I'm not alone...

Saw this essay by Charles Simic about his preferred way of working and had to share. I was pleased to find out that I am not alone in this practice. I especially liked the quoted line from an Andre Breton poem-"Poetry is made in bed, like love."

http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2012/feb/10/my-secret/

book cover

Portals and Piers

The book is finally out! Look for it at Woodland Pattern bookstore 720 E. Locust soon. Elliot, Paul, Steve P., Steve A. and myself will be doing the Poetry Marathon reading at Woodland also, on Jan. 28th, we are in the 6pm slot. We are reading alongside recent Milwaukee Poet Laureate Susan Firer, Jim Hazard, Joan Miller and Sally Kuzma. Also March 9th is our official book release reading for Portals and Piers at Woodland Pattern.
http://www.woodlandpattern.org/

Please also check out our blog http://www.sundaymorningpress.blogspot.com/

you may also order the book at:

sundaymorningpress2011@gmail.com

more collaboration...

This is another piece done by myself and my brother Chad Austin. My favorite that we have done together.

Brothers in Arms

Sitting in the fading afternoon sun,

warm breeze carrying
my thoughts away, I look over

a reticulation of high-ridged

moraines and drumlin hills, gently rippling.

The stippled light reveals

a bird in flight, caught

in time lapse motion. Slowed wings

beating inaudible rhythms, captured

 inside my tympanic chest

while perched here in this hillside copse.

Ice dammed lakes give way 

to kettles, conjuring childhood memories

of playing a fox-holed soldier, fallen

limb for a rifle, prepared to ambush

any "foe" caught unaware. We were

brothers in arms, him and I.

These days time does the assailing

and each hour carries boyish dreams off 

to settle in some new child's head. 

Memories of climbing

immense sand dunes fall away.

My brother running ahead,

the delicate patterns in the sand turning

to wrinkles at the corners of my eyes. 

Deep furrows in my hands mirror

the landscape stretched out below.

His head disappearing

on the down-slopes, taking longer

each time to reappear.

Still I struggle to catch up. 

Sand kicked up by blistering wind

temporarily blinding.

Lost from sight now,

these recollections sting

like those wind-whipped grains

on youthful cheeks. Scars remain,

with the glacial passage of time.

His face in the knotted bark

of an elm tree, his voice whispering

in rustling leaves, telling tales of chasing 

deer and quail and each other

through these woods- easier prey

than our demons and shadows. 

name change

Sorry for any confusion, but I felt the need to change the title of this blog. I never did really like the title anyways but at the time I just wanted to get started and see where this would lead...

Please keep reading and enjoying

another collaborative poem

This one was done with Paul Enea and Steve Pump(2 guys from my poetry group). If you know them and their work, enough said.
If not...well let me just say, this one kind of took on a life of its own and got a little crazy. Steve  did a revision of this one that turned out great, if I can find a copy of it I will post soon.
In the meantime, do not try to "understand" this one, just enjoy it, it may make you laugh or cry or experience some other deep-seeded emotion.
_______________________________

a star, trying to speak

blinks like a stuttering neon sign

before giving up. give us

gibson, give us gaga on a glitter stick!

a rave girl dancing in a vacuum, shouting

more please, more surd than word,

heard only in math dream deeps, drums the floor.

save your wishes for the unextinguishing

exorcists in your family. pledge

to continue from where they expire.

purple plasma embers caught in a jam jar, kept

beside pickled onions in gaga’s dressing room

-a grandmother’s cryptic gifts. give us

Keith’s open G - libretto for a blues opera

and grandma’s guitar all day long. deliver

us into song. speak, star. or at least

light my way to the stage, before

betelgeuse outshines the moon

(it may be sooner than we think).

raise a glass to the cross-dressing cousins, married

then murdered for diamonds on their honeymoon. the killer

left behind a clue:  a chord that hung mid-air,

resonating for a sharp-eyed, noir private dick

whose pain-tuned ears detected a whispering music box

in hell.  hell, raise a glass to anything.

I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number...

there are no answers here, but if you stay  

where you are, an outline may appear, a ring

of light, but try not to look directly into it, unless

it speaks to you.

As a poet there is no greater feeling than finishing a poem. Not that we feel a poem is ever finished; there is always tweaking, addition or subtraction that can be done to change its tone or enhance its feeling when looked at days,weeks,months or even years later. What I really meant to mention is the feeling one gets after "finishing" a poem and intuiting that it is a worthy addition to the world of words and letters. Most poets do not feel that any and every poem they write is "worthy." Those that do are probably only fooling themselves.(sorry for the sidebar.) Aside from creating a work of art alone, I have found that collaborative poetry has brought me great satisfaction as well. I would like to share some collaborative poems I have worked on.

This first one was a collaboration with my brother. We took one line each alternately.

Sunrise Cynic

Time is ticking on a madman's watch
like the irregular rhythm of a lapwing in flight
flushed by the footsteps of an unsuspecting traveler

heavily, another minute alights,lost-
the cost of sitting alone in darkened room,
dreading dawn's approach

patiently weeding twilight's garden
tending her seraph-star
discarding unsought thought streams

harrowing song of early morning wrens
welter of discordant sounds
fracturing silence, bearing ill tidings

no dreams visit, to share in a cup of coffee,
a casual glance, a slight smile
a neophyte in solitude, loathsome-
resigned to wait for a celestial reunion

day begins for the consummate insomniac
weary eyes, heavy soul, sunrise cynic
practiced art, this daily grind
the hours, gravity's co-conspirator,
keep me earthbound