WHAT IS MY LIFE ABOUT?
by Julie Price Pinkerton

This naked, lonely question
is still simmering in a crock pot
on the counter of a beach bungalow

where no one lives. But if you like,
I can show you some examples of what falls
out of my life when it’s whacked like a piñata:

My friend Emily reminisces about the cat
she used to have, and still misses.
“Clearly, Pippin and I were telepathic.”

In my collection of very bad Christmas decorations
there is a cloisonné manger scene with a baby Jesus
who has a snout like a piglet.

I have been criticized for always looking downward
when I walk. But in only five decades I have found enough
coins to sink a rowboat.

If I were a household object I would insist
on being a gooseneck lamp or the yarn mane
of a toy horse.

Most of my prayers are like drive-by shootings.
Please help me. Please save her. Thank you
for the parking spot.

—from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

---

Julie Price Pinkerton: “I am a poet of faith. I’ve never written that sentence before. I was raised in a Baptist church on a gravel road on the outskirts of Brazil, Indiana. All of Brazil, Indiana, is kind of an outskirt. The church of my childhood was weird and toxic. Long story. At the center of it: Our pastor’s son (who became a pastor himself) was a pedophile. Nobody knew this until many years later, but something was off there, and I could tell. I hated going there. I stuck with my faith, though. Went to a really small Methodist college, the University of Evansville. A battering ram hit my faith in God when I was a freshman and our school’s entire basketball team was killed in a plane crash. Among the lost was the boy I had just started dating. But faith was still there, flailing. Post-college adult stuff. Marriage, divorce, the switching of churches, the switching of denominations (within Christianity), jobs, cities, marriage again, and hobbling along with my belief in God, which never leaves, but baffles me repeatedly like a train I can hear blaring somewhere in the woods but I cannot find the tracks. I’m 54 now. And Christ is still the only thing that makes sense to me. My atheist friends find this quaint. That’s OK.”

https://www.rattle.com/what-is-my-life-about-by-julie-price-pinkerton/

#poem #poetry #literature

Küß mich! / Kiss Me!

Once upon a time, on a quiet summer's evening an old man was rowing an old boat across an ancient lake.
A little frog jumped up onto the end of the boat, and the frog said to the old man:
"Old man, if you kiss me, I will turn into a beautiful young princess and you can do whatever you want with me."
And the old man smiled at the frog and kept on rowing his old boat across the ancient lake.
And the frog said again:
"Old man, if you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful young princess and you can do whatever you want with me."
And the old man smiled and looked at the frog and carried on rowing his old boat across the ancient lake.

And there was a long silence while the guitar played.

The frog said to the old man: "Old man, why won't you kiss me?"
The old man looked at the frog and stopped rowing his old boat across the ancient lake, put his hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders and said: "At my age I'd rather have a talking frog."

Story spoken by Manfred Mann-, based on a joke that Manfred has been telling for years
[It's funny when he tells it]
Album: Manfred Mann ’06 with Manfred Mann’s Earth Band - 2006, 2004

#ManfredMann #poesie #poetry #Alter #OldAge #männer #men
#tiere #frösche #gmic #gimp #fotobearbeitung #illustration #digital #PhotoEditing #animals #frogs #photo #foto #bildbearbeitung #photomanipulation #art #Diadvent #Diadvent241212 #Diadvent2024 #Diadvent24 #frogmas24 #frogmas

                                   LE CHÂTEAU DES FÉES (CADEAU DE NOËL) (français, english, castellano)

Anselme courbe l'échine, pas étonnant, à 103 ans il est perdu sur ce chemin tortueux qu'éclaire de loin en loin des lueurs fugaces.
Le voilà très vite navigant dans le brouillard, une gaze de brume s'estompe dévoilant les contours d'un château aux parois rehaussées
de scintillements.
Le pont levis se signale par 2 lampes aux couleurs changeantes.
Anselme franchit la herse, s'avance dans la cour.

