pages tagged poetryPhilowixianhttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/tags/poetry/Philowixianikiwiki2017-05-12T04:38:11ZKilmer '08 Featured in Poetry Foundation Podcasthttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2009/12/kilmer-competition-featured-in-poetry/2009-12-14T05:02:00Z2009-12-14T05:02:00Z
Who'd've thought? Bad poetry, it turns out, is also a concern to the proponents of serious poetry. The Poetry Foundation's most recent podcast has a segment on our very own Kilmer, with a reading by Fred Sasaki, an editor of Poetry Magazine. It starts six minutes in.<br /><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1900"><br />http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1900</a><span></span><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1900"></a>
Wheezehttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/05/wheeze/2008-05-11T05:57:00Z2008-05-11T05:57:00Z
<div><strong></strong><strong><span>(With no apologies whatsoever to Alfred Joyce Kilmer</span></strong><span>.)<br /><br /></span><div><strong></strong></div></div> <div> </div> <div>I think that I shall never see</div> <div>A beast so ruthless as a tree;<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div> <div>Whose majestic blooming buds</div> <div>Have filled my sinuses with crud.<br /><br /></div></div> <div> </div> <div>A cheery harbinger of spring,</div> <div>Oblivious to my suffering;<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>A tree who pollinates all day,</div> <div>Plotting 'gainst my nasal spray.<br /><br /></div> <div>Whose blossoms blow their gentle sighs</div> <div>Directly in my swollen eyes.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>A nest of tissues in my pocket rests</div> <div>(An extra tucked between my breasts);<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Seasons announce themselves with roses</div> <div>My fanfare comes in blowing noses.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>My head fees like a sewer drain,</div> <div>Who intimately lives with pain.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Anyone can plant a tree,</div> <div>But only God would do this to me.</div>
The Tale of Tight-Roping Billhttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/03/tale-of-tight-roping-bill/2008-03-06T06:27:00Z2008-03-06T06:27:00Z
<span>As delivered to the AJU Underground last week. Though each line has 10 syllables, I made no attempt at iambic pentameter...</span><br /><br />The Tale of Tight-Roping Bill<br />by Matt Rutta<br /><br />Under the big top, where the lions roar, <br />Where tumblers tumble, trapeze artists soar,<br />Where three giant rings span expansive floor,<br />Fan expectation of so much in store.<br /><br />Clowns a’plenty emerge from their auto.<br />From whence do they come? Where is their grotto?<br />The kids have balloons, parents are blotto.<br />All hush up as revealed is the motto:<br /><br />“The greatest show on earth”, it has been billed.<br />They’re performing stunts that can get them killed.<br />Beyond capacity the tent is filled, <br />Sitting on bleachers where beer has been spilled.<br /><br />The jugglers juggle torches of flame,<br />But for the patrons it’s more of the same,<br />For only one man has truly earned fame:<br />They want tight-roping Bill, that is his name!<br /><br />For they all come to see the tightrope walker,<br />Famous, legendary, badass rocker,<br />Puts on quite a show for every gawker;<br />None of them know they’re in for a shocker…<br /><br />From up high on the wire King Bill does reign,<br />Over the red tent which is his domain.<br />Going way up there is clearly insane,<br />But none of them know how suffers he pain.<br /><br />He shows off, betwixt his teeth clenched a knife.<br />Recently found out, unfaithful his wife.<br />Rather than live with this tension and strife,<br />Tight-roping Bill has despaired of his life.<br /><br />He couldn’t exist, seeing her with him,<br />Wife, bearded lady, with Cannonball Jim.<br />Oh, how could she do this and be so dim‽<br />Could she see the outcome would be so grim‽<br /><br />Quite a surprise that this short man in tights<br />Who conquered rafters, who basks in spotlights<br />Defied gravity to many delights<br />Was deathly, mortally, afraid of heights.<br /><br />Ascending the ladder, climbs resolute,<br />He conquered his fear, he gave it the boot.<br />The only thing on his mind is acute:<br />The time has arrived to settle dispute.<br /><br />Then Bill takes on his nefarious role,<br />To accomplish now his sinister goal.<br />He must pull it off, no matter the toll:<br />The adulterer shall pay with his soul!<br /><br />Early that day, rigs with no abandon,<br />Calibrates human cannonball’s cannon,<br />Directed toward the lion’s den, slammin’;<br />The giant cat will eat Jim like salmon!<br /><br />The scum of the earth and the tasteless swill,<br />All stand in awe of our villain named Bill. <br />Unbeknownst to them, oh, indeed he will<br />Be on the verge of dramatic self-kill.<br /><br />He leapt from his platform to the trapeze.<br />He kicked the acrobat right in the knees.<br />Hijacking the bar, the criminal flees,<br />Swooping downward with the greatest of ease.<br /><br />Removes knife from his mouth, he cuts the string<br />Causing elements of his trap to spring,<br />Releasing the lock of the caged being,<br />The cannon’s fuse pulled, toward jungle’s king.