A little Sex(ton), Anne.

Lately I have become obsessed with the writer Anne Sexton. Here are a few of my favorites and a link to where you can read more.

Amp is in only two days! I hope to see everyone’s smiling face at the urban nature center, 730pm. let’s celebrate national poetry month!

anne sexton.

Buying the Whore.

You are the roast beef I have purchased
and I stuff you with my very own onion.

You are a boat I have rented by the hour
and I steer you with my rage until you run aground.

You are a glass that I have paid to shatter
and I swallow the pieces down with my spit.

You are the grate I warm my trembling hands on,
searing the flesh until it’s nice and juicy.

You stink like my Mama under your bra
and I vomit into your hand like a jackpot
its cold hard quarters.

For my lover returning to his wife

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
vA luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission –
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound –
for the burying of her small red wound alive –
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call –
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

The ballad of the lonely masterbator
The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The fury of beautiful bones

Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing.
Your head is what I remember that August
you were in love with another woman but
that didn’t matter. I was the guy of your
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten,
bone bag man, garlic in the North End,
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish,
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth.
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you’re thinking
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale,
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones.
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain,
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias,
me of the sawdust tavern at the city’s edge.
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh
and I admire them also, but your bones
supersede loveliness. They are the tough
ones that get broken and reset. I just can’t
answer for you, only for your bones,
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles,
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its
own life in its own skin.

The truth the dead know

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

here’s a link to some more of her wonderful poetry

here’s a link to a biography of her

here’s a link to the wikpedia site about her and her writing

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meet john newlove, visit w/ in/words magazine, check out ottawater. (all things ottawa)

First and foremost we have a biography of one of my personal favorites, John Newlove

and a poem by the man himself:

Why Do You Hate Me?
John Newlove
From: Apology for Absence: Selected Poems 1962-1992. Erin, Ontario: Porcupine’s Quill, 1993. p.145.

So you live of the sea;
and I am the dry acrid land.

You have the sweet fish swimming
and dull mannerly grain grows in me.

Your blood shines in curving darts;
I grow in calculated rows.

So I say I love you,
and you say, Why do you hate me?

I speak in a foreign language.
You don’t know what I say.

Check out my old stomping grounds at In/words press, the poetry magazine at Carleton University. Here is Issue 5.2 november 2005

Here is another great publication out of ottawa: Ottawater which celebrates ottawa poets.  A brief introduction:

Founded to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the City of Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, “ottawater,” and its chemical formula/logo “O2(H2O),” is a poetry annual produced exclusively on-line, in both readable and printable pdf formats, and found at (http://www.ottawater.com). An anthology focusing on Ottawa poets and poetics, its first issue appeared in January 2005, 150 years after old Bytown became the City of Ottawa.
Here is a link where you can download the publication

We cannot leave ottawa without thinking of Bywords.ca a great publication out of Ottawa, revived by Amanda and Charles Earl (and a whole selection committee that helps!) On the website you can read the current issues, back issues or find places to submit, chapbooks to purchase, etc.

Also check out the A B  series, the performance and experimental sound/poetry group out of Ottawa started by max middle.

Another great reading series is the Dusty Owl group. Find out more here.

New and exciting events in reading include VERSEfest. Find out more info here

One of the readings series in Ottawa that a profound effect on me was the Tree Reading series. For more information click on this link

Know more Ottawa Links? Comment on this post!
To end, we’ll finish off with a poem by

rob mclennan from shampoo magazine issue number 36

it is true I have come inside
rob mclennan

I have a headache as wide
as the northern lights

is that canadian enough?

white wine I can’t drink
w/out frontal lobe knives

I was distracted from rapture

a snap in the sky like a tear
five minutes post-lightning

our culture been eaten to bare
small hands chew to one side

everything is illuminated
glowing tributes of storefront

like a renaissance chapel
, the cloud a low ceiling

the air on the street like a tomb”

and one final link to a poet I had the pleasure to help edit the chapbook of, writer Sean Moreland. Check out some of his poetry here in ditch poetry.

and a place to buy some of the things you’ve seen, Chaudiere Books.

For some visuals, check out these two guys:

Charles Earl

and

John W. MacDonald

in particular, his shots of versefest

and his photos of ottawa poet jw curry

okay, done. for now.

thanks ottawa.

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AMP APRIL 20

Come out on Wednesday April 20th to celebrate National Poetry Month with AMP. Free to everyone, always accepting and willing to listen to new and old performers alike. Come out and meet the growing spoken word community in sarnia/lambton.  Starts at 7:30pm-9:30pm. Urban Nature Center/ downtown christina st. Sarnia.

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video poetry & ts eliot.

AMP video poetry

4:38 by melissa upfold

Here is an example of video poetry. You can take video from wherever, use stock footage that you can find online that can be used for free. Record yourself with a mic or no, this didn’t include a mic.

this is the first of many that I will be posting over the course of the month.

Also,

one of my favorite poems to begin april with:

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).  The Waste Land.  1922.

The Waste Land

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations. 50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, 60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! 75
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’
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April is National Poetry Month. So let’s get ready to party.

Here are a few links to some interesting things about poetry. If you have anything you would like to be included on this blog, please email us at spokenwordsarnia@gmail.com

Check out this essay by I.B. (Bunny) Iskov,  the founder of The Ontario Poetry Society about why Poetry is important.

Then head on over to find out what National Poetry Month is all about and make sure to pick up some of your favorite books and some new ones.

For information go to The League of Canadian Poets for events that are happening in April as well as the history behind National Poetry Month:

And if you just want to brush up on the different styles and the origin of Poetry itself, go to this website:

Make every day, a National Poetry Month sort of day; take some time to read and write for the next month, but more importantly, everyday.

Here’s a couple silly comics (with a bit of a satirical edge)

Matt Groening's: How to be a Sensitive Poet

savagechickens.com

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Jerard plays at Coffee Lodge Exmouth March 24th/ 7:30-10pm

 

come out, grab a coffee and comfy seat and take a listen.

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Let’s celebrate! Wendy Washington releases two new books on march 8th 2011.

On march 8th at the Mall Rd. Library, Wendy Washington launched her new chapbook Clouds as well as another book. Here are some photos from the event.  To purchase a book email wendy at dwwash@ebtech.net. All proceeds go to the new The Judith and Norman Alix Art Gallery.

 

 

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