the earth into sky

My hollow eyes

And he was sick of parable when he twisted the cord

His hands itched with inaction

His hands calloused by wood and hammer

Itched with inaction

And he scratched them on the cord he twisted into whip

And strode with whip in calloused hand toward the temple’s selling

And sold faces

And the terror at the arc of the whip in his hand

Stood guard at the entrance of his tomb

By Noah West

Written by lickmypoetry

June 30, 2010 at 10:24 pm

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What I want

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If you are asking…
what I
want…

Here.
In this moment…

Mostly
I want to laugh with you
way past midnight
in that space of time
before mornings greeting finds us
and last night’s passion
has exhausted us
after
you have claimed
every space of skin and
every nerve ending
I own
After
you have stretched me
past the point of beginning or ending

After that
I want to
laugh
with

my lover, my friend, my man.

by Julie McCurdy

Written by lickmypoetry

June 29, 2010 at 7:32 pm

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Writing a poem

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Writing a poem
following assumptions
revise and turn
words

understanding massages
autobiographical attack.
reason doesn’t help
engage or praise red wheel barrow
skills

distance based on
Mondays
They flee the ruined mind
not complete

texture, craft
paint, crazy ode
colored light techniques
sneaks around
to your thinking

do not shut
the book

(this is a poem I put together for a poetry class I took using words found on the syllabus, i think it turned out okay )

by Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

June 25, 2010 at 4:32 pm

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River Resurrection

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River breeds resurrection
No bridge left for crows
Construction ever more flowing
Levy holds debris
A bloated soul
Flesh picked by catfish
Set him free
Set him free
The dragline
Another victim to the whirlpool
Natures eerie pull
Newspaper reads: River claims fourth victim this summer
Families cry, as we fish and swim in her currents
Watching barges fade
A black snake and sweet tea
A packed lunch and a cashed bowl
Listening to her softly creep
We retreat to driftwood
Watching her rise without reason
Waiting for the mosquitoes
Building a fire
Settling down into our own
Set us free.
Set us free.

Written by lickmypoetry

June 23, 2010 at 7:10 pm

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Crying Shame

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Written by lickmypoetry

June 22, 2010 at 8:45 am

As Usual

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As usual, nothing remains as usual.

As usual, the knife has no handle.

As usual, the bloody hand cannot open,

cannot drop it, cannot cease to work on.

The carver just must be carved

by the carving, as usual, as usual.

As usual, the best and the worst

are behind us, now. As usual,

the worst and the best are yet to come.

As usual, the present finds us

as usual, awake and not awake,

certain and uncertain, ready and

surprised. As usual, the stranger

in the mirror, knows more than we do.

As usual, the friends and enemies

at the door love and hate someone

overlapping us who is standing slightly

to the left or right of us, like

an out-of-focus image. As usual,

this difference is a most profound teacher.

As usual, the many rich gifts

of love and hate pile up faster

than they can be opened. As usual,

the elfish hands of dreaming

go to work on the impossible task

in our stead, and then leave us

to wander, as usual, the pirate cave

of treasures and terrors named,

All My Own And Everbody Else’s Too.

As usual, we wake to being

everything and nothing, and

must stand up carefully. As usual,

we must then go to work giving

the impression that all is as usual.

But, as usual, nothing remains as usual.

For the tinkers have tinkered

and the meddlers have meddled

and the restless have brought unrest

and the smoothers have smoothed

and the thieves have stolen

and the givers have bestowed

and the makers are being carved

by their own knives, as usual,

and we are next, as usual.

The sun smiles a power-giving smile

and the cloud weeps a life-giving tear,

as usual, on all this.  The mountain

stands like a gift left by the stars

for the day and says, silently,

as usual, This is difficult and

this is glorious.  The ocean sways

and swirls and says, silently,

as usual, The sum of all tears is

the cradle of all things.


By Lance M. Loder

Written by lickmypoetry

June 20, 2010 at 5:14 pm

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Work

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Last night our dreams made waking rough
Alarms ignored, we rest instead.
There’s time to spare. There’s bread enough

To help ourselves shake off the slough
And fill our uniform of deeds.
Tonight’s bad dreams will wake us rough

And blearily-eying the break for lunch
One hand to punch, the other bleeds
To kill the time. There’s bread enough

To throw away, grow stale and tough.
But still we’re tied to these machines
That haunt our dreams, and make us rough,

Give birth to goods, such sundry stuff.
And still we scramble, birds to seed,
Though time’s to spare, and bread’s enough,

Because they manufactured drought
To each a thirst to match his need,
Sequestered dreams, kept waking rough,
and let us starve with bread enough.

