Whether I am translating or composing new poetry, it is all about transformation.
Whether I write or translate I am transforming into the English language some concept or feeling which is difficult to grasp. In the process of this transformation, I am a conduit or medium, and I am also transformed in the process. Frequently, the emotional quality of writing poetry helps me to realize something new about myself or life around me.
When my output resonates with a listener or reader, there is further transformation. I can read the same poem dozens of times and still get choked up by it. I feel I have succeeded when my audience gets goosebumps or gets choked up too. Kevin Goodan was born in Montana and raised on the Flathead Indian Reservation where his stepfather and brothers are tribal members.
Goodan earned his BA from the University of Montana and worked as a firefighter for ten years with the U. The smell of hair dye makes me break into hives, a sort of hysteria. Hysteria is an old-fashioned, Freudian word. I want fashion to be out-of-fashion. I want to lie in uncut grass with uncut hair in the world of Whitman. His extravagant world of ecstatic words. I do not want plastic surgery, lotions, wrinkle removers. I am sick of magazine articles on organizing closets.
I have come to dislike the fashion of feng shui, although why should I? Harmony is good. I am afraid. At the same time, I am tired of being deferential to a mirror. I am tired of being outgoing. I want to be shy, to float like a cloud in the blue sky, grow black with rain, fall every day, on parched earth, give myself to trees. Birds, come dip your feathers in the jaunty fountains, for I will be a thousand drops of water. The beauty shops will dissolve, join fossils and elephant bones.
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Fleshy, spore-bearing fruit of fungus will spread its thready network forever underground. Enchanted circles will spring up. I grew up in a reading and theater-going family. I loved Robert Louis Stevenson and A. Milne as a child. Then I stumbled onto the poetry of Joseph Brodsky.
Somehow that was a turning point for me. I was moved by his poems and also by his essays on other poets. He made poetry alive and relevant for me.
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I have learned so much from reading poets from all over the world and from all walks of life. At first, the air was opaque with dust then later settled as I got to know this man I had known only as a handshake. Let there be light. Joey Gould has worked for the last three Massachusetts Poetry Festivals.
Manual Bagel by the Sea: A Collection of Devotional Essays and Poems
You left and took the city with you went out for cigarettes and became smoke. And so to stay both more lonely and less lonely I went inside the used bookstore to live with the broken-spined, the ditched classics, and drug money first editions, books who'd burn apart if they'd just be held. Goldenrod and suicidal, a wan line pulls me through the stacks, has my hands in Leaves of Grass, Just want to say you're a very beautiful person and you are very special to me. I hope you enjoy this book.
Review: Imaginary Vessels by Paisley Rekdal (Copper Canyon Press, 2016) by Emilia Phillips
I love you Janice. Wondering in and out of lives, my hands brushing over each gleam, matte. How we sell back. How we let things go, how we revise and revise. What thoughts of you this night, Walt Whitman, your whole fruit crates full of splinters and dedications, where's your beard supposed to point me now? Because I'm dog-eared and flower-crushed, laid open. And Janice is out there in the amber rim of some cigarette. Adam is poet and organizer with the mighty Northampton Poetry collective, where he also facilitates a poetry workshop.
He lives with his family in Holyoke, MA. Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr. Gray Jr. An as-yet-untitled book of poems is forthcoming from Four Way Books in She holds a B. Rachel Eliza Griffiths is a poet and visual artist.
Griffiths lives in Brooklyn. Asleep in the ark of bed, the wife, the husband, the dog wrapped in bunched bedclothes each with a special way of breathing. Sometimes breath signals from the dream— a quickening of garbled words, a sigh. Sometimes dreams escape in the dark room. Dead parents appear young, able to talk and walk. The dog whimpers remembering her early confinement. A friend returns with a message: all you need lies within.
Bedded down, the pack rests. The edges yield as the ark rocks, retrieving the ones lost. Appeared in The Westchester Review , River Full of Bones , a full-length collection, will soon be published by Iris Press. Worksheets 1, Salamander, and Bryant Literary Review. Daniel Hales is a writer, musician, and teacher who lives in Western MA.
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In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for those who would climb through the hole in the sky. My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens. For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet. It must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.
In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it. Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace. Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our children while we sleep. Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born there of nuclear anger. Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to disappear.
We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to them by their personal names.
olterdogtspec.tk Once we knew everything in this lush promise. What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav- ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood. An imperfect map will have to do, little one. There is no exit. The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a spiral on the road of knowledge. You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.
They have never left us; we abandoned them for science. And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world there will be no X , no guidebook with words you can carry. Fresh courage glimmers from planets.
And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns. When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us. You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder. A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the destruction.
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