WRITING IN THE STYLE OF......

I assigned my students two different poets asked them to find poems they liked by these poets and then try to write in the style of those poets in two different poems.

Wind by Tom Kryss

Wind
seen through clenched teeth

The wind
mars the skating rink
at midnight

The wind
sweeps a thing drift of silence
into a low shelter

The wind
shakes a lovely song
from the telephone wires

The wind
and the (click) of
stoplights in the winter
streets

Rain by Nicole Whitman

Rain
seen through blurred window panes

The rain
floods the streets
at nightfall

The rain
glides through rivers
quenching their thirst

The Rain
raps a calming melody
from the clinking upon the landscape

The rain
and the (flashing) of
sirens on the spring
sidewalks

“I was born…” by Anna Akhmatova

I was born in the right time, in whole,

Only this time is one that is blessed,

But great God did not let my poor soul

Live without deceit on this earth.

And therefore, it's dark in my house,

And therefore, all of my friends,

Like sad birds, in the evening aroused,

Sing of love,that was never on land.

“I was killed…” by Nicole Whitman

I was killed at the right time, at first,
I was in a time of need and death was my savior,
However I only sought temporary bliss,

But God claimed my soul forever.

And therefore, it’s in my cold coffin,
And therefore, all of my loved ones,
Like weeping willows, in the darkest night,
Remorsing over the life, that barely began

Claire Durling

THE HITCHHIKERS

By Diane Wakoski

They burn you
like the berries of mountain ash in August,
standing by the road,
clearly defined,
Autumnal brilliant, heads
scorched from waiting
in the sun.
How can
you pass them up?
But you do,
and dream each night of a hell,
where you are a hitchhiker,
and no one will ever stop to pick you up.

Excuses:
I'm a woman alone;
I'm moving all my books;
I need the time for thinking;
One of them might murder me;
but really, it is the look each one gives me
of need,
desperate need,
pick me up, or Ill fail to reach my goal,
and that need frightens me,
so I look away,
speed on,
dream each night of a mountain ash
with its bunches of orange berries gleaming
like the failures of my life,
burning beautifully on the tree,

Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,

And they remind me
that I drive across country often, looking for your face
in each car I pass,
or which passes me, knowing you would not hitchhike, either,
thinking of the two years I spent with you,
reliving them over and over,
knowing I had everything I wanted,
but like Midas was silent and stiff with the gold I had touched,
felt always as if I had been buried under a ton of diamonds,
still feel the dust of them glinting on me as I drive across country,
my hair sparkling with the brilliance you left,
and those hitchhikers,
reminding me of hell. That I had what I wanted once,
and lost it,
failed, watched myself failing,
still not understanding why I failed,
but knowing I did,
and still passing--65, 75, 85 miles an hour,
those hitchhikers,
burning by the side of the road,
burning
like the berries of the beautiful mountain ash,
burning like my tongue
on fire,
burning me, as I sleep protected in my rings of fire,
the gleaming car which hurtles me through America,
and all I have
is not enough.

Mountain ash, not the ash from out of which a bird
with glinting neck feathers who flies suddenly up on the road
in front of the swift car, would come,
not the ash on the foreheads of holy sinners,
not the ash of immortality.

Ash--a tree, with its berries not the colour of any jewel,
not the colour of blood, but a rare and exceptional colour, given only
to plants,
and I see each one of you,
as I pass on the road,
burning like the autumn berries,
and the beauty makes me pass by quickly.

In my car, is an altar, sacrificial stone and knife,
the tears of blame and understanding,
and blood; all the blood my body has lost;

Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,
you would not want to travel with me.
You would not want to travel with me.

Claire Durling

The Writer (A Diane Wakowski-type poem)

They haunt you

like a withering ghost cooped up in a corner

haggling you to cry and moan,

honestly real,

their sight is like a winters kill,

upon the grapevines in which it lays

How now?

At this juncture they call,

dying for notice and longing for love,

but they will die alone,

today’s the day for reality to strike.

Reasons:

I am a child of God,

alone and rejected among men;

What I love are my books,

the voices singing kindly to me in the night,

begging for my loving spirit!

Wanting of a hand,

but never,

the day has not come to pass;

my heart still aches with an anxious pierce

my lover’s death is present now.

Forgive me dear manuscript,

my patience gone.

I miss and long for your words of wisdom.

