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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
P.S. Have you seen the new(ish) "Marie Antoinette," the one directed by Sofia Coppola? Is it any good? I was in the mood for some flashy anachronism tonight & briefly flirted with the idea of renting it. When I saw that it was rated PG-13, however, I wondered if it might not be an over-hyped bore. Your thoughts?
clean kitchen clean bathroom more laundry?? write & print cat sitter note print out poems to revise in South Bend (ha!) clean up study a bit, and dining room clean living room Do paper bills (mortgage, water) email IAC about getting preliminary scores and feedback summary
I was tending the garden when a bee flew up my blouse & stung my left nipple I was claimed then I wanted to be a better girl I am not a girl reaching back with a corked finger into a fruit drink I carry ice & worship fur
My body is split down the center fur & wet in spite of alcohol crème brulée nights with the goaty headed man long nails curling down becoming cloven I'm not alarmed I like the smooth pillowed slick
I smell like lemons floating the pool in my red swimsuit Hey Mary Mary count your fingers you might be Harold Lloyd you might have exploded accidentally a brother & sister bang the crap out of the pedestrian pushbutton on Meridian & 15th they really slam that thing I am jealous of the knob's silvery skin
During the vivisection a perky girl appears onstage to reapply my lipstick I shiver put my hands in my pants a crime scene a transparent zebra marble spins & cracks the base of my neck at night it sings Zip-a-dee-doo-dah I am a deer upside down black tongue poking out naaa naaa naaa
I fold the clothes of my dead into giant plastic bags dresses shirts socks slippers the whole shebang my dead smell like lemons their teeth are extremely white marshmallow white my sister is perfect she has a perfect body her hair is a gold wasp's nest I fold her Snow White pajamas into a square
I see the reptile man on television & realize it is my husband holding a two headed turtle to the camera all three of them smile
I like to touch your tattoos in complete darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of where they are, know by heart the neat lines of lightning pulsing just above your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists or turns to pain between us, they will still be there. Such permanence is terrifying. So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
In the midday sun the dust rose between intakes of breath. It was that sudden. The woman’s body gave a single, short spasm at its coming. The boat she lay on idly circled the palace pond. While her servants softly rowed away from the dust she dreamed of ways to kill her husband.
She could slip her curved dagger behind his esophagus and pull from ear to ear: it was sharp enough, and she wanted to watch him expire. Or she could capture a crocodile and starve it before bringing her brother near: but she couldn’t think of captured and him.
She could poison the tip of a needle and prick his forearm in his sleep: he already has one scar there from her. Or a bit of poison in his wine could do it: the slow acting kind so he goes to sleep with an upset stomach and never arises from his bed of state.
But who would replace him? He I understand. He I can somewhat temper. I fear the unknown. Her silk cloak rubbed across scars on her shoulders and back. She dreamed also of being with her daughter.
If history shows that we've moved from a mythological to a philosophical viewpoint, where are we now? Is it an hysterical point of view (based on a Republican/religious/extremist advocacy of how to view the world)?
Please confine your response to less than 100 words.
Pamela,
ReplyDeleteAttached is the graded version of your writing assignment. Please let me know if you have any questions.
Best,
Charles
Del Poppolo
ReplyDeleteTo what purpose, April, do you return again?
ReplyDeleteBeauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
P.S. Have you seen the new(ish) "Marie Antoinette," the one directed by Sofia Coppola? Is it any good? I was in the mood for some flashy anachronism tonight & briefly flirted with the idea of renting it. When I saw that it was rated PG-13, however, I wondered if it might not be an over-hyped bore. Your thoughts?
ReplyDeleteMichael Lopez-Alegria
ReplyDeletehttp://brent-goodman.blogspot.com/
ReplyDeletehttp://www.smartmoney.com/home/living/index.cfm?story=rent&cid=1012&pgnum=1
ReplyDeleteclean kitchen
ReplyDeleteclean bathroom
more laundry??
write & print cat sitter note
print out poems to revise in South Bend (ha!)
clean up study a bit, and dining room
clean living room
Do paper bills (mortgage, water)
email IAC about getting preliminary scores and feedback summary
Pinwheel
ReplyDeleteI was tending the garden when a bee flew
up my blouse & stung my left nipple
I was claimed then
I wanted to be a better girl
I am not a girl reaching back with a corked finger
into a fruit drink
I carry ice & worship fur
My body is split down the center
fur & wet in spite of alcohol
crème brulée nights
with the goaty headed man
long nails curling down
becoming cloven
I'm not alarmed
I like the smooth
pillowed slick
I smell like lemons
floating the pool in my red swimsuit
Hey Mary Mary count your fingers
you might be Harold Lloyd you might
have exploded accidentally
a brother & sister
bang the crap out of the pedestrian
pushbutton on Meridian & 15th
they really slam that thing
I am jealous of the knob's
silvery skin
During the vivisection
a perky girl appears onstage
to reapply my lipstick I shiver
put my hands in my pants
a crime scene
a transparent zebra marble
spins & cracks the base of my neck
at night it sings Zip-a-dee-doo-dah
I am a deer upside down black tongue
poking out
naaa naaa naaa
I fold the clothes of my dead
into giant plastic bags dresses shirts
socks slippers the whole shebang
my dead smell like lemons
their teeth are extremely white
marshmallow white
my sister is perfect
she has a perfect body
her hair is a gold wasp's nest
I fold her Snow White pajamas
into a square
I see the reptile man on television
& realize it is my husband
holding a two headed turtle to the camera
all three of them smile
Camels are brown and have 1 or 2 humps on their backs. In Muslim countries camels may be used to buy wives.
ReplyDeleteFirst Poem for You
ReplyDeleteBy Kim Addonizio
I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
http://jxnsvns.blogspot.com/2007/04/part-of-team.html
ReplyDeletehttp://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2007/04/hotel-fire.html
ReplyDeletePalace of Desire
ReplyDeleteIn the midday sun the dust rose
between intakes of breath. It was that sudden.
The woman’s body gave a single, short spasm
at its coming. The boat she lay on idly circled
the palace pond. While her servants softly rowed
away from the dust she dreamed
of ways to kill her husband.
She could slip her curved dagger
behind his esophagus and pull
from ear to ear: it was sharp enough,
and she wanted to watch him expire.
Or she could capture a crocodile and starve it
before bringing her brother near: but
she couldn’t think of captured and him.
She could poison the tip of a needle
and prick his forearm in his sleep:
he already has one scar there from her.
Or a bit of poison in his wine could do it:
the slow acting kind so he goes to sleep
with an upset stomach and never
arises from his bed of state.
But who would replace him? He I understand.
He I can somewhat temper. I fear the unknown.
Her silk cloak rubbed across scars on her shoulders
and back. She dreamed also of being with her daughter.
If history shows that we've moved from a mythological to a philosophical viewpoint, where are we now? Is it an hysterical point of view (based on a Republican/religious/extremist advocacy of how to view the world)?
ReplyDeletePlease confine your response to less than 100 words.
http://sharkforum.org/archives/2007/04/poem_of_the_week_no_story_just.html
ReplyDeleteSpecial thanks go to LC for getting to me all of these wonderful photographs taken during my 40th birthday celebration a couple weeks ago!
ReplyDeleteTo view the photos, click HERE.
(I know other people have taken pictures and if you are reading this and have pictures to share with me, I'd love to see them! Thanks!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDUhkf3qYww
ReplyDelete