A Month of Poetry

2008-03-03T14:42:00.003-05:00

So that's it!

2008-03-01T11:55:00.002-05:00

Congratulations to those who finished! I am not joining you in the winner's circle this year, sadly. Too many other desires and demands conspired to prevent my poetry. I have, however, completed a 24th poem this morning dedicated to my falling short, "failed."

Please submit your 29 poems to me for verification by link or by email (annakissmm at gmail dot com), and I will send you your winner's badge and printable certificate. Which means, I suppose, that I should run off and create those.

So glad, myself, that February is finally over. Cheers!

failed

2008-03-01T11:51:00.002-05:00

no matter the pressure applied,
nor the incentive entailed,
the wings do not open
the sail does not spread
and i am plunged
in free-fall,
sunk to my neck,
embedded deeply
in the cracked, barren earth
that having lacked,
perpetually after thirsts.

13 hours left

2008-02-29T10:59:00.000-05:00

The countdown has begun. We have 13 hours left to finish all our poems. The clock is ticking! Good luck everyone!!! Patty from slowlearning.org emailed me last night to say that she hadn't written a single poem and wondered if there was still time. I said sure. I hope she churned out a dozen or more in the wee hours of the morning!

I have six poems to write today and we're going to the zoo and the bank, so we'll see how well that all works out!

3 new poems

2008-02-27T22:19:00.002-05:00

Jeannie's Horses

I ride jeannie's horses and pretend they are mine
like I have pretended things
my whole life long

pretended to not care when
the old, large, ethnic lady at the corner store
said things about a backwards young girl
too shy to speak
and i heard her words
not really understanding
but, somehow, knowing

pretended to be part of a crowd of girls
I couldn't even recognize
outside of their
Catholic school girl uniforms
and stuffed bras,
smoking cigarettes on a playground

pretended to want men that I barely knew
just for the reward of, just maybe,
possibly, being held
for just a little while
those fleeting moments
of pretend caring,
after the sex was done.

Insomnia

I fight them
the demons in my head
come out to play
as what is night
peaks
at its middle.
they ride a coaster
in my head,
sometimes, trains
or fast cars,
jets leaving a trail
across my sky.

eventually,
I am left without a choice
but to stumble down stairs
I fight the bit
for as long as possible
till the inevitable

,
the pacing begins.
I am working on two
different tracks
wearing the tiles,
paths through the
oriental rugs.

I am convinced
of my wickedness
my weariness
my pressing state
of insanity.
there is no wiping this
slate clean
no return
to a less-complex
Self
a less-troubled
Being
a child,
worn tired from homework and play
eager to dream.

the ritual
of bedtime
the sameness of it
now i lay me,
guardian angel,
watch over me,
Hail Mary,
full of grace,
our father who art in heaven,
stay with me always

till my prayers are
the mumblings of a mad woman
delirious,
heart racing,
peaking,
exhausted,
finally,
inevitably,
the window
the silence
sleep.

Sometimes She Spins

sometimes she curls
up in a ball
knees to breast
arms wrapping knees
head bent, neck rounded
rolls herself up and around
in the spacious king bed
in bedclothes of satin and silk

sometimes she becomes
a dervish and spins around the room
sometimes she is a top
hers colors spinning so fast
onlya blur and the music of it, she
dances around the finite space
dizzying herself with her own kaleidoscope,
falling, clumsy, to the floor on boney knees

sometimes he says
I need, I need, I need, I need
and she turns up
the humming in her head
finds a closet
closes the door
opens her silent mouth to speak
then
watches how it mimes a scream

sometimes she wakes up
in the daylight
without memory
without apprehension
without fear
and begins again
and again and again.

karensaint

Day 23 anna kiss

2008-02-23T16:33:00.000-05:00

sweating bullets

anxiety comes in waves
the twitched and upturned palm
the frenzied rush through rooms
heartbeat all a'quiver
darting eyes and too lax limbs
the cornea cascading over everything
flooding
the brain a disaster
for anything but unease
there lurks no quietude or unsensed calm
just frozen flames
licking neural pathways
clogged with thought
and all becomes but
a head turned over shoulders,
searching for an answer
not knowing the question.

