So, we (the LouderARTS Project) co-hosted a reading and an after party for Rattapallax Magazine and Casagrande, which featured Yusef Komunyakaa, Martin Espada and Cecilia Vicuna among others. The after-party featured Espada and Vicuna, so the star-struckness was in full effect. i missed the reading itself. i was at Cleo's birthday shindig (and Cleo feeds me often and for free so there's no missing Cleo's birthday celebrations).
I've written a couple of things - one because Laura asked me for a poem for her birthday (and it turned out halfway decent), the other because i taught the second installment of the LouderARTS workshop yesterday and i got a poem out of the exercise i gave the class. i haven't posted a poem here for a minute so here's the poem, first draft, straight out the note book. feel free to e-mail me or post your comments right on here or on my guestbook thingie on the website...
1.
it was the pain
that got her first - the root of him
buried in the Sunday morning
Southern belle of her
fistful of hair - everything
howling like a moon
the sour mash smell of him
and the biting -
Rivers
all she could think about
was Rivers
and then grass
and the smell of ladybugs
as she dug her fingernails
into the marrow of who
he was never going to be
and dragged...
2.
The neighbors say
they knew by the roar
that the man was tumbling
that the woman was in love
had become a blues pitch
so high they forgave her
for being in Harlem
3.
After that day
she couldn't stop loving
her own nipples touching them
devouting herself in the mirror
inventing fascinating stories
for the mystery under the massive bush
between her legs
All the stories ended in pain
fistfuls of orgasms
and one single tear
for the rivers
and the grass
and the ladybugs
Epilogue:
she still loves the taste
of blood under her fingernails
she will fall in love again
the pain will be an organ wail
too much to bear too sweet
for the neighbors to forgive
So that's it. i have to go teach the kids who got into a fight week before last at our first class. God bless 'em.
I've written a couple of things - one because Laura asked me for a poem for her birthday (and it turned out halfway decent), the other because i taught the second installment of the LouderARTS workshop yesterday and i got a poem out of the exercise i gave the class. i haven't posted a poem here for a minute so here's the poem, first draft, straight out the note book. feel free to e-mail me or post your comments right on here or on my guestbook thingie on the website...
1.
it was the pain
that got her first - the root of him
buried in the Sunday morning
Southern belle of her
fistful of hair - everything
howling like a moon
the sour mash smell of him
and the biting -
Rivers
all she could think about
was Rivers
and then grass
and the smell of ladybugs
as she dug her fingernails
into the marrow of who
he was never going to be
and dragged...
2.
The neighbors say
they knew by the roar
that the man was tumbling
that the woman was in love
had become a blues pitch
so high they forgave her
for being in Harlem
3.
After that day
she couldn't stop loving
her own nipples touching them
devouting herself in the mirror
inventing fascinating stories
for the mystery under the massive bush
between her legs
All the stories ended in pain
fistfuls of orgasms
and one single tear
for the rivers
and the grass
and the ladybugs
Epilogue:
she still loves the taste
of blood under her fingernails
she will fall in love again
the pain will be an organ wail
too much to bear too sweet
for the neighbors to forgive
So that's it. i have to go teach the kids who got into a fight week before last at our first class. God bless 'em.
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