<br /><br />All could be said, he descended with grace.<br />No look of horror emoted his face.<br />Frozen in time, he transcends time and space<br />By scarring the lives of all in this place.<br /><br />Intentionally, he misses the mat.<br />Tightrope Bill hits the floor with a loud splat.<br />Cannonball Jim is launched in seconds flat<br />And proceeds to be devoured by the big cat.<br /><br />As Hobo Murray gets hit with a pie,<br />His painted-on clown smile seems quite awry<br />For he needs to wipe off each tear-filled eye<br />As, watching dumbfounded, his best friends die.<br /><br />It’s far bigger than the bloodiest mess,<br />Mem’ry of this psychological stress<br />Of hubby and paramour deaths transgress<br />On Mrs. Bill, Bearded Lady’s distress.<br /><br />Even years later, it makes us fall ill,<br />Those present that night still feel quite a chill<br />But never forget, for there is a thrill <br />Telling the tale of tight-roping Bill.
new poem!http://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/02/new-poem/2008-02-28T20:21:00Z2008-02-28T20:21:00Z
I am volunteering as a translator at the UN for an NGO that gives a voice to (withdrawn) indigenous peoples around the world. The only indigenous peoples that need translations from and to Russian come from various places in Siberia and the Arctic circle. Their papers are full of winter, just like the American Snowman. At the gravest risk of bringing something serious onto the Philolexian blog, I will nonetheless post this Resolution involving reindeer, snow and similar natural disasters.<br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal">Eighth Session of the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues</p> <p class="MsoNormal">21 May 2009</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Item 5<span> </span>Half-day Discussion about the Arctic</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Irina Kurilova - Council of the Yukagir Elders, Russia</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p align="center" class="MsoNormal">Esteemed Forum participants!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am from Russia. I represent one of the smallest-numbering peoples of the Arctic: the Yukagirs. Only 1,500 of us remain. I was sent here by the Council of the Elders of the Yukagir people in order to speak before such a high Forum about the problems that trouble my small people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In different regions of the world the process of climate change has different effects. In the opinion of certain experts climate change will be beneficial for Russia. And in parts of Siberia it will be as warm as in the Tropics. But for Indigenous peoples this will have far-ranging consequences. One of the main threats is the change in river flow patterns. The majority of settlements in the North today are located on the shores of river. In recent years there has been a sharp increase in the magnitude of spring freshets (a kind of flash flood); floods have become more common; processes of shore erosion, which cause grave disasters for the population, have accelerated. Already today the questions stands whether to close or relocate certain settlements. Thus, for example, there is the question of closing down my own village-township - the place of collective habitation of my people, the Yukagirs. And the closing of our settlement holds the threat of the disappearance of my people. Also there are new dangers besides the large material losses caused by the flooding: there is the possibility of washout of animal graveyards holding the remains of livestock that has died of Anthrax over the course of many years, as well as of the ancient graveyard with the remains of people who have perished in epidemics of plague and smallpox.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A serious effect is had by climate change on traditional forms of husbandry of the Indigenous peoples: reindeer herding, fishing, hunting and hunting-related trades. Due to massive snowfalls a thicker covering of snow forms, making it difficult for reindeer to graze. With changing water patterns the times of summer and autumn fish migrations are disturbed, changes occur in the types and quantities of fish; with the thawing of soil frosts some fish lakes "go"; due to late ice formation the time for ice-fishing is sometimes missed. Due to changing routes and times of migrations of caribou, geese, ducks, many hunters are left without their quarry. There is a growing threat to the lives of many hunters, who ride out to the hunt without waiting for sufficient ice thickness. The number of accidents among hunters has increased. But these are only a few of the problems connected with climate change. In actuality the problems are far more numerous.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><b>Here then are my proposals to the Permanent Forum. Because</b>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>1. Natural disasters (hurricanes, floods, storms, droughts, etc.)<span> </span>yearly acquire an ever more catastrophic nature, some countries already no longer able to address these problems on their own;</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>2. Questions arise of relocating within only a few years from now of the populations not only of settlements but already of entire regions and even of countries (the Seychelles, the Maldives, and others);</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>3. Climate change leads to the loss of traditional lands and change in the lifestyle of many representatives of Indigenous peoples.