This post I wrote about Andy Kehoe for the terrific site Bright Stupid Confetti (art lovers, check it out!), called “Recapturing the Forest Monster: Andy Kehoe’s Creatures."
The growing archive of authors (over 7 hours, and 45 minutes!) who have read at Paging Columbus on our YouTube Playlist--last month, it was Alexis-Rueal, Mark Sebastian Jordan, and Joy Sullivan. Check them out here (or watch this one of Joy below).
This Continuing Education course I’m teaching this summer at CCAD here in Columbus-- “The Blog as Muse: Starting an Artist’s Blog.”
Natalie Shapero’s book, No Object, which trotted and pranced its way to my mailbox yesterday, like a shiny, beautiful pony who is also a POWERHOUSE. Will report back on her brilliance soon.
The Ender’s Game movie.....just reread the book this week (it was always a favorite in my family).
SPRING. I love the in-between seasons of fall (my favorite) and spring. More light is sounding wonderful.
And you?
Friday, April 5, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Postdiluvian
Postdiluvian
Octogenarian disaster, nonagenarian disaster,
how the flood or fire goes on living long after
water has dried or embers have been stamped out.
The trees remember burning, the riverbanks doubt
they will ever be less muddy. Disruption scrapes
the record, records the damage its claw makes
in you, makes of you a Victrola with a warped song.
As puberty changes the voice, permanently, as long
as you sing you’ll carry the dog bite, the heart break,
the heavy box. Ouchy house guests accumulate,
until you are crowded as Mt. Olympus with the gods
of your grief, planting storms and lightning rods.
Octogenarian disaster, nonagenarian disaster,
how the flood or fire goes on living long after
water has dried or embers have been stamped out.
The trees remember burning, the riverbanks doubt
they will ever be less muddy. Disruption scrapes
the record, records the damage its claw makes
in you, makes of you a Victrola with a warped song.
As puberty changes the voice, permanently, as long
as you sing you’ll carry the dog bite, the heart break,
the heavy box. Ouchy house guests accumulate,
until you are crowded as Mt. Olympus with the gods
of your grief, planting storms and lightning rods.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Pre-Apocalyptic
Pre-Apocalyptic
The whole world,
round, hovering, whole,
trees in the forest
living alongside fallen
ancestors in peace,
breaks in rain letting in
clouds of sky,
non-clouds. Lustrous
skin of people,
soft faces, moons just
peeking over
the horizons of our
nail beds. Real
moon up in corner
of the sky, dull,
bone-hued during day,
power lines tying
towns to one another
and water ready
in the faucet, wartime
unable to rouse
in the mind’s pastures.
The whole world,
round, hovering, whole,
trees in the forest
living alongside fallen
ancestors in peace,
breaks in rain letting in
clouds of sky,
non-clouds. Lustrous
skin of people,
soft faces, moons just
peeking over
the horizons of our
nail beds. Real
moon up in corner
of the sky, dull,
bone-hued during day,
power lines tying
towns to one another
and water ready
in the faucet, wartime
unable to rouse
in the mind’s pastures.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Local Fluff
Local Fluff
In the dark sea,
flame-capped white taper candles
circle me, fingers sticking up
through the water, pointing, holding
light. The plug in the ocean floor
has come loose, there’s a leak
in the ocean, we’re either giving
up water, or letting in water
from some other source, the ocean
under ours. Maybe that’s where
these candles keep coming from,
lit well for us.
In the dark sea,
flame-capped white taper candles
circle me, fingers sticking up
through the water, pointing, holding
light. The plug in the ocean floor
has come loose, there’s a leak
in the ocean, we’re either giving
up water, or letting in water
from some other source, the ocean
under ours. Maybe that’s where
these candles keep coming from,
lit well for us.
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