art
Tinder for poets
On a fall day in New York City I left a poem in Central Park . . . poem is on bench under orange sign Women and Horses by Maxine Kumin “After Auschwitz, to write a poem is barbaric.” -Theodor Adorno After Auschwitz: after ten of my father’s kin— the ones who stayed—starved, […]
MoreTale of two pianos
To His Piano by Howard Nemerov Old friend, patient of error as of accuracy, Ready to think the fingerings of thought, You but a scant year older than I am With my expectant mother expecting maybe An infant prodigy among her stars But getting only little me instead– To see you standing […]
MoreMorning surprises
Breakfast by Ljubomir Simovic Didn’t I say last night it will snow? What else would there be but snow? I no longer wait for the rustle of wings, or some dove to make my heart leap and shine its light on me. Snow has hatched in every den and lair putting […]
MoreTwo suggestions
If you’ve got a fever and the only prescription is more Poem Elf (and you’ve already had all the cow bell you can take)– –Or– if you like poetry in very small doses and you don’t like reading long blog posts– –I have a suggestion for you. Follow me on Twitter. @Poemelf […]
MoreMerry Trish-ness
If I measured my value in the number of Christmas cards I’ve received this year, I’d be having a Charlie Brown “I got rocks” kind of feeling right now. But the depressing emptiness of my Christmas card holder lost its sting when I opened my email yesterday. My friend Trish Rawlings, artist, writer, and frequent […]
MoreDreamers, approximate wait is 200 years
Harlem by Langston Hughes What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy […]
MoreStanding up by sitting down
Rosa By Rita Dove How she sat there, the time right inside a place so wrong it was ready. That trim name with its dream of a bench to rest on. Her sensible coat. Doing nothing was the doing: the clean flame of her gaze carved by a camera flash. […]
MoreArtist on the Playground
Autobiographia Literaria by Frank O’Hara When I was a child I played by myself in a corner of the schoolyard all alone. – I hated dolls and I hated games, animals were not friendly and birds flew away. – If anyone was looking for me I hid behind a tree and cried out “I am […]
MoreI hope the Moon Child wins
Every year Baltimore’s Enoch Pratt Library holds an Altered Book Contest. An altered book is a bound book that’s been reworked in some way—torn, painted, sculpted, woven—to create a piece of art. (Link here for examples.) My friend Trish Rawlings’ entry, above, is entitled “l’enfant lune.” Here’s a 3-dimensional view: I’m entranced by […]
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