new poem

2008-02-22T23:51:00.002-05:00

Friday Night

she'd been waiting all week for just this night
this particular night
the chances she'd take,
the chance to wear something other
than her "mom uniform"

waiting to feel him, this man she called
"husband", nearer to herself
maybe with his hand on her knee
maybe with his eyes following the
length of her legs as she stepped
out of the car

into this night
with it's skyful of stars
and meteors and planets
and things so far away, they were
strangers

now she was choosing a lipstick
trying on her entire wardrobe
costuming herself for this one night
once, twice and then choosing shoes,
tucking her house in for the night
stepping out
and, only for a moment, remembering,

Day 22 anna kiss

2008-02-22T14:41:00.000-05:00

the violence of history

i measure my life by my traumas,
by the lines wrought on my face
by sudden tragedy
unfathomable
and everlasting
it is the story that tells me
and in many ways
forgets the telling
of in-between stuff
the filling of contentment
accounting for happiness
the dramatic bliss
of everyday
is not enough to stir me
it is always the struggle
and the intermittent
negotiations of imminent survival.

Day 21 anna kiss

2008-02-21T11:19:00.000-05:00

don't despair, organize

my notebooks lay splayed on the table,
baring lists of words in no particular order,
and dates numbered and forgotten.
as much as i long
to check things off
and write out every endeavor,
i have not set down
so much as a syllable
in days.
i have been having to forgive myself
my slow return to normalcy
from a suspended state
wherein it was necessary,
for a time,
to not do.

now the blank eyes
of my daily planner
stare at me
longing for the stroke of my hand
lifting the page,
for the saturation of ink
that spells the future
like a destiny
rather than a dream.

New Poem

2008-02-20T23:22:00.002-05:00

Three Things Happened

first, the black cat slept all day
the fisherman's wife took it as an omen
feeling the swell of life in her belly
the roundness, the hardness, though
there could be nothing there and
she, after all, liked to pretend

afternoon came and she paced
the length of the great hall, dizzying
herself then bursting out into
the snow and the raw bite of it,
with naked hands, naked feet
stretching out the length of her body
ear to the ground, holding her breath to
hear the first heartbeats of living things in earth
waiting for their time

miles away, a woman swept a courtyard clean
covered a fine table with lace,
fluffed pillows in a haunted room
above a stone fire place,
stirred a flavorful soup, set a table for two
and the vases of flowers were so plentiful
she nearly stumbled with the weight of them

some time later
the black cat moved onto another life
the living things pushed up and out of the earth
danced in the sun then laid themselves
down, one by one,
beneath the massive shade tree
the fisherman's wife took it as an omen
as the loenly so often do.

karensaint

Day 20 anna kiss

2008-02-20T11:17:00.000-05:00

dammed mind

i am so very far behind
i have not yet found
that sweet spot
from which words flow
like so much water.
i cannot seem to settle
down into the parts of my brain
that clear and focus,
block out all sounds,
and form thoughts in brief,
alliterate words,
succinct and properly patterned.
i cannot seem to write.
and every day that
i do not do,
i wish to even less.

Day 19 anna kiss

2008-02-19T11:12:00.000-05:00

the agony of weather

the snow melts
weeping rivers
whose serpentine gutterflow
is determined by gum wrappers
and piles of exhaust-soaked slush.

the sun sets,
dropped degrees,
the waste water of so many tears
freezing over.
the sky clouds,
dropping new flakes
and starts to work
rebuilding the glacial shapes
of each city sidewalk.

it is a repetitive process,
this winter.
over and over again
the air warms
then freezes
we nearly lose jackets
then pile them on once more.

in february,
with all this teasing back-and-forth,
the shortest month
quickly stacks against us
to seem, in fact,
the longest.

