Category Archives: poetry

Here is where you’ll categorize poetry posts during your field study. A minimum goal is one poem per week, 4 total, posted by Monday PM midnight. One of your four poems must be posted in a “Poetry Observed” video format (www.poetryobserved.com/). The goal is to perform your poetry in situ—within the context of your passionate immersion.

Pil – Stand with me

Stand with me,

Soldier of war.

Side by side, shoulder to shoulder,

fight beside me, bleed with me,

Stand with me

As our brothers fall

as you leave this place of terror

as you huddle with the sane.

Stand with me,

upon my return to the loving embrace.

Stand with me

as we never leave that place of fear

as horrors bask in our waking nightmares

as we never forget.

Stand with me,

As we tear up and say farwell to those we once knew

To those we once were

Stand with me in a grey silence

for we, are survivors.

B – Poem – Untitled #4

Untitled

I lie fractions apart from imagined beings and tangible bodies

His head and shoulders curl

into my lap.

Like a child

he finds comfort in the deep,

old warmth of womb.

My fingers work through

his silk hair, swallow the nape

of his neck and get lost

in the space between

spine and skull.

They push,

rub, a pressure

spelling out unspoken language,

to touch and be touched.

I hold him with acute awareness

of the space that fills around me,

the tangle of knees,

the knots of the spine,

curve of the back.

My hands read the history

bubbling from his skin,

the paragraphs written in the flexing

of thighs and pushing of palms.

My body is written in his story.

E – Week 6 Poetry

I pray while I write

Or maybe writing is a prayer.

I have hope for these words

That they will make a difference

I pray they will move a nation

Move people, move hearts, move mountains

Language my lever, feelings my fulcrum.

 

Even when I am drowning in ink

When everything I love is covered

With black splotches and smears

I pray with my words

A prayer for change.

 

When I want to stop

When my hand cramps

My head feels fogged

And out of words.

I think of my people

And the culture that stands

Between them and who they are.

Ghosts on my shoulder

Adding weight to my prayers

Cheering me on, cheering me on

To walk naked through

A field of critics.

Everything that I am

Ashamed of

Afraid of

Proud of

Laid out in my personal story.

Except.

It isn’t personal any more.

All of it is out there

Paid for with

Inkstains and

Bleary eyes and

A tired mind.

This story belongs now

To the people

And this is why I pray.

 

I pray while I write

So my private story

Will become something to inspire

Sweating my heart

Into the words.

Bleeding

Into the ink.

Move I whisper over

The still infantile words.

Move the world

With the power I am giving you.

Go forth little one.

Make change in all you do.

And this is how I pray.

Hope in the Ruins —Bachelardian reverie #2

I come from broken buildings
all crumpled over in despair.
I come from penniless pockets
and broken dreams, It’s a hard
round world, constant infinity,
the you is I,
and I is U
and we are nowhere near
a true end.

The world is broken, bruised an
fair. She is that porcelain vase that
all to unwittingly we break,
yet still life continues.

Nature claims what
we lay wasted, she puts
to use the weak and weary walls
and soon they too are the womb of
life, they thought they would never be.

We are the ruins of
this modernity, we too
can be reborn, the
stones are not alone
and neither are we.

I suppose,
what I’m getting at
would be that.

From ruination comes new life,

So lick the ruins and don’t think twice.

La Vogue’s

You’ve come a long way
from the pet roaches behind the table
there in back, where they hissed in their tank
and the scent of damp wood clung to our nostrils.

You’ve come a long way
from gigs that brought the ceiling down
on  70’s garb and silly teenagers
experiencing a music “scene” for the first time.

There are no more flannel shirts, or western boots
or kindly old men talking through mush-mouthed words
that only our father seemed to understand. Those days
are gone much like our childhood,

yet still…..

you’ve come a long way and at least you’re still standing.
They won’t kill you off like your neighbor who burnt down behind your eyes.
No,You’re made of tougher things then that, and
you have a way about you that charms,
rather than repels.

You’ve dressed in new attire now,

The old memories are here,
your bones are still yours,
though you seem to have a new addiction,
to caffeine and the bean.

Potential Perception

Through Child’s Eyes

It’s not always easy being a child, no matter how strong you’re loved or much less when unwanted

There is often something in the way or literally out of grasp

Slipping through delicate little fingers

Water cupped in hands

Sure as we age, we may yearn for those days to return

Without the harshness received in adolescence when some believed

No matter how much we accomplish, the wrongs gleam so much stronger in their eyes

How many times do adults pause, and listen?, not simply for “I’m hungry” and “I’m sleepy”

The times children speak of their day, a picture drawn, or random comments that seem like drivel

Do we try to understand?

Attempt a reply with relevant conversation?

Pass the child off to simply wander

We may not always have the time, but when opportunities arise, take them, embrace them

There’s no telling what you’ll learn no matter how young the teacher

T-Craft

Children drive me to believe in possibilities

Take in what exists while seeing what could be

Children show me curiosity sustains the person to obtain and reach for new goals

Children are more apt to find excitement in realities;

A thing commonplace such as a box, an animal or a tree,

Is given a new life, a new identity

Children teach me to laugh and help me find the confidence I often leave behind

Living for the day carefree, no doubt or belief in failure

The drive to look forward to the next day, critical voices muted and left to lie

Q~FABRIC (innat ure)

As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one.

me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, lots of fabrics,

me hold numbersome fabrics in my closet, on my bed, in my life.

me touch them in moments of inspiration, Like when me hear a distant fiddle, or when me smell a breeze of goat.

 

me hold fabrics of color, of sun, of intricate stories,

of elaborate fairytales,

of crumbling brick,

of fishing towns. Of the distant kitchen in my minds eye that I wish to cook in.

The thread that is my reverie, holds together all of the meaning made memories that are of my fabrics. So many fabrics.

(IM SAD)

I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in the word JEW, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.

Story department stories.

(I REMEMBER)

In an effort towards belonging, I will weave.

I will weave the shit out of synthetic fibers, made into a repetitive pattern in a cosmic culture of so much fucking fabric.

FABRIC (n.) late 15c., “building, thing made,” (1)

Fabric is not fabric.

Fabric is animal,vegetable,mineral- it cycles.

through hands.

FABRIC, in its glory, in its truth is what sets us apart and brings us together.

all civilization uses fiber, fabric, to survive.

all survival is in the fabric.

We are hand made, only.

We have handmade a culture that endures, in its fabric.

To claim a place as ones native home, one must have an intimate understanding with its fabric.

To be a mother, a digger, a harvester, a sower, a crafter

me must seek the source.

(what is source?)

the source might be the music, or the holding of babies, or the food, or the wet, or the dry…

the source is the way

the wet, the raw, the blood, the sweat, the fibers, the grit, the earth, the dirt, the sewn materials, of comfort.

The Patterns in Nature : The Fabric

(Sunshine folklore)

cultured fibers.

 

1. (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=figured-fabric+loom)

 

Q~Cozy

 

 

Of all of the fabrics that make up the melting pot,
layeth the Quilt,
strung up strewn, together, in threads of plenty.
The Quilt renders a moment cozy, or a moment cottony smooth , in the throat’s chest.
The rugged earth, red, of the Southwest
The rainforested mug warm of the Island vibe.
The Quilt takes on all of the textile traditions into a clusterfuckmagnet of color and shape.
From the source to the silk to the strands to the stitch
Its a song, that blanket is.