Une voix gracieuse remplit l'espace :
Bienvenue au sieur Anselme, nous te connaissons et sommes fort aise de ta venue dans notre refuge, caché pour la plupart de tes congénères.
A la fin de la phrase 2 fées ailées virevoltantes se posent face à lui.
Une beauté brune aux ailes de papillon se présente:
Aglaë, fée de ce logis et voici Phytatë, membre de notre sororité.
Phytatë a des cheveux couleur d'émeraude et des ailes de libellule.
Celle ci croisant son regard le rassure:
N'aie aucune crainte, nous connaissons ton âme de poète, tu es notre invité d'honneur.
Prévenues de ton arrivée, un banquet nous attend au salon.
Toutes 2 le guident, l'installe dans un fauteuil replet.
Des robes bruissent, des talons marquent la cadence.
Anselme se retrouve entouré d'une jolie tablée d'une vingtaine de fées papotant à loisir sur la fête du jour.
Les mets sont succulents, le vin lui chamboule les sens.
Après une tisane chaleureuse, il se lève, bon pied bon œil, croise un miroir, s'arrête estomaqué.
Il a retrouvé son allure des 30 ans, le cheveu dru, les traits lisses, les muscles vigoureux et l'âme recueillie.
Aglaë lui sourit, tu as l'air bienheureux.
Le seul merci dont nous aurions besoin, c'est d'écouter tous ces contes qui ont traversé ton esprit.
Alors il se lance, les mots jaillissent en un torrent de facéties, d'espiègleries, de rondeurs suaves autant que surannées.
Anselme est très surpris, elles ont l'air subjuguées par ses récits qui se prolongent tard dans la soirée sans qu'elles manifestent la moindre fatigue.

Il s'interrompt pour bailler. Phytatë se lève.
Merci beaucoup pour cette soirée de bonheurs partagés, je vais te montrer ta chambre pour un sommeil réparateur peuplé de songes doux voire fiévreux.
La chambre est vaste, atmosphère ouatée, lit à baldaquins confortable.
Il s'endort, un rêve s'empare de lui.
Il est debout face à une armoire sculptée.
En l'ouvrant, des clefs de toutes sortes frémissent à son regard.
Une voix lui dit :
Choisis celle qui te plaît, elle décide de ton destin et du notre par la même occasion.
Une petite clef dorée et bien fine le captive.
A peine l'a-t-il saisie que la porte se referme.
D'un pas il se trouve face à un placard entre 2 tapisseries. La clef fonctionne.
Un parchemin enluminé trône sur un écritoire.
Il est écrit : code d'armement de la bombe atomique suivi de signes tarabiscotés.
Le rêve poursuit son chemin le guérissant des peurs accumulées dans les bévues de sa vie.

Au matin le parchemin est toujours dans sa main. Aglaë le salue :
Nous sommes ravies de ton choix, tu sais déjà où cela te mène.
Quand tout sera accompli, reviens vers nous passer des jours heureux.
Phytatë le ramène jusqu'au 1er arrêt de bus.
Anselme rentre chez lui, contacte wikileaks et leur donne le code d'armement atomique.
Le lendemain, les infos annoncent que wikileaks a reçu et publié les codes de tous les armements atomiques de la planète.
L'ONU se réunit séance tenante et adopte la motion suivante à l'unanimité :
Toutes les armes atomiques sont proscrites.
L'AIEA va faire le tour de toutes les capitales concernées pour les désarmer.
Anselme rit aux éclats et reprend derechef le chemin du château des fées.
@thierry3b2
#conte #ecriture #atelier #fees #chateau #historiette #cadeau #poesie #positif #mywork

            THE CASTLE OF FAIRIES ( gift for chrismas time)

Anselme bends the spine, no wonder, at 103 years old he is lost on this tortuous path that illuminates from far away by fleeting lights.
Here he is very quickly navigating in the fog, a mist of gaze fades revealing the contours of a castle with raised walls
of flickering.
The drawbridge is signalled by 2 lamps with changing colors.
Anselme crosses the railing, advances into the courtyard.

A graceful voice fills the space:
Welcome to Monsieur Anselme, we know you and are very pleased that you have come to our refuge, hidden for most of your fellow men.
At the end of the sentence 2 flying fairies are standing in front of him.
A brown beauty with butterfly wings presents:
Aglaë, fairy of this house and this is Phytatë, member of our sorority.
Phytatë has emerald-colored hair and dragonfly wings.
The woman who crosses her eyes reassures him:
Have no fear, we know your soul of poet, you are our guest of honor.
We are warned of your arrival, and a banquet awaits us in the lounge.
All 2 guide him, installs him in a full armchair.
Robes rustle, heels mark the cadence.
Anselme is surrounded by a beautiful table of twenty fairies chatting at leisure on the day’s party.
The dishes are delicious, the wine is stirring his senses.
After a warm tea, he gets up, good foot good eye, crosses a mirror, stops stunned.
He has regained his 30-year-old look, the drab hair, the smooth lines, the vigorous muscles and the collected soul.
Aglaë smiles at him, you look happy.
The only thanks we need is to listen to all these stories that have crossed your mind.
Then he starts, the words spring into a torrent of jokes, mischief, roundness as soft as old-fashioned.
Anselme is very surprised, they seem to be overwhelmed by his stories that last until late in the evening without showing any fatigue.

