Poem

Self Portrait
(During Transition, Moving South)

In our apartment,
out our two
small windows
we can
only see
where the trash
is taken out to.




June2011

hiatus

Well, there has been quite a hiatus on this blog. The poems aren't coming easily anymore. It's all a bit discouraging, but I guess understandable. There are big transitions going on. I recently left Oberlin to return to New Orleans to work for the next eight months so that I can finish school in London in the Spring. Oberlin is a really special place and so is New Orleans but the incongruity is a bit hard to bear; but it's getting easier. Hopefully I will have something that I am proud of on here soon.
Stay tuned, I suppose.

There's a poem here:

Russian prison tattoos are pretty incredible. Each of the images means something, is some sort of badge of status or fearlessness. I watched a special on t.v. once that went into this prison where, when prisoners died, they would cut off the skin where the most interesting tattoos were, and basically turn them into human leather and made a whole museum out of human Russian prisoner skin.

A lot of prisoners had tattoos on their faces. (In the third picture, the man has barbed wire on his forehead which means he is in prison for life without chance of parole.) But I remember something on that show about how there was a point when Russia decided prisoners could not be kept for life, so there were all of these men released who thought they would never get out, and their faces and bodies were just covered, making them this almost untouchable and surely unemployable group of people.

(click the photos to enlarge)

A poem from Cecily Parks

The Wish for a Field

Were I loved, I would be braver.

On the Coast near Sausalito


1.
I won’t say much for the sea,
except that it was, almost,
the color of sour milk.
The sin on that clear
unmenacing sky was low,
angled off the gray fissure of the cliffs,
hills dark green with manzanita.

Low tide: slimed rocks
mottled brown and thick with kelp
merged with the gray stone
of the breakwater, sliding off
to antediluvian depths.
The old story: here filthy life begins.

2.
Fish-
ing, as Melville said,
“to purge the spleen,”
to put to task my clumsy hands
my hands that bruise by
not touching
pluck the legs from a prawn,
peel the shell off,
and curl the body twice about a hook.

3.
The cabezone is not highly regarded
by fishermen, except Italians
who have the grace
to fry the pale, almost bluish flesh
in olive oil with a sprig
of fresh rosemary.

The cabezone, an ugly atavistic fish,
as old as the coastal shelf
it feeds upon
has fins of duck’s-web thickness,
resembles a prehistoric toad,
and is delicately sweet.

Catching one, the fierce quiver of surprise
and the line’s tension
are a recognition.

4.
But it’s strange to kill
for the sudden feel of life.
The danger is
to moralize
that strangeness.
Holding the spiny monster in my hands
his bulging purple eyes
were eyes and the sun was
almost tangent to the planet
on our uneasy coast.
Creature and creature,
we stared down centuries.


-Robert Hass