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Showing posts from April, 2010
I am reading Columbia Poetry Review, which I purchased yesterday at Columbia College Chicago.

Two of my favorite poems...

The Penguin Chronicles
By Jason Bredle

Six days a week it's a sea of black and white. The seventh day
it's white as far as you can see. Have you ever traveled where the
sun never sets? Have you ever felt the despair of standing on a
sheet of ice with the last Oreo cookie in your hand? I'm all right.
Everything's fine. I'm not a lone. If I learn to hop, squawk, swim
and eat raw fish I think the penguins will consider me a friend. I
hope they tell me where they go on the seventh day. Maybe they'll
even invite me to go with them. The sky here is always so blue.

And our professor...

In the Fine Time of Warriors
By David Dodd Lee

Latin for it, buried deep, in tongues


Next, install the Skep-to-kill Driver

A few individual peas roll around on the dinner plate


Toes to die for

Under the earth there are tunnels and caves full of harvester ants

The guy'…
Zachary Schomburg's Poetry Reading
at Columbia College Chicago

I am happy that he read one of my favorite love poems, "The Fire Cycle."

And Charmi-- He remembered you!

Zachary Schomburg is the author of The Man Suit (Black Ocean 2007), Scary, No Scary (Black Ocean 2009) and several small press chapbooks including three collaborations with Emily Kendal Frey: OK Goodnight (Future Tense 2010), Feelings Using Wolves (Small Fires Press 2010), and Team Sad (Cinematheque Press 2010). His translations of Andrei Sen-Senkov have been published in The Agricultural Reader, Circumference, Harp & Altar, Mantis, Aufgabe, and others. He co-edits Octopus Books and Octopus Magazine. He lives in Portland where he teaches at Portland Community College and Portland State University.
I am reading The Yale Younger Poets Anthology.
William Virgil David is one of my favorite poet in the book.

The Sleep of the Insomniac

The body beside your body sleeps like death.

There is nothing to hear from your heart,
ghostly clock, full of collapse. Even your
breath, wind from the world's wind, breaks

unevenly, losing itself in itself. Suddenly,

the stars fall to fill your room. Time is
the thin spider you found along the fence
when you were five and kept to yourself

the way, for years, you kept your body

inviolate until you learned there was nothing
to be done for the flesh which would keep it
incorruptible. Death is as close as the wife

you sleep beside. Stars fasten to your forehead.
My grandfather and I
Hawaii 2007
My grandfather, Jinsaku Ichihara, passed away on April 20, 2010. I will miss him but I hope that he will find a way to cross the sanzu river and enter heaven.
Dinner by Aaron
Salmon saute
Japanese potato salad

Potomac Review is out. This is their blog.

One of my favorite poem by Elizabeth Spires from the issue.


In my room, I am and am
not what you would imagine.
Fear and desire swirl
around me, though me.

The past: a minefield
I pick my way through.
The future: obscured
by fog that will not lift.

I sit in a blue chair,
letters scattered on the desk.
Pens stand at attention.
The paper blank, noncommittal.

Here are three seashells,
each small as a fingernail,
in which unknowable
creatures once lived.

two fortunes preserved
for luck. And a doll
in a doll's rocking chair,
holding a tiny doll daughter.

Absent faces peer
across a chasm of years,
never to come back.
Though they do.

Always I see more than I want
to see, wishing to be unseen.
If you could see me now,
you would not know me.

Contributors are...
Alex Chertok, Alison Christy, Sheena Cook, Jim Daniels, Nelson L. Eshleman, Naoko Fujimoto, Peter Grandbois, Kathy Gray, JIll A. Grunenwald, Virginia Hartman, Tiffany Hawk, Jane Hoogestraat, Adam Houle, L…
I am reading "Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty" by Tony Hoagland.

One of my favorite poem from his book...


Play the one about the family of the ducks
where the ducks go down to the river
and one of them thinks the water will be cold
but then they jump in anyway
and like it and splash around.

No, I must play the one
about the nervous man from Palestine in row 14
with a brown bag in his lap
in which a gun is hidden in a sandwich.

Play the one about the handsome man and woman
standing on the steps of her apartment
and how the darkness and her perfume and the beating of their hearts
conjoin to make them feel
like leaping from the edge of chance--

No, I should play the one about
the hard rectangle of the credit card
hidden in the man's back pocket
and how the woman spent an hour
plucking out her brows, and how her perfume
was made from the destruction of a hundred flowers.

Then play the one about the flower industry
in which the migrant workers curse their o…
I am reading "The Continual Condition" by Charles Bukowski.

One of my favorite poems from his book...

parts dept.

listen, she said,
I never knew my husband had such a big cock.
he was the only man I'd ever been to bed
then I met you.

listen, I told her, do you hear me talking about
my e-wife's genital organs?

you don't ever talk about your x-wife,
she said.

well, until I met you I thought she had a big
one, I said.

big what? she asked.

automobile, I said, now let's put on some records
and dance.
My fellow-poet, Charmi, is going to join Poetry Marathon at Artpostwith Professor Nancy Botkin and Professor Clayton Michaels. They will read their poems around 6:00pm on April 9, Friday at Artpost Gallery (216 W. Madison Street, South Bend, IN).
I am reading Franz Wright's Earlier Poems.

One of my favorite poem from the book...


Playing your trumpets
thin as a needle
in my ear,
standing on my finger

or on the back of my neck
like the best arguments
against pity I know.
You insignificant vampires

who sip my life
through a straw;
you drop of blood
with wings;

of insomnia
I search for
with a lit match.

I had a job once
driving around in a truck
to look for your eggs.
They can be found

in ditches, near
train tracks, outside
of a barn
in an upright piano filled with rainwater.

It is impossible to kill
all of you,
invisible in the uncut grass
at the edges of the cemetery:

when the dogs go down there it
looks like they've gotten into birds.
Yellow Flowers from Aaron
I read a blog about an interesting and brilliant idea forNational Poetry Month.I really wish that I could join them; however, I am horribly broke. Somebody, please, please give me a job!!!
I start reading Li-Young Lee's "Behind My Eyes." I fall in love with his poems since I read "ROSE" two years ago.

One of favorite poems from his book...


"We can't stay where we are,
and we don't know where else to go,"

is the first card my mother deals. We're playing
her deluxe edition of "Memories
from the 20th Century."

"Dead Baby," "Mystery Bundles," "Cleansing by Sacrifice."

Seven cards apiece and the object is to not die.

"Exodus," "Eyes Snatched Away,"
"Superstition at the Side of the Road."

All cards are good or bad depending on how you play them.
"Defeated by wings," "Eating Forbidden Blood."

No card possesses inherent value.
"Among the Lepers," "Burial by the Solo River,"
"The Extracted Oil."

Every player begins in bondage.
Every player eventually dies. Everybody plays
where they know or don't know they're …
I am reading "The Paris Review Book for Planes. Trains. Elevators. and Waiting Rooms."

One favorite poem by Robert Pinsky.


Inside the silver body
Slowing as it banks through veils of cloud
We float separately in our seats

Like the cells or atoms of one
Creature, needs
And states of a shuddering god.

Under him, a thirsty brilliance.
Pulsing or steady,
The fixed lights of the city

And the flood of carlights coursing
Through the grid: Delivery,
Arrival, Departure. Whim. Entering

And entered. Touching
And touched: down
The lit boulevards, over the bridges

And the river like an arm of night.
Book, cigarette. Bathroom.
Thirst. Some of us are asleep.

We tilt roaring
Over the glittering
Zodiac of intentions.