He stops to yawn. Phytatë gets up.
Thank you very much for this evening of shared happiness, I will show you your room for a restful sleep populated by sweet dreams or feverish.
The room is spacious, quilted atmosphere, comfortable canopy bed.
He falls asleep, a dream takes hold of him.
He is standing in front of a carved cabinet.
Opening it, keys of all kinds tremble at his gaze.
A voice says to him:
Choose the one you like, it decides your fate and ours at the same time.
A small golden and fine key captivates him.
He barely grasped it, the door closes.
One step it is in front of a closet between 2 tapestries. The key works.
A illuminated parchment sits on a writing pad.
It is written: code of the atomic bomb followed by tarabissime signs.
The dream continues its path healing him from the fears accumulated in the mistakes of his life.

In the morning the parchment is still in his hand. Aglaë greets him:
We are delighted with your choice, you already know where it leads.
When all is accomplished, come back to us for happy days.
Phytatë takes him to the first bus stop.
Anselme goes home, contacts wikileaks and gives them the code of atomic weapons.
The next day, news reports that wikileaks has received and published the codes for all the atomic weapons on the planet.
The UN meets immediately and unanimously adopts the following motion:
All nuclear weapons are proscribed.
The IAEA will tour all the capitals concerned to disarm them.
Anselme laughs and takes the path to the fairies' castle again.
@thierry3b2
#story #writing #workshop #fairies #castle #gift #poetry #positive #mywork

                                      El castillo de las hadas (regalo para navidad)

Anselmo curva el lomo, no muy sorprendente, a los 103 años se pierde en este camino tortuoso que ilumina de lejos las luciérnagas fugaces.

Allí, rápidamente navegando en la niebla, una gasa de niebla se desvanece revelando los contornos radiantes de un castillo con paredes realzadas por parpadeos.
El puente levadizo se caracteriza por 2 lámparas de colores cambiantes.
Anselmo cruza la reja, se acerca al patio.

Una voz graciosa llena el espacio:
Bienvenido al señor Anselmo, te conocemos y estamos muy contentas de tu llegada a nuestro refugio, escondido para la mayoría de tus congéneres. Al final de la frase 2 hadas aladas giran frente a él.

Una belleza morena con alas de mariposa se presenta:
Aglaë, hada de esta casa y esta es Phytatë, miembro de nuestra fraternidad.
Phytatë tiene cabello de color esmeralda y alas de libélula.
La mirada de ella le tranquiliza:
No tengas miedo, conocemos tu alma de poeta, eres nuestro invitado de honor.
Nos espera un banquete en el salón.
Las dos lo guían, lo instalan en una silla repleta.
Los vestidos rugen, los tacones marcan el ritmo.
Anselme se encuentra rodeado por una bonita mesa de unas veinte hadas que charlan a su antojo sobre la fiesta del día.
Los platos son deliciosos, el vino le revuelve los sentidos.
Después de un té de hierbas caliente, se levanta, buen pie ojo, se cruza con un espejo, se detiene aturdido.
Ha recuperado su aspecto de los 30 años, el pelo dru, los rasgos lisos, los músculos vigorosos y el alma recogida. Aglaë le está sonriendo.
Te ves muy feliz.
El único agradecimiento que necesitamos es escuchar de tu boca todos los cuentos que han pasado por tu mente .
Entonces se lanza, las palabras brotan en un torrente de bromas, travesuras, redondeces suaves tanto como anticuadas.
Anselme está muy sorprendido, parecen subyugadas por sus relatos que se prolongan hasta bien entrada la noche sin que manifiesten la menor fatiga. Se detuvo para bostezar.
Phytatë se está levantando.
Muchas gracias por esta noche de felicidad compartida, te mostraré tu habitación para un sueño reparador poblado de sueños dulces incluso febriles.
La habitación es amplia, ambiente mullido, cama con dosel cómodo.

