Search Results for: label/virtual poetry circle

Are you ready for the 42nd Virtual Poetry Circle this week?  I hope you are because we’re continuing the celebration of National Poetry Month.

If you missed my earlier announcement (don’t worry, it’s a sticky post), you can check out the 2010 National Poetry Month Blog Tour details here.

Today, we’re going to visit with a contemporary poet.

From Bruce Weigl’s Song of Napalm (page 47):

Breakdown

With sleep that is barely under the surface
it begins, a twisting sleep as if a wire
were inside you and tried at night
to straighten your body.
Or it’s like a twitch
through your nerves as you sleep
so you tear the sheet from the bed
to try to stop the pounding spine.
A lousy, worthless
sleep of strangers with guns,
children trapped in the alley,
the teenage soldiers glancing back
over their soldiers
the moment before
they squeeze the trigger.

I am going to stay here as long as I can.
I am going to sit in the garden as if nothing has happened
and let the buried azaleas have their way.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

***

Please also stop by today’s National Poetry Month Blog Tour stop at the bookworm.

Are you ready for the 41st Virtual Poetry Circle this week?  I hope you are because we’re continuing the celebration of National Poetry Month.

If you missed my earlier announcement (don’t worry, it’s a sticky post), you can check out the 2010 National Poetry Month Blog Tour details here.

Today, we’re going to visit with a classic poet.

Death, Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnet 10) by John Donne:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

***

Please also stop by today’s National Poetry Month Blog Tour stop at She Is Too Fond of Books and A Circle of Books.

Are you ready for the 40th Virtual Poetry Circle this week?  I hope you are because we’re continuing the celebration of National Poetry Month.

If you missed my earlier announcement (don’t worry, it’s a sticky post), you can check out the 2010 National Poetry Month Blog Tour details here.

Today, we’re going to visit with a contemporary poet.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

From Richard Blanco’s City of a Hundred Fires (page 16):

She scratches the oranges then smells the peel,
presses an avocado just enough to judge its ripeness,
polishes the Macintoshes searching for bruises.

She selects with hands that have thickened, fingers
that have swollen with history around the white gold
of a wedding ring she now wears as a widow.

Unlike the archived photos of young, slender digits
captive around black and white orange blossoms,
her spotted hands now reaching into the colors.

I see all the folklore of her childhood, the fields,
the fruit she once picked from the very tree,
the wiry roots she pulled out of the very ground.

And now, among the collapsed boxes of yuca,
through crumbling pyramids of golden mangoes,
she moves with the same instinct and skill.

This is how she survives death and her son,
on these humble duties that will never change,
on those habits of living which keep a life a life.

She holds up red grapes to ask me what I think,
and what I think is this, a new poem about her–
the grapes look like dusty rubies in her hands,

what I say is this: they look sweet, very sweet.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

***

Please also stop by today’s National Poetry Month Blog Tour stop at Booking Mama where she will review some children’s poetry books as part of her regular feature Kid Konnection and Write Meg! will feature Kim Addonzinio.

Are you ready for the 39th Virtual Poetry Circle this week?  I hope you are because this one’s special.  It’s the first of the VPCs that fall during National Poetry Month.

If you missed my earlier announcement this week (don’t worry, it’s a sticky post), you can check out the 2010 National Poetry Month Blog Tour details here.

Today, we’re going to travel back in time for a classic poem.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s poem comes from Osip Mandelstam.

The Stalin Epigram (translated by W.S. Merwin)

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

***

Please also stop by today’s National Poetry Month Blog Tour stop at Regular Rumination on Claudia Emerson.

© 2010, Serena Agusto-Cox of Savvy Verse & Wit. All Rights Reserved. If you’re reading this on a site other than Savvy Verse & Wit or Serena’s Feed, be aware that this post has been stolen and is used without permission.

