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[24 Jan 2007|08:45pm] |
Two entries here, neither of them particularly new.
The one is another Catullus translation that I just recently put the polishes on.
An Account of Kisses
How many times should you
kiss me, Lesbia? Enough or more:
- The number of sweltering grains of sand
in Cyrene (known for its lasarpicium)
between the oracle of Jove and the
grave of the veterans of Battis.
- The number of stars who see lovers
hiding when the night is silent.
That many kisses, were I kissing you,
would be enough for my neurosis.
Enough that curious parties
could neither count nor curse them.
I'm hoping to get back into the Catullus translations, and maybe start a series of Paris poems, so hopefully I'll be posting more than once a month here.
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| Bernstein's Poetics as Phrases Underlined in my copy of Norton |
[26 Dec 2006|06:25pm] |
This is another Bernstein-inspired poem, in that every word is quoted from his essay "Semblance."
Bernstein's Poetics as Phrases Underlined in my copy of Norton
Not "death" of the referent -- not a one-on-one relation
deprived of its automatic reflext reaction of word/stimulus
image/response Rather, language itself constitutes
experience at every moment possibilities each word narrowing
down the possibilities of each other which directs
attention away from the sentence as meaning generating event
and onto the 'content' depicted "Words elect us film
a perceptual vividness is intensified for each sentence
since the abruptness of the cuts induces a greater
desire to savor the tangibility of each sentence before
it is lost to the next
giving two vectors at once -- moebius like
In this process, the language takes on a centrifugal force
that seems to trip it out of the poem, turn it out from
itself, exteriorizing it.
to where I know it makes sense but not quite why.
emerged. come upon. made.
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| Klasky-Csupo Boy |
[16 Dec 2006|06:27pm] |
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mood |
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 lethargic |
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music |
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Velvet Underground - Rock and Roll |
] |
This is another creative assignment for class which I've been meaning to post for a while. This one relates to Charles Bernstein's "The Klupzy Girl," and quotes pretty heavily from it and other sources. A shiny nickel to whoever knows where the title comes from.
Klasky-Csupo Boy
Poetry is like a swoon, with this difference:
you bring it to its senses. The twist-tie
garbage bags keep on closer the stink from
Sunday dinner. Signifier takes Signified
out for sushi, but breaks things off and
Signified gets food poisoning. She leaves her ring
on her nightstand. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains.
To be sleighed by such –
Slay. S-L-A-Y. S=L=A=Y. Chestnuts roasting
on an open fire. Not free association. Not surreal.
Rereal. Shackled associations.
The main Spain plain rains in on the falls.
Is this a rewarding experience? Chuck
E. Cheese for adults: the plush rat is never worth the $37.50
in tokens unless you are a Hungry Hungry Hippo.
Playing down the scales, across the stairs.
I mean, car smashed into fins finds funs
fones. and Signifier kisses Signifier goodnight.
Yet his parables are not singular.
They are multiple. Multitudinous. Numerous. Varied. More than one.
Sometimes the only way to swim is to just cannonball
into the water. “With real tax relief, genuine struggle
can be won.” Jack off in Boston and everything is
(as)(con)sum(m)(ed)(able). Eggo sum ergo. When you start
acting in good faith, any residue of the
relationship gets really unpleasant and the
gratuitous counting severs the June bill.
Other times, it is to walk on the surface.
The elevator plays The Girl from Ipanema
for | ever. Tie the tubes. Boob tube. Inner tube.
The Tube. Mostly, I wade in until I get to my
balls. “Let us speak of an ‘event’ nevertheless,
and let us use quotation marks to serve as a precaution.”
I count four panes of glass, but I could be wrong.
Plains of gas, he corrects.
There was a typewriter in the
grass missing its “s” key. And green.
Get off in Boston and everything seems to
go sane.
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| Ginsberg, America |
[08 Nov 2006|06:33pm] |
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mood |
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 happy |
] |
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music |
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Com.A - Cherryboy Trail |
] |
This was actually an assignment for my experimental poetry class, and it's probably not very good if you're not familiar with Ginsberg's "America," but I was happy with how it came out, and it's not like I've been writing anything else, so, for your enjoyment:
America
America, who are you?
America, I like to read.