Se duerme, un sueño se apodera de él.
Está de pie frente a un armario tallado.
Al abrirla, las llaves de todo tipo tiemblan a su mirada.
Una voz le dice:
Elige la que te guste, ella decide tu destino y el nuestro al mismo tiempo.
Una pequeña llave dorada y fina lo cautiva.

Apenas lo agarró, la puerta se cerró.
De un paso se encuentra frente a un armario entre dos tapices.
La llave está funcionando.
Hay un pergamino iluminado sobre un escritorio.
Está escrito: código de armamento de la bomba atómica seguido de signos tarabiados.
El sueño continúa su camino curándolo de los miedos acumulados en los errores de su vida.
Por la mañana el pergamino sigue en su mano.
Aglaë le da la bienvenida:
Estamos encantados con tu elección, ya sabes a dónde te lleva.
Cuando todo esté hecho, vuelve a pasar días felices.
Phytatë lo lleva al primer autobús.

Anselme vuelve a casa, contacta a Wikileaks y les da el código de armamento atómico.
Al día siguiente, las noticias anuncian que Wikileaks ha recibido y publicado los códigos de todas las armas atómicas del planeta.
Las Naciones Unidas se reúnen a continuación y aprueban por unanimidad la siguiente moción:
Todas las armas atómicas están prohibidas.
El OIEA visitará todas las capitales pertinentes para desarmarlas.
Anselmo se ríe a carcajadas y retoma el camino del castillo de las hadas.
@thierry3b2
#cuento #escritura #taller #hada #castillo #regalo #poesia #mitrabajo #positivo

#icon

#poetry

#tribute

(https://www.npr.org/2024/12/09/nx-s1-5222858/nikki-giovanni-poet-obituary)

MOTEL NIGHT ATTENDANT
by Mark Evan Johnston

Out here on Route 38,
I’ve learned the difference
between noise and sound.
Sound is familiar: the whirr
and clank of the ice machine,
the clink of a radiator,
the sough of the wind,
an occasional train.
Here noise means trouble.
Number 32, angry
with his wife, throws
a Gideon at her head.
I only hope he doesn’t
throw the lamp.
I sit here beneath
sixty watts of darkness
reading a trash novel,
waiting for the cheap tinkle
of this small bell to sound
but it never does.
Everything is in order:
the linens (call them that)
for tomorrow’s chambermaids (call them that),
the books, the Coke machine.
I make sure the Planter’s peanuts
don’t turn green
behind their sun-struck plastic.
Sometimes I almost hope
for trouble: a random shout,
an untimely splash in the pool,
a crying out that doesn’t
have to do with sex.
I want to have to go down
to Number 18 and set
things straight.
Years ago (here comes old Krebs),
we had a murder here,
before my time.
(He works the night-trick
at the mill.)
Some loon got trashed
(Krebs doesn’t stop to talk)
and poured beer on his wife
while she was getting off
on the Magic Fingers.
(Krebs always leaves
his shoes outside his door.)
He cried and tried to blame
it on the management, but
it came out he tampered
with the wires. Dupard
was his name, Canadian.
But don’t get me wrong.
I’m not looking to open up
Number 10 and find someone
dangling from the south end
of my sheets, or blood
pooling from under
the bathroom door.
Krebs, a night’s work himself,
has the country music on too loud.
The 3:15 sounds lonely,
the bell stands mute,
the buzzing of our new
neon sign would like
to drive me crazy.
But that’s not a noise.
That’s a sound.
No trouble tonight.

—from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

---

Mark Evan Johnston: “A few years back, when I would visit my daughters outside Pittsburgh, I stayed at a small motel. It had the air of being the sort of place where someone might have been murdered once, or would someday be murdered. I realized as I thought about it that this impression was created by the expectant silence of the place, a silence into which random sounds would occasionally intrude. In ‘Motel Night Attendant,’ I have attempted to register how these small intrusions might strike the speaker of the poem.”

https://www.rattle.com/motel-night-attendant-by-mark-evan-johnston/

#poem #poetry #literature

Now THERE is a trifecta: Poe, Manet and Mallarmé

#art #illustration #poetry

https://www.openculture.com/2024/12/edouard-manet-illustrates-edgar-allan-poes-the-raven-1875.html

But isn’t that what poetry is all about?
Images speaking to the unspeakable
In our dreams as we lie awake in our sleep?

