I see we all appreciate the meta poem, but only secretly
in this day and age. They truly are dreadful
when they're bad...
A belated warm welcome to Marilyn, a thanks to Maryann
for starting this thread, (Ralph, I love Ferlinghetti's 'speadeagled in the empy air'), and some bits from Marge Piercy's "Teaching Experience", which I wouldn't call GOOD, but certainly good,and worth a mention here, for its insistence on the physical.
One is cracking his knuckles,
another glares at me,
another is stoned and slumps
on the end of her spine,
the fourth is rehearsing the balcony
scene, the fifth is pricing
my clothing piece by piece.
I could show you how
to prune a grapevine, I could
show you how to roast a goose
wasting nothing, not the bones
for soup or the fat rendered
its sweet aroma spreading.
I could show you the red eye
of Antares, I could show you
where the marsh hawk builds
her gawky nest, how to follow
through the banks and paper thickets
the spore of a corporate
choice in damaged genes.
In these rooms words float
devoid of their shadows in action.
Teach poetry ? Learn how
to wring the neck of a chicken,
how to sustain orgasm, learn
how to build and mend. In universities
one learns about universities,
in jail about jail. If in poetry
all you learn is words,
you pass wind.
Breath is the life.
Breathe words that move you
out, that speed your blood and slow
it, but use your hands, use
your back, use the long muscles
of your legs, use the twin
lobes of forebrain and the wise
snake coiled on your spine.
Let words be born from you
wet and kicking. Let them cry,
but you, keep quiet and moving.
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[This message has been edited by wendy v (edited April 03, 2006).]
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