That's right, my lovelies. My poem "The Harp-Snapper" is out in the new issue of The Mom Egg, their first online issue. This is an awesome journal that deals with themes of motherhood and mothers. So get in the genetrix groove and get reading!
Here's the link to the current issue
Celebrate poetry!
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Two New Poems-- The 13th Warrior
Hey Everyone,
Two of my poems, "Babysitting," and "In the Waiting Room," came out in The 13th Warrior recently, another groovy journal. Check them out here and support poetry! Hope you like them!
(This is some graffiti I captured in Cork city)
Two of my poems, "Babysitting," and "In the Waiting Room," came out in The 13th Warrior recently, another groovy journal. Check them out here and support poetry! Hope you like them!
(This is some graffiti I captured in Cork city)
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Bits of Vanity News Chosen at Random
Hola!
Basically, I start Italian lessons on Thursday, and I am terribly excited.
Next, I seem to have Celiac's Disease. I've gone gluten-free. I'm chatting to my Dr. in a few hours.
And, a poem of mine us appearing in The Mom Egg mid- October. Yay!
Basically, I start Italian lessons on Thursday, and I am terribly excited.
Next, I seem to have Celiac's Disease. I've gone gluten-free. I'm chatting to my Dr. in a few hours.
And, a poem of mine us appearing in The Mom Egg mid- October. Yay!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
a poem I like tonight
I grabbed this poem from Ada Limon. She posts original poems in her blog which I became enamoured with shortly after her poem "Crush" appeared in the New Yorker. Enjoy!
Teamwork
The night opens cartwheel quick,
hiccups the moon into one electric
fit, and I’m so gullible that I still believe
it’s a miracle, still come surrendered
to the sky’s fantastic empty. But
let this one be yours tonight,
with the city’s audience of blurs,
an audience of applauding hours,
and I’ll take this quiet corner, like
a cat who sleeps on the furthermost
edge of the bed, with a look that says
only, I am happy to have just this.
It is enough that in this same sweet now,
you are somewhere existing.
Teamwork
The night opens cartwheel quick,
hiccups the moon into one electric
fit, and I’m so gullible that I still believe
it’s a miracle, still come surrendered
to the sky’s fantastic empty. But
let this one be yours tonight,
with the city’s audience of blurs,
an audience of applauding hours,
and I’ll take this quiet corner, like
a cat who sleeps on the furthermost
edge of the bed, with a look that says
only, I am happy to have just this.
It is enough that in this same sweet now,
you are somewhere existing.
Monday, September 7, 2009
"By Boat" in Chantarelle's Notebook
Yes, I was so busy reading The Secret Language of Birds by Adele Nozedar that I forgot to mention that my poem, "By Boat" came out in issue number 17 of Chantarelle's Notebook, which is an excellent online literary journal.
Please check it out!
Please check it out!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
My first international reading!
Yaay! I'm doing a poetry reading at SoundEye, the Cork Poetry Festival, on July 10th at 9 PM during the not-so-open-mic. If you're in Cork check it out.
I just realized that I do that really annoying thing where I learn certain phrases in French, Italian, Spanish, German, even Balinese and Hawaiian and use them constantly to the point where I sound like some Hamlet-educated polyglot. But in reality I just have a few tricks and a perhaps unconscious need to sound Euro-chic. Cest la vie. I love words.
Ciao
I just realized that I do that really annoying thing where I learn certain phrases in French, Italian, Spanish, German, even Balinese and Hawaiian and use them constantly to the point where I sound like some Hamlet-educated polyglot. But in reality I just have a few tricks and a perhaps unconscious need to sound Euro-chic. Cest la vie. I love words.
Ciao
Saturday, June 20, 2009
By Boat, Chantarelle's Notebook
My poem, "By Boat," was just accepted for issue 17 of Chantarelle's Notebook. Thanks editors! You can check it out in August.
Yaay
Yaay
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hors de Prix
Last night I saw a film called Hors de Prix, or in English it would be called Priceless. It was basically a slightly better than average French chick flick. Perhaps because it was in French it seemed better than usual, but I really enjoyed it, possibly because it was one of those films that manages to make high-class prostitution look amusing and a decent albeit bizarre way to earn a living. I honestly think that Audrey Tautou is the new Audrey Hepburn. Just as dazzling, graceful, and endearing. The film was an awful lot like Breakfast at Tiffany's too.
