I wished so hard upon a star
for months I wished and wished and wished
I lay awake the night's long line
for fear that it would come to nicht.
my soul strech'd out twixt ev'ry star
I saw for nights around around
and wished my soul on ev'ry one
and cried out loud, but without sound.
The stars must hear! the planets, too!
align themselves from me for you
where is justice, where is right?
I cried out into that dark night
Came the message with the sun
War is over,
Often I have written of moments of blitz, the artistic condition that smites the distant eye and traps the artist between observance and feeling. But blitzfast as these moments are, they perhaps are born of an impatience, a ceaseless wish for something to happen.
I sit outside, it is past midnight, the moon waxes over ridges and a river roars close by. When will they come? I can't sit here all night! When does the next thing happen? I could be inside with the others watching a movie, but t
I spend a lot of time thinking about fascism. I think about its impact as well as its legacy. I think about the line between minor despotism and fascist thinking. I can never decide where it lies but I rail against any attempt to conform for no reason. For example: I was at a party at which there was much food. I picked the items I thought I might enjoy. I sat down to enjoy them. I was suddenly descended upon by incredulous colleagues who had apparently just been upbraided by some authent
"this is J. Evans-Pritchard as rewritten by the man who played the sublimely obtuse General Melchett in the “Blackadder” series" (--David Orr)
We can have armies of academics marching forth, measuring poetry. Certainly. But whosoever thinks one can measure the greatness of a poem through a ratio of form and meter to the appropriateness of topic is marching forth under a banner that above all seems to dip sideways, like blinders on a horse. I suppose having poetry explained by Lord/Genera
I know that many of you here have pets that are very important to you, and I know some of you have also lost important pet friends in recent years. I am grieving the loss of my cat Casha, who I had put to sleep two days ago. He was the most important everything in my life for the twelve years we had each other. He chose me at the adoption center when he was 6 weeks old. We have been nearly inseparable ever since. Even now, I think, in some way, we are not entirely apart. Part of me died when he
The food of poetics and the poetics of food, and not particularly in the grotesque sense but I suppose so, excepting I am less interested in expulsion of said elements and much more concentrated on the ingestion, since words can be like food that is digested but not processed or released, it seems to me, and so the grotesque, so much about the 'ex'-factor, seems to me to play less of a role where one is incapable of removing words from the system by force or otherwise--for even when we repeat th
Parallel events: a scream rushes from my brain towards my lips, in my dream I plummet toward a ground I can't see. Just as I hit the ground full force, the scream bursts from my mouth, and again I sit bolt upright, breathless. For one moment I am blissfully unaware, and perplexed as to where I am. In hindsight that moment, the whole succession of events moves slower than a snail, though it was certainly no more than two blinks of an eye. The moment ends too quickly and it all floods over the
Fiction, rum, roses.
Why escapism belongs to summer is beyond me. Actually it doesn't, come to think of it. My mind has been known to wander in every season but spring. But it's the places my mind wanders in summer...and the creative collisions that surprised me the other day listening to B-sides. That is summer.
Pretty Nell the handsome cabin boy. Yes I've written that as well. But without the childbirth. Obviously I'd come up with the idea before childbirth was interesti
I am wary of nostalgia. I am I am I am.
Nonetheless. Sometimes you have these moments, and something from the now sutures itself in a flash to a then. And again like the Werdegang time both stops and stretches out and moves, it seems you are endlessly a child before yourself while the scene that is not you unfolds before you in slow motion and it seems like all nights last forever.
The floodlights from the house sent a layer of light out across the back yard. It was like light parti
For a long time now I seem to use this blog as a space to tap around in when I am not sure what I want to do. It's a kind of lost space, a space I'd describe with a word I can't find at the moment...liminal. There, I found it. That's why I come here, I suppose. To find things that aren't really anywhere.
It's a Friday night, it's been a tightly-wound week, and I'm not sure what I want to do. So here I am again.
I wonder what I'll find. I found liminal, which by nature is a weird thing to fi
I would rather suffer quietly and internally than stake my rights on another night of finger-pointing. What happens when one reaches that feeling--or even absence of it--when it doesn't matter anymore who said what and when, when it doesn't matter where anything began, you'll take anything, give anything just to have the tension go away. A part of me ceased to be, a little part that insisted on rights, among them the right to express oneself. It was a strangely compacted paradoxical part of m
Another poem I wrote a fews years ago. It was the final poem for a while...
