Monday, July 13, 2009
Working for the hippies
One thing about working at the farm with a flower child: I never know what I'm going to find on the greenhouse work board.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
How awesome is this?
Courtesy of Jonathan McIntosh at rebellious pixels, a fantastic splicing that serves to heighten one (of many) particular problem with that horrid Twilgiht series.
In Jonathan's own words:
Video Description:
In this remixed narrative Edward Cullen from the Twilight Series meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It’s an example of transformative storytelling serving as a pro-feminist visual critique of Edward’s character and generally creepy behavior. Seen through Buffy’s eyes some of the more patriarchal gender roles and sexist Hollywood tropes embedded in the Twilight saga are exposed in hilarious ways.
This is so good, it almost makes me want to learn something about technology so I can do stuff like this. Almost. :-)
In Jonathan's own words:
Video Description:
In this remixed narrative Edward Cullen from the Twilight Series meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It’s an example of transformative storytelling serving as a pro-feminist visual critique of Edward’s character and generally creepy behavior. Seen through Buffy’s eyes some of the more patriarchal gender roles and sexist Hollywood tropes embedded in the Twilight saga are exposed in hilarious ways.
This is so good, it almost makes me want to learn something about technology so I can do stuff like this. Almost. :-)
Friday, June 12, 2009
June, already?
I have been reminded that time, o fickle time, has passed as it has a bad habit of doing. So, I'll return to the farm.
One of my favorite crops at the farm are the shiitake mushrooms. Really this is kind of ironic because one of my motivations for working on the farm was to, quite literally, ground myself, to come down from the clouds and immerse myself in the cycle of seasons. Then, I'll be damned if I didn't discover the mushrooms, those dark, mysterious, unpredictable mushrooms. Even the two main harvests of the year refuse to give warning. One day it rains. The next day, fifty pounds of shiitakes.
The inoculation of new shiitake logs is a big chore that takes quite a crew to accomplish. The first step is acquiring the logs themselves. Shiitakes need freshly-cut oak logs, felled in early spring. The wood has to be alive, cut no later than two weeks before inoculation. The size of the logs (and therefore trees) is determined more by the need to be able to handle them than anything else. We had 200 logs, each weighing between 40 and 100 pounds.
Once on the farm, the logs had to be unloaded from the two trailers:
Then, holes have to be drilled at approximately every six to eight inches around the entire diameter of each log:
Mary instructs some of the helpers on how to inoculate the logs. In the buckets on the table in the background are huge chunks of shiitake spawn, the "mother" mushroom we were using:
The inoculation process involves thrusting a plunger (seen in hand here) into the bucket of spawn to load it, positioning the plunger over one of the holes in the log, and depressing the plunger--with some force--to eject the spawn into the log:
Once all of the holes in a particular log are filled with spawn, something has to be used to seal it in. First of all, just to keep it from falling out as it dries, and, secondly, to keep other fungi from invading the log. The something in this case was food-grade cheese wax:
The wax has to be melted, meaning that among the many jobs on shiitake day at the farm is the pyromaniac's dream of keeping a good fire going and plenty of wax melted. The thing about this wax was that if it got too heated, it would burst into flame inside the pitchers from time to time:
Sealing the logs required painting on the hot, melted wax with paint brushes, carefully covering all the holes, the ends of the logs, and anywhere that the bark might have been scraped off:
Helpers of all ages pitched in:
In the right background of this picture, you can see the completed logs stacked in a shady, wooded area. Once inoculated, the logs will last four or five years:
All in all, it was an exhausting and dangerous day. As one of the few men there, it naturally fell to me to move logs. Each of these two hundred 40 - 100 pound logs had to be moved four times, from the trailer to the saw horses, from saw horses to inoculation table, from inoculation table to sealing table, and from sealing table to the woods. That's a few more squats and deadlifts than I normally do at the gym. Furthermore, the opportunities for injuries were abundant, especially as exhaustion set in. While we used plungers to inject the spawn, almost every injection site needed further packing by hand, which meant a lot of cuts on pretty much every finger. In an inadvertent act of self-inoculation, I managed to get a goodly-sized gash across my index finger and then, in the same movement, to fill it with spawn. This worried me a little bit, but, so far, no shiitakes have sprouted from any of my body parts. Perhaps I just haven't been in a proper rain yet. Then, the hot wax. Well, you can imagine the burns. And all the strained muscles and twisted knees and ankles carrying the logs to their final spots. By day's end, I swore I'd never go back to the farm again.
