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Jan. 30th, 2007

if you go down to the woods

(no subject)

Do You Like Artichokes?

If so, I'd invite you to share this botanical endeavor, where flower
serves hunger: dismantling a thistle for sweet tidbits scraped
from the unthorned end, layer by layer revealing tenderness
as the blossom's undone and tough discards pile around
the promising spiral, unspoken offerings as leaves
bear kiss after kiss of butter to our lips, fingers
mingle through the curled violet petals,
the glistening down scooped free
of the silver cup: the prize
pared with careful blade,
finally, the heart.

Nov. 28th, 2005

if you go down to the woods

once upon a time she could speak Spanish


for MVR El Corazon

Caminamos juntos en el mercado
Tus cuatro pezunas, mis dos pies.
No necisito ninguna cuerda, porque
Quieres seguirme por
Las calles angostas.

Te compro una manta,
Una manta para tu espalda
Una manta de flores,
De hilachas,
De sangre y plata.

Ven conmigo, mi carino,
Te doy esta manta, para
Mantenar tu corazon, para
Calentar tu cuerpo oscuro
Tu cuerpo de humo y canela.


(We walk together in the market,
Your four hooves, my two feet.
I need no rope, for
You want to follow me through
The narrow streets.

I buy a blanket for you,
A blanket for your back,
A blanket of flowers,
Of threads,
Of blood and silver.

Come with me, my darling.
I give you this blanket
To protect your heart,
To warm your dark body,
Your body of smoke and cinnamon.)


Nov. 15th, 2005

if you go down to the woods

(no subject)

after Release Your Plans, a still life by Daniel Sprick

Assemble the following from empty to emptiest:

(a) candlestick, tarnished
(b) eggshell, partial
(c) spoon, bent

There are too many shades of white to choose from.

The room’s boundaries are defined by mirrors.
A table’s soul is in its expectation of purpose.
The upholding of distractions.
The support of delicate vessels.
Canvas for spills and passages.

This table is bundled,
disguising its purpose.
A wrinkled sheet softened under desire
shrouds its steadfast angles.

1. The overexposed photograph in which her hair frays into the sky and her outline is bright vapor.

Twine is wound in a ficus tree
While some of the limbs have
succumbed it is harder to bind

the living.

A rug is a rectangle of probability,
attrition of its meaningless pattern
a direct result of exponential hesitation.

2. One curtain left in one window, the sun behind it warming white to ivory with light alone.

This is arranged


Although the roses’ blossomed heads
have been sentenced to severance
for their unabashed sentimentality
still they float ceiling-ward, suspended martyrs.

3. The other curtain crumpled on the floor, whiting out the femur bone.

Somewhere beyond this picture,
a child from another composition
has freed a window from a wand: soap gypsy
The ephemeral sphere divines
entire lifetimes in its tremble.

Faceless plates hang
waiting for oblivion or gratitude.
Offering, offering, offering.

4. Her favorite “seashell,” was the lining of a mussel, iridescent white dustings
disintegrating every time she touched it.

Broken glass glints friendly
littering the floor with reincarnation.
Whole bottles recollected.

Everything can be
(Rock, Paper, Scissors)
by something else.

3. But

confined or acquitted,


will remember their crimes.

Jan. 21st, 2005

if you go down to the woods

(no subject)

I love you
is not the answer to any of the questions I asked

Jan. 18th, 2005

if you go down to the woods


It's interesting...the words I'm attracted to...reappearing in piece after piece -

recently: sweet, wilt, split, milk, seam, gloss

the unconcious music of them

animals and food are the vehicles now - organic

before it was space, metal

some of this does come naturally - it gives me chills when it flows from outside myself - when I see/say things I didn't intend, but that approach closely what I meant

the days lengthen, poems spread
if you go down to the woods

Mother-Daughter Series

We have never made jam.
The complicity of sugar and heat –
but we have heaved a horse
off the earth – preserved gold.
Getting your old yellow mare
back on her feet after
her rotten teeth had been removed.
The anesthesia pulled
through her blood like taffy.
We shouldered all our hopes
and determination
that she would shuffle again
through the purpled alfalfa.
That you would ride her again,
her head tossing,
defying her ancient bones
breathing the same air
as the smoky new colt.
Twice she folded
back to the ground,
and we sweated and held back
our wails of defeat, did not hunch.
We yelled at her –
(you had told me never
to yell around the horses)
we crawled almost under her –
our feet slipped on the lawn.
Finally, with one last effort,
we became human pillars -
and grass-stained, panting,
the three of us stood still
under the summer sun.


(partly in response to Kumin's "Making the Jam Without You.")

Title suggestions??
if you go down to the woods

(no subject)

The Big Bad Wolf

This rabbit (giant, gray)
had been a present
from the Easter Bunny.

He had left my daughter
a note - stamped with his pawprint.
Instructions: love him & feed him carrots

The Easter Bunny
did not say: careful -
look out for the neighbor's

Irish Setter
who will break into
the cage and leave nothing

but Clover's matted silver head.

That my daughter, already a serious child
would come home from first grade,

walking purposefully up the driveway
in brown Mary Janes with little
stamped-out flowers, Snoopy lunch box

to find her mother in tears,
unable to make up a story this time -
what imagination could

with these characters?
A red dog - a slain rabbit,
An empty cage - flakes of bloodied sweet hay.


1) Please list three emotions this poem evokes for you.

2) Does the title work? Why or why not?

3) What do you think the dominant theme of the poem is?

Jan. 11th, 2005

if you go down to the woods

Stone Lune

Like river stones,
We tumble over each other
In muted colors.

Facets are smoothed,
Gleams subdued
By water's hushed attrition.

So gradual
That we hardly hear its secrets
Whispering away

The sharp edges of our dreams
Until flawless,
Uniform, we sleep in a still bed.

(Thanks to rocknghorseland for introducing me to the form which this piece loosely follows)

Nov. 2nd, 2004

if you go down to the woods

(no subject)

If I can even get one decent line writtten each day, I am getting somewhere.

Line of the day:

The tire swing hung from its cedar scaffold - summer's pendulum

Nov. 1st, 2004

if you go down to the woods

Writing Goals

Starting this journal has sparked just the creative ignition that I've been waiting for. There are a number of things I need to do. Some are immediate, others are long term.

* I need to get a new printer cartridge and renew/buy/pirate Office XP so that I can actually produce hard copies at home.

* I need to submit once a month. This is so ridiculously realistic that it's incomprehensible I'm not doing it already. All it entails is printing out poems and putting them in an envelope along with a cover letter. I have plenty of material.

* I need to get back into the loop of modern poetry, by way of ordering some sample copies of lit journals. This also serves as a way to figure out where my work will fit.

* I need to write about what I know without hesitation, fear, or sentimentality. I have boundless material available to me if I could only get past my love for it. (i.e - growing up in the country, horses, dogs, family) The subject matter itself risks sappiness, and this is where I falter. I want raw honesty.

* Although I already read a lot, I need to read more. I should be reading poetry every day. ("have poetry for breakfast") My knowledge of different schools of poetry and modern American poets is weak.

* I need to sit and write (scribble) in new settings.

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