Oh Writer’s, Writer’s,

Don’t leave me here alone

A Father To His Son

by Carl Sandburg

A father sees his son nearing manhood.

What shall he tell that son?

'Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.'

And this might stand him for the storms

and serve him for humdrum monotony

and guide him among sudden betrayals

and tighten him for slack moments.

'Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.'

And this too might serve him.

Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.

The growth of a frail flower in a path up

has sometimes shattered and split a rock.

A tough will counts. So does desire.

So does a rich soft wanting.

Without rich wanting nothing arrives.

Tell him too much money has killed men

and left them dead years before burial:

the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs

has twisted good enough men

sometimes into dry thwarted worms.

Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.

Tell him to be a fool every so often

and to have no shame over having been a fool

yet learning something out of every folly

hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies

thus arriving at intimate understanding

of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself

and above all tell himself no lies about himself

whatever the white lies and protective fronts

he may use against other people.

Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong

and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.

Tell him to be different from other people

if it comes natural and easy being different.

Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.

Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.

Then he may understand Shakespeare

and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,

Michael Faraday and free imaginations

Bringing changes into a world resenting change.

He will be lonely enough

to have time for the work

he knows as his own

.

Claire Durling

Soul Searching (A Carl Sandberg-like poem)

A Daughter see’s her nearly dying mother.

What to say slips far from her mind.

‘I’m sorry mother, that I wasn’t there for so long’.

This might have saved her, through her years of pain,

The death of her son was too much for her now.

The words could have soothed

Could have held her up high in her time of need

‘I couldn’t save him, I would say to her,

Her begging him not to go is what killed her spirit,

The cancer was only secondary.

What I know now and what I knew then

Never spoke to me until it was all I had.

My heart cries out with an earthly vengence

My father and brother are dead and gone.

‘Mom, I am dying too,’ I wanted to say,

I am all that she has,

And she is mine.

How could it be

that we have expired since?

I was told I’m a fool, starving with wandering eyes,

I never knew who I was until now; my heart told me that.

‘Don’t lie to yourself, Gabriel’, I would say

No uncertainty holds any space for me.

But now they are gone,

And life has brought me here, now

Loneliness is the only friend I have left,

My shoulder to cry on.

Sean Newell

Jack Hirschman

PRAVDA

for Allen Ginsberg

Allen, your anti-Stalin remarks are
Lousy with the old lies of zionism
Lacquered up with buddhism's
Eternal Nirvana of spontaneous
Narcotic Now.

Go on, you don't believe the shit you've
Instigated in poetry's good name.
Not even forty-years later.
Sex, dope and capitalist drivel.
Before you can say Cockadoodledo,
Elemental Leninism emanates
Radiant collectives of the real and the
Georgian still tunes all black laughter.

From Best Minds: A Tribute to Allen Ginsberg, eds. Bill Morgan & Bob Rosenthal (NY: Lospecchio Press, 1986)

THAT POET

That poet you admire so

in my fifteen years
in the workers movement
I've never seen him
in attendance at
a demonstration against
social injustice, or at
a memorial honoring
a revolutionary hero,
or at a rally in support
of an uprising people

is not even a fighting
surrealist
but a bibelot
dribbling over
with obsolete pus

From Endless Threshold (Willimantic, CT: Curbstone Press, 1992)

My Poems 4-18-10

Father, your god-sent remarks are

Corny with the lies of Christianity

Coupled with the tasteless

Scent of righteousness

Go on now, it’s too late

Now to change your ways

For 19 years I have withstood

The enforcement of all that is saintly

Fundamental morals drown my

Brain within your presence

Yet great role models are

Formed from aspects that

We ourselves fall short

That boy you admire so

In my whole existence

I have never seen him

Exercise his ability

To make a difference

In this world, or

Try his hardest

Just to see how

Far he can make it

Instead he is lost

Within his head

Searching, calling

Weeping

Catherine Stobie

Based on Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy”

“Hunny”

You do not see, you do not see

Anything, but your own knees

Upon which I used to sit

For those few short months,

Barely daring to drift or linger

Hunny, I cannot stay with you,

This ended before we even knew—

Stuck like toffee, two beings inseparable,

Clinging leach with infinite toes

Piercing as a thousand pin needles

(based on stanza 9)

I have often thought I loved you,

With your charms, your thick hair too,

And your straggly glistening beard

And your squinty Irish Eye, dark emerald

Know-it-all, know-it-all, oh you—

(based on last stanza)

There’s a lazy air to your manner

And eventually it will catch up with you.

