Tuesday, August 24, 2010

To Inspiration


I allow myself to wither
My passions separated out from
the lyrical
The core of thought desiccated
in prose
While I try to ferment these thoughts
into words.

From time to time the dam breaks open
and my need for poetry to
out my thoughts, unable to
my scratch work in my head
any longer
to describe.

In this way the disparate parts of me
I segregate the elements that make me
my passion
from my thoughts, and so I dwell in the
facts and figures
moving out my emotions through a
vent hole
in private.


There is a time that a story can move
words without sound
dance more powerful without music
ecstatic exhalations of
power, emotion and thought in one
gigantic swoop of expression.

My own words trembled and failed to pass out
the encompassing effects.
But though my speech doesn't move
my thoughts do, my soul does
and, guided forward by the winds of fellows
already moving, I move too.


In 1969 (no jokes just now please)
Feminist Theorist Carol Hanisch declared
"The personal is Political"
A response to the idea that when a group
of people suffering under
oppression come together to discuss their
oppression, it is "Just group therapy."

Throughout the ages (maybe longer than we've been homo sapiens sapiens)
art has been a method of non-verbal declaration
Expression of our interior into the exterior world.
To dare to speak the unspeakable,
Expressing in words-
or without them- that which might,
in fullness, not lend itself to language alone.

We are taught (Or is it demanded?)
that our desperation is private, our personal
a secret to be shared in dimly- or fluorescently- lit rooms.
Our pain is somehow ours alone,
to separate experience
from the cause and conditions that
create and foster the framework upon which we are suspended.

Instead, someday (soon?)
can we not take our experience and, raw as art,
push out our collective ill-conceived self-loathing
acknowledging our unified-
and diverse-
experience, as people whose lives
before "without" defined, bloom from within identified out.

Dedicated to the performers of Sins Invalid- who inspire me not only to take my personal into public/political, but to take my experience- my "art"- there as well.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Analogy>Simile>Metaphor and Me

I. Analogy

Experience : is to

I put my hand down
into a vat of wine that was fermenting
and felt the foam that was bubbling
As the glucose broke down into
ethanol, and CO2 bubbled up
past the layer of sludgy
grape rinds.

:: as Emotion : is to

I read articles
constructed by "professionals", families
supposed allies in my life, that then make
Emotions active, rising my blood pressure
and the heat slowly releasing
from my skin
in waves, stomach acids

II. Simile

My emotions then rise within me
CO2 from fermenting glucose;
my skin and thoughts release
the exothermic reaction of fermentation;
My physiological markers of distress feel
the bubbling yeast felt on my hands.

III. Metaphor

My rage and indignation
ferments as I read the words my
oft called
(by others)
allies have written
about, for, in lieu of me.

I release out my CO2 exhalations
In effort to respond to those who would
speak "for"
(how can they?)
me and mine
the heat, passion, held in frothing.

Bubbling up within me, I try to
translate out this emotion and find my
words lacking
(can words ever?)
to express the
emotion, sensation, feeling of you

and your presumptions of how far I can take this.


If you would like more info on what fermentation is/does/means in wine making, try this article at everyday Chemistry.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Allied, Unallied, Re-Ally.

Allied forces grey and green and flying
Technicolor on the television
our memorabilia reflecting
that our father's father's (father's)
alliance was not based on the same
wants needs expectations
of our allies...

And today I sit in a sea wider
Broader than the Atlantic that frothed
at Nomandy when my "grandfather"
the beaches soon to be wet with
a fluid that is NOT ocean
contemplate wonder self-doubt
me as ally...

My ancestral family rose up out of
Normandy and conquered and pillaged
presumed dominance
over those whose father's fathers were kings
In the name of our own prides
to subjugate the pride of a culture still rebuilding from
the last invasion...

I have to ask myself if their blood runs
too hot within my veins? Does it
my heart beats, my ancestral privilege?
Does conquest or obliviousness run in the
double helix of my fathers and again
in me...?

As my Grandfather's brothers walked into
a camp teeming with death unpredicted-
did they feel the foot of their soul sink
into the quicksand of realization?
Or did they allow pride to restablize
them as heros....?

When we cast our roles as heros
denying how we conquest or ally without
how is that any different than the ignorance
we declare ourselves fighting to conquer?
Good things do sometimes come from our ignorances-
but should they?

Poetry and the vision of thought

I pour out these words
to describe the state of being
in my head
before I can make them form
the language that you all are speaking
Hours Days weeks at a time they build up
till over washing into this flood plain
of poetry
before fermenting, bubbling, then
coalescing into words that make sense
or seem to

Until I realize I've misunderstood your language again.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


The arch curling round
bracing around what is surely
those absences society sees in us
the lack- they say lack
lack, a word with so much of saying
that there is something that
should must be there
but isn't-
of eyes touching
easy embrace
the societally explained expectations
that lead only to disappointment
when pursued-
in my experience at least.

Instead there is that space
of each of us being our own
and yet united
continued, flowing, unlimited
by the bonds of societal affection.
our skills and wants and needs
uniquely ours and yet
a part and parcel of the drive
or desire of one whole.

United only by
the touching of our feet.