spirithorse21: (Tree of Light)
Nov. 3. I haven't actually been writing the last three days, but I worked a little nugget of an idea over in my head all the way home today. I'm not crazy about the title, but everything else is just about right.

The Last Quarter

It was the kind of day you
would have loved—
the sky blazing blue, stripped
naked of its clouds;
the sun working early
to free the grass
from a hard and heavy frost,
leaving the green blades
surprisingly sugary and juicy
for this early November day.
You would have stepped
from the shadows
and paused
to soak up the sun’s warmth
and then trotted along
beside me, polite
and collected, but eager
to be free in that field
cutting the grass close
to the ground and munching,
content,
and at ease.
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
While sitting in a doctor's office on Monday, I was reading poetry by Wendell Berry. He gave me this jewel:

If you imagine
others are there,
you are there yourself.


~Dante from the collection Given
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
While sitting in a doctor's office on Monday, I was reading poetry by Wendell Berry. He gave me this jewel:

If you imagine
others are there,
you are there yourself.


~Dante from the collection Given
spirithorse21: (Copywriter)
Ganged from a website I frequent, www.tackoftheday.com:




I love it when pop culture images like comics make passes at poetry. They make me smile, and make poetry seem a little more accessible to the general public. How could one not appreciate the sentiment here? haha!
spirithorse21: (Copywriter)
Ganged from a website I frequent, www.tackoftheday.com:




I love it when pop culture images like comics make passes at poetry. They make me smile, and make poetry seem a little more accessible to the general public. How could one not appreciate the sentiment here? haha!
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
I said I would post this yesterday and then forgot. But tonight, between making a meatloaf and washing the dishes, I remembered and wanted to share it with both those promised and unpromised.

Art
By: Robert Wrigley
from Reign of Snakes

How the buck could have tangled himself
so tightly in a three-strand fence
was anyone's guess, each wire
torqued in a knot of barbs his legs, neck,
and new velveted horns were at the heart of.
He must have hit it full tilt in the dark,
momentum spinning him through
and in, every thrash thereafter
sawing flesh, by the time I arrived,
just past dawn, sawing deeper than bone.

From a hundred yards up the fence line
I could see his still occasional spasm.
The staples sung in the still air then
like lunatic clarinets.
There was nothing to think about here,
not for any of us. I was miles from home
and empty-handed, my pocketknife too dull
and small to cut his throat, and anyway, the way
he pitched and fought as I approached
might have left me dead before him.

I will call it a vigil then. I stayed and waited
until he died. At first the dog could not abide
the place and danced and whimpered
then found a pheasant's trail to follow.
I moved to where his one remaining eye
might see me and sat on a rock
among the new spring flowers and grassy fodder.
Soon he settled into the process, and the flies
embossed his bloody hide, and bile
frothed from the corner of his mouth, and he died.

***

Old Man Behring, who owns the land,
notched the skull plate out with a bow saw
and sold the toe-head rack to the horn collector
in Reubens. Coyotes strung the guts
in a smorgasbord of coils and organs,
worried the haunches to bitten-out hulks.
And today, October 1, 1996, six months' weather
and the good work of magpies and maggots
have made this display, this sculpture, this door
the wind leans against, and one, will open.


I heard Mr. Wrigley read this poem at DePauw about 5 years ago and have been haunted by it ever since. I think it is one of my most favorite poems and embodies both the way I write and the way that I aspire to write ... quietly, factually, and with a hint of love tucked away in all that stoicism. His word choices are beautiful and sometimes shocking (lunatic clarinets-- he put just as much pause and magnatude on that phrase as you might expect), but perfect in a strange way, calling attention in just the perfect way.
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
I said I would post this yesterday and then forgot. But tonight, between making a meatloaf and washing the dishes, I remembered and wanted to share it with both those promised and unpromised.

Art
By: Robert Wrigley
from Reign of Snakes

How the buck could have tangled himself
so tightly in a three-strand fence
was anyone's guess, each wire
torqued in a knot of barbs his legs, neck,
and new velveted horns were at the heart of.
He must have hit it full tilt in the dark,
momentum spinning him through
and in, every thrash thereafter
sawing flesh, by the time I arrived,
just past dawn, sawing deeper than bone.

From a hundred yards up the fence line
I could see his still occasional spasm.
The staples sung in the still air then
like lunatic clarinets.
There was nothing to think about here,
not for any of us. I was miles from home
and empty-handed, my pocketknife too dull
and small to cut his throat, and anyway, the way
he pitched and fought as I approached
might have left me dead before him.

I will call it a vigil then. I stayed and waited
until he died. At first the dog could not abide
the place and danced and whimpered
then found a pheasant's trail to follow.
I moved to where his one remaining eye
might see me and sat on a rock
among the new spring flowers and grassy fodder.
Soon he settled into the process, and the flies
embossed his bloody hide, and bile
frothed from the corner of his mouth, and he died.

