(doll is my sister's jack russell terrier. she can usually be found on her bed, on my sister's bed, under the sofa, under the table, on her chair, under her chair, or in the middle of the living room floor.)
Saturday, April 25, 2009
she really does. a lot. all the time. everywhere.
(doll is my sister's jack russell terrier. she can usually be found on her bed, on my sister's bed, under the sofa, under the table, on her chair, under her chair, or in the middle of the living room floor.)
you know how some mornings you wake up and your skin is green?
A Martian Sends A Postcard Home - Craig Rane
Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -
they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.
I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.
Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:
then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.
Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.
Model T is a room with the lock inside -
a key is turned to free the world
for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.
But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.
If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep
with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.
Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room
with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises
alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.
At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs
and read about themselves -
in colour, with their eyelids shut.
Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -
they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.
I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.
Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:
then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.
Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.
Model T is a room with the lock inside -
a key is turned to free the world
for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.
But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.
If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep
with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.
Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room
with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises
alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.
At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs
and read about themselves -
in colour, with their eyelids shut.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
scrappy booky
ever since i've come here, it's like i just can't write. maybe it's the sensory overload, maybe i'm still jetlagged? so i needed to find a less mentally taxing way of recording this trip. when my sister bought me my first moleskine (cherry red! so cute!) i hit upon the perfect solution!
Friday, April 10, 2009
i'm leaving on a jet plane!
tonight, tonight!
across the universe!
so long, farewell!
(sorry, napowrimo!)
across the universe!
so long, farewell!
(sorry, napowrimo!)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
napowrimo #8: d
five years ago, i promised myself i'd never write a poem for you again, and it's a vow i want to keep because if you don't keep vows to yourself, you might as well strap on a pair of wings and float away, but shhh... have you got my back for a minute, because maybe if i conceal this in a long paragraph, the gods of my vows will be fooled, because see the only thing you deserve from me is poetry, the purest, cleanest words, from the cleanest place inside me that maybe (i hope) still lives somewhere in me and still belongs to that stupid girl who once came to your house on an afternoon bus looking for the stars inside your eyes but found instead a sadness so deep she had to pour herself into it even though she couldn't swim but she dove in headfirst and you stood really still letting her find her way through the many tunnels and she got lost for a bit, but today i need to say, thank you for not moving, for letting her find her own way back, because it meant the difference between this and something else i don't know what but i'm sure something not good for both of us, and for that there will be nothing dark or bad in me, nothing that resents or wants to hurt you, nothing that hates how it turned out, because who knows, i'm sure this is exactly how it should have turned out, how in fact it should have been in the first place, really; this is the chance we should've given each other--yes this is a regret of sorts, the last one perhaps i can't let go of because it was so unfair what we made each other feel--and yes this calm came years too late but it came at last, at last it came, and for that i will always dance, for that you still somehow make me smile, for that this letter of the alphabet will always belong to you.
(read write poem prompt 8: "old flames")
(read write poem prompt 8: "old flames")
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
napowrimo #6: bow tie
dear penguin baby,
holding you in feverish grip,
barely daring to shiver,
your father would not die
until you were safe
did you thank him?
(read write poem)
this week's prompt was to draw inspiration from an image. mine came from the moving image march of the penguins and also nash's penguin doodle, or at least what i thought was a penguin doodle but turned out to be an overworked office man. not much of a difference, i thought. sadly, i can't put up either image.
holding you in feverish grip,
barely daring to shiver,
your father would not die
until you were safe
did you thank him?
(read write poem)
this week's prompt was to draw inspiration from an image. mine came from the moving image march of the penguins and also nash's penguin doodle, or at least what i thought was a penguin doodle but turned out to be an overworked office man. not much of a difference, i thought. sadly, i can't put up either image.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
boy selling jigsaw puzzles in the train yesterday speaking the language of my heart
"तोड़ो तोड़ो!
जोड़ो जोड़ो!
दस रूप्या!
दस रूप्या!
तोड़ो तोड़ो!
जोड़ो जोड़ो!
दस रूप्या!
दस रूप्या!"
जोड़ो जोड़ो!