America, let's fuck; I'll grab a condom
(because I don't know where you've been)
and a motel room and some raunchy porn,
except you wouldn't call in the morning, or cuddle after I've had your cock in my mouth.
(it's okay because you're hung like Texas)
America, let's be friends:
I want to be your friend.
I want you to be my friend --
I'll braid your hair.
We'll talk about boys and make-up
and how to increase our profit margins.
America, why can't I marry my man?
Is it because Jesus hates fags?
Can I buy your daughter?
Let's get a drink and go to war;
except I can't drink without a fake.
America, I'm going to Paris.
Fuck off.
America, I'll never leave you.
America, are you still afraid of the Reds?
of the Gays?
of the Negroes?
Are the Mehicans staging a slave rebellion?
I'm sorry, America.
Put up a fence. Keep 'em out.
America, am I too far out for you?
Am I too mainstream?
Am I too fat?
America, your love of Big Macs made me fat.
Or did my love of Big Macs make you fat?
America, I eat tofu.
I'm trying to come to a point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America, maybe you just need to get laid,
and stop beating people up.
Masturbating will make you go blind.
I can set you up with someone,
but we'd have to censor out her boobs
and your dick (Your boobs? His dick? Doubtful.)
America, I laughed at a joke about a retard yesterday.
Sorry.
America, I celebrate Christmas and Hannukah and Easter and Yom Kippur,
but I don't believe in God.
America, I'd rather chat about Zizek than Gisele,
(but did you see what she wore to Heidi Klum’s last party?).
America, you had me at hello.
America, on the Fourth of July, I'll wear American flag boxers and wave tiny American flags and insult the Brits and sing the National Anthem and on the fifth I'll bitch about intelligent design and manifest destiny.
America, I wish Ginsberg hadn't written this poem fifty years ago.
America, why won't you grow up?
America, I wish I knew how to quit you.
When will you take off your clothes?
I am talking to myself again.
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| Concerning a New Acquaintance |
[13 Aug 2006|06:07pm] |
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mood |
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accomplished |
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music |
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Devendra Banhart - Chinese Children |
] |
Let's see, for this translation, the hardest bit was that there are a number of places in the Latin that a literal translation would sound super redundant in English, to the point of hardly making sense. So, rather than try to keep it, I've cut a bunch, for better or worse. Also some places where there's subjunctive in Latin, but because subjunctive is so rare in English it reads stuffy and overly grammatically correct, so rather than leave it sounding bad, or just changing it to be grammatically incorrect, I've fussed with the words to keep the meaning on, but leaving the exact phrasing behind. Also, as is becoming the norm, I'm not at all happy with the title I've chosen. Other candidates included: "re: Diseased Cunt", "Inquiry re: Who You're Fucking" and similar.
Without further ado, Catullus 6:
Concerning a New Acquaintance
Mr. Flavius, your chick must be
annoying and lame; otherwise
you’d want to tell me about her.
Truly, I don’t know what diseased cunt
you’ve picked who’s so embarrassing.
I know you don’t spend your nights alone;
your bed is silent for nothing;
it shouts with fragrant garlands and Syrian oil,
worn-out pillows and the shaking of the
poor bed creaking about the room.
No secret lives for long. Why should it?
You wouldn’t have such fucked-out legs
if you hadn’t had some inept fling.
So, whatever you’ve done, good or bad,
tell us: I want to write to the sky
in elegant verse about you and your new toy.
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| A Thousand, and then a Few More |
[02 Aug 2006|10:07pm] |
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mood |
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pleased |
] |
Again, not very happy about the title, but whatever. I think the poem turned out pretty well. Oh, also, I skipped over Catullus 4 and went straight to Catullus 5, because 4 is not as fun. I may go back and tackle it later.
A Thousand, and then a Few More
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let's price all the prattle
of balding old men at a nickel.
The sun sets and rises;
when our brief light sets,
night is an eternal sleep.
So, give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then another thousand, and a second hundred,
and maybe one more thousand, then a hundred again.
Then, when we've given these thousands,
mix them up, so we can't count them,
and so no asshole can voodoo curse our kisses
when he knows how many we have.
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| The Bird is Dead |
[31 Jul 2006|10:21pm] |
|
Third Catullus translation out: had some trouble with the title, still not very happy with it. Other candidates included: Wallow for the Swallow, A Dirge for a Bird, and (Ding Dong) The Bird is Dead.