New Poems - February 17 and 18

2008-02-19T08:22:00.002-05:00

Someone is Always Dying

And still we are surprised
the cryptic message
left on a voicemail
or an answering machine

"call as soon as you can, call before
you do another thing..."
the knowingness
as what is cryptic to the caller
becomes crystal clear
to the receiver
quietly, listening, knowing

now the vacant space
the newly widowed
with her strong face
her folding and unfolding
of her helpless hands

all the days spent beside her
his gradual leaving
each day, saying a good-bye
in each labored breath

and still, the surprise and the question
of how to fill the space
to close off the rush of empty air
whirling about her, blowing up her skirts

we, the living, sit and contemplate
utter our personal philosophies
spew forth our beliefs or lack of
so wanting to be right about
our imaginary versions of the hereafter

he was a child, she was a child
they had moments
perhaps, they tasted tea in the afternoon sun
skinned their knees running down grassy hills
and turned their clothing green
because of it

maybe they had fleeting moments
anticpating what if and when
and pushed them away
like a plate, having consumed too much
at the dinner table

maybe the point of a life
is to learn to resign oneself
to the inevitable end
and then throw that thought into the wind

this moment
he was breathing
this moment
he stopped
this moment
she was breathing
this moment
she stopped

this moment
i am breathing.

Here, Now, Look, Gone

coffee in the red mug, gone cold
upstairs, a toilet flushing
the truck passing the house
the clock and it's tuneful
announcement of the hour
whirring computer fan
cracked fingers on keys
a hot flash, throw off the robe
a rush of cold
the cat crossing the room
against my leg
a list beside, the papers
piled to the sky
someone coming closer
calling my name
trying to think
while the critics scream
escape
the room
the silent whir of common noises
open the door
gone.

karensaint

Day 18 anna kiss

2008-02-18T12:19:00.001-05:00

inadequacy atoned

i must flagellate myself
i must agonize the show,
endure the ending
create the wicked bits of me anew
and exhibit this
the wrought faces,
the scrawled lips,
crooked cat-slit eyes and
askew tombstone teeth.
the punishment is
for naught -
i fail and fail again,
do not brace myself for failing
and must scrape
my melted skin and charred bones
off the floor
in the morning.

Day 17 anna kiss

2008-02-17T12:13:00.000-05:00

being done

the daily endeavor
occupies all
the brain ticks
and itches
full with lists for doing
provokes the motions
of laundering and dusting
scrubbing and scratching
and i try
hard as i might
to sense the poetry
in all this doing,
but the lens self-focused
cannot seem
to extract the words
from me
even in slow motion
on treads tight as tendrils
or sinewy ribbons pulled by inches
from out my mouth and eyes
my fingers sense no vacancy
fit for the literary occupant
they flinch and flail
the monday through friday
transactions
and a life full of traffic
and conversations full of pretext
of unwritten rules
and the under-written
consequences
of this modern life.

Day 16 anna kiss

2008-02-16T21:50:00.000-05:00

fourth movement

the lines of motion
follow hands and arms
in intricate geometric patterns
which form history
the symphonic interplay
of the rubbing
of bristle against grout,
the rush of water,
the stroke of sponge on porcelain,
the shifting of feet softly upon tile,
it is the orchestral accompaniment
of this ballet -
the hand up and down,
side and forth,
back and fro,
thither and so on,
each gentle movement
that rustles fabric
or tilts the head
creates this rising and falling
civilization of domesticity.
everyday.

2008-02-16T00:34:00.002-05:00

Hello all. I must apologize for the last two poems, well the first one was fine, but the second, though I attempted to edit it, came out wrong so i am putting it down again.

