Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

All Things Reveal All Other Things

My poem, Insomnia is featured on Claire Beynon's blog, '...All things reveal infinitude...' Read it HERE. She has a lovely blog where she generously features poets every Tuesday. The picture to the left from Claire's blog is a detail from Peter Nicholls' steel sculpture - 2009.  Be sure to check out Claire's art blog: http://www.clairebeynon.co.nz

Many thanks to Claire for featuring this little-known poet.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Postmortem

So she took the bud                          
out of her ear
and put it back
on the flower.

It was,
there is,
always

consilience.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Jim Murdoch's "This Is Not About What You Think"

This is Jim Murdoch.  He's Scottish. He's intelligent. When you read stuff he's written and understand it, you feel intelligent too.

I can't even begin to pretend that I know how to review a book, but what I can tell you is why I enjoyed this collection of poems.

Jim writes how you wish you could write, but not so much that the jealousy prevents you from laughing at the things you wish you'd said, like, "I'd give my childhood a three. That's me being generous." This is from his poem, "Marks."

His poems follow a thoughtful progression with "Advice to Children" interspersed throughout - things you probably are happy to read now, but glad you didn't have to hear when you were a child. This, from "Imaginary Friends: "People leave; it's what they do..."
As you read along, you will be struck by his wit and adeptness. You'll be thinking, "Oh, there's so much humor here. This is a fun book." But at page 39, your breath will catch in your throat. The poem "Still Birth" will make you realize this man can not only be glib, but he has a depth of feeling that transcends gender barriers. Then you will go back and reread his poems with new eyes.

A major theme in Jim's life is THE TRUTH. You will see it here. In his poem "Shadowplay," he says, "What are lies but truths gone rotten and secrets lie in that no man's land between the two." Man, I wish I'd written that, because I think it's so true.  The major theme of his blog and novel, Living with the Truth is found in "Old Flames In the Rain."   
"...and the truth about lies
is we can't live without them.
Not even the white ones."
The title of this collection is ironic because Jim gives you permission right away to make of these poems something he never intended or imagined so it pretty much is about what you think.
 Click HERE to order
to read excerpts - http://www.jimmurdoch.co.uk/think_excerpt.html

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Body Scan

Today I've gone missing.
I'm hiding in my body,
visiting all the hankerings
I never resisted.

A shrewd and small alien,
I furrow along wiry edges
where edible music
escapes like blood. 

I drain sacs of dark secrets,
splay upon the surface
of sentient cells,
pressing for answers.

I lodge in peevish crevices,
consort with membranes
too permeable 
to hold lies.


I surface to a d minor scale of skin
so tenderized by touch,
it no longer
covers dense, irregular issues.

I wrench through follicles
of foregone conclusions,
hear tiny trickles 
of truth broadcast 

on narrow bands
of breath.
I come clean about being
caught dead

in desires etched so deep
they invert.
Pain accompanies me,
points out the bone-on-bone grindage 
 
of missteps,  
shows me deposits of fear
where I've been disparaged
into bits.

Arriving at the place
where fantasies dislodge,
I spring open like laughter,
and settle

into myself.


Kathryn Feigal, 2010

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 



Unfathomable mind! now beacon, now sea.
Samuel Beckett

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Dancing

(I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity. 
- Gilda Radner)
I may not get
my story
or my leg straight,
but I will always
dance.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Poem 19: Obit Fit

I wander around obituaries
reaping grimaces,
unwaxing eloquencies.
You, Mr. Hospitality -
who loved everyone
unconditionally,
your warm heart
and bright outlook on life
do nothing
for me.
Where did never saying
an unkind word
get you?
Quit staring at me.
Don't you know
 your picture will fade
 silently over time,
be as faithful
 as you were
  to extinction?
I know,
I get it.
Death notices
me.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Bluebirds Can't See The Color Blue















I die daily to uplifting transgressions of nature,
the blow holes of some errant god
who created disruption, exactitudes of chaos.
My restless eyes demand
infinite fields of privation.
I am fixated on weather's irrational bias,
the forced entry of beauty screaming
from cloud-licked skies.
I relentlessly doubt dogmatic order
and float on rivers that heckle boulders by bending.


© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Monday, April 12, 2010

Poem 12: Mother's Words


Hearing the label of obstreperous, 
I didn't conform,
but investigated other potent words.

Dogged by,
"You're so off the beam,"
I looked for balance
and wondered about sunbeams
and how no one can really see light,
just what bumps into it.

Even if, like light, I'm invisible,
a particle or a wave,
I bump into things
that matter,
so I'd say 
Mom's words 
were effective.


© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

I realize this is not a poem, but I've hit the wall.
...so may I offer this poem by Lee Upton 
from the New England Review, Volume 27, #1/2006

Undid in the Land of Undone

All the things I wanted to do and didn't
took so long.
It was years of not doing.

You can make an allusion here to Penelope,
if you want.
See her up there in that high room undoing her art?

But enough about what she didn't do -
not doing
was what she did. Plucking out

the thread of intimacy in the frame.
If I got to
know you that would be

- something. So let's make a toast to the long art
of lingering.
We say the cake is done,

but what exactly did the cake do?
The things undid
in the land of undone call to us

in the flames. What I didn't do took
an eternity -
and it wasn't for lack of trying.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Poem 11: Bell Canyon, 1970

Thickets ago,
your silent body
dispensed the residue
of our last dry crackle.
On the slotted ground before us,
our bandied barbs 
lay flat and famished.
Through the dazed clouds,
I saw the gravity of
 comets stalling.



© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Friday, April 9, 2010

Poem 9: Rotten Advice



"When I was a boy," my father said,
"they called girls like you sex apples...
                    I was 14...
...those girls with that kind of appeal."
                    and doing my homework.
"Watch out," he said.
                    I never really understood Algebra.
                    English was my best subject.
"You'll have to be careful."
                    Now I watch
                    and I'm careful,
                    but I still want
                    to understand the square root
                    of prepositions.


© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Poem 8: Vocal Solo

Unaccompanied as I am
to public clumping,
I sharpen the caw quill
and sing
I Am Lousy With Midnights:


 ♫ My skin is liquid.
It oozes down the drain,
sings from the traps,
rips through couplings,
spreading rusted lilacs.
I wear fish hooks
and slither the sewer
looking for loopholes
where liquid skin
is the architecture of the world. ♫ 



© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Me 'n Mark Strand, Poet Laureate of the U.S., 1990

Perhaps because I defended you and your style of poetry the other day with Jim Murdoch on Elisabeth's blog , I ran into you today at Ruth's Diner. I was doing my usual Shooting Strangers in Restaurants, when I noticed that you were no stranger. I had a poetry workshop from you 25 years ago where I wrote the first draft of Green Lake, a poem I have reworked on and off for years. I was scared to death of you. You gave me an 'A' because your method of grading was to leave it up to us. You seemed pleased when I walked up to you, told you I was a fan and asked the woman you were with to take our picture. Thank you for being so gracious. You don't frighten me anymore. 


To Mark

Oh Marky, Mark Mark -
you're tall and still handsome.
I can't write poetry
on the same day
I ran into you.
Maybe tomorrow.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Poem 5: Insomnia

In the evening,
the sinister curl of his lips
forms the first of many
smarmy solicitations
to lie with him.
Holding me flush against the sheets,
he presses.

He authors consternated, greedy love-making,
giving up the plot right away,
submitting endless revisions,
bookmarking me for tomorrow.
Gathering courage, I grab his face,
hold it close to mine.
I scream - I am alive,
not carrion -
I suggest there are others
he could plunder.

With hostile indifference
he reveals his promiscuous need
to drive minions
through his slavish sluices.
He taunts me, tells me
wallowing is all I will ever know.

At dawn,
sated by his manic insistence and with
plagiarized grace,
he grants a partial spasmodic respite,
in which I dream intensely
of wakefulness. 


© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Seagulls



From "Day Full of Gulls"
Day full of gulls, a storm of gulls,
wheel within wheel of caw and sweep,
never seeing enough of them,
how they tilt the air, and glide, and ebb.
Barry Spacks

Friday, October 9, 2009

Risk



My teacher says,
You've got to stink first.

I tell her, I don't have time to stink -
at 64 years old
I go directly to perfection
or I go nowhere.

Perfection is nowhere,
she says, So stink.
Stink like a beginner,
stink like decaying flesh,
old blood,
cold sweat,
she says,
I know a woman who's eighty-six,
last year she learned to dive.


Lisa Colt

Friday, October 2, 2009

Love After Love, by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Haunted By Hope

She appeared as religious
as girls got in that city,
fresh, hopeful;
the requisite pose of
paralyzed glee.
Had she wanted more
and pretended less,
her jewelry
would have been
different.

But she chose 'the right'
and wore the ring
and oh my, yes,
she felt the spirit.
It filled her
with sacred whimsy
and tempting tales
of indecent promise.

On account of love
she banked on limited trust
and withdrew
her sense
of balance.
With the truth
varnished
and reality disordered,
she assumed the pose
of one who is
haunted by hope.

© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Thursday, September 24, 2009

How To Be a Poet

by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Green Lake


Bark beetles derange the Elms,
Thickening the path with leaf rot.
Naked limbs of Ash, stripped by downy mildew,
tap coded insults
on the cottage roof.
Inside, albino spiders
sentry the walls
with mazes of webs.
Here, miles from Wayzata,
we make love on the bed you have loved on before.
We sleep
and in your dream
she walks the beach,
tempting the tide to take her.
billowing with a passion
that is not her own,
she becomes the wave,
surging
through the engorged channel
toward the cabin,
teasing,
licking the edges,
nipping the trusses.
When we wake,
the air is dank
with her name.
It seeps between the eaves,
through the floorboards,
driving us outside.
It is too cold to swim
and every direction we walk,
the wind is against us.
In another place,
the day will be warm
and the evening full.
We will have cool drinks
and sit on a porch
listening to crickets, who,
only when the heat
is most intense,
sing of love.
© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

I studied poetry with Mark Strand at the University of Utah. This is one of the poems I wrote in his workshop.
(see some of his poetry here)

Mark StrandMark Strand was born in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, Canada. His collections of poems include: Dark Harbor (1993), The Continuous Life (1990), Selected Poems (1980), The Late Hour (1978), The Story of our Lives (1973), The Sargentville Notebook (1973), Darker (1970), Reasons For Moving (1968), and Sleeping With One Eye Open (1964). He has also published a book of prose, entitled The Monument (1978). His books on artists include William Bailey (1987) and Hopper (1994). His translations include two volumes of the poems of Carlos Drummond de Andrade. He has also published three books for children. He has been the recipient of Fellowships from the Ingram Merrill, Rockefeller, and Guggenheim Foundations and from the National Endowment for the Arts. He has been awarded the Fellowship of the Academy of American Poets (1979), a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation Award (1987), the Bollingen Prize (1993), and has served as Poet Laureate of the United States (1990). He is currently the Elliott Coleman Professor of Poetry in the Writing Seminars at the Johns Hopkins.
(translation into German from an earlier draft)
Grün See
Du bringst mir zu Grün See,
wo du in frührern Sommern
mit eine andern Frau gewohnt hast.
Der dunkele Himmel liegt schwer auf uns
wie eine muffige Wolldecke
bedeckt mit Hülse vergangenen Lebens.
Borkekäferen zerrütten die Ulme
und Netzen von Blattfäulnis,
den Weg verdickend.
Auf dem Hüttendach, klopfen Nackte Lindenäste
ihre Beleidigungen heraus.
Drinnen, albino Spinnen mit labyrinthischen Geweben,
bewachen die Wände.
Hier, Meilen von der Welt entfernt,
erfüllten wir die gegenseitige Sehnsucht
an dem selben Bett,
wo du mit ihr gelegen hattest.
In deinem Schlaf,
schlendert sie den Strand entlang,
und fordernt die Wellen,
sie hinunter zu ziehen.
Mit fremder wogender Leidenschaft
verwandelte sie sich
in eine Mächtige Welle.
Die Welle Wälzt ihre Fluten dir zu,
wo du liegst, voller Sehnsuchts
um ein Überfluss Wasser.
Die kursierte durch deinen Leib
erreichte die Hütte beleckend
die Klinke versuchend.
Als wir aufwachen hat sich
der Himmel seine Enttäuschung entladen,
und der See murmelt seufzend.
Zum Schwimmen ist's zu kalt
und in jeder Richtung ist
der Wind gagen uns.
Ich verlange von der Luft,
sich zu verzehren
verbrannt zu werden.
Ich will, dass die Liebesperlen meine Wunde heilen.
In noch einem Ort, zu noch einer Zeit 
wird der Tag bequem sein
und der Abend befriedigend.
Wir werden kühle Getränke schlürfen
und an die Veranda sitzen,
die Grille zu hören
als sie in der wärmende Luft
von Liebe singen.
© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Mary Oliver's Spirit


In Oliver's book, Thirst, there are 43 new poems. You'd expect to find poems about nature and spirituality. In this volume, she also explores grief and faith.

Some of the poems sound like prayers-

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice can speak.

Patching a few words together into a prayer, or into a poem is, as she writes early in the book, her doing her life's work - "loving the world."

As she spends a "Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond," Oliver writes:

Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective

These poems are a kind of natural praying. They are natural in the sense of nature, full of wonder and awe for the beauty of what surrounds us, and they are natural in their inherent sense of right and wrong and their higher qualities of human nature.

Belief isn't always easy.
But this much I have learned—
if not enough else—
to live with my eyes open.
I know what everyone wants
is a miracle.
This wasn't a miracle.
Unless, of course, kindness—
as now and again
some rare person has suggested—
is a miracle.
As surely it is.

I am going to try to write a natural prayer like Oliver's.

online poems by Mary Oliver here