tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45420106683130186622011-12-28T05:20:58.785-08:00Soul Clap its Hands and SingAppropriation, collaboration, experimentationLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comBlogger271100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-47003740323885082252011-12-28T05:19:00.000-08:002011-12-28T05:20:58.807-08:00River Brink - a cento
The stream is brimful in the grassy fringe
stone bridge among the withes
old as the elms that shelter it.
A thunder of horses stretches
up the slope moist necks
freed from the harness.
Source text:The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-69418041604738028592011-08-20T02:42:00.000-07:002011-09-08T20:50:11.567-07:00Between Being and Becoming Desire marks each of us so differently
no matter how long, how fiercely we love.
Between being and becoming, we fail
so often, and in such ordinary ways.
See how the sliding days silt in,
taking our other hundred lives with the water -
each one waiting, having borne us this far,
becoming finned and whole, swimming off.
Silence completes us, simple as those few notesthat answer theLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-1169318716369940002011-08-18T09:30:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:09:20.817-07:00Lush Valley
Cactus spread red-purple blooms,
improbable flowers.
Water rushing, leaves unfolding -
gratitude opened today in the heat.
Cento Source text: Lush by Sandra VallieLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-35851788550529496192011-08-16T10:17:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:08:16.075-07:00At the end of every fork - Cutting up William S. Burroughs
dig : he is so spectral
the pusher don't remember him.
he is time sucking on a candy bar,
a great wind through the bones,
narcotic effluvium, a mist
that anesthetizes.
Source text for cento: Naked Lunch by William Burroughs
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Scribble everything!
Get drunk with your life, its own dumbsaint mind:
visionary tics, trance, the true
story of the world interior – jewel center
of recollection. Swim in language,
in the holy contour of life
emblazoned in praise
of wild, undisciplined time.
Bits and pieces culled from Jack Kerouac's 30 Writing Tips
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Prey to luminous mornings
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var s = Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-15483705954958776992011-04-30T06:56:00.000-07:002011-08-18T11:17:56.943-07:00Erasure of Neruda's Epithalamium
At first I did not see you: I did not know your presence: the shouts of the wind in the shadow.
Do you remember
how sleep grew in you,
how the wind echoed
its secret syllable and all things spoke
of the seed that half opens?
Your name is on the petals
of the rose that grows on the stone,
a scarlet mouth
deciphers your name: Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-81063952814503906502011-03-10T16:54:00.000-08:002011-08-24T04:12:02.344-07:00Double Vision - a cento
At this moment someone
watches herself, singularity erased
by a sky which will stay brilliant for some time
as though the light that once lay in the weeds now waits
in the air above
Her soul is surely the picture
of this tranquil elation
tossed
a postcard of the ocean into the ocean.
Cento source texts from Poetry Daily
Three Documentaries Nicole Cooley
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-14291453459940289702011-02-08T17:05:00.000-08:002011-08-24T04:12:50.038-07:00Ghost Priest - an erasure
A sliding haze
in dark-webbed branches
wavering gauze-edged, inhabited
by a voice furred with frost,
a haunt of gilded questions.
love gnaws me
a phantom
grace splits from that pale mist.
*Illustration of erasure*
An erasure of Sylvia Plath's Dialogue Between Ghost and Priest
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into a soft caul of forgetfulness
nodding to sleep
like statues.
This is not death.
The wingy myths
unhusk
and steer into the air.
Erasure of Sylvia Plath’s Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond
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It is dangerous.
mad men inhabit the blue hour,
glittery fictions glide
In the crevice of shadow
comfortless as firedogs in the wind.
here,
heat-cracked crickets
creep into our hair.
*
Erasure of Sylvia Plath's Sleep in the Mojave Desert from Crossing the Water
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_Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-88169535924670361102010-11-26T18:11:00.000-08:002010-11-26T18:16:53.723-08:00Wicked Expeditions - a found poem tributeWicked expeditions
seizing
wild bitter greens
the blistered brine still lives in me.
I praise wild
bristly chicories.
I linger lost to blossom,
sap & seed.
Thank you, Dana Tommasino, for the essay at Narrative, Primal.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-46621705629096416992010-10-24T15:31:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:15:33.483-07:00Elemental - a poetry daily mash up/centoSay truly what my name is
Say what I am called:
a gray encounter in an alley or stairwell,
or an ominous silhouette,
a thought crawling in the shadow
of its body,
compass of water and air,
and the earth's innate burning.
Source Text:
The phrases above are from the following poems:
Two Poems by Debra Allbery
The Trylon by Tony Towle
The Eden of the Author of Sleep by Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-35588660256523052122010-10-23T17:43:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:17:33.447-07:00As if from the Shipwreck we returned - a poetry experiment
On the walls the climbing vines
murmured
let dark leaves fall
as we passed.
The gray stones knew us,
the rain squalls,
the shouts of the wind in the shadow.
Between you and me a new door opened
and someone, still faceless,
was waiting for us there.
All that we learned
was of no use to us:
we emerged from the ocean,
as if from the shipwreck
we returned Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-58241431485556795962010-10-17T16:03:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:20:54.211-07:00Searching for Goodbye
This saying good-bye on the edge of the dark
reminds me of all
that can happen to harm.
I'm going home:
in the blood in the bone over coffee ... a promise
grows richer;
the fog,. shifting, salty, thin,. comes closing in. ...
something survived
without shame,
lingered for hours.
Last night I awoke,
knew
That I should say goodbye now
To these verses. That's Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-30441873979158703942010-08-26T11:24:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:22:50.554-07:00A Visit, a Fracture, a Blue-Crested Cry - Mashup of first lines from the Poetry Foundation/cento*
We heard the swifts feeding in air,
wind whistling, as it does:
We’re through, we’re through, we’re through . . .
Summer ended, the first
dark had fallen.
What we are waiting for never arrives.
Whatever went wrong, that week, was more
than weather.
Source text from The Poetry Foundation:
A Visit By Tom Sleigh
Advent By Mary Jo Salter
Blue-Crested Cry By Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-5847743598719914672010-08-16T14:19:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:25:44.692-07:00A different story - Poetry Daily mashup/cento
We peer down through rusted trestles
at the backwards river that does not remember
the tide's movements tugged by the moon, the taste of salt,
the refraction of light beneath the water's surface.
A different story here for me: a river village white with mould,
a damp house, silence, slowly growing old,
waiting for something new to happen
and clinging to what, having already Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-7535742785438638862010-08-08T08:54:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:28:03.932-07:00See you over the next hill - a Poetry Daily mashup/centoThe deer have fled from us. And us not us anymore.
We were pure energy without wisdom.
We swam toward the surface
as if there were a school of us.
We were a multitude.
How strange to have left the world
to understand which is more puzzling:
the existence of suffering or its absence.
We need negative space —like fog in a Japanese painting,
like a shell that falls away
so the bird can emerge.
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-65021690471113642792010-08-04T11:08:00.000-07:002011-08-24T04:29:50.689-07:00It happens that a man has it in him
One little son wanted to make a collection of butterflies and beetles
the father said to the son you are certain this is not
a cruel thing killing to make collections
the son was very disturbed
they talked at last the boy was convinced
it was cruel
he would not do it
his father said the little boy was a noble boy
to give up pleasure when it was cruel.
The boy went to bed
the father gotLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-51709980109036634262010-07-31T12:05:00.000-07:002010-07-31T12:05:30.415-07:00ErasuresFollow this link to construct your own erasures online.
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words
like eight hundred years,
a sanatorium, a room
that was not his own.
He was blinded, bandaged
in the bottom of a well,
the slightest coolness
prickled, the promised day
partial to symmetries
his life
a ramshackle old house.
An erasure of page 175 from The Collected Fictions of Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Andrew Hurley
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-83209927275045112942010-07-28T10:11:00.000-07:002011-09-01T00:21:42.393-07:00Bonewhite light - A Plath Cento
Something else hauls me through air——
Listen: these are its hooves:
A bonewhite light
behind all things.
The low smokes roll from me like Isadora’s scarves.
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
the spirit
escapes like steam.
Tonight it has receded like a ship's light.
I can't get it out of my mind.
*
This is a cento constructed with lines from Sylvia Plath's poems Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-78728549152899019322010-07-24T08:35:00.000-07:002010-07-24T08:41:43.289-07:00Smudges - an erasureThe first morning:
those first disquieting hours
trying to distract myself,
wandering, listening, wondering how
we still know less than nothing.
I never realized
how everything is permeated,
the heavy noontime air
alive with shimmers and mirages.
However much we didn't want to,
however little we would do about it,
we'd understood: we were going to perish
of all this, if not Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-63739081968611735582010-07-19T13:21:00.000-07:002010-07-19T13:26:17.207-07:00Chromium Nebulae - an erasureMantras drift through sonic sculptures
twisting close to the shimmer
of harmonies, merge
with endlessly stretched silences,
sail past geological tones, laval
creaks and spiralling darkness suffused
with a sense of brooding. Soundscapes
abandon the melody
matrix. Eliptical orbits
of rhythm transcend.
*
An erasure of a page of reviews for Anthony Manning’s Chromium Nebulae
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-39948588033257135762010-07-17T11:03:00.000-07:002010-07-17T11:08:09.385-07:00The Crescent of Silence is Brimmed - a Neruda collage
When I open the door of night,
the crescent of silence is brimmed.
It is midnight: all around me
death beats on a gong, black water
the screaming of birds in the rain.
Something shoves me toward damp houses, into dark
corners, into hospitals with bones flying out of the windows,
devoured by haze. All things that live
give some part of themselves to the air.
The big breathing encirclesLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-3258518978777173022010-07-15T09:02:00.000-07:002010-07-15T09:02:23.878-07:00Paradise Lost: an erasure
Restore us, chaos
I invoke thy Song,
the vast in me is dark.
Nine times the Space that measures Day
and Night:
Let us not slip.
Let us rest if any rest can harbour there,
repair.
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var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4542010668313018662.post-39430329662827778892010-07-13T17:56:00.000-07:002010-07-13T17:56:18.144-07:00Five Ways of Looking at a PeregrineI.
In a forest of leafless ash,
all that stirs
is the wind and a peregrine.
II.
The constellation that shimmered
when you were born
is as irretrievable as the peregrine's innocence.
III.
The peregrine's grace
is a measure of feathers
in a minor key.
IV.
Two lovers are more than the sum of themselves.
They promise to honor the unknown they'll engender
as they Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12853516651673308756noreply@blogger.com