new posts coming your way wednesday and friday

hello there*
we're in the process of buying our first place, and wow, there's a lot to do! all of the paperwork hasn't left a lot of time for other work i should be doing...poetry, of course. so please check back tomorrow and friday for new posts. ciao!

[overlapping]

thoughts were not overlapping
just light ending,
looping back around,
the world a swirl of freed fireworks.

the self not overlapping.
the self completely contrary.

the world never seen by me,
it has been busy looping,
being something other that it seemed,
and so content, outsmarting.

and every digit i count on
not mine but a sculptor's,
a stand in.
more powerful.

living is so common,
given to me and to you, denied
to another we never knew
but forgot and grieved

without a gift.
life, it's just like you to say
i am nothing true,
i taste like a doll or a meal.

this is a moment.
who cares if it's not, or if it's now.
they say something,
to have it despite them.

[i opened the door]

i opened the door
and in with me came a soft moth,
clinging secretly,
along for a ride through the night.

a secret pulse
latched to my spring jacket,
delicately camouflaged
as the dusk is.

it part of me,
it hidden from me,
it part of me,
it hidden from me.

until it let go from me,
and i could feel it --
the flutter and the flight
lifting as if from me, outside of me.

a soft self,
its silent exclamation of freedom,
flight mastering its volume ,
suspended in the blue of nightfall.

[be gentle, don't tell me]

be gentle, don't tell me
that five is too many,
that forgetting's not helping,
my heart is this empty.

it was supposed to be dark here,
a place to dream,
to skulk into and make places,
witness the rumor of my future.

your eyes were fall's long shadow.
bar stools may be better than bed --
depends on the company, we said,
there in the center of it all.

shadowing my darkness,
your tenderness a pale test.
your heart there save mine
from direct sunlight.

while the broken are mending
they are still broken.
and so we played together,
sometimes with the idea of us.

of course i was no good for you,
you were so good for me,
so good to me,
a grand man on a blue horizon.

unlike the oracle,
in a blank trance in between
i loved the lick of raindrops
forgot the weight of water on you.

for matthew.

[we are what was]

the blue haze of her,
a silver cool shower
from her wrists and ears and neck,
chime in wake of her walk.

her easy smile,

cheeks like

a smoothed bed

fitted with flannel.

she's someone's daughter,
someone's mother,
someone's gran,
living these many lives at once.

all of her
became the world she walks,
the conduit of time and creation,
her bravery seems reckless.

i try her softness on,
the way she hums along,
another way to breathe,
and to be.


[about this poem]
this poem was inspired by a woman i saw walking down the street in our old neighborhood. a lot of older folks live in the area, and are not always as at ease with the speed and tone of city life. the woman i saw seemed really satisfied with the world around her, which made me think of her as taking a tour of the world she orchestrated into being.

stay tuned for new posts wednesday and thursday this week

hello all,

traffic school came between us yesterday, and for that a million pardons.

look for fresh posts tomorrow and thursday*

love, 

bree

reading a poem

i think you might agree with me here -- read a poem under the wrong conditions, and it's just a turn-off.

i'm not sure about you, but the only times i really enjoy reading poetry is when i'm completely focused on it (forget multi-tasking), and expect nothing of the poem itself. that way, i can really read line by line and eventually come out of it understanding or feeling something. of course there's never a guarantee you will get anything out of a poem, but when you do, it feels a little like meeting your best friend for the first time. it's really grounding, really gives you a sense of belonging.

one of my favorite places to read poetry is at peet's coffee, where all the rumblings and classical music make the poem seem like a part of the world. total silence also works -- it depends on my mood. i've learned to take one poem at a time, and never try to read a whole book in a sitting. i can't make myself read poems that i don't respect or language that feels wrong. but when i find a writer's voice that i really love, i can sit down an read 48+ pages in a sitting...no problem. and when that happens, it's really exciting!

which brings me to my writer's crush on the poet mark ford. (don't tell my husband; i don't think he ever reads my blog! ha!) he's the only british person, place or thing that i've liked in a long time. click here to read one of his poems. hopefully i'll get you started on a mad crush, too.

what i love about his work: he takes me by surprise, and always choses the unique path in his word choice. he's humble about his cleverness, and doesn't abuse it. the meanings of words and metaphors are layered, so a bodega is also a woman's pregnant belly and a state of mind. (wow!) it's really difficult to do this kind of writing well. his adjectives are dark, and sometimes sort of gothic -- "wax-like drops and pools," "webby darkness" -- which suits his subject matter...the birth experience that haunts the narrator. 

to read a good poem feels like you're getting closer to someone else, when you're actually just closer to yourself.

*thanks to nytimes.com writer david orr for his recent article "oprah's magazine adventures into poetry", which inspired this post. it's funny, and got me thinking!

shapeless destination

i'm catching you a little later than planned today; i hope your monday was a good one.

mine started off slow, but ended with some exciting news -- one of my poems has been accepted in Welter, the university of baltimore's literary magazine! i'm not yet sure of the print date, but i'm very proud.

here's a new, short poem:
[shapeless destination]

rare to keep its sheen,
love's dimensions bend
until it's stronger.
we know,
we can feel it through our hands --
our beginning's over --
but its residue on every day,
that path of smoke,
that leads us closer
to some shapeless destination.

about this poem:
speaking of lit magazines, this poem was originally written as a response to a prompt, the word "beginnings," provided by a lit magazine. i missed the call for submissions deadline, so i'm working on extending it into a poem about love. the poem takes place once the narrator is past her initial understanding of love, and learning slowly about what she doesn't understand. and, since that information never comes to us in a convenient package, her impressions will be kaleidescopic...