tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70414062028349596322024-03-13T06:05:08.828-04:00A Walk Around the Lakeperhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake
—notes toward a supreme fictionPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.comBlogger376125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-20905432336896530242016-03-13T15:42:00.001-04:002016-03-13T15:42:35.552-04:00The Big Box Poetry Project
By Way of Gratitude for CD Wright, Her Books, Her
Poems
I’ve been
thinking about missed connections since CD Wright’s death. I adore her work, and
books like “One Big Self” and “One With Others” are mentor texts. A while back,
as I worked on poems from the perspectives of various people, I actually hoped to
meet CD Wright and talk about her process of gathering materials to represent
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-6147192865018310182015-12-25T14:34:00.001-05:002015-12-25T14:34:32.139-05:00Christmas lightPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-54460619379917943472015-09-08T21:30:00.001-04:002015-09-08T21:30:56.559-04:00Drone Poem No. 1
Sight ReadingPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-58063621756527837052015-08-08T22:30:00.001-04:002015-08-08T22:37:59.416-04:00Postcard from the edge
Photographer Anastasia Taylor-Lind is doing something that
caught my eye. She has been working in the Ukraine documenting
the conflict there (remember that one). To bring attention to it
she is sending postcards. So I sent her my address and she mailed
this postcard to me. It's pretty ordinary -- a city scene of Donetsk
in the evening. But its note is part of an Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-11397379405368507652015-07-28T11:17:00.000-04:002015-07-28T11:22:11.849-04:00Out loud
Confession
The Dream of Water
~~~~
Take a poetry book outside. Read it aloud. Perhaps
record while you read wherever you are. There's
the backdrop of meadow or pond or city street.
Sounds. Of words and wild life. The poem does
breath. Experiment with where a poem comes
into the world.
* Readings from Bone Map by Sara Eliza Johnson
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-5425667882451318782015-07-01T23:07:00.001-04:002015-07-01T23:07:27.283-04:00Big Sky
Sometimes everything is Montana or at least for today. It's
nearly 9 pm and the light sits high as 4 pm back east. Another
reason why Montana holds on like the ocean the bear grass
the sage sand dune. Everything becomes Montana
even The Cantos of Ezra Pound, which I'm reading
this summer. Let me make a collage of lines:
(These fragments you have shelved [shored].)The leavesPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-22154691078271922092015-04-24T17:19:00.001-04:002015-04-24T17:19:17.439-04:00Tattoo
The story of my tattoo is here.Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-68209670330417674512015-04-20T22:39:00.001-04:002015-04-20T22:39:28.780-04:00Telephone
I played Telephone a few years ago. And then something
amazing happened. THIS. Hundreds of artists from many countries.
One artist made something and that was passed on to another artist
and so on and so on. I made this. When you read, you should
get lost in all the translations.
Plus you can read more about the whole project here.
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-52061053139657646902015-03-31T22:43:00.001-04:002015-03-31T22:43:24.978-04:00slat box light
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Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-36181618700372633022015-03-21T16:30:00.000-04:002015-03-21T16:30:39.284-04:00Archival
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Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-14648346413182450392015-03-01T14:46:00.001-05:002015-03-01T14:46:38.844-05:00LacedPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-17299314785625359492015-02-27T22:41:00.001-05:002015-02-27T22:41:20.451-05:00
It's almost March with snow on the way.Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-62317477831434992452014-10-24T05:16:00.000-04:002014-10-24T05:16:25.767-04:00Been around the world
I've been to some amazing places cities villages temples
homes never imagined I'd be welcomed to some though
I don't speak the language I learned thank you.
Cam On/Aw koon/xie-xie syeh-syeh. Again and again.Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-38229419295791880832014-10-14T04:18:00.002-04:002015-02-27T22:42:56.059-05:00Happy birthday
Some favorites from where I'm at these days where women on bikes and motor bikes in rice fields villages the city selling fruit carrying flowers singing the names of their children their lovers under their breath whisper to carry on another year and another as they do hum shout
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-7516409847980717952014-10-07T10:21:00.002-04:002014-10-07T10:24:24.121-04:00
“Fire in the Lake comes from the I Ching, the Chinese Book of Changes, and it is the image of revolution. This image, like all of the others in the Book of Changes, is almost as old as China itself; for Vietnamese it forms the mental picture of change within the society.”
—Excerpt from Fire in the Lake, Frances FitzGerald
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-15053070212067586942014-09-01T16:30:00.002-04:002014-09-01T16:30:57.377-04:00September
Thank goodness for corn and September.Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-91600130012743033312014-08-11T07:02:00.002-04:002014-08-11T07:02:34.422-04:00full again
It's a bit too blurry the supermoon photo but you get the idea.
In other news I've assembled/perhaps finished at least for now
the MS. Work on it still to be done. Order. Sequence. Tweaks.
And of course the work of getting it actually published. Still.
The completion is something for now.Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-21976461429594448322014-07-17T18:49:00.000-04:002014-07-17T18:52:43.780-04:00So this
I'm re-reading in that I'm returning to past places and here's
one in the outback of Montana. Oh and then this happened
meaning a poem published, which is newsworthy.
You Take the Diaphragm Out and the Body Opens Like a BookPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-64626792113279795152014-06-21T22:18:00.000-04:002014-06-21T22:18:23.862-04:00solstice
Summer Solstice
BY STACIE CASSARINO
I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-73813956308698902322014-05-26T20:36:00.000-04:002014-05-26T20:36:52.098-04:00From Alice Oswald’s MEMORIAL: A Version of Homer’s Iliad
The first to die was PROTESILAUS
A focused man who hurried to darkness
With forty black ships leaving the land behind
Men sailed with him from those flower-lit cliffs
Where the grass gives growth to everything
Pyrasus Iton Pteleus
Antron
He died in mid-air jumping to be first ashore
There was his house half-built
His wife Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-77356544937917592014-05-25T21:23:00.002-04:002014-05-25T21:23:57.538-04:00memorial
Of or pertaining to the memory
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-5939477552019955582014-05-04T23:49:00.000-04:002014-05-04T23:49:11.865-04:00ruins
I spent some time today taking photographs
of an abandoned residential institution in upstate
New York. Closed in 1996. Overrun with graffiti.
Tangle of broken glass and sorrow. Ghosted.
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-7671080985418018452014-04-24T23:05:00.002-04:002014-04-24T23:05:59.646-04:00
Poem in my pocket today better late than well never?
I've been learning from the late Jake Adam York since last year.
Letter Hidden in a
Letter to Cy Twombly
By Jake Adam York
I dreamed I was blind
but could
make a word
by curling a strand of hair
&Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-16640142212317861922014-03-03T11:53:00.000-05:002014-03-03T11:53:41.189-05:00walking on ice
I went walking on the reservoir yesterday. The ice wasn't good
for skating. Bumps interspersed with patches of snow. There
were ice fisher-people types in the distance and lots of gray.
The fisher folks left behind their snow globes: beautiful
round holes drilled through the 10-inch thick ice. Like
looking into a telescope or microscope. Frozen worlds
of bubbles, circlesPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7041406202834959632.post-65419567218953749752014-02-26T14:42:00.004-05:002014-02-26T14:43:48.893-05:00
Joan Mitchell, “La Grande Vallée XIV (For a Little While)”, 1983.
I've always loved this painting. Here's a poem
from a while ago, published in qarrtsiluni.
After Joan Mitchell’s La Grande Vallee XIV
as if your blue black blur of brush
and paint can conjure swamp
or luminous maple bud,
tree frog croon
as if layers of saturation can restore
the vernal pool Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05674873440135193968noreply@blogger.com0