May 24, 2013
#Mus(es)(ing) over Katherine Mansfield today reminded of her story The Wind Blows. 
//They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they stride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky–just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pahutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.
“Come on! Come on! Let’s get near.”
Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.//

#Mus(es)(ing) over Katherine Mansfield today reminded of her story The Wind Blows. 

//They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they stride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky–just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pahutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.

“Come on! Come on! Let’s get near.”

Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.//

May 22, 2013
Today by Frank O’Hara

  Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
   You really are beautiful! Pearls,
   harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all
   the stuff they've always talked about
                       
   still makes a poem a surprise!
   These things are with us every day
   even on beachheads and biers. They
   do have meaning. They're strong as rocks.

[1950]

11:04am
Filed under: frank o'hara poetry muses 
May 20, 2013
Another band member sporting the PROSEBEFOREHOES look. Bands dig Neutral Norway and Neutral Norway dig CEMENT MATTERS. Watch out for new PROSEBEFOREHOES gear coming soon. 

Another band member sporting the PROSEBEFOREHOES look. Bands dig Neutral Norway and Neutral Norway dig CEMENT MATTERS. Watch out for new PROSEBEFOREHOES gear coming soon. 

May 17, 2013
Alasdair Gray ~ The End ~ From Lanark 1981

I started making maps when I was small

showing place, resources, where the enemy

and where love lay. I did not know

time adds to land. Events drift continually down,

effacing landmarks, raising the level, like snow.

 

I have grown up. My maps are out of date.

The land lies over me now.

I cannot move. It is time to go.

 

~ Alasdair Gray ‘81

7:20pm
  
Filed under: lanark poetry alasdair gray maps time 
May 17, 2013
Alasdair Gray ~ Muses

Alasdair Gray ~ Muses

May 17, 2013
#MUSES - Sharon Olds

image

click on the muses tag to see NN holy muses holy holy holy

7:08pm
  
Filed under: muses 
May 17, 2013
Sharon Olds - May 1968

When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down, in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off—above them, the sky,
the night air over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop’s
shoe, the gelding’s belly, its genitals—
if they took me to Women’s Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers—I gazed into the horse’s tail
like a comet-train. All week, I had
thought about getting arrested, half-longed
to give myself away. On the tar—
one brain in my head, another,
in the making, near the base of my tail—
I looked at the steel arc of the horse’s
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop’s
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I’ll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse’s heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter 

7:04pm
  
Filed under: sharon olds poetry may1968 
May 13, 2013

May 13, 2013

I tried not to post a video of Michelle Tea. I tried to look around went through a couple of books searched a couple of names and I found some cool people, some good stuff. But then I watched this video and thought well Michelle Tea really does this best. Other people do it, they do it well it’s good I like it but Michelle Tea really does this best. So I posted Michelle Tea. 

10:48am
Filed under: michelle tea 
May 6, 2013
PICKLE BELT by THEODORE ROETHKE

The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.

Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,—
And he, perplexed;

He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust. 

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