Month: December 2015

“Why People Really Have Dogs” by Kim Dower

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry5 Comments

People really have dogs so they can talk to themselves
without feeling crazy. Take me, for example, cooking
scrambled eggs, ranting about this dumb fuck
who sent naked pictures of himself to strange women,
a politician from New York, I read about it in the paper,
start telling my nervous cock-a-poo, blind in one eye,
practically deaf (so I have to talk extra loud), all about it
and he’s looking at me, poor thing, like he thinks I’m
the smartest person he’s ever heard, and I go on, him
tilting his head, and when he sees me pick up my dish
of eggs he starts panting and wagging his tail, I tell him,
no, they’re not for you, but then I break down and give
him some knowing full well that feeding from the table
is rule number one of what you don’t do with dogs,
but I do it anyway because he wants them so bad,
because it makes me feel good to give him what he wants,
and I expound more to make sure he’s aware of the whole
political scandal, the implications for the democrats,
the hypocrisy, tell him dogs are rarely hypocrites, except
when they pretend to be interested in you when all they want
is your food, take him, for example, right now pretending
to love me so much when all he wants are my eggs, me
talking to him when all I want is to say my opinions with no one
interrupting, feel my voice roll out on a clear Saturday morning,
listen to it echo from the kitchen to the bath, up through the ceiling,
out to the sky, the voice from within, all alone in the morning
as the light from outside catches the edge of the silver mixing bowl
where the remaining, uncooked eggs sit stirred, ready to toss
into the pan, cooked, eaten by whoever pretends to want them.

Kim Dower, from Slice of Moon

“to the man about to put the lampshade on his head” by Ken Wagner

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry
it’s not funny

 

no matter how much scotch we drink

 

it’s not funny

 

the only way you can top yourself at the next party
is to enter in a floral print dress   lipstick   and heels
and that’s even more not funny than the lampshade

 

so as you finger the fringe on the shade of the table lamp
mustering the courage or more likely squelching your dignity
let us follow the natural progression of your un-comedic arc

 

you will don the lampshade and say   I feel lightheaded
followed by   Get it   Get it

 

and then a limerick about the man off the coast of Cape Cod
which we’ve all heard a thousand times before
but some of the men will make the mistake
of giving you an obligatory chuckle

 

which will only make you try harder
which is even more less funny

 

then all the women will turn away   and in sync roll their eyes
your wife will leave the room and the men will fan away saying
Classic you

 

when your wife returns with your coat on her arm
she’ll jingle the keys at you and say   Roger   Come

 

and you’ll sheepishly walk to the door
keeping the lampshade on as you wave goodbye

 

and all the men will bend slightly in sympathy pain
and all the women will start to clean up the bar

 
—Ken Wagner, from Rattle #48, Summer 2015

 

“Christmas poem to a man in jail” by Charles Bukowski

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry2 Comments

hello Bill Abbott:
I appreciate your passing around my books in
jail there, my poems and stories.
if I can lighten the load for some of those guys with
my books, fine.
but literature, you know, is difficult for the
average man to assimilate (and for the unaverage man too);
I don’t like most poetry, for example,
so I write mine the way I like to read it.

poetry does seem to be getting better, more
human,
the clearing up of the language has something to
do with it (w. c. williams came along and asked
everybody to clear up the language)
then
I came along.

but writing’s one thing, life’s
another, we
seem to have improved the writing a bit
but life (ours and theirs)
doesn’t seem to be improving very
much.

maybe if we write well enough
and live a little better
life will improve a bit
just out of shame.
maybe the artist haven’t been powerful
enough,
maybe the politicians, the generals, the judges, the
priests, the police, the pimps, the businessmen have been too
strong? I don’t
like that thought
but when I look at our pale and precious artists,
past and present, it does seem
possible.

(people don’t like it when I talk this way.
Chinaski, get off it, they say,
you’re not that great.
but
hell, I’m not talking about being
great.)

what I’m saying is
that art hasn’t improved life like it
should, maybe because it has been too
private? and despite the fact that the old poets
and the new poets and myself
all seem to have had the same or similar troubles
with:
women
government
God
love
hate
penury
slavery
insomnia
transportation
weather
wives, and so
forth.

you write me now
that the man in the cell next to yours
didn’t like my punctuation
the placement of my commas (especially)
and also the way I digress
in order to say something precisely.
ah, he doesn’t realize the intent
which is
to loosen up, humanize, relax
and still make as real as possible
the word on the page. the word should be like
butter or avocados or
steak or hot biscuits, or onion rings or
whatever is really
needed. it should be almost
as if you could pick up the words and
eat them.

