AWP Talk: Endangered Music: Formal Poetry in the 21st Century

IMG_1400.MOV www.dropbox.com Shared with Dropbox

The F Word

Proud to be included in Sarah Waddell's documentary on contemporary feminism, The F Word. Fact: If female entrepreneurs were funded at the same level men are, 6,000,000 jobs would be created.

Bloom

I. Je suis une femme de lettres et je gagne ma vie.
─Colette

All ways a feather: bed your bugs as they bud
Welling roses these sweltering days
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Blooming by Bloomsday, busting out by June
Busting on Broadway, busting the busts…
Hey, this is…my bra!
(Like swallowing feathers, you know,
dirty feathers.)
And this is December and over there, Christmas
We call April Easter cause she makes them march.

Welling roses in Wellington Rolls
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Rolls with butter, rolls with jam
Roll her over, let’s go hot damn
Sweltering days as rose roaches bloom
Swilling slaves in rose roaches’ room

Bloom, concrete blossoms!
Bloom, Broadway bottoms!
Bloom! Picks his nose
Bloom! As he grows. . . .

Bed your bugs as they bud, as they breed─what a breed!
Ill-bred, no bread
Dirty cunt’s puking
Just giving me head. . . .

All ways are fettered
Fellated and fucked
For ever and all
But mostly for us

II. Foret sans oiseaux

All ways are feathered.
For rest a bed,
For the rest, a bed . . . .
Hey, this is. . . .I know; I’ve had them for years.
I’ve had it. Have you? Been had?
Have you a forest? Have you a bed?
Have you a haven?
(Forests of feathers: naked birds shrieking
Bony birds swooping
Burning birds screaming
Descending like hell)
Blooming rose roaches all buds destroyed
Bony birds bleeding, beating, breaking, bled. . .
For rest, a bed, for rest. . .
Fine-feathered slaughter by books, near pillows
Rose roaches breed,
Bleed swiftly and die.

III. On commence par ệtre dupe, on finit par ệtre fripon.
─George Sand

Always the feathers: hi, I’m Molly Bloom;
Blow by my bathroom . . . .
By the window a frozen bird, frozen for weeks,
A weak bird, a dead duck, a gone goose,
A pigeon petered out. . . .

But I’m Molly Bloom, you’ve had me, you know:
Birds are just chirping snakes.
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a mammal,
I have mammaries, see: This is a bust!
I don’t touch dead birds.

This is December, and over there’s Christmas
And Easter will rise to any occasion
For ever and all
For Peter and Paul. . . .
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a pagan, you fuck!
Amen
(A man? Where?)

A feather bed for me, a haven for rest,
Pillows for the head, and books for the rest
I need the rest: this is short, where’s the rest?


All ways are fetid
Fellated and fucked
No bird’s no damn good
Until it’s been plucked.
A man? Amen. This is Easter.
Rest that piece.

A Sop for Cerberus

He needed me. Alone at the gates of Hell,

He looked at me, his six rheumy eyes

Fixing me imploringly. So I fed him meat

And with a leap, he jumped onto my back:

The animal musk and the weight of him,

The great paws, the salivating jaw,

The hot muzzle and demon-bloody wounds,

Startling. But I found I could carry him,

And brought him home to keep:

The dead do not play; the dead do not speak.

At the Top of My Lungs

1. At the top of my lungs I scream at you all,

Babies, I am your mother!

Love me! Let me in!

Excited by my love, I shriek and bang at your door:

I love you, let me in!

What?

You don’t want to?

Then I will slash my wrists,

And from my wrists will come ants and tired shopkeepers,

All the things you ever imagined or dreamed,

Bits of glass and fear

Will pour from these important veins:

You’ll see how much I love you then.

2. A proposition:

If, every day

I deliberately did things to hurt you,

Would you still love me?

3. Babies, my children,

I sit on your doorstep and scream,

How I love my children,

How I long to love them!

Like a scorpion I would carry you on my back,

My stinger poised, ready to kill;

Oh, how my babies would love me then!

Babies, I would bite off my hands for you,

Like an albatross or a whale, I would swallow you whole

And keep you safe in my stomach;

I love you that much;

Surely that’s worth something.

4. At the top of my lungs I scream at you all,

I am bigger and better than anything you will ever know,

Than anything you will ever be.

Love me.

Love me now.

5. Babies, let’s not argue:

I will always win.

Let me in.