domingo, 28 de marzo de 2010


This "game" was taken from a website called "," and was suggested to me by Jane. These are the instructions as posted:
"Since we believe writing exercises are often the start of new, innovative work, our anthology will be a collection of poems that use six words supplied by six of our "showcased" poets."

These six words are:
1. Anteros
2. crippled
3. spindles
4. stairwell
5. threshold
6. whirligig

Come again?

The first time Anteros was awake
and each kiss was a spindle from which
Love drew on.

The second time the god
slept, and afraid of speciously committing
Eros flew away
and crashed into a stairwell.

So, the crucial one never made it,
And love was left outside the threshold.
My heart like a whirligig
battered by the wind
searches for direction…




Once a great spindle of hay to gold,
once the witch of wine
-- forgive me if I brag but -- long ago
the magic maker, my heart now is the long
hobbled road to Oz. Don't bother picking Anteros'
pockets. Look for no requited there - find nothing
but a thrift store of whirligigs and termites, flea-bitten
hope and a bin of free double-headed nickels.
For the long spinners of tales and woe?
Oh, nothing. Seven years in the making of oh
and nothing to show for it. Not one
story to tell. Nor a crippled, pee-stained stairwell
to heaven; not even doggerel to cash in.
Carson said the heart is a lonely hunter. Or is it
the heart is a deer hunter? No matter.
Mine plays Russian Roulette
on the threshold of a Cambodian shack
built from regret.


miércoles, 10 de marzo de 2010

Poems of Place

Everyone: Write a short poem which mimics a map or directions to a place. Here's mine:

Map Poem 1: To the Marginal Road: First Calle Number 2 and then the Atlantic

It rains three days, a sky bent on keeping each day for itself. drops meet roof, gutters waiting. drops off-beat against a Camry's drum hood. rivulets like corn-rows snake their way down root, feet, down broken intersection, down street. water winds towards water, eating itself along the way - the edge of the margin waits.


On why you never go anywhere...

First, the thought must enter your mind.
Then your mind must enter your body.
Your body argues against moving.
Moving quarrels with the soul.

The soul swallows the notion,
imagines its potential, plans the outcome.

Meanwhile you sit back, clasp your hands
close your eyes,
And the moment is gone.

(Jane, does this qualify as a map poem??)