दस रूप्या!
दस रूप्या!
तोड़ो तोड़ो!
जोड़ो जोड़ो!
दस रूप्या!
दस रूप्या!"
Saturday, April 4, 2009
napowrimo #4: blue makes her smile
when judy is in a good mood
she wears red
and asks you if you're going to the banquet
she'll ask which colored sari you'll wear,
"the red one?"
when judy's in a good mood, say yes
or say, "no, blue. you think that's a good idea?"
judy will smile and say, "oh yes, wonderful."
wait a while
judy's in a good mood and she may want to know
the color of your sari
or she may ask you your name
again
when judy's in a bad mood
don't be hurt when you come down to dinner
and she asks,
"who is this girl?
will she live long enough to see it done?"
don't tell judy you wonder the same thing yourself
don't tell her you're the girl who went to the banquet
in the blue sari
tell her your name
tell her you're going to a banquet tomorrow
tell her you need help deciding which sari to wear
ask her what she thinks of blue
(read write poem)
judy is in her 70s and has alzheimer's disease. she's been staying in my house for a week now. i have to introduce myself to her each time we meet. sometimes she remembers she has alzheimer's and those days are tough for all of us.
she wears red
and asks you if you're going to the banquet
she'll ask which colored sari you'll wear,
"the red one?"
when judy's in a good mood, say yes
or say, "no, blue. you think that's a good idea?"
judy will smile and say, "oh yes, wonderful."
wait a while
judy's in a good mood and she may want to know
the color of your sari
or she may ask you your name
again
when judy's in a bad mood
don't be hurt when you come down to dinner
and she asks,
"who is this girl?
will she live long enough to see it done?"
don't tell judy you wonder the same thing yourself
don't tell her you're the girl who went to the banquet
in the blue sari
tell her your name
tell her you're going to a banquet tomorrow
tell her you need help deciding which sari to wear
ask her what she thinks of blue
(read write poem)
judy is in her 70s and has alzheimer's disease. she's been staying in my house for a week now. i have to introduce myself to her each time we meet. sometimes she remembers she has alzheimer's and those days are tough for all of us.
Friday, April 3, 2009
napowrimo #3: i didn't know this about myself
i asked
would words be different
if they came from pencils or laptops or typewriters?
so i wrote this poem
three times
in one the sand of our beach was still between my toes
in the other i never wrote what i meant
in the third i measured my poem in meters
what a pity
(read write poem)
would words be different
if they came from pencils or laptops or typewriters?
so i wrote this poem
three times
in one the sand of our beach was still between my toes
in the other i never wrote what i meant
in the third i measured my poem in meters
what a pity
(read write poem)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
napowrimo #2: after an italian furniture exhibit, for a friend named after a city in italy
when i was young
eight... no, seven
my bedroom cupboard was a thing
not just a purpose served
i'd climb inside, close the door
and believed no one would look for me
let alone find me there
i sometimes took short naps
while inside
and dreamt of open fields
cupboard fields
many cupboards, row upon row
upright like wheat stalks
and brown, for i had not discovered colored furniture yet
every time i was found inside
my mother's hand interrupting the darkness
would enter my dream just before it shook me awake
open the door of every cupboard
inside each one
a different little girl
deep in slumber
(read write poem)
eight... no, seven
my bedroom cupboard was a thing
not just a purpose served
i'd climb inside, close the door
and believed no one would look for me
let alone find me there
i sometimes took short naps
while inside
and dreamt of open fields
cupboard fields
many cupboards, row upon row
upright like wheat stalks
and brown, for i had not discovered colored furniture yet
every time i was found inside
my mother's hand interrupting the darkness
would enter my dream just before it shook me awake
open the door of every cupboard
inside each one
a different little girl
deep in slumber
(read write poem)
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
napowrimo #1: in the waiting room, after many months
in the waiting room, after many months
still here is the woman who serves coffee
writes your name on a piece of paper with a blunt pencil
and asks you to wait
in her trained measured whisper
you can tell from her clothes that you've now seen
go from shabby to new
yet retaining a blandness she can't somehow shake off
that she is another of this feminist doctor's
charity cases
our doctor travels considerably and collects curios
that pile up into meaningless diptychs
in the contrived living room setting of this waiting room
a strained, silent disguise
this woman once handed me a coffee cup and asked me
to check her horoscope on my laptop
i remember laughing
i remember her teeth protruding even more than usual
in a not entirely ugly expression of incomprehension
clearing my face, i asked, "what sign are you?"