Today is the 38th Virtual Poetry Circle and we’re going to jump back into contemporary poetry.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

From Sarah Gridley’s book Green is the Orator, which I picked up at this year’s Split This Rock Poetry Festival (click for my recap of the event):

Sonnet on Fire

Is it the space,

if let inside of, you would remember having lived in
for a particular time?  That thump

was a bird meeting vertical glass.  Something in here
collides with elision.  Your eye apprehends what had never

had walls.  Mind curls                      (night falls)

and afterward, forgets the problem.  Much of the blueprint

is rooted to death.  Much of the glass

has attributed feeling.  In the faltless iris
of a random swamp
some of the cabin

          could disappear.  Especially in sundown all its surface
is stunning.  Except when it rains,

or grasses move, the walls make no                appreciable sound.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure: Clicking on title and image links will lead you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary, though appreciated.

© 2010, Serena Agusto-Cox of Savvy Verse & Wit. All Rights Reserved. If you’re reading this on a site other than Savvy Verse & Wit or Serena’s Feed, be aware that this post has been stolen and is used without permission.

Today, we’re returning to classic poets, and boy am I reaching back in time for the 37th Virtual Poetry Circle.  We’re going back to a time before Christ and during the Roman Empire for today’s poem.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Our classic poem is from Ovid, which was translated by Christopher Marlowe:

EITHER SHE WAS FOOL …

ITHER she was fool, or her attire was bad,

Or she was not the wench I wished to have had.

Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not,

And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not.

Though both of us performed our true intent,

Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.

She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,

Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.

And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue,

And under mine her wanton thigh she flung,

Yes, and she soothed me up, and called me “Sir,”

And used all speech that might provoke and stir.

Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,

It mocked me, hung down the head and sunk.

Like a dull cipher, or rude block I lay,

Or shade, or body was I, who can say?

What will my age do, age I cannot shun,

When in my prime my force is spent and done?

I blush, that being youthful, hot, and lusty,

I prove nor youth nor man, but old and rusty.

Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice,

Or one that with her tender brother lies.

Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice,

And Libas, and the white-cheeked Pitho thrice.

Corinna craved it in a summer’s night,

And nine sweet bouts we had before daylight.

What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian charms?

May spells and drugs do silly souls such harms?

With virgin wax hath some imbast my joints?

And pierced my liver with sharp needles’ points?

Charms change corn to grass and make it die:

By charms are running springs and fountains dry.

By charms mast drops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,

And fruit from trees when there’s no wind at all.

Why might not then my sinews be enchanted,

And I grow faint as with some spirit haunted?

To this, add shame: shame to perform it quailed me,

And was the second cause why vigour failed me.

My idle thoughts delighted her no more,

Than did the robe or garment which she wore.

Yet might her touch make youthful Pylius fire.

And Tithon livelier than his years require.

Even her I had, and she had me in vain,

What might I crave more, if I ask again?

I think the great gods grieved they had bestowed,

The benefit: which lewdly I foreslowed,

I wished to be received in, in I get me:

To kiss, I kissed; to lie with her, she let me.

Why was I blest? why make king to refuse it?

Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it.

So in a spring thrives he that told so much,

And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch.

Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,

As she might straight have gone to church and prayed.

Well I believe, she kissed not as she should,

Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could.

Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have moved,

And with sweet words caused deaf rocks to have loved.

Worthy she was to move both gods and men,

But neither was I man nor lived then.

Can deaf ears take delight when Phaemius sings?

Or Thamyris in curious painted things?

What sweet thought is there but I had the same?

And one gave place still as another came.

Yet notwithstanding, like one dead it lay,

Drooping more than a rose pulled yesterday.

Now, when he should not jet, he bolts upright,

And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight.

Lie down with shame, and see thou stir no more,

Seeing thou would’st deceive me as before.

Then cozenest me: by thee surprised am I,

And bide sore loss with endless infamy.

Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit

To take it in her hand, and play with it.

But when she saw it would by no means stand,

But still drooped down, regarding not her hand,

“Why mock’st thou me,” she cried, “or being ill,

Why bade thee lie down here against thy will?