ALLEN GINSBERG’S DEAD
by M.L. Liebler

Why, to write down the stuff
and people of everyday,
must poems be dressed in gold,
in old fearful stone? …
I want poems stained
by hands and everydayness.
—Pablo Neruda
I know Allen Ginsberg’s dead,
And I want to write
A poem for him just like every-
Body else wants to do, but I can’t
Help but think of my neighbor
Who too died alone, recently, in his home of
30 years, and how he was a person
Who will never have a poem
Written in his honor or to his memory.

He was a person who will never have
His life enshrined in sound
And symbol of verse or song.

I didn’t know my neighbor either,
But I want to remember him
With verse and poesy just the same.

I want to celebrate
His life as the important treasure
He must have been as someone’s

Husband, father, brother, friend.
I want to do this
Simply because he lived.

My neighbor wasn’t famous,
And I probably only saw him once
Or twice in all the years that I lived
Behind his back fence.

But his words always made me
Amazed at the kindness of this world
When he spoke softly to me,
While he tended his garden.

I don’t remember his words
As memorable quotes spoken
By a famous person. It was just small talk

Spoken in the lexicon of the backyard.
No “Howl” or “Kaddish” or
“Sunflower Sutra” to be sure,

But graceful words that rose
And danced over the fence,
Behind his red bricked house.

So, while I would really love
To write a poem for Allen Ginsberg,
Like everyone else, right now
It seems more important for me to capture
My neighbor’s life, just another person
Whom I never knew.

I’ll write it all down
In a poem that he’ll never read
And that his family will never see
In print or hear at a public reading.

But isn’t that what poetry is all about?
Images speaking to the unspeakable
In our dreams as we lie awake in our sleep?

And, now, because I’ve shared this poem
With all of you, we are forever connected
All of our bones together
Side by side in the rich graveyard
Soil of poetry and life.

—from Rattle #9, Summer 1998

---

M.L. Liebler: “When I’m in the second grade, I start scribbling stuff. It’s—you guys know, being poets and writers—it’s in there; you can’t do anything about it. But I had no idea, and I would get in trouble for it. They would call my grandmother and say, ‘He scribbles, and we don’t know what it is, but he’s scribbling again, so you pay for the book.’ When I got to the fifth grade I was doing this all the time, scribbling on paper and notebooks and so on. I remember having a big English textbook that had a pelican on a post in the ocean, and when I opened that book I noticed that it had things in it that had a lot of white space around them. When I saw that, I thought, ‘That’s kind of what I’m scribbling. What I’m scribbling has a lot of white space around it.’ So at that point, that’s when I was first able to say, ‘Oh, it’s a poem.’” (web)

https://www.rattle.com/allen-ginsbergs-dead-by-m-l-liebler/

#poem #poetry #literature

Thanksgiving for Two
by Marjorie Saiser

The adults we call our children will not be arriving
with their children in tow for Thanksgiving.
We must make our feast ourselves,

slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates,
potatoes and green beans
carried to our table near the window.

We are the feast, plenty of years,
arguments. I’m thinking the whole bundle of it
rolls out like a white tablecloth. We wanted

to be good company for one another.
Little did we know that first picnic
how this would go. Your hair was thick,

mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff
to look over a storybook plain. We chose
our spot as high as we could, to see

the river and the checkerboard fields.
What we didn’t see was this day, in
our pajamas if we want to,

wrinkled hands strong, wine
in juice glasses, toasting
whatever’s next,

the decades of side-by-side,
our great good luck.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58040/thanksgiving-for-two?mc_cid=fa788b5ee2

#poem #poetry #literature

Wooden Window Frames
by Luci Tapahonso

The morning sun streams through the little kitchen’s
wooden panes; its luminescence tempts me to forego coffee.
But I don’t. The dark coffee scent melds with the birds’
chirping along the hidden acacia. Then, a small bird
alights on the cross of the wooden clothesline.
Its tiny head turns from side to side, then as if sensing me,
it gazes at me through a window square.
We ponder each other, then remember our manners,
and it flies off into the clean, cold air.

My Kiowa friends say a visit from a bird
is the spirit of a departed loved one.
I think again of Marie, my friend, my comadre –
the many feast days, powwows, and trips we shared.
We cruised down Taos’s one main street,
and rushed to Smith’s grocery for last-minute necessities,
or Walmart for the white cylinder candles for wakes.
We hauled huge, bulging bags to the town dump.