***

Old Man Behring, who owns the land,
notched the skull plate out with a bow saw
and sold the toe-head rack to the horn collector
in Reubens. Coyotes strung the guts
in a smorgasbord of coils and organs,
worried the haunches to bitten-out hulks.
And today, October 1, 1996, six months' weather
and the good work of magpies and maggots
have made this display, this sculpture, this door
the wind leans against, and one, will open.


I heard Mr. Wrigley read this poem at DePauw about 5 years ago and have been haunted by it ever since. I think it is one of my most favorite poems and embodies both the way I write and the way that I aspire to write ... quietly, factually, and with a hint of love tucked away in all that stoicism. His word choices are beautiful and sometimes shocking (lunatic clarinets-- he put just as much pause and magnatude on that phrase as you might expect), but perfect in a strange way, calling attention in just the perfect way.
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
Well, here's the series so far (just two). I have been wanting to write love poetry for about four years now, but have always failed miserably. True, I have written these poems with a certain subject in mind, but that does not mean I am "in love". It means I know what the experience is now, and I have to words to communicate it (the harder of the two by far). I want to continue these. I want to hope they are immortal — that should this die, the poems will not, because they are universal enough, yet still deeply personal. I want them to convey a sense of knowing the poet, not the poet's lover. I want them to open an intimate door into how the poet feels, sees, tastes ...

Well, you tell me. they need tweaked, I'm sure. But these are only my first drafts. God, I'm being so serious today. I'm am way to easily affected by the weather. Yet, it's not sad ... Oh, nevermind. I can't say it right (write??).

These aren't titled yet, because they aren't finished

Attempt 1 at a Love Poem
Drowsy mornings follow, turn over in his arms
with me all smiles and eyes half closed. Warmer
than any pile of blankets, I curl up on him
like a cat in a sun spot and my skin prickles down
each notch of my spine when he responds by
pulling me in closer. I can feel his eyes watching
me sleep, feel his hand absently stroking my back,
face, brushing my hair away from my eyes. I am
awake and could turn my eyes —
all bright and full of mischief —
up to him before I pounce …

No broken moments this morning. No broken
peace. I will lay still, draped over him after a
slow creep to find myself there against his broad
frame. Our bodies will twist together soon enough
as I become restless and snake around for a tackle.
For now, I will be quiet and soak up the warmth
of our sleepy morning that will languish into afternoon.

Attempt 2 at a love poem
Steam rolls off my wet head the same way
it rolls off the trees, the lake, the gravel road
crunching under my feet. My Blazer sits open,
stale light burning a hole in the fading light
around this patch of woods. I can’t help but
laugh because he laughs at me — wet,
shaking, hopping from foot to foot, pretending
this will make me dry faster.

Just inside that cargo hold, I could be warming
my fingers and toes, burrowing under the horse
blankets, tussling to keep warm. I could be
listening to all this wet weather and not wallowing
in it instead. I could watch my breath blow heavy
in the air and fall like heavy, slow snowflakes.
I could look at him and laugh and lean in for
a kiss or hide behind my long, damp hair.

But here I am, outside, a fool. Cold, wet, and
jeering, I can’t think of another moment more
perfect than this right now, right here. I could be
inside that car, warm, dry, and removed from
the autumn that falls around me. But I prefer
to fall with it, and know that he will catch me.
spirithorse21: (Poetic)
Well, here's the series so far (just two). I have been wanting to write love poetry for about four years now, but have always failed miserably. True, I have written these poems with a certain subject in mind, but that does not mean I am "in love". It means I know what the experience is now, and I have to words to communicate it (the harder of the two by far). I want to continue these. I want to hope they are immortal — that should this die, the poems will not, because they are universal enough, yet still deeply personal. I want them to convey a sense of knowing the poet, not the poet's lover. I want them to open an intimate door into how the poet feels, sees, tastes ...

Well, you tell me. they need tweaked, I'm sure. But these are only my first drafts. God, I'm being so serious today. I'm am way to easily affected by the weather. Yet, it's not sad ... Oh, nevermind. I can't say it right (write??).

These aren't titled yet, because they aren't finished

Attempt 1 at a Love Poem
Drowsy mornings follow, turn over in his arms
with me all smiles and eyes half closed. Warmer
than any pile of blankets, I curl up on him
like a cat in a sun spot and my skin prickles down
each notch of my spine when he responds by
pulling me in closer. I can feel his eyes watching
me sleep, feel his hand absently stroking my back,
face, brushing my hair away from my eyes. I am
awake and could turn my eyes —
all bright and full of mischief —
up to him before I pounce …

No broken moments this morning. No broken
peace. I will lay still, draped over him after a
slow creep to find myself there against his broad
frame. Our bodies will twist together soon enough
as I become restless and snake around for a tackle.
For now, I will be quiet and soak up the warmth
of our sleepy morning that will languish into afternoon.

