Out

My father cinched the rope,
a noose around my waist,
and lowered me into
the darkness. I could taste

my fear. It tasted first
of dark, then earth, then rot.
I swung and struck my head
and at that moment got

another then: then blood,
which spiked my mouth with iron.
Hand over hand my father
dropped me from then to then:

then water. Then wet fur,
which I hugged to my chest.
I shouted. Daddy hauled
the wet rope. I gagged, and pressed

my neighbor's missing dog
against me. I held its death
and rose up to my father.
Then light. Then hands. Then breath.
_______
"Out" by Andrew Hudgins, from American Rendering, New and Selected Poems, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, New York, 2010.

Posted by Karyn

Some poems of mine appearing in Yes, Poetry and the last (as in final) issue of tinfoildresses

Enjoy!

-Russell

http://tinfoildresses.synthasite.com/spring-2010.php

http://yespoetry.com/post/566561502/issue3

Baskets

The best are speckled with a color, like songs
you hum because the words are unremembered.
They say, hand me an apple though I do not
need it, then in the cold months when I need it
you will hand me an apple again. Pretend
you are sitting on the ground and a bird looks
out at you from the low part of a pine.
The color enters your basket while you look
at him. What has he said? What have you said?
What you never said is safe with another.
But how will you reach me when I am left
so far behind? I cannot weave. I cannot fly.

poem by Laura Jensen from Bad Boats,
The Ecco Press, New York, NY 1977.

Posted by Karyn

WPWC Class: Check your emails!

Check your emails if you are in Write Poetry Right Now! I have to miss class Wednesday--tragedy. But we can reschedule class; particularly, I am interested in doing a Tuesday night class if we can. Please let me know what your schedule will allow. Otherwise, I'd like to push class to Friday evening or Sunday evening.

-Russell

A STOGIE

A friend of mine told me

I should write

a poem

about harelips.

The first thing

that comes to mind

is that a deep harelip

might be good

for holding

a cigarette

or cigar.

I look it up

online, it said

1 in 700

infants are born

with harelips--

that's a lot

of fucked up

baby faces.

~ Hans Lutenegger (04/24/10)

CHOPIN BUKOWSKI by Charles Bukowski

this is my piano.

the phone rings and people ask,

what are you doing? how about

getting drunk with us?

and I say,

I’m at my piano.

what?

I’m at my piano.

I hang up.

people need me. I fill

them. if they can’t see me

for a while they get desperate, they get

sick.

But if I see them too often

I get sick. it’s hard to feed

without getting fed.

my piano says things back to

me.

sometimes the things are

scrambled and not very good.

other times

I get as good and lucky as

Chopin.

sometimes I get out of practice

out of tune. that’s

all right.

I can sit down and vomit on the

keys

but it’s my

vomit.

it’s better than sitting in a room

with 3 or 4 people and

their pianos.

this is my piano

and it is better than theirs.

(from Love is a Dog from Hell, 1977)

Certainly my favorite Bukowski poem. The book's title is also one of my favorite titles of any book.

Posted by Hans

"Russell Jaffe is going to read some fiction...poetry!"

Here is the power of video on the blog. For Write Poetry Right Now class: I signed in and then went to Youtube, found this video, went to the Edit Html tab, and posted this in it. Easy! Fun!

For everyone else, enjoy this VIDEO TEKNOLOGIE