Big Window

Identity and Subjectivity in Postindustrial Massachusetts

I am I because I know my little dog
is twitching under his blanket in a dream
that by our account is probably infantile and
savage, but to him is elegant as a minuet
executed at the apex of the Baroque,
when leaves stirring outside the palazzo
mimic the silks worn by contessas,
and the body politic is doused in claret.
Alabaster footmen let fall the sweetmeats,
and lords and ladies descend,
shrieking in their cat-size wigs!

by Lisa Beskin
published in jubilat 11

Chink in the Armor

Edwin Hoon is an artist with a great sense of play.  He self-identifies as a "bathroom graffiti artist."  On his website he posts his Pre-Internet Blogs which are childhood diaries. His manifesto is a long quotation from The Little Prince. Have fun getting to know more about him here.

(via Gawker Artists)

The Hockneyizer

David Hockney fanatics (I include myself) can now DIY with The Hockneyizer.

Sampling by Ralph Angel

I’m standing on 10th Street. I’m not the 
	only one. Buildings rise like
              foliage and human touch.

And so shall dig this cigarette as my last, 
	and rattle trains, and rot the fences
              of the gardens of my body—

or without the harmony of speaking here the 
	many sounds and rhythms that
              sound a lot like anger

when anger’s silent, like a painting, though 
	in the stillness of the paint itself
              the painter nods or waves or asks 
	for help.

I’m not the only one. The pharmacy’s untitled. 
	The stars are there at night.
              In this Humidity

the forlorn singing of the insects clings to anything 
	nailed down. A whole bag of
              things I’m working

through, some set things that I know, like words  
	I know that mean "from
              one place to another," the word that 
		means

"to carry." I’m standing still on 10th Street. I’m  
	not the only one.
              The dark tastes of salt and oranges. 
		Its eyes

wander round and round. I am its thousand windows.  
	I think about the future
              and the sea. And stay.

by Ralph Angel

From Exceptions and Melancholies: Poems 1986-2006 by Ralph Angel, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. © 2006 by Ralph Angel

The Brave New Age of Sidewalk Art

Web Urbanist posted a great story about environmentally friendly graffiti artists who work with sidewalk chalk as their medium.  The examples by Edgar Mueller, Julian Beever, and Kurt Wenner are amazing.  Click here to see more.

DO

photograph by trudi_
via flickr

Please?

The Fab Four

  The Fab Four 
  photograph by Dey via flickr

this noise by eve rifkah

this noise

                                           that is my  noise
                  cicadas but not  cicadas                     and whine
                                                                    cacophony  for one

                  

sometimes  music         a long
                           way off          a  hymn     without words
                  instruments  unknown                              forgotten prayer

                  

a winding cloth  raps             an  interment off key
                                                       ricochets   
                                                   ear                   to                       ear

                  

 

                  

escape   almost  when inside roar
                         falls in between  outside                   shurrrrrrrrrrring

                  

                         white

                  

noise  machine         or               water talk          

                  

no silence  possible                be careful
                               whatyouwishfor                      

                  

                       mocking  bird    
                           still sings
                                                 Satie             Pärt          Glass
                                                       notes cross  and send filaments to
                                                                    mingle but  not muffle

                  

                     in the laps of sound

                  

I sing myself  inside out 

by Eve Rifkah
published in Diode

Note: Diode is a new electronic journal edited by Patty Paine and Jeff Logde.  I like the clean design of Diode very much.  Issue 1 features poems by Didi Menendez, Chris Abani, Laura McCullough, Rick Barot, Amy King, Bob Hicok, Frankie Drayus, Eve Rifkah, Peter Jay Shippy, Tara Moyle, Matthew Wills, Karen Schubert, Carmen Gimenez Smith, Joshua Ware, Julie Doxsee, Rich Murphy, Mathias Svalina, Suzanne Frischkorn, Susan Settlemyre Williams, and Jake Adam York.

Talk Poetry by Mairead Byrne

I went to the doctor

I went to the doctor. It had been so long since I'd seen a doctor I thought she was doing an interview with me. When we first met, she said: Married, Single, Widowed, Divorced? I thought that was a bit personal. But I told her about my children, my husbands, my job, my furnace, my fall. About how I slept like a top. And Gold's Gym. And the sunken garden in the Pendleton House which is a house inside a museum. And my famous story of how I immigrated 11 years ago with $400 and a 7-year old child. We talked about poetry. Well, duh. But it was actually much broader than most poetry interviews, looser yet more intense. She asked me about drug use. Marijuana. Cocaine. That made me laugh. Everyone was so interested in me. It was marvelous. Even the nurse in Reception asked as she was passing: Do you happen to know your height? Boy did I! Then the Office Manager arranged all my appointments. I haven't had so much attention since the MLA or my first wedding. I'm going back.

by Mairead Byrne
published by Fascicle
and in her book Talk Poetry

            

Grace by Ann Tweedy

Grace
for K.W.

when happiness arrives by an
unexpected boat from a lush country
i've never visited and
about which i can recite 
only bland facts, i'm tempted
to turn her away. what could i offer 
that would make her want to stay? she is
of course splendid, her velvet coat 
richer and more colorful than joseph's. 
i look at my unworthy life.
why did she come? 
if i accept her, loss will swell into
a hibernating monster i'll tip-
toe around on my way out 
the door, upon my return  snores 
will jar my sleep all my steps
careful ones until he wakes
up until she is gone.
only refusal could win hard- 
collared certainty who incites 
no wonder but spreads
calmness like a blanket and deals out 
principles upon which to build 
like gravity, like the earth's 
orbit. certainty: an absence
to mourn a presence that bores 
but the truth is my reception is 
lukewarm. i am capable of neither
full acceptance nor outright refusal.
happiness, my wary heart can offer 
you very little. i will go to the length
of the short rope it has tied me
to. i will cook you a modest dinner,
give you my floor to sleep on. but
understand, i know who is deserving.

by Ann Tweedy
published by SWELL

Real Hand-Sewn to Measure

collage by Julia Drescher
published in WOMB

Poetry from Prop

lakes submerge us
in our strength of cool
soft ribboned hues
the brightest outlines
closer to the lakes
hulled by silt &
grass banks, rust
pumping pine
lengthens a granite
alignment
scattered on charity
so cool the lake
expanding limbs
your broadened foot
& toes extend, always
to an upper clear
a brighter line
from fathoms

by Peter Jaeger
from his book PROP
published by Salt

Happy New Year

  Photograph by mordechai der yid
via flickr

Rise Up So

   
photograph by deborah lattimore
via flickr

A Face for Radio

        As usual I am unusually tired.
        All night my fingers double-crossed me,
        tangled up in someone else's hair.
        Breakfast is sand with a promise of pearls.
        If I were an operation, I'd be fly-by-night
        and very bloody. If I were a sow,
        I'd be hog-tied. I was born under
        the sign of the toy breed, the yapper,
        if you will--and I will--on the cusp
        of bikini season.  Somersaults,
        cartwheels.  Call me poorly executed.
        Call me late for dinner and a regrettable
        houseguest, wet towel on the bed.
        Call me go-getter, meaning going going gone.
        If anyone needs me I'll be at the arcade
        across from the fire station, shooting
        the teeth off the cardboard clown.
        If you give me a dollar I'll take
        my top off and let you see my heart.

by Dora Malech
published by Post Road