It will follow and encompass you.

I always knew that I liked you.

Hunny, hunny, you sloth, I still do.

Based on Gary Snyder’s “Riprap”

“Hums and Drums”

Lay down these fingers

Before the notes like instruments

Made perfectly by years

In attempts to practice, set

Before the clarity of the mind

In emptiness and rhymes:

Peace of sound, keys, or pedal

Whirling of ideas:

Breathlessness of the zone.

Arbitrary chords,

These songs, melodies,

Lost tunes with

Mediocre progressions—

And off-beat harmonies.

The room like a hollow

four-walled

Vacuum.

Hums and drums

In the musty air, each speck of dust a minute

A reminder of how long it has been

Ivory: polished

With anguish of vexed feelings and hands

Muscle and strings linked together

All mixed, in time,

As well as memories.

Kathryn Chun

Seamus Heaney and Walt Whitman Poems and Poems in Their Style

Twice Shy

by Seamus Heaney

Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening

For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.

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

In the Style of Seamus Heaney

To finish with sickness in mid June

When the sun shines near and high

In his dark room shut out and thin

I heard heavy breaths and his cry

In mother’s abandonment

With her heavy womb’s sigh

Like the Great Pyrenees

Watching with guardian’s care

I waited with virtuous patience

To see regret in his hideaway lair

With sundress on and ribbons

Tied in my unkempt hair

He washed the cracked linoleum

He turned his mattress over-

Flipped like a forlorn penny

His haste had drove her

Mad, and me as well disdainfully-

The Pyrenees, now long forgotten Rover

His sociopathic speech,

The inability to breathe

These things we’ve both thought through

But too late now that he leaves

Like wind in autumn dry

The crunch is what’s received

Mid June has come surprisingly

It settles on our backs

It came and swept his room clean

Expunging all his tracks

Me, the Pyrenees, lost his scent

And the prints his footsteps lack.

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

A Woman Waits for Me

by Walt Whitman

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,

Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of

the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all, bodies, souls,

Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the

seminal milk,

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,

beauties, delights of the earth,

All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the

earth,

These are contain'd in sex as parts of itself and justifications

of itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the

deliciousness of his sex,

Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,

I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those

women that are warm-blooded sufficient for me,

I see that they understand me and do not deny me,

I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust

husband of those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,

They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing

winds,

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run,

strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,

They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear,

well-possess'd of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women,

I cannot let you go, I would do you good,

I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own

sake, but for others' sakes,

Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,

They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women, I make my way,

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these

States, I press with slow rude muscle,

I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,

I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long

accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and

America,

The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic

girls, new artists, musicians, and singers,

The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,

I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-

spendings,

I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and

you interpenetrate now,

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as

I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,

I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,

immortality, I plant so lovingly now.

Men Wait Their Turn

I do not wait: I am motion, splendid, here and gone

And when I am here I demand it all, demand the world and its history

Your part within it and will you help me write my own?

The ones that wait for me contain their lust, contain their love,

Their stories, rituals, judgments, primitive arts, and poems

Yet they want to give it all, their secrets, mothers, fathers, children,

They want to give it all to me: their markings, memories, women passed,

Their hopes in a year, in a hundred years, the way they will change in age

This is all within the men who are in motion.

Without regret, this is the woman who I am. She is steadfast in her sex, this feminine gift of confidence. The chase, the challenge, the tackle are all in clasped hand.

With same grace, this is the masculine gift of confidence.