Oh, sister, this entire town brims with memories
of our long sisterhood, since our early twenties
when we were young mothers,
but that was in the last century.

This quiet casita is surrounded by tall stands
of elm and cottonwood trees, their bare, brown
branches stark against the deep, blue sky.

Every other week, snow falls in thin waves
onto the flat ochre houses
that seem anchored to the ground.
Outside of these thick adobe walls, a stillness settles upon everything.
As memories drift all around, I gather ingredients for a stew,
scents of coffee and toast linger around the arched doorway,
and the warm air in the kitchen lightens the chopping of vegetables.
Soon, the windowpanes are damp from the simmering stew.

All there is now, is to wait, sip coffee, and watch the snow
fall in layers on the roofs, trees, fences, and cars.

I am in a serene cocoon of memories.
All our conversations and laughter are silent now.
Somewhere north of here, dogs bark playfully,
probably romping in the fresh snow.
Just up the road at the pueblo, your family gathers.
They replenish the fire, stir pots of red chile
and place potato salad and platters
of sliced oven bread on the table.

Copyright © 2024 by Luci Tapahonso. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 28, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“A dear friend, Marie Reyna, passed in 2022. Because the Covid pandemic had just ended, there wasn’t a public memorial. Then, in January of 2024, I was awarded a Helene Wurlitzer [Foundation] residency—allowing me to write and live in Taos for three months. It offered me an extended chance to visit and be with Marie’s family, relatives, and friends. I could finally memorialize and grieve the loss of our long friendship.”
—Luci Tapahonso

https://poets.org/poem/wooden-window-frames

#poem #poetry #literature

#Humour
#AI
#Poetry

https://www.smbc-comics.com/comic/poetry-2

The Ecstasy of Jan Beatty

She is the punk laureate of working-class Pittsburgh, and her poems are equal part protest and jeremiad.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/1634976/the-ecstasy-of-jan-beatty?mc_cid=03d3ee7c83

#poems #poetry #poets #literature

Juke
By Diane Seuss

What kind of juke do you prefer?
For me, it’s the kind with three
songs and thirty-seven blank
title strips. Three songs, and two
are “Luckenbach, Texas.”
The third is beautiful and arcane,
but the patrons hate it,
and the record skips.
I prefer the three-song juke
and the three-toothed human

smile. I found the juke of my dreams
in a bar called “Chums,” no clue
the origin or meaning
of the quotation marks. It was a prime
number of a bar, and now it’s dead.
One night, drinking half-and-
halfs, half beer, half tomato juice,
with schnapps chasers, a cheap
source of hallucination.
A soon-to-be-defrocked Catholic

priest, Vic Jr., my mother, and me,
our faces streaked blue with pool
chalk, juke red as a beating heart,
and just a strip of hollyhocks
and a tree line between us
and the northern lights.
I was young. I looked like a Rubens
painting of a woman half-eaten
by moths. What lucky
debauchery, the ride back

on a washboard dirt road,
taking everything for granted,
flipping off the aurora borealis
like it was some three-toothed human
in flashy clothes dancing
to get my attention.
I wasn’t a mean drunk then,
just honest.
Next morning, mom walked in
on the naked priest

in the shack’s garage,
washing himself with a rag
and cold water from the well
in a metal dishpan. I’d later do dishes
in that pan and wash my hair
in that pan. We popped popcorn
on the one-burner wood-burning
stove and ate it out of that pan.
I’m talking about a time and a place.
All I can say of it is that it was real.

The song choices were limited,
so the grooves were dug deep.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/161499/juke?mc_cid=4530d316f0
#poem #poetry #poets #literature

I Wake up in the Underworld of My Own Dirty Purse
by Karyna McGlynn

My stage name is Persephone.
I perform nightly for a smattering
of ill-informed Tic Tacs.

Now that I’m finally tiny,
I only have two fears:
that someone will leave
my Whole World in the sun
unattended & gravity’s strap
might one day strain & break.

Down here, no one desires me,
but there are relatively few decisions:
what flavor gum to huff,
how many grains of granola.

I spend my time rolling around
with lipsticks: matte nudes
& cabernet mistakes that looked
better on the models. I bind
my thighs with dental floss,
finally learn the aerial arts.

There are bobby pins.
I have to watch myself. I become
begummed, magnetized.
Things stick. Sometimes I can’t
shake them. For a whole week
I was Working Shit Out
with a broken necklace that had me
ensnared by the hair.