A Long Season

where did we leave off?
you ask, distractedly,
like someone does who has drifted
away only to suddenly be called back
as if recognizing the sound of
their own name for
the very first time

the child walks ahead,
skips ahead,
runs ahead,
her feet leaving small prints like
an animal in the snow

all the way to the mailbox
I call to her
she who does not listen
doesn't turn her head,
not even out of respect,
or to silence my calling
she so eager to discover

what might be hiding beneath
the snow.
I told her spring is on the way
but not yet
she only heard
the first couple of words

took them,
held them in her hand
and ran and ran
and ran ahead
beating me to the mailbox
the daily news

maybe hoping the headlines
announced the early arrival
of the new season
or that the mailbox
held some sign of spring,
a renegade nesting of birds
the early crocus braving the cold

when we turned towards the house
just for a moment
I thought I caught sight
og you moving in the window
emerging from the dark place,
you keep yourself in
when the world is too cold
to bear

just as quickly
I see a misguided
ray of light
has hit the window
distorted my view

spring is on the way
but not yet.

ksaint

Poems, February 13th and 14th

2008-02-16T00:01:00.003-05:00

Valentine

one small offering of self
held tight in a white-knuckled fist
the trembling of that same self
eyes, averted, to hide any signs

the tender fledgling heart
as naive and innocent
as a young wet-winged baby bird
open and trusting
waiting to receive

one faint whisper
barely audible
one brief confession
all the bursting heart holds

one moment,
gone.

come morning,
the blood-red rose
scattered petals
in the street.

A Long Season

where did we leave off?
you ask, distractedly,
like someone does who has drifted
away only to suddenly be called back
as if recognizing the sound
of their own name
for the very first time

the child walks ahead,
skips ahead,
runs ahead,
her feet leaving small prints like
an animal in the snow

all the way to the mailbox,
I call to her
she who does not listen,
doesn't turn her head,
not even out of respect,
or to silence my calling
she so eager to discover

what might be hiding beneath
the snow.
I told her spring is on the way
but not yet
she only heard
the first couple of words

took them,
held them in her hand
and ran and ran

maybe hoping the headlines
announced the early arrival
of the new season
or that the mailbox
held some sign of spring,
a renegade nesting of birds
an early crocus, braving the cold

when we turned back
towards the house,
just for a momnet,
I thought I caught sight
of you moving in the shadow,
emerging from the dark space
you keep yourself in
when the world is all
too cold for you to bear

just as quickly
I see a misguided
ray of light
has hit the window
distorted my view

spring is on the way
but not yet.
and ran ahead
beating me to the mailbox,
the daily news

maybe hoping the headlines
announced the early arricval
of the new season
or that the mailbox
held some sign of spring,
a renegade nesting of birds,
an early crocus braving the cold

when we turn towards the house
just for a moment
I thought I caught sight
of you moving in the window
emerging from the dark place
you keep yourself in
when the world is too cold
for you to bear

just as quickly,
a misguided ray of light
has hit the window
distorted my view

spring is on the way
but not yet.

karensaint

Day 15 anna kiss

2008-02-15T21:47:00.001-05:00

month of poetry

everything is coming out all hideous -
gap-toothed smiles
and shrieking laughter
my quivering throat
in the face of expectation
draws vacant breaths.
and listless limbs
the subtle flinch
the chin points down
leading the face over the shoulder
such embarrassment.
this exercise
does not achieve
the desired outcome
the fear, the self-obsession,
the inner though
pulled out,
brought forth into
blinding birthing light -
the sub-consciousness exorcised
and slain for show.

Day 14 anna kiss

2008-02-14T20:50:00.000-05:00

the pregnant pause

every dream
grows red with
meaty blood,
full up in
miscarried globules
and heart-shaped placenta

the belly ballooned
steadily by degrees
up and up
fingers feel into flesh
the firm, rounded edge
which writes the shapes of
knees and backs and rounded crown

the babe blossoms
in my brain,
slowly unfurled
from tadpole
to floppy limbs
and too-flexible joints.

so it is a strange revelation -
this empty womb,
its depths feel too hollow
and too small
it is vacant
and lacking in space
for any sort of fullness.
nothing here.

and yet i rub
the skin below
the navel,
searching out the origin,
finding no one home but me.

