Lucille Clifton's poem, read at Sekou Sundiata's funeral ( Read more... )

I went to a reading yesterday with Lucille Clifton at Bryn Mawr. Before she started reading, she was chatting with the audience in her grandmotherly way, and somehow in the conversation, Sekou Sundiata came up. She smiled at the mention of his name and then her eyeglassed eyes dropped their gaze to her clutching hands. She looked like she was ( Read more... )

Robert Pinsky has a voice like a deli owner, not a former Poet Laureate ( Read more... )

Firstly, I would like to give myself props for the title of this entry. I like it. Except that I don't actually think Vassar is an ass, I just want everyone to know that it's not my favorite institution at the present moment. And that's because, boys and girls, I was rejected. The letter told me that "I wasn't selected as a member of the Class of ( Read more... )

Hello.

It's been quite a while since I last typed in my (now ridiculous-sounding) log-in and ventured into the blogosphere. Looking at my past posts and comments, I seem like a completely different person that I am now. I was Plath-obsessed back then, a symptom of JRP stress. I wrote whine-y things. I was still in Rocco's class! Oh, how I wish I was ( Read more... )

Where the Sidewalk Begins

Lay me far beneath
A sidewalk, so that all may
Walk upon my back.

Teaspoon

In all the teacups
Like sculptures on the window, 
I find no silver.

Tomorrow and the Robin

Bold birdhouse chatter.
I will see you tomorrow
And hum your music.

Lightpost

I hear a whisper of streets.
There is no wind, no dancing.
The flowers sleep tonight,
Drawing frozen breaths
       and humming melodies they heard
When God cried in the morning.

Sometimes trees need no outline.
Sometimes pavement feels like the ocean.

Lights turn on at dusk 
Because we are afraid of what we might not see:
I tried to find a doorstep ( Read more... )

Northernmost

upright caskets

sneak languidly into the clean night,

the marshmallow sky.

writhing, rheumatic fingers

are forays to muted precipitation.

but I draw closer

to climb their wizen limbs.

I fare like the troubadours

wandering in maroon somberness

and velvet capers.

but we cannot stay here forever,

You and i.

You and i

are prostrates to flat lines,

( Read more... )

It has been a while, lovies, and though I have no topic already predisposed to speak on, I still feel it my duty to write something.

....So Sylvia is finished.

In this case, it was work mirroring life. 
With the deadline closing in on me and a panic attack and sleepless night boring sandily behind my eyes, it was as if I was no longer a spectator to ( Read more... )

Today marks the 43rd anniversary of Sylvia Plath's death.

She would have been 74 years old.