"A Poem about the Poem"
We don’t write poems,
but to the left and right of poems,
as if a great idea is a football
and poems will tackle us.
We must dodge, fake, and play coy,
keep everything under our helmets
where padding is most useful.
We see poems, but we don’t look closely;
we look over poems.
Occasionally, we see through poems
to find an image of something familiar,
like searching through a dusty trunk
from an attic for something to interpret.
We point and say, “I know that,”
though recognition does not imply knowledge.
We are so afraid of poems,
we are hesitant to call them that,
we call poems Works or Pieces.
If it’s ours, we give it a title,
something simple that hints at our purpose,
but we don’t like to call it A Poem.
That’s too vague. THE Poem? Too arrogant.
We don’t write poems,
but around poems
until their edges flake off
and they become circles.
White circles are full moons,
hackneyed images in need of revision.
And black circles have too many holes.
quiet & still
quiet & still by lisa witherspoon
stickin you in the freezer
is about my best bet for keepin you
from gettin too hot
tho i usually dig my ability to keep you heated
i am positive i’d dig even deeper
for the chance to keep you sated
i put jalapenos in yr undershorts
i keep a plate of hot grits
ready to be poured on yr crotch
but i’m not always that way
sometimes i enjoy sittin by my lonesome
curlin up with a magazine
or fingerin a good book
maybe gettin on skype with my buddies
maybe i don’t want you to play house right now
maybe i just want to get still
& pretend the world isn’t movin
& that’s all
“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! What a task to ask of anything, or anyone, yet it is ours, and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. One fall day I heard above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was a flock of snow geese, winging it faster than the ones we usually see, and, being the color of snow, catching the sun so they were, in part at least, golden. I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us as with a match, which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully, as if delight were the most serious thing you ever felt. The geese flew on, I have never seen them again. Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. Maybe I won't. It doesn't matter. What matters is that, when I saw them, I saw them as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.”—Mary Oliver, Snow Geese
as thick as the throats of our fathers
when they have already left
but leave their words behind.
our fathers write on us. all over our face is their handwriting. whether they have spelled our eyes, our mouths, or the need in our brows, we can’t help but be their poem.
how could they think they are not important. we are houses eaten by rivers because we don’t know their
smell. when we are looking all they way through ourselves, we are looking for them. how dare they just remove themselves from our eyes. we have a right to be able to recognize our father if he walking next to us on the street.
what kind of heart break is he. what night was it that he decided. what did the moon look like. was he hungry. so hungry, that he would give me up. give us up. how do they give us up so easily. so willingly they take out their voice and break us from it, forget, and eat mist and guilt until we are a dream.
Tumblr and Yahoo Executives in a Boardroom
They want to acquire us for a billion dollars but what are their thoughts on a billion dollars—on the internet as a creative platform? but what are their thoughts on focusing on a billion dollars—on bloggers as the primary concern? How will they fix the billion dollars—the technical foundations of the billion dollars—the website? Will they make us a billion dollars—a better company? We need this. We need a billion dollars—we need Yahoo. For a billion dollars—for tumblr. For our billion dollars—for our users.
Sometimes I feel like,
I am doing a cameo,
Pop in wave at the camera,
Then leave without meeting any fans,
Other times I feel like the host,
On a crappy talk show,
Stuck behind the desk or on a couch,
Shaking hands with people,
I would never associate with otherwise,
Having to smile and make nice,
I don’t like either role,
Can I be the camera man instead?