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><b>I propose to raise the question:</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>1. About the creation of a global foundation for minimizing the consequences of and the adaptation of nations to climate change;</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>2. About<span> </span>the full participation of Indigenous peoples in international discussions and decision-making concerning issues connected with global climate change;</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>3. To address countries about acknowledging the fact of climate change and the instituting of national programs for diminishing the consequences of and the adaptation of peoples to changes in the climate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Finding a solution for problems associated with climate change is a question of the fate of Indigenous peoples, a question of their life or death. Thank you!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
I can out Kissinger Kissinger!<br />Yes - I can only speak in secret rumblings,<br />an esoteric mystical code understood by<br />the monastic brotherhood of Realpolitik.<br />My brows are furrowed always,<br />even in sex, even in the act<br />of making fierce love while<br />screaming “do me do me do me fuck my face and eyes<br />with your hands and desperate need to feel my hands ravage your skin<br />raze your arm hair and freckles to the ground!”<br />My glasses can only be thick, and I mean both lenses<br />and frames, all to keep out your searching eyes.<br />And when I think of nations, people, persons,<br />children running wild-eyed, their expressions<br />reminding me of water boiling over, ovens left on,<br />bread left in toasters… Yes, when I think of bombing nations,<br />I can only dream of secret missiles falling - my fingers<br />steepled as the planes make their soundless runs.<br />(How can somethings so silent; somethings so unobtrusive,<br />be so lacking in tenderness?)<br />Cambodia, a mass imagination ruined in silence.<br />And:<br />Somethings that happen to somebodies, becoming nobodies.<br /><br />Kissinger, with his scheming, was above it all: the only<br />one not bound up in the unfortunate shambles of Watergate.<br />But I can only stand next to Richard Nixon,<br />feeling most comfortable smelling his morning breath<br />of bad coffee and a bowl of cheerios.<br />His cool flop sweat soothes my nervous eyebrows.<br />I feel most at home beside liars,<br />for I know them better than I have loved tellers of truth.<br />His fingers are flung into the air, splaying like legs mid-coitus,<br />and his peace is one I can believe in.<br />I too believe “power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”<br />Nothing makes me sexier than the fact<br />that I meet regularly with Mao Zedong. His face<br />is on posters and t-shirts, but I sit shrouded in mystery.<br />We walk through doors and enter back rooms together,<br />and no one may know I was there.<br />I can slip in and out of your world, and<br />you won’t know, but I can change it forever.<br />I stand over you and hold you on the bed,<br />muffling your mouth with my comforter; I<br />think of faraway lands and smile.<br /><br />~jss, 2/28/08<br />*Thanks go out to Adam Katz, Samantha Kuperberg and Jeana Poindexter.<br /><br />(x/p to <a href="http://interrupting.blogspot.com">cellular theology</a>)
another for arielahttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/02/another-for-ariela/2008-02-14T20:58:00Z2008-02-14T20:58:00Z
spectres of love past...<br /><br /> “the day begins at nightfall”<br /><br />do You remember how I looked at dawn?<br />You thought I was young and beautiful<br />but i lay weary in my bed.<br />You looked at my face like a child gazing into windows<br />i just stared into the new sun and smiled to be near You.<br />So<br />You dodged in between the spots in my eyes<br />and You kissed me<br />You wrapped me up in dawn.<br />and You loved like i was young,<br />moving to the beating of my nervous heart,<br />a terrified tattoo while my eyes tracked<br />the swaying of Your hips.<br />the brush of Your hand and hair.<br />You thought me to be young<br />but i am already old.<br />how could You see me at dawn<br />when the day begins at nightfall?<br />the sun, like a teardrop, fell.<br />i dreamed a softer dream that night . . . <br />A softer dream<br />that night.<br /><br />~jss
oh the valentines!http://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/02/oh-valentines/2008-02-14T20:03:00Z2008-02-14T20:03:00Z
<div>i wrote this a million years ago, for this kid in high school. oh high school.</div><div><br /></div><div>xo/cb</div><div><br /></div><div>--------</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span">texas, hold me.</span><div><br /></div><div>the cards are all down</div><div>the bets have been collected</div><div>and i am off the table.</div><div>i'd be hard pressed to say</div><div>just when my fate was in the river</div><div>and all the cards that were showing</div><div>it seemed i would be won</div><div>by someone just completely wrong.</div><div>but those hidden hearts</div><div>the royal flush - that won me.</div><div>the sly way you showed your hand</div><div>and swept me off the table.</div><div>that was from me</div><div>I was counting the cards all along.</div>
