Millay Comic

Love is Not All (Sonnet XXX)

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 
And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 
Yet many a man is making friends with death 
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 
It well may be that in a difficult hour, 
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, 
I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 
Or trade the memory of this night for food. 
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Edna St Vincent Millay Comic, Sonnet XLIII

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 
Under my head till morning; but the rain 
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh 
Upon the glass and listen for reply, 
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain 
For unremembered lads that not again 
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. 
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, 
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, 
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: 
I cannot say what loves have come and gone, 
I only know that summer sang in me 
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Edna St Vincent Millay Comic

WCW: The Young Housewife

At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.
I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling. 

Bishop Comic and Best American Poetry Blog Post: On Becoming a Prick

I chose this comic because it relates to my BAP post "On Becoming a Prick."
You can see it here:

ONE ART

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

WCW Comic

RAIN

As the rain falls 
so does 
           your love 

bathe every 
                  open 
object of the world-- 

In houses 
the priceless dry 
                         rooms 

of illicit love 
where we live 
hear the wash of the 
                                rain-- 

There 
          paintings 
and fine 
             metalware 
woven stuffs-- 
all the whorishness 
of our 
           delight 
sees 
from its window 

the spring wash 
of your love 
                      the falling 
rain-- 

The trees 
are become 
beasts fresh-risen 
from the sea-- 
water 

trickles 
from the crevices of 
their hides-- 

So my life is spent 
                              to keep out love 
with which 
she rains upon 

                         the world 

of spring 

                    drips 

so spreads 

                     the words 

far apart to let in 

                           her love 

And running in between 

the drops 

                   the rain 

is a kind physician 

                              the rain 
of her thoughts over 

the ocean 
                     every 

where 

           walking with 
invisible swift feet 
over 

         the helpless 
                            waves-- 

Unworldly love 
that has no hope 
                            of the world 

                            and that 
cannot change the world 
to its delight-- 

           The rain 
falls upon the earth 
and grass and flowers 

come 
          perfectly 

into form from its 
                           liquid 

clearness 

                But love is 
unworldly 

                and nothing 
comes of it but love 

following 
and falling endlessly 
from 
          her thoughts

Poe Comic

Remembering David Feitler

My friend, David Feitler, died Friday night at home with his family in Shaker Heights.  Although he had cancer for many years, and I knew he would die soon, I am still having trouble processing the fact that he is gone.  He was family to us.  He and his beautiful wife, Zanna, always felt/feel more like siblings than friends.  And both have more guts, enthusiasm, and imagination than anyone I can think of off-hand.   A chemist with an MIT background, David loved science, travel, nature, the arts, books, and friends.  He composed music, played the piano, folk danced, and best of all, laughed loudly and often.  He loved participating in as well as appreciating art.  He and Zanna faithfully sat through many of my poetry readings.  One night when I was visiting, he began composing poetry.  By morning he had four poems to show me, and he said he could feel more in his mind.  He loved ballet, and in his fifties took lessons from the Cleveland Ballet.  I can't think of many other tall middle-aged men who would willingly squeeze themselves into ballet slippers and tights and try to learn how to plie.  He also loved photography and had some amazing photographs--I especially love his photographs of birds.  He loved to watch the blue herons from his dining room window.   Somehow he reminded me of a heron, tall and regal, his feet in the mud, his head high above the water--as if he were thinking about things, seeing more than I ever see.

Amy Lowell, "A Decade"

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like the morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all, for I know your savor;
But I am completely nourished.

Sonnet 96

Caryl Pagel

Caryl Pagel came to Macs to read at the October workshop, and she was phenomenal!  She read from her book, TWICE TOLD, and she had us all riveted.  Now I keep thinking of writing poems in the manner of Caryl Pagel.  The prompt for the November workshop at Mac's is to do just that.

(Apologies to Caryl.  This drawing does not do her justice.)

My Next Book

I am almost finished with the galleys of my next book, WHY GOD IS A WOMAN, which should be out from BOA early next year.   I feel slightly paralyzed, afraid to celebrate  the book yet, afraid to move on to the next one.
I feel like I'm in Maine, sitting on my favorite rock, thinking about whether or not I want to get into that cold water again.