The Bird is Dead
Alas, Venuses and Cupids,
and charming guys, whoever:
My girl's bird died,
that sparrow, her dearest,
whom she loved more than her freaking eye.
He was sweet, and knew her
as well as a girl knows her mother,
and was always sitting between her thighs,
hopping about,
pipping the whole time to his mistress:
Now he walks through that shadowy path
from which they say nobody returns.
A pox on you, shadows of Orcus,
who snack on everything pretty,
because you snatched a pretty from me,
O foul deed! (Fucking bird,
now the little eyes of my girl
are puffy and red because of you.)
EDIT: I thought I'd link to this translation (scroll down a bit, it's the second one), because it's so good I almost decided not to translate the poem at all. Seriously. It's good. Also, it says lassie. Hilarious.
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| To a Scrap of Paper with Three Lines I Never Used |
[26 Jul 2006|06:28pm] |
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mood |
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 hot |
] |
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music |
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Neutral Milk Hotel - King of Carrot Flowers Part 1 |
] |
Another in a line of poems that I'm ambivalent about. Wrote it quickly, but it's gotten a once-over, so maybe not quite terrible, and at least I'm writing.
To a Scrap of Paper with Three Lines I Never Used
Old poetry tingles the back of the throat
like the smell in the back of a closet
that slips right past the nose,
and you just taste it,
or
whatever. It smells,
I guess.
That is to say, poetry you’ve written tastes like
brussel sprouts, if you don’t like brussel sprouts,
after they’ve been sitting for a few months,
the poems, not the brussel sprouts, although
maybe that would help the metaphor.
poetry found under stacks of paper
dog-eared, and marked with corrections
that were never processed,
with a spot on the corner
(tea from the next day, looking over
another page, trying to sip the
too-hot under-brewed Irish Breakfast,
a stray drop fell down the side,
when you put it back on the table.)
Like finding that postcard she sent you,
when you spent your first week apart,
months after
years after?
Like finding that postcard she sent you,
when you spent your first week apart,
years after you stopped running up
your phone bill because a week
was too long to bear.
Like stale water that leaves you thinking,
I never thought water could go stale,
and
What does that mean about water?
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| Translations |
[24 Jul 2006|01:46am] |
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Moby - Natural Blues |
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I had been trying to get back into the habit of writing, but running up against major writer's block, so I decided to try my hand at translating some Catullus to jump-start my creative juices. These are poems 1 and 2 from his collected works. I don't think any of y'all reading this know any Latin, so I won't bother to post the original, but if you're so inclined, they're widely available on the internet.
Nougat for You.
A chic booklet, its binding
just now dry, polished with pumice –
for whom?
Cornelius, for you:
For you tend to think my nougats
are something.
You alone
have dared to unfold
every age in three learnèd
laborious pages.
So: have whatever this booklet is,
In whatever way.
Patron virgin –
May this remain for more than a season.
Sparrow
Pecker, my girl’s darling,
with whom she plays,
whom she holds in her lap
and gives the tip of her pinky
for sharp poke and attack:
shining under my desire,
it pleases her to play at I don’t know what
and take small solace for her grief –
I believe she soothes her heavy heat then.
If only I could play with you as she does,
And lift the cares of my sad soul.
As pleasing to me as they say
the golden apple that loosened the belt
of that agile girl was, long ago.
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|
[08 Jun 2006|03:12pm] |
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mood |
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busy |
] |
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music |
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Freezepop - Plastic Stars |
] |
I stumbled across gizoogle earlier, which translates whatever you want into jive, which is probably more amusing than it should be. I put this page through it, and some of the translations were just too good not to repeat (some edited for grammatical sense)
Her name is Gigi, I think,
but only grandmotha coz
"Great wanna-be gangsta" didn't fit tha
line.
On a street corna in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror n repeated rhymin' you said back at you n shit. I said, "Who is you?" n she said, "Who is you?"
I kizzy tha brotha
Wiznell into tha nigga
(what?)