By Meredith Reese

Written by lickmypoetry

June 18, 2010 at 6:34 am

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Rabid

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Because outrage is a black cur
In light bulb city
Fever in the living twitch
Of nostril
And the sharp-toothed fever of rotting jaws

Because fever and nostril
And the rot of jaws
Are things beyond feed
Or pro creation or any
Washing word worked-up
By the humane
Society
To classify
The incomprehensible
Dog

I bark

And my outrage is full-mooned

By Noah West

Written by lickmypoetry

June 16, 2010 at 10:07 pm

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The Abortion

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If I could bottle you up and send you away,
would you come home?

I see you, in your

cowboy hat like a pornstar
(you are not the star, but the hat itself)

sticking out like school glue, I wonder

what I saw

We were drinking Coor’s light

back when you still noticed me

on someone’s brick patio

and the girls were stupid, but
for once, I didn’t care

Do you remember holding my hand, there

when the florescent lights made all my
freckles look like zits and your
coffee cream skin look a little pekid

do you remember when you used to call
to hear my voice?

The night is young.  I am sitting next
to the cat, listening to Boston through
wire screens.  My right thumb is
shaking incessantly.  There are no word
games here.  Just me and a picture.

by Cassandra Koslen

Written by lickmypoetry

June 15, 2010 at 5:42 pm

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Pomo News, Poet Treats

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Pascale Petit photo credit: Dafna Kaplan

Poet Paula Claire, and-until recently- the only female contender for the Oxford Professor of Poetry contest, steps down, alleges favoritism.

Pascale Petit  explores the way trauma hurts an artist into creation through the eyes of Frida Kahlo in her new collection of poetry:  ‘What the Water Gave Me – Poems After Frida Kahlo.’  Listen to the title poem,   What the Water Gave Me.

Frances McCue, founding director of Richard Hugo House, the Seattle center for writers and writing, is now a writer-in-residence at the University of Washington’s honors college and revisits the poems (and small Northwest towns that inspired the poems) of Richard Hugo.

Fans wrote verse for Vulture’s Erykah Badu Haiku Contest.  The winner, SASSLKCJNEIGHBR, submitted this haiku about Badu’s recent public disrobing:

View from window seat,
It’s Badu badonkadonk!
Dallas can’t handle.

View a poetry reading (recorded by Indigo Girl Amy Ray) by Salish poets Victor and April Charlo. April accompanied her Dad by reading a translation of the poems in their native language.

Posted by Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

June 15, 2010 at 9:51 am

PoMotion Welcomes Lance M. Loder

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Lance M. Loder died last October after a 20 year battle with chronic illness and with the assistance of the Aurora Bridge in Seattle, Washington.

I  first heard Lance’s work read in May 2010 by his friend, to whom he left all of his poetry and writings, Christian Swenson.  I was mezmorized by Swenson’s reading of ‘Scissors’, a poem PoMotion featured earlier this month.  A few emails later, Swenson agreed to the idea of adding Lance as a posthumous contributor to our poetry blog.

Swenson is currently working to build a website, one that will bring to light the vision that Loder had for his writing.   The website will include a large body of Loder’s work.  Loder’s plan was to divide the mass of his poetry (of which there is a profound amount) into books within the collection of Coyote University.  He was planning that each year would have two books, one of lyrics and one of haiku, the contents in chronological order of composing.

In the spirit of the eternal life that writing can offer, we are honored to cross the boundaries of life and death and post Lance’s work.  The work we will feature spans from about March 2009 until just a week before his death.

Learn more about Lance.  Read his poem ‘Beware, Now’ and visit his bio page.

Posted by Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

June 12, 2010 at 8:41 pm

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Beware, now

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Please, beware.
Listening is a trance.
All the thieves of choice know this.
Use this.
Feed their greeds by this.
The thieves of choice want us
to wake up in their world and
fall asleep in our own.
After that, we’re their smart cattle,
needing constant herding,
but basically asleep.
Beware, now, please.
You are listening to me, now.
And like the greedy thieves of choice,
I say to you,
I’m different: I want the best for you. . .

By Lance M. Loder

Written by lickmypoetry

June 12, 2010 at 8:40 pm

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Poems (by the hundreds)

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I have hundreds of poems that sit dusty
I only care to share them one at a time, if at all
I’ve given up the idea of chasing down journal entries,
poetry collections, gems, chapbooks and
other such adventures for self-indulgence
I haven’t read my poetry aloud in years
It may be even more before I do so again

I have hundreds of poems about factories,
and class, war
Love and travel
Heartache, steak,
Addiction, and porn
Clues to youth
and other such cultural norms

I have hundreds of poems, waiting
Peaking out at me from filing cabinets,
Messy, unmeasured montages, memories
They seem so youthful in their response
I have gone years without looking at them
I imagine it will be many more before I do so again, if ever
They go from place to place
Stuffed in suitcases and trunks,
dinged up cardboard boxes
with old photographs and letters
Like lines across my face
They tell a tale of something I am, I use to be

