 |
| Zucchini Bun |
now the
small rabbit lives in my garden
nestles
among zucchini
as
long as I remember to move slowly
it
lets me be there too
 |
| Cory Doctorow [pic by Joi Ito, courtesy of Creative Commons Wiki] |
If you haven't read Little Brother, read it now (free ebook download) & then, read the sequel, Homeland, soon to be released.
this morning I wrote a found poem . . .
I Asked
Myself
what
items
I wanted
in my culture
I wanted
in my culture
created
newly
and justly
to contain
to contain
the
world
isn’t
a text
to
be deciphered
it
is a new creation
a
cloud
enters you
enters you
to
begin in
A found poem is something a poet finds in someone else's writing.
The poet makes what she finds into a poem.
Poems are to be found everywhere.
Find your own.
from Alice Notley's Culture of One (Penguin, 2011):
The poet makes what she finds into a poem.
Poems are to be found everywhere.
Find your own.
 |
| Alice Notley [pic courtesy of The American Poetry Review] |
from Alice Notley's Culture of One (Penguin, 2011):
Leroy’s
Brain
It’s
September in the codex — a gold ink month. Snakebite healing
he
wears a sling, but no one believes he’s been bitten. A fall,
a
sprain . . . Marie believes him; she sees lots of snakes around . . .
But
here’s the funny thing. The shock of the bite — and the trauma
of
Ruby’s death — make Leroy tell the truth. Though it sounds
more
than ever like lies.
I
talk to her, he says, I see her in heaven. He hasn’t had this
experience,
has he? What do you think? The brain
exists
to soothe you, it tells you how to see the right thing.
The
brain is the big trick: you tell it what your codex is. So you can
see
that. I talk to her, he says. I see her in the afterlife. Sure you
do.
And,
if you can describe a vision, maybe that’s having it too.
I
talk to her, I see her in the afterlife. Fuck it, I do.
Muslin
The
girls come at dusk wearing red paint
on
their lips and cheeks, shouting they are Satanists; one
has
red paste jewels in her hair. Everyone’s such a hack ritualist.
I
the poet dream of the girls and wake up shaking in Paris.
They
say they are driven by their fathers to be sexual
Satanists;
they carry the AIDS virus. They say they have to
be
like this. Does anyone have to do anything? You can just die . . .
I
have to do what Daddy says. He makes me real.
Fill Out
Questionnaire for Good
I
couldn’t find you in my metrics but I couldn’t change it
could
I? I couldn’t change my language; I couldn’t change
my
father or his name. I couldn’t rip the rubies out of my
hair;
and when I went to her shack to scream whore at her
I
knew I was that word. But there is no whore. My feelings
of
discomfort are an argument for eternity — you don’t
know
what I mean? But you aren’t here. I mean my feelings
may
be transitory but are absolute at the moment, I have
stayed
so long in moments, so deeply in them that
I
came close to being god. Though I felt like someone who
had
fallen from unconditional grace: it would love you
no
matter what, but you might leave it out of curiosity —
isn’t
this way of being tiresome? If I went to hell would I
care,
would it really be different from heaven? No
I
don’t know what I’m saying; these aren’t my answers.
I
don’t care about being alive — women don’t care about
that,
they just care about you. Oh you. Only you.
nearly every day now, small rains
I'm not eating as much today
the feeling that I might be starving has passed
that bunny in the zucchini is a found poem itself. As is your ending lines:
ReplyDeleteI'm not eating
as much today.
Nearly every day now,
small rains.
The feeling I might
be starving
has passed.
Your belly makes me worry, but your mind makes
me smile.