Our street is full of trees with dark red leaves. There is little to do and I'm not sure where we're going next. Scotland is a new possibility. I think if it were warmer outside I wouldn't be so restless. Everything seems to have a terrible price lately-- food, compromises, entertainment. There is a Swap Shop in town where the barter system is the way forward. In the current depression Ireland has embraced Socialism, which is fine with me. Better than the way Britain has embraced Fascism.
Chandelier
As the bulbs burn out
one by one in the broken
chandelier, the cloth
wallet curls its lips,
our socks gather holes
like new lovers embracing
and unraveling, and I feel
guilty eating between meals.
Our street is full of trees with dark red leaves. There is little to do and I'm not sure where we're going next. Scotland is a new possibility. I think if it were warmer outside I wouldn't be so restless. Everything seems to have a terrible price lately-- food, compromises, entertainment. There is a Swap Shop in town where the barter system is the way forward. In the current depression Ireland has embraced Socialism, which is fine with me. Better than the way Britain has embraced Fascism.
Chandelier
As the bulbs burn out
one by one in the broken
chandelier, the cloth
wallet curls its lips,
our socks gather holes
like new lovers embracing
and unraveling, and I feel
guilty eating between meals.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
praying on red rugs
This is one of my favourite poems ever. It's by Adonis, translated from Arabic by Khaled Mattawa, and it appeared in the New Yorker a few years ago. Absolutely enchanting.
Celebrating Childhood
Even the wind wishes
to become a cart
pulled by butterflies.
I remember madness:
leaning for the first time
on the mind’s pillow,
I was talking to my body.
My body was an idea
I wrote in red.
Red was the sun’s most beautiful throne
and all the other colors
prayed on red rugs.
Night is another candle.
In every branch an arm,
a message carried in space,
echoed by the body of the wind.
The sun insists on dressing itself in fog
when it meets me:
am I being scolded by the light?
Oh, my past days,
they used to walk in their sleep
and I used to lean on them.
Love and dreams are two parentheses.
Between them I place my body
and discover the world.
Many times
I saw the air fly with two grass feet
and the road dance with feet made of air.
My wishes are flowers
staining my body.
I was wounded early,
and early I learned
that wounds made me.
I still follow the child
who walks inside me.
Now he stands at a stairway made of light
searching for a corner to rest in,
and to read the face of night.
If the moon were a house,
my feet would refuse to touch its doorstep.
They are taken by dust
carrying me to the air of seasons.
I walk,
one hand in the air,
the other in dreams.
A star is also
a pebble in the fields of space.
He alone
who is joined to the horizon
can build new roads.
What shall I say to the body I abandoned
in the rubble of the house
in which I was born?
No one can narrate my childhood
except those stars that flicker above it
and leave footprints
on the evening’s path.
My childhood is still
being born in the cupped palms of a light
whose name I do not know
and who names me.
Out of that river he made a mirror
and asked it about his sorrow.
He made rain out of his grief
and imitated the clouds.
Your childhood was a village.
You will never cross its boundaries
no matter how far you go.
His days are lakes,
his memories floating bodies.
You who are descending
from the mountains of the past,
how can you climb them again,
and why?
Time is a door
I cannot open.
My magic is worn,
my chants asleep.
I was born in a village,
small and secretive like a womb.
I never left it.
I love the ocean, not the shores.
Celebrating Childhood
Even the wind wishes
to become a cart
pulled by butterflies.
I remember madness:
leaning for the first time
on the mind’s pillow,
I was talking to my body.
My body was an idea
I wrote in red.
Red was the sun’s most beautiful throne
and all the other colors
prayed on red rugs.
Night is another candle.
In every branch an arm,
a message carried in space,
echoed by the body of the wind.
The sun insists on dressing itself in fog
when it meets me:
am I being scolded by the light?
Oh, my past days,
they used to walk in their sleep
and I used to lean on them.
Love and dreams are two parentheses.
Between them I place my body
and discover the world.
Many times
I saw the air fly with two grass feet
and the road dance with feet made of air.
My wishes are flowers
staining my body.
I was wounded early,
and early I learned
that wounds made me.
I still follow the child
who walks inside me.
Now he stands at a stairway made of light
searching for a corner to rest in,
and to read the face of night.
If the moon were a house,
my feet would refuse to touch its doorstep.
They are taken by dust
carrying me to the air of seasons.
I walk,
one hand in the air,
the other in dreams.
A star is also
a pebble in the fields of space.