I feel like a phoenix risen
From the ashes of my solitude
Which ignited it self
While my self
Against the emptiness holding
High into the night
Long into the day
A pyre i pushed
Me around in
My eyes it sparked
While i broke
The wind of anger
Or pity blew some
New skin wet with tears
From the pain, and mourning
Lost in a room is nothing new
and sometimes pleasanter than others
and watch the young people dancing
watch the young people smiling
watch the young people leave the room
smiling, dancing, making sense
No, not one of them, not me
there they go and I am not
one of them
or two of them
I am happy for all the others
all the others
all the others
I wish them everything I can't
have and sometimes a tear fills my well
being but happy they have
a moment of p
I write not of art, not of what I know, and yet in the artistic condition, under the premise that a theraputic attempt to record the artistic condition is all I know to do. I stand at the bottom of an abyss, and feel nothing.
If I could only write a song...
Midnight in my heart and I wish the sun would go away. The time when I could be really alone and the night would seem bigger than it ever has before. Just the light of the pagescreen here and a star or two in the black black sky;
The theme-cum-strange phenomenon of the day. And perhaps something worth keeping in mind embarking on a blog.
Inspired by so many others, particularly here, to make the blog whatever one wants, encouraged by the common link we share, to be read or not to be read and anyway perceived by a kind, intelligent, international community. A sentence that isn't a sentence; hardly a suitable beginning. I will keep them, as all things should be, in moderation.
I miss moderation. I long for a p
I think this is my favorite poem I ever wrote. It would make a nice song, I think.
While you paint the fence
I see you looking back at me from my mirror
And while i imagine you seeing me
I try to guess what
I am thinking
While you paint the fence
When you come to me
And say, what is wrong with you
Who have you become
--which you don’t—
i am in here somewhere
and please just be patient
while you paint the fence
Time is unto itself as grammar to language; I sat in a candlelit cafe reading the woes of war in verse and thinking form, when suddenly a sentence in time, some mantra I've been saying for a cosmically long stretch, came to its end and the mantra collapsed under its emphatic conclusion. I was exposed to all the things that mantra mantle had been meant to hold at bay and a moment of total honesty encircled me in the dark. For a second I cried like I'd forgotten I could and it was aweful.
I used to dream a lot about living in a communal house, often it was made of glass or had a lot of windows. I haven't had a dream like that in a number of years. This morning I was deeply asleep, I must have been, not only because the dream was so vivid, but because I woke up flat on my back with my arms weirdly crossed over my chest, on the sofa. I haven't been able to sleep in my bed since Casha died.
I was in a giant old house filled with things, knick knacks, miscellany, everything, includ
...is worth two in the bush, said Basil Fawlty (or something similar). The point is, his head injury put him in a liminal presence of mind, like those slot machines with the three picture wheels, and you pull the lever and the pictures spin and then may or may not line up--his pictures weren't lined up properly. This provided him the unique opportunity of escaping the logical confines of language...which now I think of it is sort of redundant--logic and logos are after all one and the same...ish
All artsy academic bally docks left aside. I just felt like coasting idly through my mind and writing whatever I crash into.
I've given my blog 5 stars, so that's good. It's a positive response, so I'm optimistic.
For a while I considered having a honest-to-goodness reflective blog with a catchy title, and the subtitle "A Midwestern Girl near La-La Land" and then I jettisoned the idea because I was too busy to notice much about being near LaLaLand apart from the same five or six though
by bees and a supermarket
Three minutes I can brush my teeth in three minutes alright so go and I'm brushing my teeth 3, 4 I think 1.5 minutes bottom and 1.5 minutes top and that makes three even with my bizarre sense of numbers I'm late I said not by me of course by you who else you silly dunderhead I wasn't hurt I wonder is that always the first reaction not that I want it any more worst timing ever worst timing ever ruin everyone's life no one would want me I'd be all alone really ALL al
It began last fall. It's escalated since. Now even my students know I have a seriously academic fascination with not one, but TWO culturally distinct pop phenomena: Kate Bush and Lady Gaga. You may be gasping and sputtering. You may be nodding. Distinctive as they are, Kate and Gaga have aesthetic similarities that appeal very much to the poet voyeur in me, and if Kate Bush ever came to town, you can bet I'd fork over any amount of cash to see it; Gaga IS coming to town and I've forked over a re