That said, I will not meet cold men, young men twiddling their thumbs

I will keep within my company those of you, who go toe to toe with me,

Not afraid to fight me, not afraid to engage in talk with me

Those who are artists in their right, creating beauty along my side

To them I will be the great companion and foe to keep it all exciting

Those men are compassionate, passionate, smoothed in the grains of sand

Running along the tumultuous beaches

With imperfect bodies, but souls full of laughter

With skin that soaks in rain

They can travel, run, stay still, leap, and play

Fight, relinquish, meditate, and muse

They make no lasting identity for now

But are sure of themselves in me

I will let you come to me, you men,

I will slide towards your side when you’ve made your point

I will let you entertain me by entertaining yourself with victory

While you have faces and faces to create, I can harbor but one

And so pick you with ferocity and burn you with intensity

I have the power to meld, sculpt, measure, and create

One sun, one moon, one face at a time

I will pull from the earth my strength, my time, my mothers mothers,

My religion, my family, my money, my intellect

And instill it all one at a time with tremendous care and health

I will make a life with my life, I will celebrate self-sacrifice

I will turn my body into food, I will take away my sleep

My schedule, my social life, my every known luxury

For this one being, that you have gifted to me

And when unwrapped it will consume my attention and my heart

This being will consume what is bigger than me

Laughter, music, science, senses will soon be learned

I would rather watch in pride this all develop than see what else you have to plant-

But it was a pleasure.

CORY HASKELL

Steven Crane-like

A child in anger

Was throwing a tantrum

He stomped around

The room, screaming wildly

The ruckus awoke the ire of the parents

Who exclaimed “Knock this off right now!”

And

The child went back to throwing a tantrum.

Amiri Baraka-like

If you ever find

That you are feeling not yourself

Conformed and repressed

By the pressures of life

Shaping you into something unfamiliar

Changing interests, personalities, friends

That is not good

Take a step back

Dance to your own beat

Or

Someone else will end up

living your life.

KATY RYAN

Ed Sanders Style:

Binge Drinking Is Back

Sailor Jerry brings a cringe

Allowing the drinker to unhinge

Mixed drinks or shot for shot

You are drunk, you drank a lot.

Binge drinking is back.

So many ways to drink for fun

A beer bong, a wiki, a keg stand?

The end result is always the same…

Going home with a dude who’s bland.

Most people drink wine in moderation,

With dinner and out of a glass

But that’s not the case if it comes from a box

Slap the bag and pass out on the grass

Binge drinking is back.

Do you remember how you got home last night?

You left your tab open at the bar

You didn’t brush your teeth or take off your shoes

And you can’t remember where you parked your car

There are random bruises on your legs

But you don’t remember falling

You lost your I.D. on the ride home

The cab company you should be calling.

Binge drinking is back

It doesn’t matter who you are

If you’re Jill or if you’re Jack

Drink until obliteration…. ‘cause binge drinking is back.

KATY RYAN

Quinton Duval style:

Angel

- Katy Ryan

How can you be so forgiving?

Once so wounded and alone

Shattered by previous encounters

Yet extending a hand to others

Who have been broken, giving

Hope where there is none.

How do you seem to know

When to be a friend?

You are never forceful or unwelcome.

I know people watch your warmth,

Your kind eyes and smile

Silently speaking comfort.

All right and unselfish things

Encompass you.

All the sweet words, gentle touches

Show through the scars,

The angel of faith

That is greeted with gratefulness.

IMAN HABEL

DayStar

She wanted a little room for thinking:

but she saw diapers steaming

on the line,

A doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind
the garage to sit out the
children's naps

Sometimes there were things to watch--
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf.

Other days she stared until she
was assured when she closed
her eyes she'd only see her own
vivid blood.

She had an hour, at best,
before Liza appeared pouting from
the top of the stairs.

And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice?
Why, building a palace.

Later that night when Thomas
rolled over and lurched into her,

She would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour--where she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day

Written by Rita Dove

Place of her mind

she wanted a little room for freedom:

but she saw the society

on every window,

naked breasted woman on a billboard.

so she walked to the east

to the society that suites hers

of piety

at times the air was clean--

no nakedness of any man or woman

modesty playing the master

other days tears to her lord

overflowed her eyes leaving traces

of agony and struggle that would end

some day

she had her peace in prayer

before mother called for help

from the east window downstairs

and just what was mama doing

in the garden with the shovel?

why, fix the broken.

later that day when papa

came back and told his day

she would close her eyes

and think of the modest pious land east

that would be free -- where there is

nothing, no trace of broken society any where.

The First Dream

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight

and as I lean against the door of sleep

I begin to think about the first person to dream,

how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire

draped in the skins of animals

talking to each other only in vowels,

for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit

on a rock and look into the mist of a lake

as he tried to tell himself what had happened,

how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck

of a beast that the others could touch

only after they had killed it with stones,

how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come

to a woman, though she would behave,

I suppose, much the same way,

moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders

and the tilt of her downcast head

would make her appear to be terribly alone,

and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person

to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.