Day 13 anna kiss

2008-02-14T00:35:00.002-05:00

void

the smallish moment
halved and pruned
to nearly nothing
in a space for being
so minuscule
as to be obsolete,
no room for a squeak
the head of a pin
wedged in this crevice of time
cannot fraction even a sliver

so to you i exhale
all hope
from out my crushed interior
as it languishes and evaporates
into the emptiness
between the emptiness
where the fullness of love cannot permeate
where the starness does not shine
where the heavens expire
and the dust of dreams
can neither surge nor settle

it is here, in nothing,
where i will await the dance
on rims of black holes,
looking outward
as time shifts
the subliminal backwards drawl
illuminating for noneyes
the history of the universe:
columns of nebulaic planetary rubble
galaxies of triumphant moons
and witness as the sun swallows
my precious earth.

Day 12 anna kiss

2008-02-14T00:28:00.002-05:00

the heart wants and wants
and in wanting
forgets,
forges patterns,
grooves,
in the daily existence,
and follows them
again and again.
eventually,
self-awareness occurs
and the question
becomes
why?
why did this happen?
what was all this wanting for?
the head shakes,
the jaw slackened,
i do not know.
and do not know.

Poem, February 12th

2008-02-13T23:11:00.003-05:00

The Eggshell Walker

She says it's not unlike
walking in snow
jeweled with a thin layer
of ice like fragile Murano glass
the sound of it, breaking,
amd the impossibility
of avoidance

She knows to anticipate the shells
waking and turning to him
waiting for a sign,
and sometimes, he is gone already
into the deepset part, the night

pacing the halls below
or holed up in
the space of his office
staring at a computer screen

for her, it is a game of chance
entering the room
choosing whether to open her mouth
or not

she says she has
gotten good at it
hardly scrapes her feet anymore
on the sharp edged words

When she was just a rebellious teen-age
girl, hitch-hiking with out
considering the danger of it,
she spent a summer barefoot

tougheing her thin, boney feet
on whatever lay atop
the hot pavement,
the sticks and stones

and jagged pieces of colored
glass in parkin g lots

uncanny, nver knwoing, the timing of the lesson and what would follow.

karensaint

three more from natasha

2008-02-13T08:45:00.002-05:00

anxiety

sometimes a small
toothsome gnawing
creature, sometimes
roaring, always a
steel rod for my back,
a papershredder for my
fingers, a meal of my
lips and cheeks (a
delicacy, dear), a pack
of cigarettes, a pot
of coffee, sleeplessness,
weight on my chest,
on my head.

--
poverty, vulgarity

there's cabbage in the floor, again
never was a real domesticated lady.
i tend not to notice the bits of filth
they hide from my restless eyes
as if trying to cause trouble.
the laundry aint folded, clean's in the basket
but the dirty's in the floor and i ain't got
a whole load just yet
the rugs ain't vaccuumed, cobwebs just
a'hangin, tiny dust-ropes in the corners.
my clothes are all stained torn and
too small - i had a kid since i got 'em.
things just ain't as easy as they
used to be, money's dryin up just like
them dishes i washed - every night.

--

factory reopening

i could not oil the machine
before i set it running
now i pour it in to no avail
its not quite siezed up yet
and the noise is terrific
but somehow i fear
its not gonna last.
a few days in production
is all i can hope for
i can't run it full tilt
as if it were new
the demand for the product
is not what it once was
we sit on the shelves
in the nostalgia section
it just doesn't move like it used to
Before.

Day 11 anna kiss

2008-02-12T12:49:00.000-05:00

ground zero

the couch exploded
cross the living room
lies mangled,
the cushions strewn
by soft galloping bodies
tumbled from the arms
to the seat,
tossed about between
the back and its pillows
then the foam and cotton
brick for sitting
unzipped slowly
by fat two-year-old fingers
bursting out the entrails
from its cesarean wound
the belly bared.
they bore a hole
in the fabric lining the springs,
straight through
the muslin
covering the base
drop bits of
dirt, food,
matchbox cars
within
at times including
musical instruments
and rubber snakes,
five incarnations of
anakin skywalker
shining in plastic
with missing bits:
hands and helmets,
chewbacca's arm.
this all pools toward
the center,
snagging
in the fibrous
intestines of the sofa,
dangling haphazardly
amidst the wire frame,
its coils
suspending vader
and the others
like webbed flies awaiting eating.