one of my favorite love poemshttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/02/one-of-my-favorite-love-poems/2008-02-14T20:02:00Z2008-02-14T20:02:00Z
perhaps a less conventional love poem than most...<br /><br />"Marginalia"<br /><br />Sometimes the notes are ferocious,<br />skirmishes against the author<br />raging along the borders of every page<br />in tiny black script.<br />If I could just get my hands on you,<br />Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,<br />they seem to say,<br />I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.<br /><br />Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -<br />"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -<br />that kind of thing.<br />I remember once looking up from my reading,<br />my thumb as a bookmark,<br />trying to imagine what the person must look like<br />why wrote "Don't be a ninny"<br />alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.<br /><br />Students are more modest<br />needing to leave only their splayed footprints<br />along the shore of the page.<br />One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.<br />Another notes the presence of "Irony"<br />fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.<br /><br />Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,<br />Hands cupped around their mouths.<br />"Absolutely," they shout<br />to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.<br />"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"<br />Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points<br />rain down along the sidelines.<br /><br />And if you have managed to graduate from college<br />without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"<br />in a margin, perhaps now<br />is the time to take one step forward.<br /><br />We have all seized the white perimeter as our own<br />and reached for a pen if only to show<br />we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;<br />we pressed a thought into the wayside,<br />planted an impression along the verge.<br /><br />Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria<br />jotted along the borders of the Gospels<br />brief asides about the pains of copying,<br />a bird signing near their window,<br />or the sunlight that illuminated their page-<br />anonymous men catching a ride into the future<br />on a vessel more lasting than themselves.<br /><br />And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,<br />they say, until you have read him<br />enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.<br /><br />Yet the one I think of most often,<br />the one that dangles from me like a locket,<br />was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye<br />I borrowed from the local library<br />one slow, hot summer.<br />I was just beginning high school then,<br />reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,<br />and I cannot tell you<br />how vastly my loneliness was deepened,<br />how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,<br />when I found on one page<br /><br />A few greasy looking smears<br />and next to them, written in soft pencil-<br />by a beautiful girl, I could tell,<br />whom I would never meet-<br />"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."<br /><br />~Billy Collins
a call for love poetryhttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/02/call-for-love-poetry/2008-02-14T19:21:00Z2008-02-14T19:21:00Z
in honor of pagan festival hallmark-a-thon day, a love poem from when i was a better person.<br /><br />for ariela<br /><br />Each morning has within<br />a region nestled between evening and day,<br />between dream and wake<br />and each morning, I awake,<br />trembling with the sole intention of meeting you there.<br />To see your face clear as the day about to come,<br />to sense your pulse through your skin.<br /><br />In dreams, my intentions are laid bare,<br />and they burn with a fire found<br />when my thoughts are turned to you.<br /><br /><br />My Only Desire is to Awake in You Desire.<br />perhaps <br />To feel reciprocation flow through your body <br />like breath,<br />and follow its path from deep within you<br />out to me.<br />For love to stem from your fingertips and<br />trace secret messages, in dream speak,<br />on my skin.<br />In dreams, our hands join to become<br />something greater that flies<br />away with the dawn.<br /><br />And<br /><br />Each morning I will find you again<br />in dreams, in love,<br />I will find you in the inbetweens.
Homework Assignment #1http://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/01/homework-assignment-1/2008-01-29T06:06:00Z2008-01-29T06:06:00Z
Write a poem according to the following specifications:<br /><br />10 lines long<br />the following 8 words must appear in the poem (noun, verb, whatever, however--just put them there): <br /><br />lifetime<br />wolf<br />cloudbank<br />spare<br />whisper<br />damage<br />wrap<br />risk<br /><br />Only one of the above 8 words can appear in a given line, and then only once.<br />That means: at least EIGHT of the lines will have exactly ONE of the words (either of the other two may have up to 1 each).<br /><br />and...GO!
