Archive for the ‘Group 3’ Category

[what I should’ve handed out today]

Thursday, September 14th, 2006

Exploding The Muse

The Olatunji Concert in medias res

I.

Maybe a hundred faces–

No longer smiling–

lose themselves,

Or are lost

in a thunderous cavalcade

of sundry emissions.

I am a cascading inferno,

the center of uncertainty,

collapsing in breath.

II.

Now-textured, new, buoyant,

creation’s froth and foam,

outlandish and exuberant.

There is no “back” line.

I am the wash,

boundless and formless,

seminal and righteous.

III.

Exhilarating exacerbation–

every note,

every exclamation–

Gutted and vulgar,

no recognition,

not enough time to–

Swung-out on

ecstatic communion

with galaxies and

the congregation–

Harlem’s gymnasium

blissed out on fractured

cacophonic exultation

and praise

and innards.

IV.

He cut me in half.

Squawks and moans:

quills and quivers.

She busted my brains.

Too many keys,

or none at all.

They’ve lost it.

They have something

else entirely.

Kathleen Flenniken

Thursday, September 14th, 2006

What I Learn Weeding

A dandelion root can grow two feet long.
You don’t forget unearthing one—shocking
as a donkey in an old French postcard.

But mostly, love, we pull their heads off
to achieve our shallow vision of a garden.
The root cleaves to the darkness,

the same dark that sets our hips to rocking,
to burrowing into the other’s body
or slapping it away. Briefly a stillness,

a long waiting to rise. Respiration. Sleep.
Until, without nurturing, a green shoot,
a thumb raked lightly across a thigh

and we succumb to this buried fury, this fever
to reseed. Oh, subterranean marriage
of root and soil! Oh, saw-blade leaf

and sunburst of maddened flower!

Quote from Triggering Town

Saturday, September 9th, 2006

“The poem is always in your hometown, but you have a better chance of finding it in another. The reason for that, I believe, is that the stable set of knowns that the poem needs to anchor on is less stable at home than in the town you’ve just seen for the first time” (12).

I have to disagree with Hugo here. To me, my hometown always has a sort of whimsical, nostalgic feeling which I am interested in writing about. This isonly amplified by the fact that I know that “the movie house wasn’t there, or that the grocer is a newcomer…”(12).