But, of course, there was eventually the irresistible siren's song of the sprouted mushrooms calling me back.
One of my favorite crops at the farm are the shiitake mushrooms. Really this is kind of ironic because one of my motivations for working on the farm was to, quite literally, ground myself, to come down from the clouds and immerse myself in the cycle of seasons. Then, I'll be damned if I didn't discover the mushrooms, those dark, mysterious, unpredictable mushrooms. Even the two main harvests of the year refuse to give warning. One day it rains. The next day, fifty pounds of shiitakes.
The inoculation of new shiitake logs is a big chore that takes quite a crew to accomplish. The first step is acquiring the logs themselves. Shiitakes need freshly-cut oak logs, felled in early spring. The wood has to be alive, cut no later than two weeks before inoculation. The size of the logs (and therefore trees) is determined more by the need to be able to handle them than anything else. We had 200 logs, each weighing between 40 and 100 pounds.
Once on the farm, the logs had to be unloaded from the two trailers:
Then, holes have to be drilled at approximately every six to eight inches around the entire diameter of each log:
Mary instructs some of the helpers on how to inoculate the logs. In the buckets on the table in the background are huge chunks of shiitake spawn, the "mother" mushroom we were using:
The inoculation process involves thrusting a plunger (seen in hand here) into the bucket of spawn to load it, positioning the plunger over one of the holes in the log, and depressing the plunger--with some force--to eject the spawn into the log:
Once all of the holes in a particular log are filled with spawn, something has to be used to seal it in. First of all, just to keep it from falling out as it dries, and, secondly, to keep other fungi from invading the log. The something in this case was food-grade cheese wax:
The wax has to be melted, meaning that among the many jobs on shiitake day at the farm is the pyromaniac's dream of keeping a good fire going and plenty of wax melted. The thing about this wax was that if it got too heated, it would burst into flame inside the pitchers from time to time:
Sealing the logs required painting on the hot, melted wax with paint brushes, carefully covering all the holes, the ends of the logs, and anywhere that the bark might have been scraped off:
Helpers of all ages pitched in:
In the right background of this picture, you can see the completed logs stacked in a shady, wooded area. Once inoculated, the logs will last four or five years:
All in all, it was an exhausting and dangerous day. As one of the few men there, it naturally fell to me to move logs. Each of these two hundred 40 - 100 pound logs had to be moved four times, from the trailer to the saw horses, from saw horses to inoculation table, from inoculation table to sealing table, and from sealing table to the woods. That's a few more squats and deadlifts than I normally do at the gym. Furthermore, the opportunities for injuries were abundant, especially as exhaustion set in. While we used plungers to inject the spawn, almost every injection site needed further packing by hand, which meant a lot of cuts on pretty much every finger. In an inadvertent act of self-inoculation, I managed to get a goodly-sized gash across my index finger and then, in the same movement, to fill it with spawn. This worried me a little bit, but, so far, no shiitakes have sprouted from any of my body parts. Perhaps I just haven't been in a proper rain yet. Then, the hot wax. Well, you can imagine the burns. And all the strained muscles and twisted knees and ankles carrying the logs to their final spots. By day's end, I swore I'd never go back to the farm again.
But, of course, there was eventually the irresistible siren's song of the sprouted mushrooms calling me back.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
For Nicole
This is so Nicole won't harangue me for, I don't know, maybe another couple of months. Also, because of her farm dreams. I'm not sure if my intent is to encourage or to tease her (nyah! nyah!).
One of the great things that happened when we moved to North Carolina was that I found a nearby certified organic farm in need of some help. For the past several months, I've been working there one day a week, which has produced quite the sharp learning curve for me. While I've long had an interest in organic and local food movements, my participation has been purely academic; I didn't exactly have a black thumb, but it was a bit brownish. And it's slowly destructive powers were confined strictly to houseplants. Furthermore, being a shopper of produce rather than a grower (even if I was shopping places like Whole Foods), I really had no idea whatsoever what veggies are in season at one time. In other words, I pretty much had everything to learn. And now, a portion of some small farmer's livelihood depends on my getting it right. Damn.
