ezekielsdaughter: (VacationPhoto)

Two panels that I attended were poetry workshops.


  • The Poet as Activist: On Seeing and Saving the Natural World

  • Speculative Poetry Workshop

An early panel , the first was somewhat unfocused. However the presenters did note that while most literary poetry journals pay in copies, most SF magazines actually pay for poetry.  They gave the attendees the names of market lists.  Part of the problem was the focus on “the natural world”.   One participant asked about how to use poetry to reach mental patients and students in high school.  I immediately thought of Kalamu’s story circles.  The other note that I made in my little yellow tablet was the definition of “lune” poetry - a haiku styled poem with the 5-3-5 syllable count.

The Speculative Poetry workshop was interesting even though I got there a little late.  (It was murder trying to get from one wing of the convention center to another.)  I got there in time to be handed three words from three different canisters with the instruction to write a speculative poem using those 3 words.  I felt very happy with myself when I finished early, despite writing 3 drafts.  Someone in the front row was more productive.  She wrote  3 effective poems using her 3 words using her experience on a recent tour of San Antonio.

My three words were misty, interstellar medium, regent.  Go ahead. Try to write your own.

My poem

Read more... )

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)










Waking to weariness,

I am the calf who stumbles

        downwind to the wolf’s den.

Sweet welcome,

      sweet rendering.

But on the other side

      I’ll be the steaming rush of piss that marks

              the boundary between alpha and beta.

      I’ll be top

              dog, my teeth the best provider.

By afternoon, as rancher

      my steel cheeks spit lead

                at wolf, at coyote

                      at borders.

By evening, I’ll lie down as

      the rancher’s cow and

                the grass underfoot.

Before you dismiss me.

Think

Who am I tonight?

The rancher,

the calf,

the grass underfoot

or the wolf and the word

that will bring you screaming down to earth.

Poem

Jul. 15th, 2013 11:19 pm
ezekielsdaughter: (VacationPhoto)
Fighting with this poem. Mainly because I keep changing what I want to say. I need to decide.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------







Waking to weariness,

I am the calf who stumbles

downwind to the wolf’s den.

Sweet welcome,

sweet rendering.

but on the other side

I’ll be the steaming rush of piss that marks

the boundary between alpha and beta.

In the morning, I’ll be top

dog, my teeth the best provider.

By afternoon, as rancher

my steel cheeks spit bullets

at wolf and coyote.

By evening, I’ll lie down as

the rancher’s cow and

the grass underfoot.

Before you dismiss me.

Think

Who am I tonight?

The rancher,

the calf,

the grass underfoot

or the wolf and the word

that will bring you down to earth.

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
In honor of this week's Torah portion.



CSI: EGYPT



Yes, I know who you are: the eldest son

of our distant Theban lord.  I am here

to serve.  Who

did you say you were looking for?

Tall guy, named Thutmose.

That could be Moshe, I guess.

Hard to tell from that picture

It’s just a profile.

His hair is longer

He has a beard, not like you Egyptian folk.

And those short linen pleats? Perfect

for the chariot, I guess.  Not so much for the brush

of the wilderness.  He wore wool

like the rest of us shepherds.

What do you say he did?

Kill a man and bury him in the sand!

Damn--sure he had a temper, but

I can't see it.  He’s married to the boss's daughter

He's a straight up guy but not

here any more.

No; he didn’t run because we heard you were coming.

Fact is, he went back your way.  

Maybe you passed him on the road.

Yes--he went back to Egypt

He has people back there.

And you know how important family is.
If you hurry, you might find him

before the long night catches up to you.

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
Working on a story and wrote a poem instead.

Memory

And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him; for he had straitly sworn the children of Israel, saying: 'God will surely remember you; and ye shall carry up my bones away hence with you.

I carried the bones of Joseph to Shechem
I am carrying them still--
the memory
of a loin cloth for raiment in prison;  the whisper
that the sheerest of linen makes
against parched skin even when
embroidered in gold thread.
I claim this land with his bones.
And exile too.
I will always have a place there.
My coat carries the colors of every
flag on earth; my dust
rides the wind.

ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)

                                          Bashert    








I’m awake, he posted.

Is anyone ever?  one replied.

Prove it, typed another.

Nihilist!  A graphic cry followed by exclamation.  

That reply arrived late in the morning during a coffee break

Someone’s big word for today.  :-)

Awake is a big word, someone ventured.  Full of potential.  

A female name accompanied by

the image of an arched foot stepping away in sand.

He traced the curve of it, the name and the foot, 

wondering if they 

could be a matched set.



Storm Haiku

Sep. 2nd, 2011 10:52 pm
ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
A band of rain goes
through; they swing their silver chains
and tree limbs vanish
ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
photo by Alan Musselman

photo by Alan Musselman

Untitled 


Your affection is as constant as the tide
It rushes in, out.
It threatens to pull me under, to tear
me into ribbons on unseen rocks
When I return from the continent's edge
I find a sliver of green
glass in my foot
Fired silicon as fine as a jewelers’ loupe.
The better to see you with, a Mexican grandma whispers
as she displays her wares:
fine Spanish knives,
sweetened pastries to placate the tongue
and release from watery lovers.

ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/04/03/napowrimo-day-3/
http://www.napowrimo.net/2011/04/day-2/

So here goes: Cesar Vallejo wrote a pretty famous poem that begins with him saying that he will die in Paris, in the rain, on a Thursday (different translations from the Spanish make it hard to quote precisely in English). So go ahead and write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell. It’s less morbid than you think!


Streetcar Pantoum

On Tuesday night the smell of jasmine intoxicates her
She pirouettes and stumbles on rain slick streets
The cry that escapes her lips is sharp and brief
as parcels tumble into the road.

She pirouettes and stumbles on rain slick streets
The alarm of banshee brakes match her cry
as parcels tumble into the road
The howl of companions echo ‘twixt inert glass canyons.

The alarm of banshee brakes match her cry
As metal wheels tear into flesh
the howl of companions echo ‘twixt inert glass canyons
The scent of blood cloaks nearby jasmine blooms
.
ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
 Alright, so I am behind already.
writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/04/02/napowrimo-day-2/



April is National Poetry Writing Month (NAPOWRIMO).


Spring Cleaning Haiku



Silverfish slowly march
with palanquins in my dreams.
Tomorrow, I dust.


ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/prompt-13-for-2011-unlimited/

The thirteenth prompt for 2011 is “UNLIMITED”, inspired by this wonderful image from jaime lluch.
So consider the various meanings of the word, such as… • reaching to forever, • unrestricted, • unconfined, • boundless, • infinite, • vast, • without exception, • unconditional, • unconstrained, • unrestrained, • unfettered — let the word unlimited spark your muse… perhaps let the image above be your inspiration… or choose to go in your own direction with your piece this week. Just let yourself go with whatever it is that moves you to write.



I don't know the morality of using real people's names in a fictional matter in poetry.  Anyway, none of the following implies a knowledge of the Edwin Hubble's personal life.  He just happens to be the person who discovered that Andromeda was actually a separate galaxy.


Hubble's Constant

At midnight, Edwin opens
his eyes on Mount Wilson and realizes that Grace
is receding from him.
Her affection is as variable as the Cepheid star that he pursues.
Now, that star signals to him.
It has barely cleared Mount Lookout, but it’s ready for tonight’s fitting.
One dress for Andromeda, a standard candle in length.
Grace sleeps five nanoseconds away in their shared bed;
M31 is two and a half million light years further,
but both are fleeing from him in a speed that is
measurable
he decides with satisfaction.
What can be measured can be contained--
in a marriage,
in a universe that will eventually fall into order.

ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
 writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/02/12/prompt-7-for-2011-epiphany/

As may be obvious, I didn't use the photo prompt although I did use the word as a title.

Epiphany


For a moment, Amani pauses at the window of the office tower.

She sees them far below.
For the first time, she realizes that they will always be there.

The pair are real enough that people on the sidewalk detour around them.
At this distance, she can’t hear a word but she recognizes the pantomime.
The fumbles of a couple--becoming.
Any moment now, the woman will disappear as she rushes from the scene to her dorm room. Ten minutes and she will report in excited half sentences to her roommates the first time that any man flirted with her seriously.
Amani has no idea how this memory of hers came unmoored and ended up here on a city street and solid enough that passersby smile and speed dial their own honey for dinner arrangements. They see nothing, but the smell of potential sex in that square of sidewalk drives the hands to the pocket and the phone to the ear. The words spill from their lips. “Baby, are you free tonight?”

This is Amani’s second sighting of herself.
The first was a fortnight earlier.

She had guided her SUV down a side street. Feeling like a pirate, she had watched the darkness cling to her vehicle like loamy bayou waters. The small shotgun had risen up on her right, an island, gold with incandescent light. She recognized the figures through the broad glass windows: the hairdresser with her hot combs--she was long dead now--and the little girl, with her head bent over a book: “Lorna Doone”. It was a tawdry nineteenth century romance, but firmly on the college prep list. The twelve year Amani was getting her hair pressed for Sunday school. It was the summer of 1968. People said that change was finally coming but every seventh day was still God’s Day.

Amani had wanted to raise a hand in warning; she wanted to salute the two of them. No need, they would always be there.

Turning, Amani headed for her desk.
In the window, her mirror image crinkled like foil and bowed.
ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

Adventure



My hero is a woman,
      but she is no heroine.

A Heroine has one adventure:
      the search for the Ring and the man who will rule her.


My hero read the “Hero’s Journey” and groaned.


She doesn’t want to meet the goddess.
      She wants to be the goddess. 

She doesn’t want to love the Father.
      She wants to kill the Father

and serve him
to us
      over pasta drenched in tarragon sauce.







Read more... )
ezekielsdaughter: (writing)








First stop and
the dry cleaners ask have you voted

yet

It is a red sky morning
where the gas station is festooned with signs and

people

are not queued up outside the fire station but

within

minutes I have to break my rush. I am not
first to stop

here.

 

 

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Haiku

Nov. 1st, 2010 03:29 pm
ezekielsdaughter: (Default)

And Now Back to Our Regular Program

When liberty goes
on sale, freedom is bankrolls.
What did you expect?

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

poem -

Oct. 31st, 2010 12:10 pm
ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
I didn't finish the writer's Island poem.  (However, I plan to).  Here's another one instead.

Probability


In this land, she said proudly,

all of our statisticians are expert

seamstress.

Their diplomas display their emblem--

a hand as it expertly threads a needle

with a frayed edge of spun fiber.


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