from the desk of wilma's butler

Madeness is dare in indie vituals--uttering gropes, earthy, motions, and rages grit is the gruel.

all codes lead to roam

Wind to sea Sam Hamill read. And Yusef Komunyaka. Such seriousness of purpose in the work of both poets. Muchly in joyed. After Hamill grabbed some foods with Immy Wallenfels and Michael Burkard and Michael has a baking idea. Literary cookies. The Pablo Neruda cookie, for e.g., is orange with mint chocolate chip. Inside the cookie is a poem. Wallace Stevens is a blackberry(bird) pie cut into thirteen slices. One could, of course, make a blackbird pie, crowpie. Hmm. Yes or no? Gnaw.

Hey, the new Coconut 2 is out.

a way wtih wdors

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.


For mroe inotramoifn, ciclk hree.

Tath's pteery iternstenig, yes?

Smees you cloud mkae smoe srot of ognriianl psroody beasd on the tniimg of cigovtine apprehension?

If you took a peom by say Spakeshreae (or any ol' bdoy) and jsut cagnhed the inretanl lterets, wluod taht be pgaliiarsm?

maid public

Read here, this blogger's review of First Intensity's 2004 issue .

from the desk of wilma's butler

Ah, whimming. The "hey!" wakes the sighs sheer and theos or freaky-deaky.

gno

Last night, the gnoers got together to celebrate a gnoer's birthdayhurray, one marvelous Immy Wallenfels. Immy, Sarah Harwell, Farah Marklevits and this blogger did get together and eat cake and admire Sarah's new dining room table and Hannah's absolutely fabulosio new bed (Hannah's Sarah's nine-year old daughter) and then we settled down in the living room to chat and read poetry aloud a laud all la-la love o' gno. Sarah had gotten the Lenore Marshall award books out along with six or seven Koch livres from le libre. We tried out the Lenore Marshall and there went a "hmmm." and there went a "hmph." and there and there went a "mmm, hmmm." but then whenly winningly we went around and read Koch and each read and smiled and at one point all looked at each other and there exclaimed, "Ohhhhhhhhhhh!" and then again, here and there and there and here and "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Kenneth Koch is funny also expansive, open, living also yes. Humor, I'll posit here, is a necessary element in a truly open poetry. Gno enjoyed that Koch's poems are, rather than monument wrought, thought into moving beings/animals. We love that kinda sing.

Koch is it!
The greatest Koch you've ever Koch.
Koch is it.
The fun who'll never fret you frown.
Koch is Lit.
Koch is Kenneth!




 Variations On A Theme By This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams


 1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the
next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

common place blog

NOCTURNE FOR THE DYING
by Leilani Hall



We met as the blind do, disregarding
  sight, unfortunate first appearances
    as if one of us had been a sparrow
      without wings dragged in from play.

Do I need to revise this song
  without pity? Did pity come to us
    or walk with us, ride on our backs?
      Parasite we cannot discard.

You pulled your hind leg through darkness,
  body bare as my own (even hair forsakes the sick)
    and I lurched mid-traffic, soiled with the past. Cars
      coursed like blood about us, no hesitation at our presence



That woman that dog

and neither of us had the energy for anger or fear. That's why
  we made it this far. Like early cancer, as unassuming
    as headache or afternoon nosebleed, no one thought to remove
      us. And in the metastatic dark we clung to each other and grew.

common place blog

REFUSE
by Chenjarai Hove

refuse
when the police come
and their whip dances on your back
refuse to yield.
when the scorpions come
and sting your eyes and ears
refuse to comply.
when the world whirls round
in the torture chamber
refuse to let your heart wither.

hear the voices of children
see the colours of our music
and dance in the death of devotion.

when the powerful receive titles
and the weak take crumbs of power

refuse to kneel by the footpath of deceit.

'keet

O my bloggerissimo, each sentence writ a cage in which to hide or a draft on which to glide?

Spent today final proofin' of Parakeet No. 2, 2005 and am snappy to report our next issue is, happily, as wild a flight bound sing as this here a one on her unsteady lovely weed o' a perch--(this her is, of course, not the cover, just a birdly lit sill of a sing I thought you'd like to see).

I know I speak for not only myself but also my co-editor Deb Olin Unferth when I say we are truly proud of this issue. I'll post more info about this latest when it returns from the away, the on to the printer and the wait. Now to begin reading for issue no. 3 and completing the soon-to-be-launched website.

common place blog

PARKINSON'S
by Micheal O'Siadhail

from his new collection Love Life


1
Stealthily. One day that quiver in your ring
Finger. Or my impatience at your squiggling

Such illegible notes. Just your astonishment
Noticing the absence of an old lineament.

Once speedy genes, high-geared and fleet;
At twelve the school's swiftest athlete.

The oils of movement slower to lubricate.
Stiffness, a tremor, that off-balance gait.

A specialist confirms Parkinson's disease.
Falling dopamine. The brain's vagaries.

Then moments of denial. Again so strong
And confident: Those doctors got it wrong.

Your fright is pleading with me to agree.
I bat for time: Maybe, we'll have to see.

What can I do? These arms enfold you.
Not matter what, I have and hold you.

And so you must travel painful spendthrift
Windings of acceptance. Giving turns gift.

Together. But is there a closer closeness?
Yet another shift in love's long process.


2
Flustered now by stress,
A need for time,
Days planned, a gentler pace;
Any breeze shivers in your limbs,
My aspen mistress.

Hardy, deep-rooted, light-loving
You learn to endure.
Pioneer tree in fallow or clearing.
A random sigh flutters in your leaves:
O God, I'm tired of shaking

3
Often I wake early to taps on my pillow.
Last evening's tablet at the end of its tether
Your forefinger begins its morning tremolo
As if counting in sleep hours lain together.
I think at first you'd pitied an over eagerness,
My jittery hand that spilled half your coffee;
A headstrong giant-killer wobbly and nervous
That slowly over time you'd steadied in me.
Blurs and transfers between fellow travellers.
I couldn't but see your half flirtatious sidelong
Glance at me that both asks and reassures:
Even if I shake I think my spirit is young?
Ours years side by side tongued and grooved.
A face is beautiful once a face is loved.