He alone
who is joined to the horizon
can build new roads.
What shall I say to the body I abandoned
in the rubble of the house
in which I was born?
No one can narrate my childhood
except those stars that flicker above it
and leave footprints
on the evening’s path.
My childhood is still
being born in the cupped palms of a light
whose name I do not know
and who names me.
Out of that river he made a mirror
and asked it about his sorrow.
He made rain out of his grief
and imitated the clouds.
Your childhood was a village.
You will never cross its boundaries
no matter how far you go.
His days are lakes,
his memories floating bodies.
You who are descending
from the mountains of the past,
how can you climb them again,
and why?
Time is a door
I cannot open.
My magic is worn,
my chants asleep.
I was born in a village,
small and secretive like a womb.
I never left it.
I love the ocean, not the shores.
Monday, June 15, 2009
First Book
Yaay! I finished The White Caravan for real this time and sent it to Autumn House Press this morning. I first wrote TWC as my honors thesis, but I've been writing loads of new stuff since and I finally created the book that I actually wanted to write. I cut a lot of old stuff out, put a lot of new stuff in, and now I have 53 pages worth of poetry. Now it's just a matter of a publisher liking it.
In a lot of ways I'm appreciating this amazingly long stint of unemployment and abject poverty. If I weren't unemployed, or if I had enough money to go to grad school, maybe I wouldn't have had the free time to write my first book during my first year out of college. The economy works in mysterious ways....
Plus, the volunteer agency got back to me and I have my first day of training down a dodgy alley beside my favourite pub on Wednesday. Talk about luck! I'm so excited.
Going around Cork by myself is something I haven't done since my UCC days (see Free Stylin') and I have a few rules to keep myself in check now:
1. Ireland apparently cannot handle any glimpse of my clevage or thighs. Dress modestly, no matter how difficult it is or how unaccommodating my wardrobe might be.
2. No going down dodgy alley ways with strangers unless it's for my volunteer training.
3. No interacting with hairdressing students, or possibly students of any kind (just to be on the safe side.)
4. Always wear enormous sunglasses.
5. Remember which way the cars are coming. The opposite of America.
6. Only buy hot port at The Corner House.
All very important rules. It shocks me though, the first one. I forget the way predominantly Catholic countries can be. No offense to Catholicism, but skin is not dealt with so well in places like Ireland, Italy, etc. I'd say especially Ireland. I forget this constantly. And then I get really dirty things screamed at me out of windows for wearing something that in the States would get a "Nice dress, beautiful," at best. Normally I'm a great traveller and can blend in everywhere, but it's hard when you've actually moved to a new place and have to change things in a more permanent way. When in Cork....
In a lot of ways I'm appreciating this amazingly long stint of unemployment and abject poverty. If I weren't unemployed, or if I had enough money to go to grad school, maybe I wouldn't have had the free time to write my first book during my first year out of college. The economy works in mysterious ways....
Plus, the volunteer agency got back to me and I have my first day of training down a dodgy alley beside my favourite pub on Wednesday. Talk about luck! I'm so excited.
Going around Cork by myself is something I haven't done since my UCC days (see Free Stylin') and I have a few rules to keep myself in check now:
1. Ireland apparently cannot handle any glimpse of my clevage or thighs. Dress modestly, no matter how difficult it is or how unaccommodating my wardrobe might be.
2. No going down dodgy alley ways with strangers unless it's for my volunteer training.
3. No interacting with hairdressing students, or possibly students of any kind (just to be on the safe side.)
4. Always wear enormous sunglasses.
5. Remember which way the cars are coming. The opposite of America.
6. Only buy hot port at The Corner House.
All very important rules. It shocks me though, the first one. I forget the way predominantly Catholic countries can be. No offense to Catholicism, but skin is not dealt with so well in places like Ireland, Italy, etc. I'd say especially Ireland. I forget this constantly. And then I get really dirty things screamed at me out of windows for wearing something that in the States would get a "Nice dress, beautiful," at best. Normally I'm a great traveller and can blend in everywhere, but it's hard when you've actually moved to a new place and have to change things in a more permanent way. When in Cork....
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Mystery Box Contest
There is this groovy contest held by Poemeleon that requires you to write a poem about a box for the prize of publication and said box. If you would be so kind, check out the site and vote for my poem, "A Woman of Several Boxes" at Poemeleon: The Blog. And if you feel so inspired, write one yourself! I enjoyed the challenge....
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