Billy Collins

The first tear

The sun will caress the day today

as I lean upon the crack of dawn

I begin to think of the first person to tear

how dazed she must have been

as the salty water rolled down her cheek

wrapped in her own arms

thinking of the sorrows or wonders

that enveloped her emotions

she might have wondered by the salty waters

step by step into the waters of salt

as she tried to console her emotions

of how she felt nothing, while she felt something

how she has strayed from the moon of the day

heading into the dungeon of the stars

only after her heart had moved

did the darkness play a part

Then again, the first tear could have come

from a man, though he would have

acted differently, acting strong, emotionless

yet his breast speaks as hers does

his burden would have taken him

to the salty waters, same waters of salt she walked in

his eyes lingering on the naked footprints on the shore

and if you were there to notice this

you might have done as he did follow th footprints

so as to share your salty waters with the one on the shore of the waters of salt

HANNAH OBANNI

Your Feet
Pablo Neruda

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

Your Arms

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your arms.
Your arms built of strong muscles,
your long sturdy arms.
I know that they aid you,
and that your sweet delicate hands
rest at ends of them.
Your auburn locks,
the round tip
of your nose,
the elfin size of your ears,
that listen to me ever so carefully,
your defined jaw line,
your loveable lips,
your elongated neck
that houses your face I cannot look at.
But I love your arms
only because they hold
me tight in the darkest nights
and open numerous doors,
until they find me at the end of the day.

for a rainy day
D.A. Levy

kisses
we tried to save
pressed in books
like flowers from
a sun warmed day
only
years later to
open yellowing pages
to find those same
kisses - wilted and dry.

for a late night snack
memories
we tried to save
in containers in fridges
like left over turkey from
thanksgiving day
only
days later to
open sticky doors
to find those same
memories – half devoured and moldy.

HANNAH TYNDALL

Juke Box Love Song

I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.

Langston Hughes

I could take the Vegas night

And dance around you,

Take the strip of flashes and make a dress,

Take the wedding chapel bells,

Martinis and cards

And for you be still to enjoy the desert mess.

Take the Vegas soul

And make an anthem

To the regrets we create

And while we sing along

The sun may rise

And once again we are left to fate

A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.

The houses are quiet

The lights are out

None are bright

None are glowing

None cast shadows over the

Dark and ominous sidewalks

None of them are covered

With lamp shades of gold

And silky smooth fringe

People are not waking

To scurry off for life’s errands

Only once in a while

Does a little one twitch

From the excitement he sees

In his dreamful bliss

RYAN MENDOZA

E.E. Cummings

i look into the eyes and with

roses enter battlefields (full of

tulips and daffodils)

deflower the rose, deflower

the tulips but daffodils burn.

children’s piercing screams, fire

in the raptor’s eyes, fire

the children’s

eyes (war tears fall, screams

scream, roses prick, everything burns

except the matches the start anew).

2. Shel Silverstein

Little Susie’s favorite thing to do is swing,

Which she does higher and higher as she sings.

She goes to the playground every single day

And her ability makes all the kids move out of her way.

Higher and higher she goes, to the very top.

Everyone stares at her and she still does not stop.

Pumping her legs and picking up so much speed,

To do a full flip is exactly what she needs.

“It is impossible, you are crazy!” they exclaim.

But if she does it, things will never be the same.

On this particular day, she sang loud

And swung and swung looking so proud

At the top of her loop the crown that surrounds gasped

“She made it” they screamed sounding flabbergasped.

A new legend on the playground, the swing master,

Now her eyes on set on a new goal: do it faster.

SAM HATAMIAN

Here are my two poems and after each, i placed the poem which i emulated.

Rise of the Earth

Wake up now; night sky removed
blanket on the ground, quarter to noon.

Body at rest, mind awake
lying on bed still, nausea at stake

One swift motion, poison absorbed
trip over can, and stumble on the floor

Earth ceases to rotate, senses enhanced
last night a blur, oh did I dance, oh did I dance

She was eloquent, I was drunk
A slight touch to the hips, an intoxicated funk

A bottle of jack, eight shots of Saki
She was exotic, I think, from Nagasaki

I wanted to make sweet passionate love
Yet all I tasted was the liquor from the pub

All hope lost another day of depression
Yet I looked up and was freed from repression

There she was lying looking so hot
She raised a glass and we took another shot

Sam Hatamian

Fall of the Evening Star

Speak softly; sun going down
Out of sight. Come near me now.