Either thou art witched with blood of frogs new dead,

Or jaded cam’st thou from some other’s bed.”

With that, her loose gown on, from me she cast her,

In skipping out her naked feet much graced her.

And lest her maid should know of this disgrace,

To cover it, spilt water on the place.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure: Clicking on title and image links will lead you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary, though appreciated.

© 2010, Serena Agusto-Cox of Savvy Verse & Wit. All Rights Reserved. If you’re reading this on a site other than Savvy Verse & Wit or Serena’s Feed, be aware that this post has been stolen and is used without permission.

Wow have I been busy with the Split This Rock Poetry Festival in Washington, D.C.  I’m going to the festival a little bit later this morning, just so I can get up this week’s Virtual Poetry Circle.

And since, I’ve been immersed in contemporary poets and poems of witness, I thought I would share with you a poet from the festival for the 36th Virtual Poetry Circle.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s contemporary poem is from Sinan Antoon‘s The Baghdad Blues:

A Photograph (Of an Iraqi boy on the front page of the New York Times) (Page 41)

he sat
at the edge of the truck
(eight or nine years old?)
surrounded by his family:
his father,
mother,
and five siblings
were asleep
his head was buried
in his hands
all the clouds of the world
were waiting
on the threshold of his eyes
the tall man wiped off the sweat
and started digging
the seventh grave.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure: Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary.

© 2010, Serena Agusto-Cox of Savvy Verse & Wit. All Rights Reserved. If you’re reading this on a site other than Savvy Verse & Wit or Serena’s Feed, be aware that this post has been stolen and is used without permission.

Before I get to the virtual poetry circle for this week, I wanted to say that this next week coming up is going to be a busy poetry week with the Split This Rock Poetry Festival in Washington, D.C.

I’ll be headed downtown midweek for the festival rather than work.  I just love taking odd vacation days for fun festivals, especially those involving poetry.  I’ll keep everyone posted about the festival and be sure to at least do a wrap-up post.

OK, here we are, the 35th Virtual Poetry Circle.  It’s time to visit with a classic poet, and please share your reactions, analyze, and interact.

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s classic poem is from Walt Whitman:

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Also, check out this video:

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure: Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary.

I’m back from my mini vacation.  I hope to have a bunch of reviews for you this week.  It was great visiting with my cousin and her girls.  I think we all had a great time, though now I wish we lived closer and could hang out more!

If you guys are interested in some of the photos I took while they were here, please feel free to check the right sidebar photo slideshow or you can click here.

It’s the 34th Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to visit with a contemporary poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggestions at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s contemporary poem is from John Wareham in his Sonnets for Sinners, though he really creatively took the words, sentences, and utterances of public figures and fashioned them into a sonnet.  Look for my review of this book next week.

Tiger Balm (using Tiger Woods’ words; Page 14)

You want a partner to witness your life;
a someone I never found, not even
at home — yet, suddenly, you’re touching sides
of me I never knew; why didn’t we find
each other years ago? It’s brutal that
you can’t always be with me.  I want you
next to me, on me — I need to gaze at
you.  Yet do I truly know who you are?
Will I just be fifth on your list? One more
person who just happens to be famous?
Well, my brain says yes, but my heart says no.
I hate feeling so weak, I’m tougher than this.
Get it together and get on the flight;
we can have make-up sex after we fight.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.


FTC Disclosure:  Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary.

It’s the 33rd Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to visit with a classic poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggestions at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s poem is from William Carlos Williams:

Spring and All

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind.  Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter.  All about them
the cold, familiar wind-

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens:  clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound change
has come upon them:  rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

It’s the 32nd Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to visit with a contemporary poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggestions at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

From Say Uncle by Kay Ryan:

Among English Verbs (page 52)

Among English verbs
to die is oddest in its
eagerness to be dead,
immodest in its
haste to be told–
a verb alchemical
in the head:
one speck of its gold
and a whole life’s lead.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure:  Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary.