This is one of the artifacts found in what are called the Spiro Mounds, in far eastern Oklahoma. These Native Americans are probably the ancestors of the Creek, Caddo, and others. They lived in this area from approximately 500 - 1450 CE.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
My Last Poem
My last poem
will walk under storm-green skies
past haunted duplexes
through echoing culverts
through knee-high grass.
It will walk from New Jersey Pine Barrons
and coast up Gravity Hill;
it will walk from mother's horror
to father's death;
it will walk from the myth of Saturn
to the mouth of the whirlwind.
It will walk all this way
to sit on my chest,
some cat-like Buddha,
to flip through the uneven pages
of my unjustified heart.
My last poem and my first poem
will sit on the front porch
and tell tall tales
about the neighbors.
They'll compare rhetoric
and the scope of their rhythm.
"You've got a charming rhyme scheme,"
my last poem will say;
"You've got a mysterious metaphysic,"
my first poem will reply.
And they'll write sketches of the wind
while drinking green tea
with a pinch of fresh mint
and a spoon-full of local honey.
My last poem
may have forgotten every cherished image;
it may have lost
its connection to each borrowed symbol
and 40 years worth of repetends.
It may find itself confronted
by each unfinished stanza,
every half-begun epic,
each muse in passing
and muse in waiting -
each shopgirl, waitress,
movie star, pew mate,
class mate, anima projection -
all the false goddesses
and true harridans,
all the true goddesses
and faithless lovers.
It may have forgotten
their names in eternity.
It may have lost its breath
and its measured lines.
It may not want a song
or need one more sip of beer.
My last poem
will shake your hand and greet you.
It will welcome you like an old friend.
It will walk with you anywhere.
will walk under storm-green skies
past haunted duplexes
through echoing culverts
through knee-high grass.
It will walk from New Jersey Pine Barrons
and coast up Gravity Hill;
it will walk from mother's horror
to father's death;
it will walk from the myth of Saturn
to the mouth of the whirlwind.
It will walk all this way
to sit on my chest,
some cat-like Buddha,
to flip through the uneven pages
of my unjustified heart.
My last poem and my first poem
will sit on the front porch
and tell tall tales
about the neighbors.
They'll compare rhetoric
and the scope of their rhythm.
"You've got a charming rhyme scheme,"
my last poem will say;
"You've got a mysterious metaphysic,"
my first poem will reply.
And they'll write sketches of the wind
while drinking green tea
with a pinch of fresh mint
and a spoon-full of local honey.
My last poem
may have forgotten every cherished image;
it may have lost
its connection to each borrowed symbol
and 40 years worth of repetends.
It may find itself confronted
by each unfinished stanza,
every half-begun epic,
each muse in passing
and muse in waiting -
each shopgirl, waitress,
movie star, pew mate,
class mate, anima projection -
all the false goddesses
and true harridans,
all the true goddesses
and faithless lovers.
It may have forgotten
their names in eternity.
It may have lost its breath
and its measured lines.
It may not want a song
or need one more sip of beer.
My last poem
will shake your hand and greet you.
It will welcome you like an old friend.
It will walk with you anywhere.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Idée d’jour
God must have loved the people in power, for he made them so much like their own image of him.
— Kenneth Patchen, poet and novelist (1911-1972)
— Kenneth Patchen, poet and novelist (1911-1972)
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
The Biggest Lie
"The biggest lie of our low dishonest decade is that we are doing so much better now than [arbitrary date in the last five years]. Casualties are down from [day/month/year arbitrarily chosen to make this point.] Now that [Bush lands on aircraft carrier / Saddam is captured / executed/ elections are held / one particular group is not attacking Americans as often], we have proved how wrong opponents of the war really were all this time. This lie gets repeated over and over again, with the bracketed parts changing. Sure, we messed it up for the first [one, two, three, four, five, six] years, but NOW things are going our way, and it's unpatriotic to suggest otherwise!"
— Jonathan, at Bemsha Swing!
— Jonathan, at Bemsha Swing!
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Idée d’jour
The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.
— Zen saying
Photo details: ISO 200, f/7.1 @ 1/400; cloudy, natural light
Friday, April 04, 2008
April 4
The moon hauls in the water
the wind tears up the street
the stars hail down
The weather vane lost true north
the mailbox flag is frozen
the robin is far from home
She opens the drowsy window
watches rain wash the screen
she dreams her morning fog
in the swirl of her morning coffee
the wind tears up the street
the stars hail down
The weather vane lost true north
the mailbox flag is frozen
the robin is far from home
She opens the drowsy window
watches rain wash the screen
she dreams her morning fog
in the swirl of her morning coffee
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