Friday, April 30, 2010

9 Things

1. cover for death panel

2. reordering the manuscript for the third time on the day it's due.

3. eating shredded wheat and listening to the BBC

4. throwing a ball of paper at Commander Riker

5. feeling depressed about the oil spill

6. having coffee with mom

7. sending out manuscript

8. missing my brother

9. relating to this O'Hara poem ending:

oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

This-Isn't-a-Poetry-Comic-Bianca-Stone // a Poetry Comic by Bianca Stone

I'm working on my poetry manuscript with sudden, acute fervor. There is always a few items at work with artists in this state. Ego, self-loathing, feeling of inevitability of failure and abominable determination. 

I've been drawing and writing since I could spew two words out in some sort of coherent order, and develop my interphalangeal articulations and reconcile my first metacarpal with the fine tipped pen. Here I am at 26, pulling it together, honing my skill, putting it out there, and generally trying to make a living at my impulses...
 Late into the night I have been grilling my poems and brushing hair of the new MS like a little sister. 

I'm sitting in a coffee shop on Graham and Grand street. My feet are cold and people keep opening the door right by me. I'm hungover slightly because Simone and I were up all night talking about poetry and I was (to Ben's chagrin), a shouting, complaining madwoman, swearing there was no such thing as good contemporary fiction, and that I made myself sick.

Why am I saying  this? You are not even here.

For my post of THE THE poetry blog this week, I touch on the feeling of going mad among the personality.  

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Friday, April 2, 2010

The Poem & The Cake

I was going down a river lulled
by the 21st century.  I was staring
out of my compound eye
with monochromatic vision.
I was turning in the folio. I was eating.
I was ultramarine with flaming ideas.
I took your picture
without any flash.
I take your dark picture with me.
Only the European dog
behind the wall
knows. And the rooms
are narrow, but the self
humongous, trembling   
over a pile of dust
throwing a tantrum
that carries into the dawn.
Where is the family name?
Like a ruby
in a locked box; like a leaf
in a box of Japanese beetles.
If I break enough plates
someone will come—I have seen
the low planets differing; the marvelous
flicker of your sex—
The ancient clouds move
over the alcoholic sky.
I have seen the grey beards
of Northern Florida.
Swam with the sea cow.
I have listened to brief troubles
of the old, black cat.
I saw someone fuming
toward the abyss, drawing back.
And I, who was half asleep
for my one earthquake—
now merely fragments waking up
looking for the centre of the earth.
Not at all like the cultivated
sweetness of an evolved apple,
but one lone blue M&M
on the subway stairs.
Our love is one tendon.
One outpost. Our love
is a helicopter following us home
landing softly outside our window
waiting for us to undress.


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