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a little form suzzane wise uses, that i tried and i thought might be fun to share [27 Apr 2004|11:20pm]

ginsberg
When the Forests Have Been Destroyed, Their Darkness Remains

I could say it’s the happiest period of my life.
We who survived the war and took to wife,
I like to think that ours will be more than another story.
I remember the neck curls, limp and damp as tendrils,
one died, and the soul was wrenched out.
Three limbs, three seasons smashed; well, one to go.
I too, sing America.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman:
I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils.
Even this late, it happens,
a new volcano has erupted.
At Woodlawn I heard the dead cry.
By the roots of my hair some god got a hold of me,
he lifted up, among the actuaries,
he stared at ruin, ruin stared straight back.

What a grand time was the war.
We have done what we wanted.
Still,
the hands were yours, the arms were yours,
your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
Death gallops up the bridge of red railtie girders.
Strange to think of you now, without corsets and eyes.
Say: life is the one-way trip, the one-way flight.

Lay down these words:
They’re waiting to be murdered.
One sound, then the hiss and whir.
The dead are cadmium blue.
White-sided flowers are thrusting up on the hillside,
Necklace of flame, little dropped hearts.
That’s the only image.

I am not a painter, I am a poet,
I attended the burial of all my rosy feelings.
Now, can you see the monument? It is of wood.
It’s so dark now.
My great wars close.
The children go forward with their little satchels,
their faces, safe as an interior,
children picking up our bones.
I study the lives on a leaf: the little.
The world is full of mostly invisible things.

Everyday is a wilderness- no,
it occurs to me now,
life my friends, is boring. We must not say so.





Each line is directly from the Index of First Lines in The Harvard Book of Contemporary American Poetry. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1985
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HEEEEEEEELP [02 Dec 2003|11:21pm]

petalpincher
what is the emily dickinson quote about how good poetry is like your head exploding? or a bird exploding? or something exploding or falling off or something....
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[20 Oct 2003|04:39pm]

choose_sadness
Questions: do you write more or less since graduating? Did you have a hard time writing after you graduated? How long did it take you to start writing regularly again after Interlochen?

-C
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so. [30 Jun 2003|02:04pm]

blisster
this is an assignment for anyone who wants to participate. write a ghazal. and post it within the week. i'd like other people to post assignments also. i think i might work better with a deadline.
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[10 Jun 2003|08:12pm]

_aubade
Hey it's Callie

I HAVE AN IDEA

Let's just post our work from now on, no more workshopping? Also, if you know any new writing alums w/ ljs let them know abt the community.

Trying to liven things up a bit. But I'm a lazy ass

xox
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[06 Mar 2003|02:18am]

wintercherry
a new poem of mine... feedback would be really helpful as i don't know where to go from here! thanksCollapse )
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[15 Feb 2003|01:11pm]

wellspring
Hi all. This is just a quick note to say hi. I just realized I was added to the community, so I just added it to my friends list. So, my name is Drew and I graduated with Marnie in 2001. I went to IAA my senior year, and I have bounced around to various colleges thereafter. :o) I am at Oberlin College now as an English and Creative Writing Major. I'll post something shortly, but until then, a big "Hello" to all of you.

Time for lunch at Lorenzo's pizzaria. :o) yum.
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[11 Feb 2003|04:26pm]

wintercherry
Hey hey hey.

Most of you know me. In fact, all of you know me, I think, so I'll spare the introductions. My name's Marnie, hello.

Here's a poem I wrote the other day, it's VERY rough but I'd like some feedback. You can just post whatever comments here, and be honest, I can take the criticism. :)

Our radiator glitters with the sweat of slept-in clothes
too sporadic for pyjamas on a Friday, coffee-soaked
in some kind of apartment, there, you said
I cried in my sleep. The candle, freshly-lit, shaped
like a rasperry, jumps and then slowly reverts to its docile state,
submitting itself to the wick, forgetting
that what's going on outside is nothing but frozen wind,
nothing but a fire gestapo. I clutched a copy of Brecht
and spun into sleep again, dreaming of Grusha
and the admirable qualities of Azdak. The second syllable
of "permanence" stuns me – and I try to be realistic,
try to warm myself in our body bouquet. Slowly,
as if intentional, our pauses float to the floor,
dusting the carpet, filling the ashtray
you left on the nightstand in case of a midnight craving.

Woohoo the first poem in wingnuts! Let's keep them coming, okay?
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