So here are some pictures of a not-too-long-ago frosty morning out on the farm:
Some frostiness on the trays of lettuce:
In the front fields, some newly transplanted cabbage, broccoli, and Red Russian kale:
Cold broccoli:
This is my hoop house--the area of the farm that has become my responsibility:
Heavy frost on the ground:
This is the interior of my hoop house. There are four rows--though the profusion of zinnias obscures that a bit. Starting on the left, there is a row of green lettuce, then a row of red lettuce, a row of zinnias and newly sprouted arugula, and then a row of mixed red lettuces and parsley:
My green lettuce (which I have to confess I've forgotten the exact variety of, oops):
Mixed red lettuces:
Zinnias (the frost took a heavy toll on the zinnias in the fields, but the ones in the hoop house, as you can see, looked just fine):
This is Haley, resident farm dalmatian (in case there's a fire):
More of my lettuce, looking quite healthy:
Two of the horses:
Another horse and the donkey who is, quite literally, the boss of them all:
The shiitake mushroom logs:
Aw, man, now I think I strained a blogging muscle. Better go rest it.
One of the great things that happened when we moved to North Carolina was that I found a nearby certified organic farm in need of some help. For the past several months, I've been working there one day a week, which has produced quite the sharp learning curve for me. While I've long had an interest in organic and local food movements, my participation has been purely academic; I didn't exactly have a black thumb, but it was a bit brownish. And it's slowly destructive powers were confined strictly to houseplants. Furthermore, being a shopper of produce rather than a grower (even if I was shopping places like Whole Foods), I really had no idea whatsoever what veggies are in season at one time. In other words, I pretty much had everything to learn. And now, a portion of some small farmer's livelihood depends on my getting it right. Damn.
So here are some pictures of a not-too-long-ago frosty morning out on the farm:
Some frostiness on the trays of lettuce:
In the front fields, some newly transplanted cabbage, broccoli, and Red Russian kale:
Cold broccoli:
This is my hoop house--the area of the farm that has become my responsibility:
Heavy frost on the ground:
This is the interior of my hoop house. There are four rows--though the profusion of zinnias obscures that a bit. Starting on the left, there is a row of green lettuce, then a row of red lettuce, a row of zinnias and newly sprouted arugula, and then a row of mixed red lettuces and parsley:
My green lettuce (which I have to confess I've forgotten the exact variety of, oops):
Mixed red lettuces:
Zinnias (the frost took a heavy toll on the zinnias in the fields, but the ones in the hoop house, as you can see, looked just fine):
This is Haley, resident farm dalmatian (in case there's a fire):
More of my lettuce, looking quite healthy:
Two of the horses:
Another horse and the donkey who is, quite literally, the boss of them all:
The shiitake mushroom logs:
Aw, man, now I think I strained a blogging muscle. Better go rest it.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Saddest Poem of All
Mrs. Martin tends her garden
in a most peculiar way—
ignoring the flowers
she scowls and glowers,
looking for signs of decay.
in a most peculiar way—
ignoring the flowers
she scowls and glowers,
looking for signs of decay.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Annunciation, please (no more)
Yesterday's inauguration was great. The jubilant crowds. The arrangement by John Williams, "Airs and Simple Gifts." Obama's speech. All wonderful. (The shots of Bush looking pained during Obama's speech--just a little icing.) What was not, however, was Elizabeth Alexander's reading of her poem, "Praise song for the day." I mean, really. That's why people think they hate poetry. Alexander is probably a very good poet--I don't know her work--but, christ, she did poetry a disservice with that particular reading of that particular poem, I'm afraid. I wish they would have called up someone with a little poetical guts about 'em. Then again, if you're the sort of person who would really let poetry fly at a venue like that, you're probably not the sort of person to be invited in the first place, are you? I should probably just be happy that poetry was included at all.
My irritation did at least lead me to scribble out a silly little response.