Yeats Comic

Sonnet 44

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought, 
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. 
No matter then although my foot did stand 
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee; 
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land 
As soon as think the place where he would be. 
But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought, 
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, 
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leisure with my moan, 
   Receiving nought by elements so slow
   But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

A Terrific Interview with Cecily McMillan by Nika

http://www.guernicamag.com/daily/cecily-mcmillan-playing-with-fire/

The Little Engine That Could

Et tu, Brad?

Emily Dickinson Comic, The Riddle we can guess (1222)

The Riddle we can guess 
We speedily despise - 
Not anything is stale so long 
As Yesterday's surprise -

Meet the Press Interview with Reb Livingston

http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2014/06/meet-the-press-nin-andrews-reb-livingston-no-tell-books.html

Emily Dickinson Comic: My life closed twice before its close, 1732

My life closed twice before its close --
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson Comic-1554

Go tell it" -- What a Message --
To whom -- is specified --
Not murmur -- not endearment --
But simply -- we -- obeyed --
Obeyed -- a Lure -- a Longing?
Oh Nature -- none of this --
To Law -- said sweet Thermopylae
I give my dying Kiss --

After William Blake

The Divine Image

by William Blake

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love


All pray in their distress;


And to these virtues of delight


Return their thankfulness.



For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love


Is God, our father dear,


And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love


Is Man, his child and care.



For Mercy has a human heart,


Pity a human face,


And Love, the human form divine,


And Peace, the human dress.



Then every man, of every clime,


That prays in his distress,


Prays to the human form divine,


Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.


And all must love the human form,


In heathen, Turk, or Jew;


Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell


There God is dwelling too.

How Could I pick?

There’s Mary, Patty, Reese, and Laura,
All pretty in their dresses.
And to their virtues of delight
I give my thankfulness.

For Mary, Patty, Reese and Laura
Are all my goddesses.
For Mary, Patty, Reese and Laura
Make of me a Man, a child, a cad . . .

For Mary has the kindest heart,
Pat, the prettiest face,
And Laura, my Love, has a form divine,
And Reese—the prettiest ass . . .

Mona Lisa Comic

Emily Dickinson Comic

This one is silly, I know.  But I have often thought of Emily Dickinson as some kind of other-worldy being. My sister gave me this amazing and beautiful book of her writings--as they were written, on envelopes in illegible, magical script--which has me more convinced of her peculiar genius.

Anthem Journal!

http://anthemjournal.tumblr.com

Emily Dickinson Comic (1222)

The Riddle we can guess
We speedily despise--
Not anything is stale so long
As Yesterday's surprise---

Emily Dickinson Comic

Fame is a bee

Fame is a bee.
It has a song--
It has a sting--
Ah, too, it has a wing.

May Queen

The Pig by Anonymous It was the first of May A lovely warm spring day I was strolling down the street in drunken pride, But my knees were all a-flutter, And I landed in the gutter And a pig came up and lay down by my side. Yes, I lay there in the gutter Thinking thoughts I could not utter When a lady passing by did softly say 'You can tell a man who boozes By the company he chooses' — And the pig got up and slowly walked away. "The Pig" by Anonymous. Public domain. from Writers Almanac. On this day, when I was young, girls danced around the maypole at school.  One year, my high school-aged sister was crowned the May Queen.  I, 6 years younger, was so jealous.  Some day, I thought, I will go to St. Ann's and be the queen of May, too.

See Jane Run

         I go to the hotel gym--a stuffy room that smells of moldy socks and Pine Sol--and this father comes in with his daughter--he's wearing a gray sweat suit and giant white tennis shoes, and his daughter is tiny, maybe twelve, all bones, with long braids and a yellow Nike outfit--yellow down to the shoes. The father guides her over to the treadmill and programs the machine for her.  "You'll be running three miles at six minute pace, okay Jane?" Obediently the girl gets on the machine and starts to run--bang, bang, bang.  I swear she sounds like an elephant.  Then she starts adjusting the machine.  "Don't slow it down!" the father shouts.  The girl continues without looking at him: bang, bang, bang. "Jane! Did you slow the treadmill down?"  Bang, bang, bang, bang.  The noise is deafening.  This goes on for a while: the father shouting, the girl banging.  Suddenly the girl stops and turns off the machine.  "You aren't finished?" the father asks, placing his hands on his hips.
          "I don't feel good," the girls says, looking down at her yellow shoes.
          "Okay," the father sighs, shaking his head with disgust. After she leaves, he turns to me.  "My girl has real talent.  Did you see her run?"
            "I heard her," I say. "And you." He laughs.
            "All I need is a motivator.  Any suggestions?"
             "I don't know . . .  a whistle?"