In my dark bordello,
Bic lighters are barges
out in deep water. I taste
the tang of their flint sharpening,
receding, hear the cargo
sloshing, the boatswain’s call
at the far edge of my sanity.
Sometimes keys wash up to me—
all faint numbers & silver teeth.
I no longer know what they open.

More than once, I’ve considered
setting the place on fire.
So easy. Plenty to kindle:
petrified pretzel logs, illegible receipts,
& sometimes, incredibly, a tampon
escaped from its casing—string
like a fuse on a soft stick of dynamite.

On hot nights, I unscrew my purse
perfume & move my naked body
like a question across the cool
roller-ball. She is a Silent Oracle
who only answers in spirits
& fumes: pomegranate, lily
of the valley, amber, wet fern,
African violet. I have eternity
to translate this Olfactory Code
into a working escape plan.

For lack of space: Please Help.
This is what I’ve been reduced to.
I hope someone Up There is looking
for me. I hope my Mother is
burning the goddamn crops.

https://poems.com/poem/i-wake-up-in-the-underworld-of-my-own-dirty-purse/

#poem #poetry #literature

Love Song for the End of Us
by Kenzie Allen

In the great die-off, the fireflies will become fewer still.
The jar, empty. The hills and exultation

dark. Vestibules crawl through the shape of an arch
slowed then dead, memory locked to the last survivor

and whatever stories they told; a cardinal returned each summer,
vanished. Perhaps my children brown in the ultraviolet.

Save any space you can.
The hum of June buffets the doors not so long before we mourn.

There was a garden. Something to pray for, even at the wake.
I want to say it was enough.

I shudder to think of the bear trap shattering bone,
his tender paw gripped in a mouth he should never encounter,

or the gills cut through clear with filament
sharp as invisible; lipless fauna surrounded by fire

on every shoreline. We've seen so many
feathered stomachs filled up with ash;

beyond doubt, no air is left—
yet the breath leaves.

Only the lights on the sidewalk tell you
anything is left to be open to be left.

The flame hailing from the sill
in candle, holy water, paper stars—

that's the tongue of this house laid bare,
wide and beckons welcome.

I have prepared the linens.
I kissed a prayer to each crevice

like cupped hands, a flower pressed
brief and capsized by mid-afternoon

bad deeds done by strange fingers,
as though you don't know where you've been.

from the book CLOUD MISSIVES / Tin House

Some of this poem was inspired by my time living in St. Louis, the “Gateway to the West” and where I used to catch fireflies, and in Trondheim, Norway, where the city and nature were so intertwined. The rest was inspired by the markers of our irrevocable impacts on this earth and the more than human world. We are bound to its future as much as it is bound to us.

Kenzie Allen on "Love Song for the End of Us"

#poem #poetry #literature

https://indieauthors.social/@garrett/113512141116871490 garrett@indieauthors.social - There is “Leave a Poem, Take a Poem” mailbox in my small town of Bremerton Washington but there are NEVER any poems in there! It seriously bums me out! Let’s change that.

Submit your poems to this form: https://tinyurl.com/mailboxpoetry and I will print them out and stuff this thing to the gills!

#poetrycommunity #poetry #poem #poetryisnotdead #writing #writingcommunity #writingmonth #amwriting

In Case of Complete Reversal
By Kay Ryan

Born into each seed
is a small anti-seed
useful in case of some
complete reversal:
a tiny but powerful
kit for adapting it
to the unimaginable.
If we could crack the
fineness of the shell
we’d see the
bundled minuses
stacked as in a safe,
ready for use
if things don’t
go well.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57400/in-case-of-complete-reversal?mc_cid=e06eea4bd2

#poem #poetry #literature

AI-generated poetry is indistinguishable from human-written poetry and is rated more favorably | #poetry #generativeai #llms #creativity #rating

Old nihilistic prediction of future from 1960s Iran : The dark year of 2000

Listening to the song, feeling like living it. And sadly it's far worse than it predicted.