***Note of indescribable joy: I may have, after 800 false starts, finally figured out how to format poetry in Blogger. Now if I could just write some poetry in order to put this newfound skill to use. . . . ***
***Note of indescribable despair: No sooner did I republish this post with the above note appended than the afore-celebrated formatting disappeared. Shit. Can I get it back? If I do, I sure ain't writing no more notes.***
When millions sleep
My irritation did at least lead me to scribble out a silly little response.
***Note of indescribable joy: I may have, after 800 false starts, finally figured out how to format poetry in Blogger. Now if I could just write some poetry in order to put this newfound skill to use. . . . ***
***Note of indescribable despair: No sooner did I republish this post with the above note appended than the afore-celebrated formatting disappeared. Shit. Can I get it back? If I do, I sure ain't writing no more notes.***
When millions sleep
Sometimes
on momentous days in the cold
clarity so tight becomes an obfuscation all its own
and careful steps
lead away from the best accidents
Don’t be afraid then
to mumble your poetry
to bitedown on the smallseeds
to drool delicious rude mouthfuls
to disrespect the phonemes
in service of a greater language
Yell, don’t Yale, your words
make us believe you breathe fire
that the rhythm of your lines
can unsnapourpants and hikeupourskirts
give us a stomachache
anticipating the roughing up
security will give you when they drag you
behind the wall
for unveiling freedoms so fetching
that riots ensue
Sing your verses rawthroated
like you’re singing alone
in a car
after an ugly breakup
past midnight
in a rainstorm
Sing of brighter days sure
but without forgetting that hope
is the final fledgling
to escape despair’s roost
emerging malnourished and shit-smeared—
in that is beauty too
the frozen stiff-legged gait of inauguration poetry
one stupid boy goosestepping in an empty field
when we want spontaneous crowds dancing in the streets
amnesiacs all
drunk on tomorrow’s new history
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Titles is for sissies
This droopy little thought bubble is for my brother who claims he checks this site every day despite my sloth. (To clarify, the act of posting is for him--the words and message are something I scribbled down last week in rare spontaneity.)
Still
The bucket sits
shaping weeds
I failed to trim
out of place
among the order
a fecund corner
reservoir of excess
full again
of run-off
a teeming receptacle
the kick and thrust
of tiny life
not counting
the invisible
the bucket sits
striving for balance
holding
a balance of volume
and nothingness
willing eco-harmony
patient as evaporation
stills the larvae
and sunlight pulls
the drapery of scum
that feeds something
too small to know
the bucket sits
anchored in its
full-moon groove
practicing perfect pailness
not knowing the hour
I will pass
and with mindless kick
turn out its guts
a quiet vomit
a Pollack smear
of wiggling across the grass
the bucket sits
empty spent
until I tip it
upright
to begin again
at purpose
the bucket sits
waiting again for rain
only occasionally
wishing a freeze
would burst its sides
in diamond explosion
Still
The bucket sits
shaping weeds
I failed to trim
out of place
among the order
a fecund corner
reservoir of excess
full again
of run-off
a teeming receptacle
the kick and thrust
of tiny life
not counting
the invisible
the bucket sits
striving for balance
holding
a balance of volume
and nothingness
willing eco-harmony
patient as evaporation
stills the larvae
and sunlight pulls
the drapery of scum
that feeds something
too small to know
the bucket sits
anchored in its
full-moon groove
practicing perfect pailness
not knowing the hour
I will pass
and with mindless kick
turn out its guts
a quiet vomit
a Pollack smear
of wiggling across the grass
the bucket sits
empty spent
until I tip it
upright
to begin again
at purpose
the bucket sits
waiting again for rain
only occasionally
wishing a freeze
would burst its sides
in diamond explosion
Thursday, May 22, 2008
deliveries
the mail brought no serendipitous cure
smashing out of the blue(s)
today
though I suppose I should celebrate
the lack, the absence, the zero sum
of ill tidings given
the crow that strutted before
me
blasting out one arrogantly defiant caw
over his shoulder before flapping heavily away
His business was not with me
however
(and so, He shouted, live and let live man)
but
with the dead squirrel curled
in the road
a dark irrevocable solidity
in the spongy darkness
of the small shadow
of my mailbox
eyes closed & paws softly fisted
left so whole
by the killing blow
that if squirrels were prone
to narcoleptic fits
this one could be roused
the cough of blood
that petaled the asphalt
said no
I thought of sinking shovel
through the rigor
of drought-hardened earth
then
of the arboreal essence
of squirrels
of the appetites
of crows
of the serene airiness
of the woods bordering my yard
he slides easily
onto the flat-bottomed shovel
and I try to carry him
with as much respect
as you can carry the body
of a squirrel you never met
in a shovel
(and wonder later why I--
who never had a taste for
Billy Collins silliness poetry--
would write that; was it death
that scared me or reverence that
embarrassed me?)