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| Untitled Night in August of Last Year, 10:32 |
[06 Apr 2006|09:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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accomplished |
] |
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music |
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Blue Man Group - Mandelgroove |
] |
Experimental, which I hope isn't just code for crap. I don't know what I think about the poem, but I think that I like it. Hopefully livejournal won't decide to wrap the lines, which would really entirely destroy the thing. Also, that bit halfway through the poem should be divided into two nice columns, but I'm not sure it'll be nice to that either.
I watched through a sliding door as Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass.
Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass as I watched through a sliding door.
As Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass, I watched through a sliding door.
As I watched through a sliding door, Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass.
Into a juice glass, Zoe ashed her cigarette as I watched through a sliding door.
Through a sliding door, Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass as I watched.
Zoe ashed her cigarette into a sliding door as I watched through a juice glass.
I watched through a sliding door as Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass.
Zoe watched through a sliding door as I ashed her cigarette into a juice glass.
As I ashed Zoe into a juice glass, her cigarette watched through a sliding door.
as Zoe I
ashed watched
juice glass sliding door
into through
cigarette a her a.
IwatchedthroughaslidingdoorasZoeashedhercigaretteintoajuiceglassIwatchedthrougha
As her cigarette ashed Zoe into me, a sliding door watched through a juice glass.
Her sliding door watched as the cigarette ashed through a juice glass into Zoe.
Zoe a through as glass ashed I into juice her door a sliding cigarette watched.
I slid through a watching door as Zoe cigaretted her ash into a glass juice.
Zoe Zoed through a Zoeing Zoe as Zoe Zoed Zoe’s Zoe into a Zoe Zoe
I watched through a sliding door as Zoe ashed her cigarette into a juice glass,
and poetry bled through the tips of her fingers (my eyes cut and drink my eyes).
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| Epilogue |
[22 Feb 2006|03:43pm] |
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mood |
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tired |
] |
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music |
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Brad Sucks - Dirt Bag |
] |
Another from Winter Term that I forgot to post. It's fairly changed from the original, which was much more straightforward (bland?), and had prologue half, which was pretty weak and didn't relate so much to the epilogue. I'm still not really happy with the second long stanza.
Epilogue
It wasn’t until I saw her
hair cut just above the
dimple in her left cheek,
bangs swept to the side,
with a Solo cup full of
cheap red wine
cheap red
It wasn’t until I
dimple in her left cheek,
Solo
until I saw her that
I’m falling apart
because of
her eyelashes curve
exactly
I remember they
corkscrew through
my nostrils, through
my eyes, through
Lying in dewy grass
with the scent of her
neck pounding a hole
through my forehead,
I mouth
It wasn’t until I saw her
Solo that I let go of
her cheap red wine.
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| Zuzu's Petals |
[27 Jan 2006|05:45pm] |
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mood |
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tired |
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music |
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Gilmore Girls |
] |
This was due a little while ago, but I forgot to post it. The assignment was to write one poem with four different ways of breaking the lines. This is the best of the four, but then also edited down to about half length. I put the runner-up, unedited, under a cut.
Zuzu's Petals
I watch through
a sliding glass door
as Zoe ashes
her cigarette
into a juice glass.
Her white shirt
sits on her shoulders
like narcissus
on water and
a French accent
sleeps on the
curves of her lips.
The cigarette
lingers between
her fingers,
trailing smoke into the
lazily hungry sky
as the stars
foxtrot
with her eyes
against the black.
I hope in the
red glow at the
end of her fingers.
Watching the
smoke curl
and her sit
beautiful
and the night sky lie
over everything,
I hold my breath
because
this moment
is poetry
sliding over
the short hairs
on the backs
of my hands
and I want to
hold on to it
a little bit longer.
I need to
concentrate on
not crushing
the petal.
( Read more... )
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| Jonathan with Hands |
[21 Jan 2006|08:08pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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hungry |
] |
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music |
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West Wing |
] |
An ekphrastic poem. The source material can be found here.
Jonathan with Hands
The crease in the first joint of the ring finger
on his right hand devours my eyes like molasses.
The portrait slurs around my face until it wears
me like a mask; there's a voice that speaks, but
swimming in the silk folds of his cracked hands,
feeling the parchment-dry skin slough past my lips,
I don't know if the raspy sounds of voice trying
to make it through the vocal cords are his or mine.
There's pain penned on his forehead that runs down
the valleys on his fingers in mercury rivers.
