Thursday, September 08, 2005


This one appeared in Staple, issued at the time from Matlock Bath.  Salve, Meashams.

From these bones you could build a bird.
From one blunt end a whispered word
emerges as music.  On their last
legs, these brittle sticks, they’re past
a long walk.  Down a short peer narrow
end-wise, which houseled a marrow
could bear a weight, you’d see the moon.
A cakewalk, a fox-trot: a tune
keeps time where we all come.  Belief
did not hollow this, nor did grief
warp out of whack the graceful line:
not sin, though tried, and it felt fine.
It was not fault, nor fear; not real
presence, the stars, nor that schlemiel
who broke her trellis, thorned by the climb.
It was a leg; it’s not.  It’s time.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

My favorite poetry board remarks

--Who are you to say what's good?

--There's no such thing as good or bad; it's all just opinions.

--If you know so much, how come I never heard of you?

--I showed this to my girlfriend, and she liked it.

--What are you, like the poetry god?

--I've been published, you know.

--When I read this to a bunch of drunks the other night, all of whom were waiting a turn to read their poems, they all liked it.

--I really really liked your poem. Now read mine, and tell me what you think.

--You're mean. There's other things in life besides poetry.

--I've been writing poetry since I was 8, and I don't have to listen to you.

--Yeah, we read that Tennyson crap in school, but this isn't the Middle Ages anymore.

--I read this to Anne Sexton before she committed suicide, and she said it reminded her of Adrienne Rich.

--You're not the boss of me.