I have hundreds poems about looking back on life
Rocket poetry, intrigue and fuel
All the energy put into the mundane
Poems about Victoria, and searching for self
Families I’ve met without a home
Workers in the soy fields, and in Cleveland too
Corporate clowns and activists playing a fool’s old tune
The lonely mothers with weeping eyes
Children troubled, their future cries
Imaginary fear and the cougars call
The dried out soil in the afterglow
For old Jay T, and the lack of light
Wading in the rust like it was gold
All the beatings, loss of sight
Products of some new age
Billions of animals dressed in fashion
With informed opinions, and iPhone grins
Old men in cowboy hats selling maps and sage in old metal bins

I have hundreds of poems bound up in simplicity
Grasshoppers in North Texas, river currents
Jail cells, and embarrassment
Dollar store shoes in Oklahoma
Huffing gas in Illinois
Finding myself in Colorado
Losing myself in NYC
Finding myself again in PDX
Awards, accolades, dancing with politicians and all their maids
Secondary trauma divulged at my door
Thousands of homeless and the community who expect something of me
I can’t keep track of the score
A bend in the road, I think it was Tennessee
The sunsets over the plains,
and the dots along the sea
Tornadoes, baseball, lust
Opium dreams, and cats
Small town demons
And big city trees
Greyhound bus rides and rats
A graveyard in Halifax
Death appears to be a theme
Friends who died living out unmeasured deeds
Tombstones, the Civil War kind
Some with punchy endings
Others left for rhyme

by Israel Bayer

Written by lickmypoetry

June 12, 2010 at 10:43 am

Posted in poem, poetry

Orion

with 6 comments

As I stood waiting
To leave your doorstep
For the last time.

Having arrived two days earlier,
I searched your house for
Something familiar.
Something that would remind me of you.

They had pulled it all out
Given it to the Volunteers,
Or the trash service had hauled it away
Dumping your belongings on a pile of
Other people’s unwanted belongings.

I found your office,  your life
On the side of the house
Carelessly, hurriedly thrown
Into garbage cans
Overflowing…

They had pulled out the things they thought
“I’d like to have”
But each trinket was from long before
I even knew you.  These things had
Long since lost your smell,
Your hand had not passed over
These pieces in years.

I found your hand mirror,
The one you’d used in dressing
“Why would you want that?”
“I haven’t got one”, I lied.
I selected
A fine Stetson hat—
I’d never seen you in it,
But it reminded me of you.

Standing under the stars,
I looked up to find the one thing
More familiar than any other…

The sky lit brightly
The hunter himself drawing his bow.
His arrow poised to guide me back home.

By Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

June 11, 2010 at 7:28 am

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Tree of Memories

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Branches hang low
Heavy with leaves at the end of summer
The breeze comes strong
Then calms a little, creating a complex beat with the rustling of leaves.
This tree so tall and strong
Signifies our love and how far it has gone.
Memories tied so tight at the root
And future hopes mingling with the leaves at the top
Memories of a blanket stretched out
Kids running without a care around us.
Memories of sweet nothings swim
As I sit here underneath the leaves, the branches, and a past hope.
Standing, taking down the rope swing,
So many times I pushed you forward
Then awaited your faithful return.
Untie the knot from the wooden plank.
The park is empty.
With the ropes that gave us both joy,
Fashion a loop 10, 11, 12, 13 rings around for tradition’s sake.
Toss it over the branch we kissed on,
And test the length
Standing on the edge of the plank you sat on
And pull the rope around
Count to the date we met and slip,
But feet don’t meet ground.

By Austin S. Bouchard

Written by lickmypoetry

June 9, 2010 at 9:14 am

Posted in poetry, submission

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PoMo News, Politika Poetika

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Poets for Living Waters, a poetry action in response to the oil spill disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, demonstrates how everything is connected.

Poet Saw Wei was released from Burmeese prison after a three year stay for “inducing crime against public tranquility” with his poem, ‘February the Fourteenth.”

Gary Sullivan is a proponent for flarf (or rubbish verse).

Peter Orlovsky, poet and partner of Allen Ginsberg died May 30th.  The two were lovers for nearly three decades.  Watch them preform here in 1984 (Orlovsky is the one meditating in a suit):

Posted by Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

June 8, 2010 at 2:28 pm

just over there

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just over there, on the banks of the river stumptown took shape
trees chopped for buildings, chairs, desks
just over there, smiling men gather the garbage
just over there, frightened men are treated like garbage
just over there in between flashes of brilliance normal people do what needs to be done
just over there in alley ways filled with discarded needles children learn about life

by Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

June 8, 2010 at 9:24 am

Posted in poem, poetry

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