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© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
True, I wasn't born until 1929 and didn't print any verse until 1956; but like the ancient Chinese, I reckon that your age begins at the moment of your conception, almost a year before you emerged. Right away, a fertilized egg starts gestating poems.Holy cows, I wonder what his mother ate during her pregnancy since most of the poems in the collection are, shall I say, a bit naughty!
The Cow's VengeanceFor this week's Poetry Friday Round-Up you'll have to head over to Heidi's blog, my juicy little universe. An abundance of delightful poetry links awaits to start off your Memorial Day holiday weekend!
Obligingly, the mild cow lets us quaff
The milk that she'd intended for her calf,
But takes revenge: in every pint she packs
A heavy cream to trigger heart attacks.
Brian Brodeur who has posted interviews with 100+ poets on his blog How a Poem Happens: Contemporary Poets Discuss the Making of Poems.Last week's post mentioned the "Bad Poetry" session with Steve Almond that I was hoping to attend. I did attend it and it was laugh-out-loud fun! (Maybe it was just the mood I was in, but I started chuckling as soon as Almond showed up. On his nametag he had written his name as "Steve Almond Joy.") The session was definitely for an adult audience, although "Almond Joy" is definitely 2nd grade humor!
Carl Carlsen who has set up websites highlighting Poetry of Places (several communities in north shore Massachusetts). This is a project that could be duplicated anywhere!
Kevin Carey who makes films about poets such as this:
Wes (Mongo) Jolley who runs the podcast site, IndieFeed: Performance Poetry. There are nearly 900 shows available!
The facilitator was J.D. Scrimgeour, Salem State faculty member and poet. Scrimgeour's own nontraditional project is Confluence-Poetry and Music.
Let’s face it even the best poets have some cringe-worthy verse hidden away in the archives. Maybe it was a birthday poem written to your mom when you were seven. Maybe it was your most earnest expression of adolescent angst. Or maybe it was an awkward early effort in a more flourishing poetic life. The time has come to put forward those bad poems with pride. The idea here isn’t simply self-mockery, but a chance to understand how the very worst of our poetry can teach us something about the truth.At the session he alternated bad poetry "winners" and his own bad poetry with commentary. One of the winning poets was at the session and she was a fabulous sport as Almond is a "no holds barred" type of guy. I'll definitely attend another session if they have "Bad Poetry" again next year!
Project V.O.I.C.E. (Vocal Outreach Into Creative Expression) is a national movement that celebrates and inspires youth self-expression through Spoken Word Poetry.Young, talented, and enthusiastic--what's not to like? Maybe next year...
poetry fest ends...Salem is a crazy place after dark--even when it's not Halloween!
I head back to my car
flying high
there on Essex St.
"witches" on a tour
In Bad Poetry, Almond makes incisive observations about metaphor, enjambment, compound words, and the dubious ethics of appropriating suffering. Yet it is also the case that the poems assembled here are truly quite bad.Okay, I'll let you judge for yourself. This is an excerpt from "The Fruit Standkeeper, Wroclaw"
His hands are a thing of beauty,It continues for two more stanzas.
long, thick fingers moving in webs
grazing apples and onions
settling each into the rusted cradle
of his scale, the needle's soft bounce
It is as if God composed these hands, or Mozart
They are not made for numbers
and trip crudely on the abstract
As the title suggests, this one was birthed during my one and only summer in Poland. I'd gone over there to pursue a doomed love affair, which is how I knew I was a Bad Poet. That and the body odor.Can you see why I have "Bad Poetry with Steve Almond" on my schedule?
This is me! Books all over the place with bookmarks or scraps of envelopes marking Lord knows what. I never seem to go back. Oh, well, maybe some day...
I've left markers
in places where
I've left off
reading every book
in the house,
places where
my own stray thoughts
must've overpowered me,
or what I was reading,
or wished I had said,
or maybe someone
finally got through
to me. Wouldn't it be nice
if I got up now
and checked out
all those places
where I stopped
just to see if
they were all the same
word, or ended in the
beginning of some belief
or grief, or worse,
they were all different
and it all meant nothing
like letting the cat out
just as a car bomb
goes off in Beirut
on my unplugged TV?
After forty-five years of
investigations broken
off and loaded questions,
I still don't know
if I'm complex or just
above being stupid
or if at different times
I'm both. And I don't want
an answer to this but
I ask you is it or is it not
more than enough
just to know when to stop?
(Blindsided: Poems by Jack Myers, David R. Godine, 1993)