From the Medium of a quiet Iron Madien

Blond razor curls fall
into a skirt of insecurity
away cuts the knife at bullshit
she is tired of internal blood
callused, there go her hands
empty
Again.
Lifting and leaving the broken ends
her fit fin at a waters edge, awkward
doesn't seem so.
wrapped in binge she remembers the comfort of such blankets
in beds
hallways
cars
lie to her
break her
take her lungs


lost orgasm she is the piteous empty tunnel
The maiden she swims, aqueous Aquarius
she adventurous
you drown her at the pit of your mouth

The Arrangement of Things

Sorry it has taken me so long to talk to everyone this week. I'm sure Jess informed a few of you of my sickness, but enough about me, lets talk Zukofsky. I noticed the mention of the sincerity of words, revolving around the structure and arrangement of those words and the degree of power within their meaning. I like the concept of sincere objectification, if you talk about a mug like its love, then that mug better be overflowing with romantic sincere words. Although for me, Zukofsky seemed to argue that the poem itself was the object. An interesting argument yet at the same time, I disagree, the poem is not a "job" as Zukofsky suggests. The poem should be arranged in a way that's pleasing for the author, the audience, the adjective; yet it should not be a work that the mind mulls over like stale bread. Instead it should be the objectification of the inmost internal working. Am I right? I understand that it is in fact hard to write a poem. Yet i find Zukofsky reading to deeply below the lines, what about the surface? the initial reaction to the words on the page? The first gut instinct to feel love for a mug, or cry at its missing pieces. It seems odd to me that such stress be placed on the working of the thing, rather then the work itself. Although, maybe i love mugs to often. Maybe i look for the most basic of feelings rather then the deepest written struggle. Opinions?

No water, No Juice, No ice creams

Lost eye balls gummy and plain
I dry them on flannel sleeves
the blue shoe, i remember heavy breathing


robots surrender to the moon and her vicious cycles
if only it were a personal universe
sand covered feet
banana Popsicles build a melted house
i remember hands
the restaurant is crowded
red hair, the Phoenix that constantly dies
i am no lady Lazarus
in frog boots by the willow tree
jam your tongue in my
pathetic time

Statements on Poetics-Charles Olsen

I liked what Olsen said about the assurance of the ear. I find my ear on poetics (of course) to be in the highest of categories. Yet Olsen's work felt like such an audible piece; so much was emphasized literally on the page, words like "HEAD, EAR, SYLLABLE,HEART, BREATH,LINE" I found myself ignoring the essay and following the bold words, like an idiot, but i found that in doing so the message was clearer. Olsen suggests to my ear a type of poetry passed on the pulse of the human hand as it writes. It is the "MOVE INSTANTER OBJECTS" and the"LAW OF THE LINE", I'm not sure Olsen was advocating a transfer of energy but instead the acknowledgement of energy, the record that is...Poetry. Its like the "TA-DA" moment at a magic show, when the trick is revealed. Olsen says ta-da! poetry is here, in your face, like an energy bullet. I like that he says that "where breath has its beginnings, where drama has to come from, where the coincidence is, all act springs" poetry is such an act, i feel like half the time I'm writing I'm holding my breath till its over. I imagine Olsen was trying to underline a similar universal feeling of "wow if i could just say it"

A Defence of Poetry- Percy Bysshe Shelley

I want poetry to set my body free. A cliche possibly, yet what I felt while reading Shelley in relation to my intense need for freedom, was a sense of happiness. A sense that what he too was describing was imaginative freedom. Adding inspiration to the reason; To the base desire of humanity versus the imaginative reason of the poet. Shelley even uses the metaphor of poetry as the "Tree of life" feeding the imagination, the base instinct , to ignite more expression in the mind. Shelley states that " Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds", I like the thought of poetry as happiness. I like comparing the mind of poetry, the free expression of whatever to the scientific realm, to the philosophic, and even to studies of alchemy, as if poetry combined reason and imagination to create this expression of something. Something solid legitimate, " the pencil and the picture, the chisel and the statute, the chord and the harmony."
In class we mentioned the hypocrisy of this piece. Yet i find the work simple, For me the message is not definite or confined, it is free, free like the expression that it represents, it is the combination, the fine delicate ( i hate to say it) tweaking of things to create a mental existence, a word existence that changes the evolution of things. Shelley focuses on the most conscious forms of expression. Reffering to the poet as a "Savage" and honestly, I agree with this statement, i want to produce an existance based upon that which surrounds me in the most brutal light. Maybe it is "chaos of a cyclic poem" but maybe its all relative to the expression we see within the cycle. Shelley does not describe poets as prophetic, yet he does point out that we as we are, as speakers, as word workers, "make beautiful that which is distorted," it is here in Shelley's message that i find the happiness of his perspective on poetry. The syntax of Shelley's narrative even matches the beautiful language of poetry, it does not claim fame or chart with special stars, it is the " very image of life expressed in its eternal truth."