#Music #Persian #Farsi #Poetry #Dariiush #Iran #Year2000
#Nihilism #Depression

(Auto translated)

Year 2000

The year of the fall, the year of the escape
The year of running away and waiting
The blooming season of metal
The black year of two thousand

The year of the fall of love
to infinity below zero
The ultimate ascension of the mind
The thought of interpretation of gravity

In the mind of cold cars
The meaning of love and need
on the memory stick
It means an incurable pain

The year reached a dead end
clawing at the wall
Lost in spirituality
Give in to instinct

A tribe means a person
Consanguinity has no meaning
Solidarity is a dream
There is no interpretation of tomorrow

The year of the fall, the year of the escape
The year of running away and waiting
Bitter autumn without spring
The black year of two thousand

The year when there is no blood in your veins
The metal heart is in the chest
When the image of time
It is a broken mirror

A tribe means a person
Consanguinity has no meaning
Solidarity is a dream
There is no interpretation of tomorrow

On that day that comes
No one cares about anyone
Everyone has their own thoughts
No one cares about tomorrow

All ignoring each other
Even to each other's death
If anyone wants help
Who knows what he says?

In dictionary books
White leaves always
Neither enmity nor friendship
Nothing is written

This is inevitable for us
Saudi course until the fall
Always the story of sound
End with the words of silence

When the mirror of love
Be black under the dust
It is time for disaster
The year two thousand is coming

سال سقوط سال فرار
سال گریز و انتظار
فصل شکفتن فلز
سال سیاه دو هزار

سال سقوط عاطفه
تا بینهایت زیر صفر
نهایت معراج ذهن
اندیشه ی تفسیر ثقل

تو ذهن ماشین های سرد
معنای عشق و احتیاج
روی نوار حافظه
یعنی یه درد بی علاج

سال به بن بست رسیدن
پنجه به دیوار کشیدن
از معنویت گم شدن
تن به غریزه بخشیدن

قبیله یعنی یه نفر
همخونی معنا نداره
همبستگی خوابیه که
تعبیر فردا نداره

سال سقوط سال فرار
سال گریز و انتظار
پاییز تلخ و بی بهار
سال سیاه دو هزار

سالی که خون تو رگها نیست
قلب فلزی تو سینه ست
وقتی که تصویر زمان
شکستگی آینه ست

قبیله یعنی یه نفر
همخونی معنا نداره
همبستگی خوابیه که
تعبیر فردا نداره

تو اون روزایی که میاد
کسی به فکر کسی نیست
هرکی به فکر خودشه
به فکر فردا کسی نیست

همه به هم بی اعتنا
حتی به مرگ همدیگه
کسی اگه کمک بخواد
کی می دونه اون چی می گه ؟

توی کتابای لغت
سفید برگا همیشه
نه دشمنی نه دوستی
هیچی نوشته نمیشه

این ناگزیره واسه ما
سیر سعودی تا سقوط
همیشه قصه ی صدا
تموم با حرف سکوت

وقتی که آیینه ی عشق
سیاه بشه زیر غبار
وقت طلوع فاجعه ست
میرسه سال دو هزار
سال ۲۰۰۰ از آلبوم:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=isguKvtBYq0

Today's readers don't know how to connect with quality poetry, so AI poetry is good enough

#poetry #literature #AI

When readers say they prefer AI poetry, then, they would seem to be registering their frustration when faced with writing that does not yield to their attention. If we do not know how to begin with poems, we end up relying on conventional “poetic” signs to make determinations about quality and preference.

This is of course the realm of GPT, which writes formally adequate sonnets in seconds. The large language models used in AI are success-orientated machines that aim to satisfy general taste, and they are effective at doing so. The machines give us the poems we think we want: ones that tell us things.

https://theconversation.com/new-research-shows-people-cant-tell-the-difference-between-human-and-ai-poetry-and-even-prefer-the-latter-what-gives-243593

Jack Gilbert is one of the best poets I know of!

Alone
by Jack Gilbert

I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died. But if she did, I knew
it would be as a lady in a long white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody's dalmatian. I meet
the man walking her on a leash
almost every week. He says good morning
and I stoop down to calm her. He said
once that she was never like that with
other people. Sometimes she is tethered
on their lawn when I go by. If nobody
is around, I sit on the grass. When she
finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap
and we watch each other's eyes as I whisper
in her soft ears. She cares nothing about
the mystery. She likes it best when
I touch her head and tell her small
things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy the way it always did.

Jack Gilbert died on this day in 2012.

Jack Gilbert, "Alone" from Collected Poems. Copyright © 2012 by Jack Gilbert. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58412/alone-56d23cc3c2dbe?mc_cid=e6fcc3424a

#poem #poetry #literature