Space Weather

I'm at a coffee shop in Arlington, Virginia, listening to a group of scientists in dark suits argue about the risky nature of space weather events.  How do we convince them that our research is worth funding?  one of the men asks.

We could tell them how solar storms and sunspot activity could shut down Wall Street, cause wide-spread power outages and cost the government trillions, a woman answers with a slight laugh.  She seems delighted by the prospect.  But until that happens, she adds,  they won't hear us.  Kind of like that asteroid in Russia--no one believed it would happen until it did. 

I like the Wall Street shutdown, a man agrees with her.  They both laugh and briefly remark on their colleagues on Wall Street.  The prospect of an asteroid or weather event taking them out doesn't sound too bad.

Another man describes the risks to satellites, solar panels, GPS, the military, space stations and more.  They all seem eager to find the right language to warn the government about the potential problems ahead.

As they rise to leave, a woman seated nearby comments, At least it's not like climate change.  They don't have Exxon or the Koch boys funding anyone who would try to discredit their research. 

Easter

It's Easter morning in Virginia, and the sun is shining and the sky is that aqua blue, so perfect you feel like it's singing to you, and out on the streets folks are all gussied up for church.  Except us, that is--we're dressed in our usual jeans and sweats, ready to drive out the woods and the beautiful blue hills around the town-- our idea of church . . .  But even on the main roads I keep staring at the people walking by,  all gussied-up in suits and dresses.  One woman teeters along the road in white high heels, looking as if she can barely walk. She is wearing a purple dress and a purple hat with something like a wimple around her neck--and holding onto it as best she can while the wind whips away at it.  The scene brings back memories of all those itchy Easter dresses we used to wear-- with puffy sleeves and crinoline along with those hats with colored ribbons and white gloves with  pearls (not that they ever stayed white for long).  And the church women, like powdered Easter eggs, who stood on the front steps of the church, gabbing and gushing and happy Eastering.  And my father who would push us past them and hurry us up to the church balcony so we could witness what he called "all the falderal." Once the service began, he'd belt out a few hymns, say a few prayers, and then hurry us downstairs and out into the sun before "all the bellyaching about God begins."

At the Y

Every day, week after week, the same swimmers swim.  First there's the born-again who looks like Golem, who tries to tell everyone about his latest Jesus sighting before they dive in.  Then there's Noodle Lady. Noodle Lady swims backwards up and down the lanes while holding a noodle and wearing a white hat.  And there's Snorkel Man--he swims in an entire diving get-up.  It takes him as long to put on his gear as it does to swim. He paddles slowly up and down the lanes staring at the bottom of the pool, occasionally pointing out Band-Aids and hair clips to the life guards. And then there's always Nick who can't share his lane. He must be at least fifty, but he still doesn't know how to share.  Anyone tries, he lets them know. Everyone else squeezes into their lanes while Nick happily swims in a lane all to himself for two hours or more ---that is, unless the elderly deaf lady comes in her flowered suit.  She doesn't know what Nick says to her or why he gets out of the water and glares while she floats in slow circles, looking like the happiest swimmer in the pool.  Of course everyone gets out if there's a code brown . . .

Snow

It's snowing here today so I had to post this photo from a few days ago to make myself feel better.  The spring is so late, the buds are just coming out on some of the trees, as you can see, but most of the trees aren't even leafing out yet.

Dover Beach Parodies

The Dover Bitch by Anthony Hecht

A Criticism of Life: for Andrews Wanning

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is, 
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is, 
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16424#sthash.516eRdzr.dpuf

Dover Beach

by Tom Clark

The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the Straits;--on the French
Toast, the light
Syrup gleams but a moment,
and is gone . . .

(Read the rest here)

Dover Beach

by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Dickinson Comic: My Wife once stood--a Loaded Gun

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun (764)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

In Corners - till a Day

The Owner passed - identified -

And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -

And now We hunt the Doe -

And every time I speak for Him

The Mountains straight reply -

(Okay, so this is one of the dumbest yet.  Forgive me!) 

