My latest offering over at Weekly Hubris shows how you can dispose of work written by pestiferous, pretentious pseudo-artistic poseurs by employing Monsieur Fleurs du Mal as a hit man. While you’re on the premises, check out what the other columnists have to offer!
new old kid on the blog, with an occasional old or new poem written off the old writer's block
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
You Can Lead a Horse to Water. . . .
In my wildest dreams, Pegasus has me
Riding high in the saddle—
(Never a care)
*
When I wake from my nightmare,
I find myself bronco busted—
(Flailing the air)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Huuklyeand Cinquor Telling Us in Fifteen Words or Less Why Poetry is Still Alive
Poetry hasn’t died yet because
Everyone who's anyone's still wondering why
It’s alive.
Moderator’s comments: If this is poetry, no wonder everyone’s wondering.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Crepuscle
Inviolate
In the underbrush, a bed
Of crimson mushrooms;
In the clearing, a quilt
Of blue anemones;
Tucked away in the study,
A burnished copper
Penny for your thoughts.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Chthonian
No more walls,
No more fight,
No more shadow
Boxing against light,
How deft we were all
At darting left and right.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Frozen Stiff—I Kid You Not!
This has to be far and away my favorite photograph of the “kids” back when they were really kids—somewhere round the summer of ’89 or ’90—checking out the temperature of the water in the Lousios River in Arcadia just a few steps away from the ruins of Ancient Gortys and a stone’s throw away from the monastery of St. John the Forerunner (Prodromou). Judging from the looks on their faces, I think they were expecting much warmer water than the ice pack that greeted them! They should have consulted that seasoned traveler par excellence, Pausanias, who said its waters were “the coldest in the world.”
All of which reminds me of a poem I once wrote about some other kind of kids here.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Huuklyeand Cinquor on MacLeish's Ars Poetica aka The Conundrum Continuum
Yes, yes, I know
We’ve all been told ad infinitum
That a poem should be, not show—
But the last time I sat down
To write one was a minute ago—
So tell me, know-it-all,
Where’d it go?
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