And the three-year-old at the picnic / said she wanted to play the violin / and I said, just like Joe Venuti / and she said, you’re a Joe Venuti / and I said, you’re a Joe Venuti / and she pulled a tuft of grass and said, / here's some Joe
Anstett glances, attempting his best alert, intelligent animal look, interested in project schedules, imagines being taxidermed, pelt propped up with sawdust and armature...
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
This is a themed blog (poems about poetry) that will lead to a print anthology. Dan Waber invited five of his favorite poets to send him an ars poetica they'd written along with the names and email addresses of five other poets. He then invited those twen
Born in Montreal, July 1, 1944. I graduated from nowhere and though I've had more jobs than the guy on the back of the bookcover I've managed to stay mainly unemployed throughout and am really (I swear) a poet, artist, raconteur, bon vivant and one of the
The Bush administration / the people who chose / The Perfect Bacon / the game went on / the media company / The Ducks won / the Stooges brought / the tough bake-sale squares / the best place to learn [paraphrased]
Exhibition space of the Ontological Museum of the International Post-Dogmatist Group. The poetry on this site has been selected from 'CollagePoetry' postings.
Restraint, the central emotion of Bishop’s poetry, is only necessary when there is an overwhelming pressure towards expression – in just the same way as, according to T. S. Eliot, the extinction of personality is only possible when there is a personal
The literary journal Fence, which has published both emerging and established writers such as Annie Dillard and Rick Moody since 1998, is moving from New York City to the New York State Writers Institute at the University at Albany.
Jampole begins with the charm of a master poet recreating stories of men or women just before a crisis begins or ends, at a precarious equipoise before a moment of change....[he] creates some of the deepest feeling people you will ever meet...then...begin
Haibun is open to a huge range of expression: from the surreal and dreamlike to straight discursive narrative -- even journalism: from impressionistic writing to exposition and storytelling, meditation and the personal diary -- an exploration of the wilde
I think we're in the ghost-town whorehouse in Blackhawk. Under one roof ..........sleeping with all of them -- ....................bush clover, poker chips.
Doorstep is a jumble of debris: clay, straw, twigs. Some moments pass before I notice three baby house martins among the mess, a couple of days old, dead. An almost imperceptible motion - one of the babies is moving.
On linking haiku to prose in haibun...one might do it “’renku’ style – not a direct carry on from the prose telling some of which has already been said – no – it should lead us on – let our mind wander more...
a poet uses fragments to imitate and so to make an assertion about the nature of human perception: perception consists of fragments, fragments are what we assemble into meaningful wholes...giving haibun a sense of immediacy...
A haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A haibun usually ends with a haiku. Most haibun range from well under 100 words to 200 or 300. Some longer haibun may
A multilanguage blog with links and information on poetic invention – our term for exploratory/ investigative/ experimental/ radical/ conceptual poetry. [Graphic poetry, or poetic graphics...]
The Tran Da Tu poem below is now up on Guernica, a very fine journal of art and politics. In the same issue are interviews with Don DeLillo and Iraqi feminist Yanar Mohammed.
We look at a statue and feel uncomfortable. I am backwards light, which isn't as cool as it sounds...Time is a series of pellets...It's my own fault I'm anywhere. When the rain in my mind begins, I don't run for cover.
There's a hole in the middle of life. (the body) The flashbacks will remind us. See what the room sees. A collection of cells. Your face on that small screen. Your blonde guitar, my plaster Buddha.
She looks carved from a ghost. Takes off her dress. It's lace. A spiderweb. She is wearing a slip. Petal pink. Thin as hammered metal. She throws herself on a bed.