Attempt 2 at a love poem
Steam rolls off my wet head the same way
it rolls off the trees, the lake, the gravel road
crunching under my feet. My Blazer sits open,
stale light burning a hole in the fading light
around this patch of woods. I can’t help but
laugh because he laughs at me — wet,
shaking, hopping from foot to foot, pretending
this will make me dry faster.

Just inside that cargo hold, I could be warming
my fingers and toes, burrowing under the horse
blankets, tussling to keep warm. I could be
listening to all this wet weather and not wallowing
in it instead. I could watch my breath blow heavy
in the air and fall like heavy, slow snowflakes.
I could look at him and laugh and lean in for
a kiss or hide behind my long, damp hair.

But here I am, outside, a fool. Cold, wet, and
jeering, I can’t think of another moment more
perfect than this right now, right here. I could be
inside that car, warm, dry, and removed from
the autumn that falls around me. But I prefer
to fall with it, and know that he will catch me.

Happiness

Apr. 16th, 2003 11:32 am
spirithorse21: (Default)
Hey all. Guess what? I was reading The DePauw today and I noticed that I got first place for the best rhymed poem in the Indiana Collegiate Press Association competition. How cool is that? The poem was published in last semester's A Midwestern Review.

So, here's the poem . . .

Long Night Moon
By: Caroline Wadsworth

When blue ice hangs like dinner knives
in the starving winter month
December changes lives.
The hunting owl perches, cries
from cracking limbs and the children hunch
against the cold as deep shadows arrive.

They scurry home for their supper
to dry their feet and warm their cheeks,
eat summer yams, bread and soup.
They whisper about their weary father—
he has not come to the table for weeks.

But they will withstand the winter brute,
walk into the cold air
to watch the rising moon, blue, fair.

Enjoy!

Oh, and Duke Wright took a sports photo at the Monon game that won best sports photo. Guess what? I told him to take that photo. He wouldn't even have know the shot was there if it wasn't for me!

Happiness

Apr. 16th, 2003 11:32 am
spirithorse21: (Default)
Hey all. Guess what? I was reading The DePauw today and I noticed that I got first place for the best rhymed poem in the Indiana Collegiate Press Association competition. How cool is that? The poem was published in last semester's A Midwestern Review.

So, here's the poem . . .

Long Night Moon
By: Caroline Wadsworth

When blue ice hangs like dinner knives
in the starving winter month
December changes lives.
The hunting owl perches, cries
from cracking limbs and the children hunch
against the cold as deep shadows arrive.

They scurry home for their supper
to dry their feet and warm their cheeks,
eat summer yams, bread and soup.
They whisper about their weary father—
he has not come to the table for weeks.

But they will withstand the winter brute,
walk into the cold air
to watch the rising moon, blue, fair.

Enjoy!

Oh, and Duke Wright took a sports photo at the Monon game that won best sports photo. Guess what? I told him to take that photo. He wouldn't even have know the shot was there if it wasn't for me!
spirithorse21: (Default)
So, I just read this poem and it made me feel much happier. The last stanza is my favorite. It puts things into perspective . . .

Inspiration
By: Willam Matthews
Rumpled, torpid, bored, too tasteful to rhyme
"lethargy" with "laundry", or too lazy,
I'll not spend my afternoon at the desk
cunningly weaving subjunctives and lithe
skeins of barbed colloquial wire. Today

I loathe poetry. I hate the clotted
dicty poems of the modernists,
disdainful of their truant audience,
and I hate also proletarian
poetry, with its dutiful rancors

and sing-along certainties. I hate
poetry readings and the dreaded verb
"to share." Let me share this knife with your throat,
suggested Mack. Today I'm a gnarl, a knot,
a burl. I'm furled in on myself and won't

be opened. I'm the bad mood if you try
to cheer me out of I'll smack you. Impasse
is where I come to escape from. It takes
a deep belief in one's own ignorance;
it take, I tell you, desperate measures.
spirithorse21: (Default)
So, I just read this poem and it made me feel much happier. The last stanza is my favorite. It puts things into perspective . . .

Inspiration
By: Willam Matthews
Rumpled, torpid, bored, too tasteful to rhyme
"lethargy" with "laundry", or too lazy,
I'll not spend my afternoon at the desk
cunningly weaving subjunctives and lithe
skeins of barbed colloquial wire. Today

I loathe poetry. I hate the clotted
dicty poems of the modernists,
disdainful of their truant audience,
and I hate also proletarian
poetry, with its dutiful rancors

and sing-along certainties. I hate
poetry readings and the dreaded verb
"to share." Let me share this knife with your throat,
suggested Mack. Today I'm a gnarl, a knot,
a burl. I'm furled in on myself and won't

be opened. I'm the bad mood if you try
to cheer me out of I'll smack you. Impasse
is where I come to escape from. It takes
a deep belief in one's own ignorance;
it take, I tell you, desperate measures.

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spirithorse21: (Default)
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