I found a clump of saplings ringing
a soft bowl of leaves
--the interruption of the burst
of a pair of deer
flushed and springing
racing my heart and theirs--
and lay him there
with care.
I wanted to laugh.
He was just a squirrel.
Overhead just a crow.
Crashing away just deer.
I just a man.
The Void never seemed so full.
Utterly unnecessary note: Obviously I'm not really writing poetry these days so if I do (miracle of miracles) post something, well, first of all, yay for me--that must mean some synapse or two in my brain actually fired--and secondly it's sure not going to be revised, polished, and otherwise purtied up. Stream of consciousness is as good as it's likely to get for now. But maybe one day....
smashing out of the blue(s)
today
though I suppose I should celebrate
the lack, the absence, the zero sum
of ill tidings given
the crow that strutted before
me
blasting out one arrogantly defiant caw
over his shoulder before flapping heavily away
His business was not with me
however
(and so, He shouted, live and let live man)
but
with the dead squirrel curled
in the road
a dark irrevocable solidity
in the spongy darkness
of the small shadow
of my mailbox
eyes closed & paws softly fisted
left so whole
by the killing blow
that if squirrels were prone
to narcoleptic fits
this one could be roused
the cough of blood
that petaled the asphalt
said no
I thought of sinking shovel
through the rigor
of drought-hardened earth
then
of the arboreal essence
of squirrels
of the appetites
of crows
of the serene airiness
of the woods bordering my yard
he slides easily
onto the flat-bottomed shovel
and I try to carry him
with as much respect
as you can carry the body
of a squirrel you never met
in a shovel
(and wonder later why I--
who never had a taste for
Billy Collins silliness poetry--
would write that; was it death
that scared me or reverence that
embarrassed me?)
I found a clump of saplings ringing
a soft bowl of leaves
--the interruption of the burst
of a pair of deer
flushed and springing
racing my heart and theirs--
and lay him there
with care.
I wanted to laugh.
He was just a squirrel.
Overhead just a crow.
Crashing away just deer.
I just a man.
The Void never seemed so full.
Utterly unnecessary note: Obviously I'm not really writing poetry these days so if I do (miracle of miracles) post something, well, first of all, yay for me--that must mean some synapse or two in my brain actually fired--and secondly it's sure not going to be revised, polished, and otherwise purtied up. Stream of consciousness is as good as it's likely to get for now. But maybe one day....
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Why you would request such a thing . . .
When someone suggests that your poetry has the power to cure all his ills, what can you do? You can at least try to demonstrate the problem, I guess. This one's for you, Don.
blank blank my mind's a skank,
wrestling in alleys with sailors and thugs,
lifts her dress to flash a shank--
poetry takes a peek but gives a shrug
and
walk
s
a
way
blank blank my mind's a skank,
wrestling in alleys with sailors and thugs,
lifts her dress to flash a shank--
poetry takes a peek but gives a shrug
and
walk
s
a
way
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Filled of Dreams
Quietly minding my own business today, I was struck suddenly and sharply with the idea that our little community here desperately needs a tea room--not a Victorian, sip your tea with finger sandwiches and wear funny hats sort of place, but a pure, clean Zen tea room, possibly even with a meditation room in the back--and that I am the person who needs to provide it. A place of palpable peace, delicious decoctions, and Asian austerity. A place in which a few bucks purchases a day's tranquility. A place where, from time to time, the mysteries of the Tea Ceremony could be revealed to a chosen few, forever laying bare the gauntness of their silly lives up to that moment while opening up an all new path for them to follow.
And, while trying to get some actual work done, I mapped it all out in my mind from what kind of cushions I'd provide to how I would train my employees to the way that I would rent out the upstairs either to an acupuncturist or an aikido club. Hours of mental energy devoted to this, I tell you.
