Girls and Women (and Underground Cafés and Sales Figures)

This last Thursday, I had the pleasure of both implicitly hosting and taking part in an open mic night at the University of Washington! That is, the event was put on by the Bricolage Literary Arts Journal (of which I am Treasurer), though there was some carry-over in attendance from the first general meeting for Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society (also Treasurer of that) an hour prior. The event was hosted in the subterranean Parnassus Café of the Art building, a dimly lit but warmly inviting place for poets and musicians of all stripes.

The turnout? Excellent! Granted, the room has a capacity cap of about seventy, but anybody in the Seattle area who’s interested can also check out further open mics sponsored by Manic Mouth Congress every other Thursday, 7-9pm, starting January 24.

The evening’s material was full of superbly-written, well-delivered pieces, running the gamut from a spoken-word feminist declaration to an acoustic song about a Yeti. When it was my shot at the spotlight, I cleared my throat, rose the microphone stand considerably, and read a pair of poems: Christmastime, from Love&Darkness: Vol. I, and the following poem, one based on couplets that I recently wrote for my current poetry class (English 483 with Linda Bierds, which is going excellently so far):

Girls and Women

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On a slightly related note, I would like to personally thank electronic musician, fellow blogger, and guy from Michigan Truttle for laying down his digital dollar for the first official online purchase of Love&Darkness: Vol. I! If you’re on your way to PayPal checkout for your own copy, don’t forget to stop by his Bandcamp page to pick up some sweet ambient tunes.

From the Sub-Subfolders: And Yet So Far

Alright, folks! This time we have another poem from that ubiquitous Centralia College CW course (PDF’d and revised for poetic grammar, of course), for which the prompt was to write about some manner of mythology or legend. Perhaps feeling a bit of empathy with the guy at the time, I chose Tantalus.

And Yet So Far

Touch and Go

Sometimes I write things in the margins of my class notes. Usually, it’s just random bits of potential story dialogue or abstract geometric doodles, but every once in a while a short poem pops out.

Touch and Go

It’s National Poetry Day (+Exuberance is Beauty)

Well, shoot, I didn’t even know! That is, until Neil Gaiman tweeted about it… did you? Well, in any case, it’s a bit late for the “day” part, but seeing as starting into another poetry course at the UW has got the poems, poem concepts, and poetic snippets flowing like never before, this event couldn’t have sprung upon me at a better time. Thus, please find attached the most recent fruit of my labor, the title of which–per a class prompt–is lifted from the bizarrely beautiful “Proverbs of Hell” by William Blake.

Exuberance is Beauty

It’s No Use…

Go Knock on the door of a locked house
And denial is all you will find
There’s a chain on the latch, and it’s rusty
Though the age, you yet cannot divine

Now Perhaps there’s a window that’s opened
And through which you may clamber within
But the blinds are all drawn and the shades shut
Though you swear you can hear a faint din

And Maybe there’s a key that is hidden
In a rock made of plaster and paint
But the garden is overgrown greatly
With flowers of sinners and saints

Save The times that you’ve spent in your searching—
Leave them promptly, as well as the stair
For you’ll pry and you’ll beat and you’ll plead, “please”
All in vain, when there’s not a soul cares

Love The tiles, the roof, and the mortar
But admire them all far, alone
Oh, there’s nothing more cruel to a heart than
To just knock at a dead-lockéd home.

Warning

Her hair cascades in waves that shine like fine obsidian

Her eyes, the green and cooling sheen of winter wearing thin

Her figure, well-defined; her mind, it seems does little much

I can control, for on her soul, a sign reads, “Look, Don’t Touch”

 

Her skin so pale, as if it hails from polished alabaster

Her voice, resolved, it leaves absolved the pains I cannot master

Her spirit, dark, perhaps a lark, or maybe just a crutch

For inner woes—Why? No-one knows. The sign reads, “Look, Don’t Touch”

 

Her artistry, soon history, still leaves my passions racing

In photographs, she rarely laughs, yet by them, I go pacing

 The warning’s there, it’s hardly fair, and I have thought, as such

That rules be damned, I’ll take her hand, and Look inside her Touch.

A Poem = Published

My submitted poem, “The Dreamers Said”, won a spot in the Creative Communication compendium “A Celebration of Poets”!