(there is some wise-ass somewhere
out there
who will say
if he ever reads this:
“Chinaski, if I want dinner I’ll go out and
order it!”)

however
an artist can wander and still maintain
essential form. Dostoevsky did it. he
usually told 3 or 4 stories on the side
while telling the one in the
center (in his novels, that is).
Bach taught us how to lay one melody down on
top of another and another melody on top of
that and
Mahler wandered more than anybody I know
and I find great meaning
in his so-called formlessness.
don’t let the form-and-rule boys
like that guy in the cell next to you
put one over on you. just
hand him a copy of Time or Newsweek
and he’ll be
happy.

but I’m not defending my work (to you or to him)
I’m defending my right to do it in the way
that makes me feel best.
I always figure if a writer is bored with his work
the reader is going to be
bored too.

and I don’t believe in
perfection, I believe in keeping the
bowels loose
so I’ve got to agree with my critics
when they say I write a lot of shit.

you’re doing 19 and 1/2 years
I’ve been writing about 40.
we all go on with our things.
we all go on with our lives.
we all write badly at times
or live badly at times.
we all have bad days
and nights.

I ought to send the guy in the cell next to yours
The Collected Works of Robert Browning for Christmas,
that’d give him the form he’s looking for
but I need the money for the track,
Santa Anita is opening on the
26th, so give him a copy of Newsweek
(the dead have no future, no past, no present,
they just worry about commas)
and have I placed the commas here
properly,
Abbott?
,
, , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , , , , ,
, , ,
, , ,

Charles Bukowski,What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

On the Future of “Words for the Year” (a note from Christy and poem from Dorianne Laux)

On By Christina's WordsIn Blog News, Poetry16 Comments

It’s hard to believe that at the end of this month, Words for the Year will have published a poem or quote every day for two years.

What started as a small independent project–my diary captured in poetry–has grown into an intimate community of poetry and word lovers all via word of mouth and social media sharing. And I am grateful that the poems and words I’ve shared have helped so many of you, as they have helped me, especially in times of grief, depression and darkness.

The simple truth is I had planned to end this project at the end of this year. The more complicated truth is that I cannot. Poetry will always be a part of my life; it’s my lighthouse in times of darkness, and it’s an icon of beauty and gratitude to help me better appreciate the world around me and the moments (and people) I so often take for granted. Poetry is often my voice when I am without words. Poetry in general, and certain poems and poets, save my life, often.

And what I have learned is that I am not alone in this.

I have heard from many of you over the past two years. You have shared with me the very personal ways the poems you read here have helped you and healed you. YOU represent the reason I love doing Words for the Year.

And YOU are the reason I will KEEP doing Words for the Year.

At least for one more year anyway. 😉

I do plan to take a short break at the beginning of the new year. I’ll be back no later than April 1 (in time for National Poetry Month), but probably sooner than that.

Here’s where I need your help:

While I am on break, I may occasionally (re)post some of your favorite poems. Will you please leave a comment with a favorite poem you’ve read here on Words for the Year? Or if you have a favorite that we have not posted, let me know the name of the poem and the poet (and a link if available). Or you can leave me a private message via our contact page, here. If you have feedback or ideas for the new year, please feel free to share that also. If you read only by email, you are welcome to email me: wordsfortheweekend@gmail.com .

To the poets, writers, artists, publishers and copyright holders who have allowed me (or who haven’t disallowed me) to share your work, my deep gratitude and thanks. Your work matters. You matter.

To my readers and friends, thank you for all of your support. To each of you, I dedicate a Dorianne Laux poem (one of the poems–and favorite poets–that saves my life). I originally shared it on Words on March 19, 2014.

“For the Sake of Strangers” by Dorianne Laux

No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waits patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another – a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a retarded child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them –
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.

 “For the Sake of Strangers” by Dorianne Laux, from What We Carry, 1994. 

 

Your turn . . . What’s one (or more) of your favorite poems?  No need to answer right away. I’ll keep comments open until April.  ~ Christy

P.S. – For readers who follow our Apocalypse Love Story featuring Sam & Dave (it began on our sister site, Words for the Weekend), we have exciting news! Sam, Dave and friends will soon have their own home at The Lovely Fire. It’s under construction, but you are more than welcome to visit and sign up for future posts.

 

“The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem” by Olena Kalytiak Davis

On By Christina's WordsIn Music, Poetry

Remember when we couldn’t name it
because it was a meadow
wild with tulips, both bright
as snow and dull as fire?
Driving in circles to find
the right spot for our love, then
using a chair? My heart was still
an artichoke, layered and prickly
But you kept making me nest my face
in that one thick bouquet.

And just this morning my love
was briefly stuck in my throat
as I remember all the soil
and sadness, remembered seeing you
on certain streets and corners, remembered
all the rubble and clang. Remember

how it is and isn’t fragile?
How it speaks in ears and fingers
takes days and hours still
it wants nothing and it wants more?

And just this morning
the flowers you brought home drank
in the sunrise, they fleshed themselves out
the way people do, shaking
the cold from their collars
as they move toward the fire,
rubbing together their hands, kindling
it back. Some days

we want our love to be fleshy.
But some days it’s transparent.
It’s like gauze.
It is and isn’t fragile.

I dare you to name it.
I dare you to remember
the rubble and clang.

”

— Olena Kalytiak Davis, “The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem”, in
And Her Soul Out of Nothing (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)

 

*

 

“The Flowers” by Regina Spektor
“Things I have loved, I’m allowed to keep . . .”