Something new…

…over on Poemtstry.

Do you stop and stare?
Do you pause in mid-step?
Do you find yourself caught,
unawares, your eye like a fly
in a web?

You’re in good company.

So does James Dickey.

What is poemtstry?

Well, it’s a neologism, for one thing.  A new word to encompass the concepts of (poem+poet+poems+poets+poetry).  Poetics and meta-poetics.

It is also the name of my new blog.  A place to share, discuss and perhaps even argue (good-naturedly, of course) about what all these things mean to us.

It’s a work in progress.  I’m still feeling my way around.  Still figuring things out.

As of now, I will be posting once weekly at least to begin with, sharing quotes from poets and others about what these things mean or meant to them.  I am attempting, as means of structuring things, to limit these quotes to only those that contain the words:  A poem is…, A poem does…, Poems are…, Poems do…, A poet is…, A poet does…, Poets are…, Poets do…, Poetry is…, Poetry does…

Poemtstry is a way to try and put all of that into one word.

Trust me.  It’s easier to read than [poe/m/t(s)try], which is how my brain sees it.

So if you care about poetry, you’ll head strait over to poemtstry.wordpress.com, and see what all the hubbub is about.

NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 24 — The Scarecrow

(with apologies to Wallace Stevens and his Snowman)




The Scarecrow

Mutely standing in a field of 
fallow stubble, bending on the loam,
one’s mind is a business of 

musing the morning sun to rise.
Bold mice scurry through holes in boots,
tickling would-be toes of would-be feet

and climbing through knees of overalls
that, overall have seen brighter days.
Sparrows puff from red flannel seams--    

brown-feathered breath calling to 		
starling hands that wish to rub pale straw
moths from hollow sockets that stare

the stars from the sky.  One has hopes of scaring
someone--anyone--and listens without ears to hear
all that is not there and the one thing that is.





NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 19 — The presence of absence







The presence of absence

this emptiness is not a substance
or a non-substance but a thing 

or a non-thing.  this emptiness 
has a name, a place and a form.

when we speak of it, we speak 
not of emptiness but of an emptiness, 

a singular vacancy that 
inhabits a place, a space 

in an inner landscape
like a deep canyon where 

nothing ever happens any 
more, not even weather.

~~~~~~~~

and this is how it happens.  an empty 
rumble echoes in an emptiness. 	

a space finds room to breathe
and the room finds space 

to live again in the empty 
rooms of another, and these 

emptinesses are much the same.  
they are filled with the same nots,

the same uneasy intervals
bound by different chords,

threads that thrum in the void,
the same void, the same un-

this-ness — the same— and these 
emptinesses speak to each other 

across the fullness of the world, 
through the things we cling 

to and avoid and we 
color these things and

we build them up around 
us and we call them memory

and they are never enough.





NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 18 — fluid




fluid

"god" is a word.
"god is dead" is three words.

Meaning is fluid, pumping 
from three words
to what you believe 
I believe.

“guts” is a word.
“I hate your guts” is four words.

I don’t know your guts.
My words are
meaning moving in
your guts.

“Can you taste the venom in my soul?”
I have no soul.
You have no guts
to call your own.
Venom has no taste and
no vessel. 

“Guts” is just a word.
“Soul” is just a word.

“god” is 
just a word.
God is just.
God is justice.

Justice is a worm.

I have worms in my guts,
God’s guts.






NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 17 — Winter Madness, a cinquain sonnet

(A bit late...more on the cinquain sonnet here)




Winter Madness

Under 
the streetlights, the 
blocks go on forever 
beneath the leaden sky.  In this
city,

streets seem 
somehow longer,
straighter in the winter 
night, lonelier than the steam from 
sewers.

Madness 
belongs to the 
night, to the filling of 
empty lanes with the walls of words.