It spills across the backs of his hands, etching
parched ink strokes in a language I can't understand,
but read as if I had written it. I am revealed
to myself between the ragged black lines that crop
the edges of photograph in a way that any poem I
put down in the margins of the page will not touch.
In the crease in the first joint of the ring finger
on his right hand, I live Jonathan and his hands.
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| Dirge for Georgia, in Five Parts |
[14 Jan 2006|02:19am] |
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mood |
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tired |
] |
This week's assignment was love poetry. So, voila:
1.
After the fact,
I want to say
it washes over.
But really, I
remember the
words, every one.
I'm sorry, she
says. I can't do
this anymore.
"I'm sorry," she says, "I don't love you anymore."
2.
Her bellysoft slips silkwater under, cuteflirts to fingers to hips to thighs; clothes on floor hands holdgrab hardsoft liptongue wet on skin in skin and upanddownandupanddown shoulders and back and hot wet tongue wormdives breath. (hot wet) earsquirm kiss(hotwet)exhale moreandmoreandfast and lipsonlipsonlipson-- Breathy: I love you.
3.
She stepped onto the bus with frozen hair,
out of breath from running to catch up.
I don't think I knew it at the time, but
her name was Georgia. Georgia like the peach.
4.
Her hand was always dandelion seeds in air;
The petals whispered silent: forever.
5.
The thing I miss most about Georgia
is the way she would waltz with herself
in the rain in august, with perfect
one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three --
She smelled like plums and apple blossoms.
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|
[08 Jan 2006|01:56pm] |
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mood |
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mellow |
] |
First assignment for my poetry winter term, write a childhood memory. This is my great grandmother's funeral, I've written it a bunch of times, so you may have read it before. Also, the title is pretty weak.
Paper Memories
A rose falls to the dun ground:
crawling vowels for the mourning rain
sloth over the tongue. "Funeral"
lingers the same way.
"The sky cried," I wrote at fifteen.
"IT was sunny," my mother told me.
I'm eight or ten or three
when my grandmother dies,
depending on the cadence.
The only thing I remember clearly
is the placemat from the Burger King meal
my father bought me across the street
from the hotel in Eastern Pennsylvania.
Her name is Gigi, I think,
but only grandmother because
"Great grandmother" didn't fit the
line.
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| Livejournal Angst |
[28 Dec 2005|05:52pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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cold |
] |
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music |
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None |
] |
This I actually wrote a while ago, but didn't post because it felt too angsty at the time. Here it is, though, with some distance.
I wrote a poem the other day
But I don't think it ever got to pen.
Or, so I'll keep my excuse.
I don't want to admit that maybe
I'm not a poet.
(this isn't a poem)
The break between the first
and the second stanza is
only here because it makes
it look well-thought-out.
maybe next time I’ll leave out
all the punctuation --
Or randomly Capitalize Words. --
How long can I go without
writing a poem and continue
a poet?
Was I ever?
I wish I weren't just writing this
Because I'm sad I lost
a girl.
(I wish I could find, at least,
a synonym for sad)
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| Literary Devices Seldom Make Good Pets |
[07 Dec 2005|03:18pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 stressed |
] |
| [ |
music |
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None |
] |
I had a dog, once, but he was just a metaphor.
I played with him too much, and he fell apart.
Maybe next time I'll try a fish.
They're hardly ever worse than similes.
|
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| Postmodern Preacher |
[23 Nov 2005|04:50pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 anxious |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Apollo 13 |
] |
Monday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "Who are you?" and she said, "Who are you?"
Tuesday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "It's cold here, you should bundle up." and she said, "It's cold here, you should bundle up."
Wednesday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "Don't you see the snow at your feet?" and she said, "Don't you see the snow at your feet?"
Thursday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "Why do you stay?" and she said, "Why do you stay?"
Friday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "It will be dark soon." and she said, "It will be dark soon."
Saturday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "Let me take you somewhere." and she said, "Let me take you somwhere."
Sunday.
On a street corner in Harvard Square, there was a woman who held up a mirror and repeated everything you said back at you. I said, "Who are you?" and she said, "You haven't been listening."
|
|
| Vingette in Snow |
[21 Nov 2005|12:14am] |
|
Flip flops and winter coats don't match.
Who are you fooling?
Put on some shoes, hippie;
It's cold.
|
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