Dear dying fall of wings as birds
complain against the gathering dark...

Exaggerate the green blood in grass;
the music of leaves scraping space;

Multiply the stillness by one sound;
by one syllable of your name...

And all that is little is soon giant,
all that is rare grows in common beauty

To rest with my mouth on your mouth
as somewhere a star falls

And the earth takes it softly, in natural love...
Exactly as we take each other...
and go to sleep...

Kenneth Patchen

I got you

Ever been kidnapped
by a poet?
If I were a poet
I’d kidnap you
Trap you in thoughts of my imagination
Strap you in and throw away the key
Take you to the moon
And back
Take you to the end of the world
And never let you go
Enhance your gaze
As pupils expand to absorb my lyricism
Overwhelmed under a meteor shower
I shower you with metaphors
Make you smile with my similes
Make you hide under my haikus
Make you sing with my sonnets
You’re my trophy wife now
If I were a poet, I’d kidnap you

Sam Hatamian

kidnap poem

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid
nap you

Nikki Giovanni

MATTHEW VALERIOTE

America

Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.







Tell the Truth but Tell it Slant
Emily Dickinson

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Dickinson Style Poem

An anecdote ought always be

A silly little tale

A story meant to tell quickly

In rapid, terse regale

So when your list’ners hear your bit

They’ll chuckle if it’s good

Just make sure your whole piece checks out

Right underneath the hood

Ginsberg Style Poem

I guess this should be stream of thought.

It’s really best if I don’t prepare too much.

To be sure, I should prepare a little if I am to emulate this

Ginsberg guy.

He seems pretty talented, but can I really do that?

At least, I THINK what I’m reading him write is stream of

thought.

Or at least it’s made to look like it.

Yeah.

True stream of thought could not possibly include so many

things.

There is no doubt in my mind he had to stop a whole lot and pick

things out to make it sound right.

Hell even I’m doing that, but I’m sure he did it a

hundred times more thoroughly.

Of course, he was also talking quite sternly to America, which is

the audience I suppose.

I’ll try that too.

Do you like this?

Do you like when I get all serious on

you?

…

Well it doesn’t have very much effect if I’m not

actually talking seriously about anything.

But I can’t really conjure a spontaneous rant.

I’d be going on and on about legalizing marijuana and gay

marriage and ohhhh Jesus no, none of that.

If I end up reading this poem out loud to anyone I imagine this part

will make for a very surreal moment.

And I guess the other guy did have a message to deliver, but do

I?

As a matter of fact I do.

Guys, have something in mind when you begin writing a stream of

thought poem.

Or every man be blind --

MAI-ANH NGUYEN

My Lover’s Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun

These eyes are amber, they

Have no pupils, they are filled

w/a blue light (fire).

They are the eyes of gods

The eyes of insects, straying

Godmen of the galaxy, metallic

Wings.

my poem:

His Touch is As Cold as a Thick Patch of Glacier

Temperature drops

Rapidly where I can’t grasp for air

Positive turns into negative

Negative turns into an iceberg

No emotion

No sense of potion

Where I can turn his coldness

Into a warmth air of love

Eyes are as cold

As the transparent ice

Hoping your tears will stop

From transforming into ice drop

You need to change

Before your touch and feelings

Get shattered into different places

John Giorno
Just Say No to Family Values

On a day when
you're walking
down the street
and you see
a hearse
with a coffin,
followed by
a flower car
and limos,
you know the day
is auspicious,
your plans are going to be
successful;
but on a day when
you see a bride and groom
and wedding party,
watch out,
be careful,
it might be a bad sign.

Just say no
to family values,
and don't quit
your day job.

Drugs
are sacred
substances,
and some drugs
are very sacred substances,
please praise them
for somewhat liberating
the mind.

Tobacco
is a sacred substance
to some,
and even though you've
stopped smoking,
show a little respect.

Alcohol
is totally great,
let us celebrate
the glorious qualities
of booze,
and I had
a good time
being with you.

Just
do it,
just don't
not do it,
just do it.

Christian
fundamentalists,
and fundamentalists
in general,
are viruses,
and they're killing us,
multiplying
and mutating,
and they destroying us,
now, you know,
you got to give
strong medicine
to combat
a virus.

