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FALSTAFF:
My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!

[Poem of the Week: 4/9/2010]

nay, thank him and the bright goddess
that he left us

at Great Lakes bar and Chris Stackhouse's apartment Attendees yours truly Fitzgerald Kearney Gregorian Stackhouse though not sure if he counts honorary board member maybe everyone's welcome everybody's autobiography something in Ashbery about that 'Soonest Mended' until too late in the morning almost the dawn Minutes: dogwoods Parliaments fire escape, five favorite poets, five favorite poets, Bishop, Dickinson, Crane, Ashbery, Kaufman, long board boys, Dryden, Milton, own poems, taxi cab, Boston -- Boston comes up in a few of my poems, hm -- Christian Dylan and the Shrinks, this is all so private, all so coded, forgive and be forgiven, redemption as sure as we are living.  Now I am as the walking dead having woken up far too early but it was all worth it everything is worth it [...]

How do you know when you’re “done” a poem? I’m not speaking about revision, but rather, the act of writing, particularly lyrical free verse. Donna Masini once described it to me (or a class I was in—can’t remember which), as a settling in the body: a literal sense in the poet’s body that there is no more to write. What a strange way to describe it—yet, I find it has been true with me. I’ll be sitting in front of a computer, write a line, and suddenly, intuitively, I know the poem is finished. It’s a sense of relief, that sighing experience when you’ve just removed a splinter (though the process of removing a poem from your body is usually more pleasurable. Grossman speaks about the silence from which a [...]

See more about Dottie Lasky's POETRY IS NOT A PROJECT here Get it at AWP while the ink is still wet. Available at the UDP portion of the "table X publishing commune."

What if I made you hear this as music
But not how you mean that. The slow beam
Opened me up. Walls walked through me
Like resonant waves. I thought that maybe
If you aren’t too busy, we could spend our lives
Parting in stations, promising to write
War and Peace, this time with feeling
As bullets leave their luminous traces across
Wait, I wasn’t finished, I was going to say
Breakwaters echo long lines of cloud

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

http://www.everyday-genius.com/2010/04/laura-carter.html
is this a poem? i don't know. i don't care. A) she's a poet and greying ghost put out a poetry chapbook of hers B) it's awesome and in terms of its approach to the idea of the lyric i'd say it's probably better than a deal of things i've read in verse. when i say better i want to qualify that: it is inventive and invigorating. inventive may not be the right word. but say this aloud. a lot.

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A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
—Wallace Stevens, ‘Sunday Morning’

I reached a point where there was no
Use going on: my companion said, "Do not waken
The watchman, do not shout, he will die
Of shock if you make the slightest
Sound." I stood in the utter darkness,
Cold. Without evidence of myself.

Gallaher has managed to create a language all his own using English words. Reading his poems, I felt like I’d arrived on some other world where the linguistic building blocks were familiar, but the physics of assembling them was completely different, surprising, otherworldly.

[Poem of the Week: 4/2/2010]

This morning I couldn't get up I didn't want to get up I didn't get up in bed here I lay with the usual bloggy stuff to say, poetry etc. Window world a world apart, window world and widowed bed. I will not leave my bed alone. I will be here for it until I turn to stone. One day soon mineral will advance over me. One day soon I will be time's cartoon, flat as the handle of a spoon. Have I gone on too long? Ring the gong.

To honor the first day of National Poetry Month, I want to share this poem by Bill Wadsworth -- the progenitor of NPM, launched in 1996. Bill is an extraordinary writer, advocate and teacher of poetry -- I'm profoundly grateful for the work he's done and continues to do. (See full post for poem)