"libra"
i googled "horoscope libra"
realizing the buttons and the wait was making this more meaningful
than the many thumbed newspapers
i could not help my eye wandering to the latest addition
the big brass turtle by my feet
head protruding slightly from a shell it'd rather stay under
face set in that bland expression of the ignorant
that can be mistaken for wisdom
i remember seeing metaphors pile up
on either side of the scale
"a good day for love and decisions"
have you ever seen the yellow of an egg
just as it is tipped from the cracked cup
sharp, glistening, the clearest version of itself?
her face and those teeth...
cracked cup, glistening, clear
an hour later she is telling a sleepy receptionist
of the custody battle she is fighting
o god how is she fighting it?
how does she walk into court each morning with those teeth
that tell everyone, i am good at serving coffee and asking people to wait?
i want to polish her shell
call her every morning and read her the same horoscope
"a good day for love and decisions"
i want to see her husband
her son
tell them how good her coffee is
how eager she is to serve it
how painstakingly she crosses each name out on her list
pencil stub gripped tight
and how sometimes her green kurta
brushes past a brass turtle
the swishing sound waking
the entire room from an eternal wait
(read write poem)
still here is the woman who serves coffee
writes your name on a piece of paper with a blunt pencil
and asks you to wait
in her trained measured whisper
you can tell from her clothes that you've now seen
go from shabby to new
yet retaining a blandness she can't somehow shake off
that she is another of this feminist doctor's
charity cases
our doctor travels considerably and collects curios
that pile up into meaningless diptychs
in the contrived living room setting of this waiting room
a strained, silent disguise
this woman once handed me a coffee cup and asked me
to check her horoscope on my laptop
i remember laughing
i remember her teeth protruding even more than usual
in a not entirely ugly expression of incomprehension
clearing my face, i asked, "what sign are you?"
"libra"
i googled "horoscope libra"
realizing the buttons and the wait was making this more meaningful
than the many thumbed newspapers
i could not help my eye wandering to the latest addition
the big brass turtle by my feet
head protruding slightly from a shell it'd rather stay under
face set in that bland expression of the ignorant
that can be mistaken for wisdom
i remember seeing metaphors pile up
on either side of the scale
"a good day for love and decisions"
have you ever seen the yellow of an egg
just as it is tipped from the cracked cup
sharp, glistening, the clearest version of itself?
her face and those teeth...
cracked cup, glistening, clear
an hour later she is telling a sleepy receptionist
of the custody battle she is fighting
o god how is she fighting it?
how does she walk into court each morning with those teeth
that tell everyone, i am good at serving coffee and asking people to wait?
i want to polish her shell
call her every morning and read her the same horoscope
"a good day for love and decisions"
i want to see her husband
her son
tell them how good her coffee is
how eager she is to serve it
how painstakingly she crosses each name out on her list
pencil stub gripped tight
and how sometimes her green kurta
brushes past a brass turtle
the swishing sound waking
the entire room from an eternal wait
(read write poem)
desperately seeking suggestions
i have a loooong 22 hour flight coming up and i need suggestions on what book to carry!
i can only carry one. something that's narrative, soft cover, 300 pages or under. light but not flouncy, interesting but not heavy, absorbing not demanding, prose not poetry, fiction not fact.
with such exacting standards, you see why i'm in a fix.
help!
the time traveler's wife would've been perfect if i hadn't read it already :(
i can only carry one. something that's narrative, soft cover, 300 pages or under. light but not flouncy, interesting but not heavy, absorbing not demanding, prose not poetry, fiction not fact.
with such exacting standards, you see why i'm in a fix.
help!
the time traveler's wife would've been perfect if i hadn't read it already :(
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)