Monday, October 07, 2013



I'm glad to have these cards to post as opposed to writing up long blurbs as I'm up to my ears in projects these days. 

I'm doing ModPo (Al Filreis' wonderful MOOC on Modern and Contemporary American Poetry) again, and it's a little like the song, almost lovelier the second time around. I'm not all anxious about the essays and evaluations and such, just giving them all my best shot and sending them off to the ethers. I'm enjoying the forums more this year, concentrating on a few rather than being overwhelmed by how many there are (and there are many). And while it's covering the same material as last year, there is still so much to be learned. 

I'm busy with book making projects that have to be done by December. And I'm working on something for The Light Ekphrastic's next collection of collaborations again. 

So, on to the postcards. This first one's pretty self-explanatory:

“Apart from that, you were built
            like a walrus.”
                                    Ian Williams

                Her huge
            her lover
            her mega-man
            her nemesis
            her monster
            her betrayer
            her bastard
            her prick
            her first-seen-on-a-ladder
            her messed-with-her-sister
            her love-you-forever
            her death-do-us part
This is Andy Warhol's Seated Male Torso:

“and I was by the orchard’s edge, the quince orchard,
            reading an ode, perhaps by a captive prince”
                                    Ghassan Zaqtan

            This, too, a black ballpoint.
            This, sturdy cardstock,
            meant for mailing without
            having to pack along
            a companion,
            Did he know, when filming
            that boy in the shower
            or those endless, soul-sucking
            kisses, that his own 15 minutes
would never, ever end?
 The incredible Frida again:

“Katherine and I avoid
            the live exhibits these days, even
            the pretty petting zoo.”
                                    Jennifer Maiden

            Oh, the darkness of it all —
            black cat, black dog,
            black monkey on
            the black-eyed woman’s shoulder,
            blackbird, dead of night,
            black as a storm cloud
            come to drop rain
            into the black lake
            but when it clears — and it will —
            the way we rejoice
            in the light!
 I love these children's stories illustration cards:

“Here is the intense
            amnesia of the just now
            at last no longer longing”
                                    Alan Shapiro

            That moment
            when what goes up —
            balloon, smoke, wallpaper —
            stays up
            belies everything we’re told
            about gravity
            by songs and stern professors
            though spinning wheels
            do go round
            that is the nature
            of spin
 Here's one I picked up in Mexico last winter:

“No poetry. Plain. No
            fresh, special recipe
            to bless.”
                                    Brenda Shaughnessy

No storks mid-flight
no black flamingos bobbing
no water-bearing women
no fallow fields to sow
no opening of eyes, of hearts
no running out of time
no beckoning lacuna
no thwarted empty page
no thought
no life
no poetry
 When I saw this one I knew I had to send it to Lana Ayers!

“Or as truth is disguised in fiction
            or as the truths of philosophy may be
            disguised or veiled in poetry.”
                                    David W. McFadden

            Tell me again your story,
            tell me how you howled
            when I appeared,
            red cape to your bullishness,
            never enough in your basket—
            yes, I know I was the one
            who carried treasures
            not intended for you,
            I was your target, your desire,
            and you? you were
            always skulking about,
            going on about your basket,
            not getting that I really
            didn’t care.
 I just liked this one with its odd proportions:

“and my mind climbs down
            to the half-remembered
            country I have left”
                                    James Pollock

            In this particular version
            of the age old story
            a man rides into town
            his turban bigger than his mount,
            he’s on a mission
            got a ticket to ride
            he won’t stop until he gets there
            wherever ‘there’ is.
            Could be a birth story,
            and he’s on the ride
            of his life.
            Could be an odyssey,
            he’s not telling.

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