At the Y

I'm walking on a treadmill again under a bank of TV screens, observing how each TV is showing reruns of a recent nightmare. On one screen there is the Pistorius trial, and on another, the Fort Hood shootings. On the local channel, first there are the local killings.  Then there is a film of Youngstown police officers being trained to gun down criminals at the Eastwood Mall. What is this?  a man walking next to me asks.  An NRA wet dream?  

Frost Comic

Rochelle Hurt

Rochelle Hurt read at YSU on Thursday night.  She's a new young star, and she's from Poland, Ohio! Her poems reminded me a little of Claire Bateman and Kathi McGookey--a kind of surreal and deeply imaginative work that sits right at that line between poetry and fiction.

The Author Photo

Submission Guidelines

Submission Guidelines for the Open Press Poetry Prize

 The Open Poetry Prize is open to all poets who can comply with the following guidelines.

1. The Open Poetry Prize is open to all poets who are in possession of a manuscript, a name, an email address, a phone number, and a check for thirty dollars. Please be sure you meet these requirements before submitting to our contest.

2. Open will consider all manuscripts that are in a single font, are single-spaced, and that contain no more than seventy pages.  All manuscripts must be received by April 15. 

3. Open will not make exceptions or accept excuses from your mother, your professor, or God.

4. Open will consider all manuscripts that mention in their cover letter how much they love Open Press and its poets.  

5. Open will consider all manuscripts that mention in their cover letter which Open Press books they have read, why they love them, which they plan to review, and why they want to become one of them.

6. Open will consider all manuscripts that mention in their cover letters how many readings they can secure for other Open authors and how many friends they have on Facebook, Twitter, and other social media outlets.

7. Open will consider all manuscripts with open eyes and minds.  If you wish that they be closed, please choose another publisher.

8.  Open will consider all manuscripts including manuscripts written by themselves, their professors, their students, and their relatives.

9. Open will not consider any manuscript that is lost.

10. Open will not consider any epics, manifestos, or epic manifestos.

11. Open will not read multiple manuscripts by the same author. Nor will we read the same manuscript with a multiple titles and multiple arrangements of its poems.

12. Open will not respond to bribery, blackmail or suicide threats.  If you are a criminal or have suicidal impulses, please do not submit a manuscript to Open.

13. Open does not wish to know which famous poets you know, have studied with and/or have slept with.  Please do not inform us of these details.

14. Open does not want to go out to dinner with you right now.

15. Open does not care what you are wearing.  Please do not include photos with your entry.

16. Open will not comment on rejected manuscripts and owes you no explanation for its editorial decisions.  

Also please do not do any of the following: 

17. Please do not use Elmer’s glue to stick the pages of your manuscript together.

18. Please do not include glitter or stickers in your envelope.

19. Please do not enter the contest if you don’t want to publish your manuscript,  or if you think you might be sued for libel if the manuscript is published.

20. Please do not enter the contest if you would rather have another press publish your manuscript.

21. Please do not enter the contest if you expect Open to wait all summer for you hear from a preferred publisher.

22. Please do not enter the contest if you plan to continue shopping the manuscript around after it has been accepted, and then to make up an elaborate excuse, should another publisher snatch it up.

23. Please do not enter the contest if you are not an honest person. 

24. Please do not enter the contest if you are psychotic, vindictive, or harbor ill will towards fellow poets.

25. Please do not enter this contest if you think you are the only real poet living today.

26. Please do not enter the contest if you have never read a book of poems. 

27. Please do not enter the contest if you think you are the next Rod McKuen or Mary Oliver.

28. Please do not enter this contest if you post glamorous photographs of yourself every day on Facebook.

29. Please do not enter the contest if you do not brush your teeth. And floss.

30. Please do not enter the contest post mortem.

Thank you for your interest in the Open Poetry Prize.

If we select your manuscript, we will allow revisions, but please do not send us an entirely new book and call it a revision.

We pledge to choose at least one manuscript to publish.  We hope your manuscript is the one we choose.  While we do not care if we know you or do not know you, we do hope you are not a bot.

(Many thanks to David and Stacey for publishing this on BAP: http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2014/03/submission-guidelines-for-open-press-poetry-prize.html)