Never mind that I know nothing about the tea ceremony beyond what Karate Kid II might have taught me. Or that someone with no business experience, little current income, and heavy debt isn't always the best candidate for opening a new business in one of the expensive storefronts around here. Or that I don't particularly like dealing with the public. Because this isn't entrepreneurship; it's crusadership. Because, of course, I assume, without a doubt, that all the ostentatious displays of wealth around here are inextricably linked to a barren and parched spiritual and emotional life. Rich people are lonely, soulless bastards, right? I can help, though. Lure the poor husks into my tea shop with the promise of luxurious refreshment, then rehydrate their rattling souls with a nice hot cup of wisdom, and then send them out into the world to spread the word. That's me, good ol' Jon, always looking to save others
Maybe I'm being a little too hard on myself though. I haven't started doing any volunteer work since we moved here so this vivid and sudden fantasy might simply be a subconscious geyser of sorts, reminding me that I do a helluva lot better when I feel like I'm doing something helpful in the world.
Or, perhaps, considering what's happened in my life lately, I just needed to dream of a place of easy peace. A sanctuary where I can control my environment, sip a little tea, and compose an occasional haiku:
ice blooms on windows
bell on door rings a welcome
kettle gushes steam
Yes, I think I should feel happy about this dream's visitation. After all, daydreaming up schemes and careers and the like is a regular pastime for me--it's how I keep myself too busy to have an actual scheme or career to deal with. Since September, however, I don't think I've had any spontaneous fantasy careers, or any other thoughts of positive momentum. Until today. Between the polished hardwood floors and calligraphy-covered walls of my tea room.
Monday, February 4, 2008
For all you Googlers (AKA Ghostblog visitors)
From the beginning, this was the blog with no identity. Or maybe I was the blogger with no identity...I'm not sure which. I do know that I am not of that class of introverts who want so desperately to be extroverted and therefore find a second identity on the Web. I'm pretty happy being virtually, as well as really, left alone for the most part. Furthermore, I already have my personal blog for family and close friends so there really wasn't much hope for this becoming much of a personal journal sort of blog.
As for an issue-based blog--now there was a possibility. But, dammit, I don't know if I'm just too lazy or too disorganized or what, but I never have been able to find the time to do any justice to that kind of blogging...hell, I have a hard time keeping up with reading any blogs.
So that left poetry. Which is cool. I do love the way blogs make available such an array of good poetry. Of course, there are the dry spells to deal with there. Seems like this blog runs out of options fast, no?
Anyway, all of that to say that I don't want to talk about it with the general anonymous public, but last Fall, something--something big and ugly and horrible--happened to shatter my world and that's why I disappeared entirely.
Until now? I don't know. I'm still picking out a lot of shards. But I did try writing something for the first time in a very long while. And maybe I'll try again from time to time. And maybe I'll post those attempts from time to time. Just to give the Googlers something to stumble across (perhaps even something other than "Asian Massage Parlors in the French Quarter" which seems to remain my most popular, completely misguided hit).
Therefore, without further rambling, I offer this little bit, completely first-drafty, to all the lost (and apparently horny) wanderers. Very, very first-drafty, I say. I do like the images and the movement between them, though I'm much less enamoured of the language itself which seems a little too one-dimensional for what I was trying to do.
rememory
this clear
a day
the birds
make like wind
blowing through blue
rippling the sky
a damp sheet
stretched infinite
in the sun
which when crisp
mother pulls down
clothespins in mouth
cracks it whiplike
in front of her
before stretching it
across the small
corners of my bed
where I float
and sink
by degrees
trying to remember
what could have come
of a day so clear
to have forgotten
its own darkness
As for an issue-based blog--now there was a possibility. But, dammit, I don't know if I'm just too lazy or too disorganized or what, but I never have been able to find the time to do any justice to that kind of blogging...hell, I have a hard time keeping up with reading any blogs.
So that left poetry. Which is cool. I do love the way blogs make available such an array of good poetry. Of course, there are the dry spells to deal with there. Seems like this blog runs out of options fast, no?
Anyway, all of that to say that I don't want to talk about it with the general anonymous public, but last Fall, something--something big and ugly and horrible--happened to shatter my world and that's why I disappeared entirely.
