06 April 2017
of spring-time snow,
hanging wetly over the sidewalk
in my way.
By afternoon, the snow melts
into a contracted rain.
The trees unburden themselves.
As I walk, my heart
seethes with ambition;
my stomach churns impossibilities.
Hours move silent as the sky
in this white twilight,
observe the icy buds and blooms
in watery shades of pink, and green,
and try to think of a word
that means "Spring," but isn't,
and try to compose a self
verdant, vernal, viridescent:
born between seasons, between stories,
uniting barren Winter with fecund Spring
in branches, hanging over the sidewalk,
in my way,
heavy with blossoms
27 March 2017
My primary issue with the above is the preponderance of grammatical errors and poor diction--while the four authors had divergent styles, they all had a very good grasp of grammar and mechanics. To me the most egregious error (ascribed to Tolkien) is confusing the words "hung" and "hanged"...
- JK Rowling: Suddenly, light started shining through the window!
- J.R.R. Tolkien: The window, which hanged on the wall, softly letting its curtains dance around the room, suddenly brought a bright light into the house.
- Douglass Adams: Quite unexpectedly, light shined through the window in the room, which was less surprising when you think about the fact that's what windows are for.
- Lemony Snicket: Light shined through the window abruptly. abruptly, usually means unexpected, or sudden. For instance, if your mother picked you up from school after telling you twice about doing that, it would not be abruptly. However, if someone were to tell you your house burned down and your parents were dead without telling you to sit down first, it would very much be called, abruptly.
So, rather than simply complaining, I decided to give it a go myself. Here's my stab at more or less the same thing...
JK Rowling: Then, through the window, came a sudden blaze of light.
JRR Tolkien: There came a light through the window: it was unexpected, a torrent of ethereal gold pouring through the glass, as though the warmth of fair Lothlorien had followed them hither, spreading open its gilded arms to beckon them away from their rising despair.
Douglas Adams: Suddenly, light shone through the window--or, rather, it would have done, had the window survived the series of shockwaves proceeding said shining light. Although some might argue that photons passing through a pile of shattered window fragments is more or less the same thing, and that is ultimately what happened.
Lemony Snicket: Light poured through the window suddenly. Or, to be precise, this seemed sudden to the Baudelaires. For something to seem sudden, it would have to surprise you, or to have been somehow unexpected, meaning you did not see signs warning that it was coming. A flash of lightning would seem sudden to most people, but might be completely expected by a researcher conducting an electrical experiment. You may think that your friend's decision to move to France and study the mating habits of the Greater Scaup was sudden--but to your friend it was the natural conclusion of many hours spent considering the possibility. When my beloved Beatrice broke off our engagement, to me it seemed sudden. But the time she spent writing a two-hundred-page treatise on why we should not marry would suggest that this decision was, from her perspective, anything but sudden.
21 March 2017
no bigger than a grain of sand
scuttle white and camouflaged
across my palm
only their furtive sideways skittering
setting them apart
from fragments of coral and
(i only saw their tiny
legs once i had leaned in
today i filled my hands
with little shells
black and white and brown and
seemingly the same
each resident creature gathered
up the courage to come out
exploring the strange new surface
of my skin
revealing snail or
and then i told my dad that i
would write a poem about it.
that i would capture these
these days rolling beneath
liquid earth flying into roiling sea
twilit walks up an overgrown hill
wind tugging at branches heavy
bright hibiscus blooms
by bright nineteen-month-old.
i told him i would write
about the feeling
of salt in my hair
of the entire sea stretched out
of summery sunny sweetness
distilled into a morning
bowl of fruit
of looking up at stars
spattered across improbable skies
even the shyest among them
bright enough to see.
i told him i would prove
hot miles crossed on blistered feet
that i could write a poem
about two white crabs so small
i almost didn't see them.
i always meant
to prove that
darkness isn't the only thing
i know how to write about.
25 January 2017
To whom it may concern:
04 January 2017
22 April 2016
and i was picking pieces of myself
off the sidewalk
because there was no one there
to do it for me or to watch,
or to listen to the gulls screaming
carrion cries fighting over what bits of me i
a thumbnail here, or a
knucklebone bleached white
since morning, or a
hair, a tooth, a stone.
as the day frothed its last
against the shore, beating itself red
against the stalwart waves,
the impotent assemblage
groaned and cracked
and took up her place,
breathed a sodden, brackish breath:
asking where had the time gone,
and could we get it back,
and would it ever be possible
without falling apart
in the meantime?
06 April 2016
somewhere by the red rocks and the sea
where the breeze tangs of iron and salt
and the waves move more slowly in
there's a place set aside for the people like us
forged half from truth and half from fiction,
braced against the cliff where the seabirds nest
in great exposed stone catacombs ripe with
lichen and ossifying urea.
i stand with my toes hanging off the edge
where solid ground gives way to pure horizon,
waiting for what i know only in the unknown:
fathom only in the faceless forms of mythic artifact.
i will hear my calling once i have moved
beyond befores and afters, beyond the sweet
and terrifying certainty of now, or of then, or then.
when i am myself subsumed into the uncouth wind,
stripped of physic consciousness, borne upon
the biting, crafty wind,
only when i reach this formidable Beyond,
our febrile Eden will begin to grow
within what's left of me.
our ferocious, indeterminate Eden--
glutted on blood and lymph and
will reach Before every before,
and After each and every after,
and rescue us from ourselves
and from each other.
i stand with my toes hanging off the edge
of a cliff ever dropping clean and quick
into the sea. i take each step back, and i realize
that i am content to wait
for inspiration. i realize
that i am content to lay myself
before the reddening sun, the composite moon.
someday i will sing your song
to the stones and the waves.
today i am content to listen
as you sing to me.