Showing posts with label erasure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label erasure. Show all posts
Monday, February 11, 2013
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Scribble the Holy Contour
Scribble everything!
Get drunk with your life, its own visionary tics, the true
story of the world interior – jewel center
of recollection.
Swim in language,
in the holy contour of life
emblazoned in praise
of wild, undisciplined time.
of wild, undisciplined time.
Bits and pieces culled from Jack Kerouac's 30 Writing Tips
Labels:
cento,
Collage Poem,
erasure,
Jack Kerouac,
Kerouac,
Writing Tips
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Erasure of Neruda's Epithalamium
At first I did not see you: I did not know
your presence:
the shouts of the wind in the shadow.
Do you remember
how sleep grew
in you,
how
the wind
echoed
its secret syllable
and all things spoke
of the seed that half opens?
Your name is on the petals
of the rose that grows on the stone,
a scarlet mouth
deciphers your name:
broken window
crazy with light.
Labels:
cento,
Epithalamium,
erasure,
Neruda,
Pablo Neruda,
The Captain's Verses
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Ghost Priest
A sliding haze
in dark-webbed branches
wavering gauze-edged, inhabited
by a voice furred with frost,
a haunt of gilded questions.
love gnaws me
a phantom
grace splits from that pale mist.
*Illustration of erasure*
An erasure of Sylvia Plath's Dialogue Between Ghost and Priest
Labels:
blackout,
erasure,
Sylvia Plath
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Sleep
Out here,
It is dangerous.
mad men inhabit the blue hour,
glittery fictions glide
In the crevice of shadow
comfortless as firedogs in the wind.
here,
heat-cracked crickets
creep into our hair.
*
Erasure of Sylvia Plath's Sleep in the Mojave Desert from Crossing the Water
It is dangerous.
mad men inhabit the blue hour,
glittery fictions glide
In the crevice of shadow
comfortless as firedogs in the wind.
here,
heat-cracked crickets
creep into our hair.
*
Erasure of Sylvia Plath's Sleep in the Mojave Desert from Crossing the Water
Labels:
blackout,
Crossing the Water,
erasure,
Plath,
poem,
Sleep,
Sylvia Plath
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wicked Expeditions - a found poem tribute
Wicked expeditions
seizing
wild bitter greens
the blistered brine still lives in me.
I praise wild
bristly chicories.
I linger lost to blossom,
sap & seed.
Thank you, Dana Tommasino, for the essay at Narrative, Primal.
seizing
wild bitter greens
the blistered brine still lives in me.
I praise wild
bristly chicories.
I linger lost to blossom,
sap & seed.
Thank you, Dana Tommasino, for the essay at Narrative, Primal.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Erasures
Follow this link to construct your own erasures online.
Labels:
erasure,
online generator
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Smudges - an erasure
The first morning:
those first disquieting hours
trying to distract myself,
wandering, listening, wondering how
we still know less than nothing.
I never realized
how everything is permeated,
the heavy noontime air
alive with shimmers and mirages.
However much we didn't want to,
however little we would do about it,
we'd understood: we were going to perish
of all this, if not now, then soon, if not soon,
then someday.
I remember
starlings beneath the eaves,
carats of nightfall,
every sidewalk scribbled with hearts.
Source text: Tar by C.K. Williams.
those first disquieting hours
trying to distract myself,
wandering, listening, wondering how
we still know less than nothing.
I never realized
how everything is permeated,
the heavy noontime air
alive with shimmers and mirages.
However much we didn't want to,
however little we would do about it,
we'd understood: we were going to perish
of all this, if not now, then soon, if not soon,
then someday.
I remember
starlings beneath the eaves,
carats of nightfall,
every sidewalk scribbled with hearts.
Source text: Tar by C.K. Williams.
Labels:
C.K. Williams,
elegy,
erasure,
poetry experiment,
Tar by C.K. Williams
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Paradise Lost: an erasure
Restore us, chaos
I invoke thy Song,
the vast in me is dark.
Nine times the Space that measures
Day and Night:
Let us not slip.
Let us rest if any rest can harbour there.
Let us not slip.
Let us rest if any rest can harbour there.
Labels:
erasure,
John Milton,
Milton,
Paradise Lost,
poem,
poetry experiment
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