Who's buying?
good acid,
I'm flying,
slipping
and sliding,
slurping
and slamming,
I'm sinking,
dipping
and dripping,
and squirting
inside you;
never
fast forward
a come shot;
milk, milk,
lemonade,
round the corner
where the chocolate's made;
I love to see
your face
when you're suffering.

Do it
with anybody
you want,
whatever
you want,
for as long as you want,
any place,
any place,
when it's possible,
and try to be
safe;
in a situation where
you must abandon
yourself
completely
beyond all concepts.

Twat throat
and cigarette dew,
that floor
would ruin
a sponge mop,
she's the queen
of great bliss;
light
in your heart,
flowing up
a crystal channel
into your eyes
and out
hooking
the world
with compassion.

Just
say
no
to family
values.

We don't have to say No
to family values,
cause we never
think about them;
just
do it,
just make
love
and compassion.

my poem:

A Friendship worth Fighting For

Screaming

Fighting

Yawning

Is what you see

When a friendship is not showing good deeds

Is that you

Is it worth fight fighting for

Stop and listen

But no

Your head is too hard

To actually cooperate

Bumpy hills

Roads

All that you can imagine

Lack of trust

Loyalty

Respect

Get it together

Before you get shoved

And pushed over

Trust

All you have to do

Is be real

Don’t be plastic

I refused to recycle

Because I will toss that

Ssshhhhh

Keep a hush mode

Ooo wait you can’t

I guess it will turn ugly

But there is hope

Are you there

Listen

Trust is power

And right now you’re at no power

Boost it up

Raise it up

Otherwise you’ll have to shutap

Loyalty

Seven letters

Deeper than you can imagine

Dying is six feet

But loyalty

Is an extra feet

If you don’t contain it

You must

Not be focused

This is real

Real as it can be

Time is clicking

Just like your life

Can run

Loyalty is where I come from

Open up

Cause if not

You will get struck

Respect

Sing it with me

Oh wait

You cant

Cause you don’t follow

Under this category

Next….

Oh wait

It’s possible

I’ll give you a chance

Maybe you’ll realize

This is not a joke

Not in this deck of cards

Earn it

Gain it

Be it

Otherwise you will be eliminated

Bye bye

Only if you do wrong

Hi hi

Only if you do right

Lets see how much

You will fight

FRANKEES SAMAD

Peter Wild inspired Poem:

I never knew

What it was like

To lay across the ocean floor

Sunkissed birds

swimming above

And fish trying to fly

Everyone wants to be

Someone they aren’t

But the moon lays low

Waiting, for its turn

Who knew life could be this

Shallow, waters

Make noise across the sandy beaches

Get up cold moon

The sun

is

about

to

set

Edward Sanders Inspired Poem:

A new nation has come

One that doesn’t believe in the lies

That all terror comes from Muslims

And that history can’t repeat itself

Japanese internments

Guantanamo Bay

What is the difference

they say

We’re a new nation now

One that doesn’t want

blood on their hands

Bush smeared across our faces

A mockery of our human rights

We are American, and we stand up and pray

Salaam American, we will be heard one day

NNEKA UMEH

Europe (William Carpenter : California)

I think of the European poets,

how effortless things are for them.

They have beautiful scenery,

landmarks and attractions everywhere,

they spend their days at the most beautiful places

and there are girls in these places

who love poetry and wine and dine with the poets freely,

for in Europe there is no guilt nor shame

nor sadness, life is a fantasy,

healthy and fruitful vegetation immerse the lands,

they sprout from all corners of this land of beauty.

There are no dreary days in Europe,

you can make your own fun, you can

travel to the Cathedral Notre-Dame

and enjoy the rich history of this attraction

where art lovers and admire

the architecture of this building.

It is a good climate for poetry, since it is full

of scenery. You can create an image while

taking in a breath taking view of Paris

from the Eiffel Tower. It is good also for history,

as the Acropolis offers ancient buildings and ruins.

The lit up view of the world’s largest clock, Big Ben,

will create a feeling of ease at night, one that

will inspire a poet to write effortlessly.

In Tennessee we spend our days sitting on sidewalks,

searching for shade when the heat becomes unbearable,
walking alongside the highways and afternoon spent

boating and fishing at local lakes.

