This blog is now officially discontinued. It will remain for the forseeable future as a reference (for myself at the very least) but the comments will be closed.
If you are interested in reading my new blog, you can find it at Unchained Logos. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this blog.
I’ve decided that I hate Texas. All day I’m surrounded by racists; it makes me sick to my stomach.
If I wasn’t tied down to this location for the moment, I think I’d just pack up and leave.
Any historical heritage being born in Texas affords me isn’t worth it; I’m tempted to just disavow the state entirely. Or possibly the entire USA.
As I suspected, there’s a wide range of poetry that was submitted to this carnival, themed “poetry of dissent,” from the political to the personal; all of them have one thing in common, a refrain that goes back just about as far as poetry itself does: using the vehicle of verse to express an opinion that runs contrary to the status quo. Read on!
From Robert Cameron Hazelton at Average Poet comes “Change”, which “not only describes the jingling pittance my services are underpaid with at work but also what I should do with my career choice.”
my worthless weary backbone sags,
the need to please long done—
those tarnished smirks they flip my way
just barely keep the wolves at bay.
From rdl at New Poems comes “rumpled sheets”:
a vietnam vet
sleeping in my bed
From Martin at Complete and Utter Poetry comes Final Voyage of the North Ship, which he describes as “an updating of Larkin’s The North Ship, inspired by the news item predicting that by 2060 there will be no ice at the North Pole, which places most other concerns in perspective.”
The ships voyaged to and fro
Over the sea, the landless sea
Watching out for a new rainbow
To signify God’s mercy
At Line Upon Line, we read “Duty”:
Duty is a stern mother:
Do your homework first.
Finish the cleaning before you read.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Michael Rew at Revival of Love gives us a sonnet that “slightly revised from the original, was submitted along with two others to an informal contest judged by A. Barton Hinkle of the Richmond Times-Dispatch to name the “unofficial” poet laureate of Richmond, Virginia. One of my other entries, “An Open Hill,” won the contest. So I am the “unofficial” poet laureate of Richmond, Virginia.”
O Richmond, corpulent with opulence
and effluent with affluence, confess
that success is not access to excess,
but when our poorest poor have sustenance…
And Ginger Bush of gingerivers gives us two excellent poems:
Liberty(Written in honor of the Blue Ridge Environmental Defense Leauge, at a time when media reported the group felt they could be targeted by the FBI a few years back. Anyone seeking more information on that can go to newspaper archives, or BREDL’s own newsletter.)
Liberty is not blindfolded,
neither is she gagged.
She stands tall and proud
with her light
shining
and “Ode to a Meme”
You splatter truth like blood,
your lies washing against the walls of my life
gaining momentum, this destructive tide overwhelms
any possibility of truth, coloring a world
In addition to these two pieces, Ginger asked to host the next poetry carnival which I am delighted to have her do. Please watch her blog for an upcoming announcement about how and when to send her your entries.
It’s your last chance to submit an entry to the 9th poetry carnival: poetry of dissent.
Do it now!
When I first saw her (truly saw), it was this poem that I wrote. It was with this writing that I began to fall in love with her. It was when she read these lines that she realized who they were about and what it meant. If she never understands another word of my poetry, it won’t matter. From then till now, I love you Bekah Paul—Happy Valentines Day!
What do you see? lonely woman,
Sitting there in your flimsy plastic chair,
Looking out into such a night as this;
It must seem violently silent to you.
How do you see? lovely woman,
Beyond your glassy orbs–in truth, blind–
Is there not some wild, untasted flame
Whose burning hands grasp fast your fate?
Surely,
You take my blackened hand,
I paint pictures of your eyes,
And love begins to whistle her mournful tunes.
Who do you see? lofty woman,
Your wearied gaze must harbor memories
Of pain long past, blue hope forgotten.
How could anyone not fall a little in love with you?
The Ninth Poetry Carnival will be held right here and will focus on poems of dissent. This can include political dissent, ideaological dissent, or even simple personal dissent.
Send your entries to danweasel at gmail dot com in the following format:
Name:
Blog Title:
Blog URL:
Post Title:
Post URL:
Post Excerpt: (about 4 lines)
Description: (optional)
Entries are due on the 26th of February 2006. Please help promote the poetry carnival on your own blogs and if you’re interested in hosting a future carnival, please email me.
This blog post (found thanks to the New Poetry mailing list) resonates with me to a frightening degree. Except that I’m not even in a graduate poetry program. Except that I have accomplished even less, no doubt, than Mr. Newberry. Such a depressing profession, writing: a thought that reminds me that I have no right to call it a profession; I only wish I could.
One happy note, a delicious Beckett quote: “Fail. Fail again. Fail better.”
but I couldn’t help myself.
You are Wallace Stevens. You love everything, especially the sound of things. Too bad you are so obscure that at times even you don’t understand what the hell you have written.
Which Famous Modern American Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
HT to Jilly Dybka
It wasn’t the proverbial iceberg or
even the inferior quality of steel
that sent the world’s best to the dark
pleasure-pen of divine Saturn.
Not the countless Irish laborers
or the gentlemanly investors playing polo
could have prevented the titan’s fall;
an appeal to the three Sisters
would merely merit their hollow laughs.
It was a lack of poetry that killed the ship,
the absence of a silvery bard to sing
it on its way to history’s weary bosom:
didn’t you know?
It was poetry built the grey lady of New York.
Poetry birthed Sistine Chapel and pyramids alike.
Lyric brought us to the moon,
and sweet narrative founded Rome.
No the reason Titanic slipped so easily away
was not the incompetence of any engineer;
it was the chilling disregard by those who built her
to have any of Will’s children strike a nail.
There’s new stuff to check out at Poetisphere!
Registration problems are over.
Poetisphere forums are up.
Read poetry as it’s posted around the web.
Coming soon: Poetisphere’s own print poetry journal