The Missionhttp://www.columbia.edu/cu/philo/phlog/2008/01/mission/2008-01-28T03:53:00Z2008-01-28T03:53:00Z
Part I: Why I Write<br />a. Young lust<br /><br />True poetry can be found on this earth.<br />I lusted for her once.<br />She . . .<br /> had eyes, deep and dark,<br />as the space between stars,<br /> as the eternity ‘tween thoughts.<br /><br />She . . .<br /> was wild and of the earth.<br />Feral and magical, she hummed with the ground.<br />Poetry beaded off her skin, tellurian:<br />like the dusky dawn chanting of Shamans.<br /><br />A pure tincture of poetry and passion charged<br />through her veins,<br /> illuminating her skin.<br /><br />She saw visions<br />and through her<br />I did as well . . .<br /><br />This is not why I write.<br /><br />b. Then and Now<br /><br />Then:<br /> Meaning was wrung from life<br /> and left to dry on the rack.<br />Then:<br /> The juice of poetry dribbled<br /> down<br /> our<br /> chins and only the pit remained.<br />I did not stop to enjoy the fruit.<br />So heady was the Quest for Truth and Beauty<br />that I took to interrogating her with harsh light and demanding tones.<br />Her wondering moans of pity and fear still haunt me in the darker<br />tender times of night.<br /><br />Now:<br /> I am of a softer disposition.<br />Beauty must be encountered like a deer in the field,<br />taken for the wonder it is<br />and stalked delicately for every additional moment<br />one has in its company.<br />Truth must be recognized in the crowd,<br />like a long lost friend one has not met before.<br /><br />c. Command<br /><br />Poetry must not be written<br /> not be created.<br />Breathe poetry. Drink poetry.<br />love poetry. FUCK poetry.<br />Worship poetry, then whisper sublime wonders in her ear.<br />Smoke a cigarette with poetry in bed.<br />Warm yourself with hot chocolate and poetry.<br />Run to poetry’s house in the rain.<br />Scream and don’t stop screaming til she comes out.<br />Kiss poetry with the kisses of your mouth.<br />Promise poetry you’ll never leave her.<br />Love poetry.<br /><br />Part II: Why I Fight<br />a. Preamble<br /><br />I’ve been writing ever since I could remember.<br />In fact<br />my life can only be proven through creation.<br />By all accounts<br />my life began when I put words on paper<br />into the souls of the world.<br /><br />To live well,<br />what one creates must be beauty.<br /><br />I stand here<br />knowing my life is no longer mine alone.<br /><br />Tremble.<br /><br />b. Reminisces<br /><br />Once she kissed me and her lips felt like the shed scales of a snake.<br />I wanted to draw back in fear<br /> in revulsion<br />but I dove deeper hoping to make soft whatever appeared rough.<br />To find beauty hidden among the discarded skins and lies.<br />Her eyes were like the soft mud of the earth<br />as was her hair, and her beauty was something I created.<br />I did not want her for her body.<br /><br />c. Present Time<br /><br />One day I will look back on my time here,<br />and I will see only words,<br />echoing in the hearts<br />of friends and former lovers.<br />Each one chosen carefully to<br />elevate the potential inherent in mundanity.<br />Poetry is raising the sparks.<br /><br />d. Reminisces II.<br /><br />Once -<br /> Her back up against the glass of a bus stop -<br />I - <br /> her nose with a single blemish and our bodies pressed together<br /> at awkward positions -<br />told -<br /> even while in embrace, my mouth moved against hers<br /> with its own purposes<br />her -<br /> all my eyes could see were her, her face, her lips, her eyes,<br /> the poetry beneath the vision of her skin, the faint hum of her breath<br />that –<br /> every inch of her was beautiful.<br /><br />For a while<br />we both believed it.<br />We used to listen for each others’ heartbeats, gasping like fish out of their bowls.<br /><br />I did not want her for her heart.<br /><br />e. The Mission<br /><br />I walk with my neck at odd angles.<br />I listen for the poetry of the world.<br />It is found in disparate places:<br /> <br />the squawking of geese<br /> the insistence of car horns<br /> the percolating pot of coffee<br />the bird calls of early morning<br /> or late afternoon<br /> the last school bell<br />the music of Spanish Harlem<br /> the beat box on the street<br /> the lilting dialogue of Black women.<br /><br />I search frantically, wildly, desperate for beauty.<br />Smells are beautiful. Touch is beautiful.<br />She tasted beautiful; the poetry I found in her was of lilacs and vanilla,<br /> brown sugar and cinnamon, jasmine and chamomile.<br /><br />I did not come here for pleasant faces and witty exchange,<br />for the haughty aloofness of youth in art.<br /> I do not care for your hearts or your minds,<br />your opinions, your politics, your affectations!<br />(“The opposite of love isn’t hate; it is indifference”)<br />But I did not come for your love,<br /> I came for your souls!<br /><br />Beloved:<br /> I came for your soul.<br /><br /><br />~jss<br />12/03