I spent some time in Utah, where they

were neither utterly adventurous nor utterly humdrum

They spend their day like normal folk, eating, mating, and dying.

They indulge themselves in the snow at the beautiful resorts

and snack on their official snack, Jello-O.

When I am finished with this bumpy road,

viewing the Great Salt Lake and sitting in on the

Utah Jazz games, I will make videos and keep

a journal, with no poems, for poems,

Utah or Europe, drive you insane.

The Conqueror (Maya Angelou: The Traveler)

Wonder and curiosity

And nights of adventure

Sun rises and sets

Skies and oceans unknown

Courageous and determined

No land impossible to conquer

This is my adventure

My never ending journey, alone

MATTHEW SWEENEY

THE ANSWER by Patrick Grizzell

(for MW)

One dream is as real as the next.
What I remember is how quickly
you came and went. The dust settling.

I never learned to go so straight.
There's always something in the way:
a room with a closed door
a hat too lonesome not to wear
a woman to whom you'd give a key
and say: tell me what it opens,
and wait as long as it takes
for whatever the answer is to come.

That's the thing. The answer.
I've learned to be good at asking,
at walking towards the middle.
Once there, I can spin.

My trick is to walk in the direction
I am facing when I stop.
There is always a surprise: a door,
a hat, this woman who, no matter
which direction I walk, is turning a corner.

She knows. Dreaming is risky.

The Question

Is tomorrow greater than today?

Fleeting feelings of the present diluted

by focus. Always awaiting tomorrow.

Is it always better to go so straight?

Or do we need the stops along the way:

A fence to climb over

An aimless drive to freedom

A small talk with a neighbor

who asks: how do we get there?

And discuss not what’s there but

the questions we will encounter on the way.

That’s the thing. The question.

I’ve learned to ask the right ones,

to ask every one possible.

One answered, brings another to ask.

My trick is to not look for

an answer. I discover more

In the fences, cars, and neighbors who

lead me through the nothing and everything

which I seek.

I know. The answer is wrong.

HUMMINGBIRD ODE by Michael McClure

THE FAR-DARTER IS DEAD IN MY HAND, THE BEAUTIFUL
SHABBY COLORS
and the damp spots where the eyes were. Small form
that was all spirit, smashed on the plate
glass window. The green head and ruby
ruffles. The beautiful shabby colors
and the damp spots where the eyes were.
All head and chest and the Eros-spear
of the beak. Moving like Cupid
in the fuschias.
Hummingbird and spike of desire.

The huge chest and head and the beautiful
shabby colors. Tiny legs
thrust back in the last stiff agony.

WHAT'S ON YOUR SIDE OF THE VEIL??
DO YOU DIP YOUR BEAK
in the vast black lily
of space? Does the sweetness
of the pain go on forever?

IS THERE COURAGE THERE IN THE NIGHT?
WHERE ARE THE LOVES THAT MAKE THE BLOSSOM
of your body? Do they still spin
in the air? Your wives
and loves? Are you now
more than this meat? Finally
A STAR??

Lizard Ode

The Footed snake is dead in my hand, the shining

Scales reflecting

Where the sun once warmed its tummy.The diamond

Shaped head and verdant body, flattened under the rolling

Rubber. The stump where its tail once was and the scales

That reflect so well the sun. Body with a diamond head,

Arrow pointing to the peace through pain.

Legs sprawled on hot pavement, shiny scales reflecting

The day it has found.

Do the patterned green scales still emanate the light?

Are you in tact, tail reattached, or

Have you moved beyond the need of a vehicle?

What did you find behind the curtain? And can you

Still slither among the stage? What have you found

Between the pavement and the rubber? Are you finally

a Cloud?

The Footed snake is dead in my hand, the shining

scales reflecting

where the sun once warmed its tummy. The diamond

shaped head and verdant body, flattened under the rolling

rubber. The stump where its tail once was and the scales

that reflect so well the sun. Body with a diamond head,

Arrow pointing to the peace through pain.

Legs sprawled on hot pavement, shiny scales reflecting

the day it has found.

Do the patterned green scales still emanate the light?

Are you in tact, tail reattached, or

have you moved beyond the need of a vehicle?

What did you find behind the curtain? And can you

still slither along the stage? What have you found

between the pavement and the rubber? Are you finally

a Cloud?