Until now? I don't know. I'm still picking out a lot of shards. But I did try writing something for the first time in a very long while. And maybe I'll try again from time to time. And maybe I'll post those attempts from time to time. Just to give the Googlers something to stumble across (perhaps even something other than "Asian Massage Parlors in the French Quarter" which seems to remain my most popular, completely misguided hit).
Therefore, without further rambling, I offer this little bit, completely first-drafty, to all the lost (and apparently horny) wanderers. Very, very first-drafty, I say. I do like the images and the movement between them, though I'm much less enamoured of the language itself which seems a little too one-dimensional for what I was trying to do.
rememory
this clear
a day
the birds
make like wind
blowing through blue
rippling the sky
a damp sheet
stretched infinite
in the sun
which when crisp
mother pulls down
clothespins in mouth
cracks it whiplike
in front of her
before stretching it
across the small
corners of my bed
where I float
and sink
by degrees
trying to remember
what could have come
of a day so clear
to have forgotten
its own darkness
Thursday, November 22, 2007
What You Might Finally Write Waking Up in a Hotel in a New City After Months of Grief
Thinking of deer
of leaping with faith
a few fleeting inches of solidity
(the rest may well not be)
on which to gather and plunge again
moist eyes large
and far far apart
a sure sign of prey
trusting to instincts
to the needs of a racing heart
to the resiliency of slender legs
to the camouflage of loss
of leaping with faith
a few fleeting inches of solidity
(the rest may well not be)
on which to gather and plunge again
moist eyes large
and far far apart
a sure sign of prey
trusting to instincts
to the needs of a racing heart
to the resiliency of slender legs
to the camouflage of loss
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Angel Food Terror
One major reason Kim and I have recently adopted a vegetarian diet is because of ethical concerns about animal suffering. Now, however, it may be time to stop patting ourselves on the back and take another long hard look at just how ethical our new diet is . . . or is not.
By freak chance, I captured this horrifying and emotional scene just moments before Kim devoured the subject:
Would it be better if it were devil's food cake? (Well, of course it would be better, being chocolate and all, but would it be less horrifying?)
By freak chance, I captured this horrifying and emotional scene just moments before Kim devoured the subject:
Would it be better if it were devil's food cake? (Well, of course it would be better, being chocolate and all, but would it be less horrifying?)
Thursday, August 30, 2007
To the Poets Thursday: A Fond Farewell
Like an awful lot of people, I was sad to see that Poetry Thursday is lowering the final curtain this week. Even during this long stretch of utter wordlessness on my part, it has been a pleasure to peek in on others' Poetry Thursday works from time to time. And though I have not been writing at all for quite a while now, I figured I had to, just had to wrest something out of myself to see off such a wonderful project, and here you have it. It's quite first drafty, but the freshness of the poems has always been one of Poetry Thursday's most compelling features to me.
The final prompt: an open window.
after dark
mornings
are for awakening
you once teased,
your voice plucking
at my high roof of sleep,
but it’s often night
when I awake
you asleep
we are recast
into ourselves into one
another
your loosened body finding mine
while I lie still
thinking
of me: a restive bird
of you: an open window
until the flood of ache
brings Noah’s raven
with his croaking certainty
that flight without perch
is a drowning all its own,
bringing this spent swimmer
back to the surface
riding thick currents
steering again for home
Thanks so much for reading. For more final poems, be sure to visit this week's post on Poetry Thursday. Thanks a million to Dana and Liz and best of luck to all the Poets Thursday.
The final prompt: an open window.
after dark
mornings
are for awakening
you once teased,
your voice plucking
at my high roof of sleep,
but it’s often night
when I awake
you asleep
we are recast
into ourselves into one
another
your loosened body finding mine
while I lie still
thinking
of me: a restive bird
of you: an open window
until the flood of ache
brings Noah’s raven
with his croaking certainty
that flight without perch
is a drowning all its own,
bringing this spent swimmer
back to the surface
riding thick currents
steering again for home
Thanks so much for reading. For more final poems, be sure to visit this week's post on Poetry Thursday. Thanks a million to Dana and Liz and best of luck to all the Poets Thursday.
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