Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
To Gottfried Benn
The poem tells us
is not round like earth,
supple and cold like endless sea,
but plotted upon contiguous
right angles, drained of abstraction
into sharp corners and red alleys,
a razed mountain
and human rubble,
all organs and cavities and words,
a pure mathematics.
An expression of love
in copper transit,
itself labored over like a poem,
his many graveyards
know no shadow or ghost.
Where is the vacuous depression
expected of darkness
and the vicious emotion
bound to its description?
His world writes
between wintry doctor’s hands.
Silence the symphony!
the poem tells us,
and weave a landscape
of precise incisions
and dull spoons,
of colorless blood
and knives like flowers
thrown amongst the summer-faced children.
Carve the dawn in language
and translate it unevenly
so both living and dead
can read the same day
and ending us in twilight,
mince me, this demanding poem,
and drink me like sand
in your ripening garden.
-published by Ken*again
Friday, November 26, 2010
When: Monday, Nov. 29, 7-9pm
Where: Hillsboro Last Monday Poetry Group
135 SE 3rd Ave, Hillsobor, OR
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first cock”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
All day I gawked and awed,
tracing the Guadalupe Mountains from the horizon
as one might cut along a paper’s perforation,
embarrassing myself before the sun and vultures,
and not quite content to look
yet too cowardly to touch and cry.
Later, the tin and dust motel
showed some black and white cowboy film
and I wondered if this is how the soul moves.
Indifferent to the vast colors, beauties,
rattlers and hungers and savageries,
a sole rider kept to his purpose
as if one with everything he failed to see,
as if he did not need to see
and simply was.
And other lone horsemen wandered by, unhesitant,
none pausing, gawking, or scribbling notes
(they did not need to remember).
At times a slaying, at times a silent passing.
It made no difference to hills, horses, men.
One set of eyes could capture an entire landscape,
reaching so far beyond night
it almost touched morning again.
-published by San Pedro River Review and in my chapbook A Pure River
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
When: January 16, 2011 @ 6:30pm
Where: Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe
45 South State Street
Lake Oswego, OR 97034
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
When: Thursday, Nov. 18 at 7pm
Where: Paper Tiger Coffee Roasters
703 Grand Blvd Vancouver, WA 98661
Monday, November 15, 2010
I have slipped you, this single poem,
over her bare brown toe
as a third silver ring,
one I cannot remove as easily.
Why, she asks in her sleep, my toe?
Why not another swirling gold bracelet
or fourth eye, something grandchildren
can tug and kiss and remember in their age
indecipherable from my memory?
But of the wisdom a simple trinket bestows
I know little
and dare only what few will see-
this ornament of words
that may, I fear,
hang from her like a cross.
No, it is simpler still.
I’ve not the courage to inspect
the world still hidden
that heaves and dreams on this bench
like living soil,
with only roots exposed.
Where best to lay a poem
than upon what stretches deepest
and, unseen, absorbs from those dearest
all tomorrow’s fallen tears?
-published by Arlington Literary Journal
Thursday, November 11, 2010
When: Sunday, Nov. 14, 7-9pmWhere: Stonehenge Studios @ 3508 SW Corbett Avenue , Portland, OR
Featured readers are John Morrison and Jess Lamb.
Monday, November 8, 2010
I speak with all the accents
of the people I have loved-
the warriors and the panicked,
the native and the exiled,
of wisdom and of ignorance,
the speakers and the listeners,
those who bleed blue from wounds
and those who by endless night and saber
slaughter the rest like sheep,
those who have returned love
and those who left me upon its shore.
I am still coming of age
in their contradictions
and I find nothing of death
lumped in my one throat,
that never forgets
its thousand dead dialects.
-published in Tertulia Magazine
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tell me just enough of the truth
that I continue battling up the mountain,
just enough and no more
water, so I still thirst,
love, so I still desire,
shadow, so I still weep.
Exercise Bowler: The name of a 1946 performance at the Arts Theatre in London about Army life in World War 2 and the harsh realities the soldiers face upon returning home.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
ken*again is a quarterly, nonprofit e-zine presenting ahearty, eclectic mix of prose, poetry, art and photography:accessible, obscure, soothing, disturbing.Wrap your mind around a good read.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The online version of Issue 2 of Psychic Meatloaf: Journal of Contemporary Poetry is now available! Three of my poems are in this issue! Click HERE to read the issue! The print edition will be out in about a week...
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
You are the one
I’ve harbored in light.
You, arrived from another city,
Americanized in my dawn
and salt promises
that you are the one
I say I sang
decades to unearth,
real now together
under this flagless sky
I say I will sing
until the sadness spills
from this noiseless street
and rises, a new nation,
under both your gods
-published by Spectrum