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Poetry by JC Snyder

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  • POST 600!!!!! Plus a poem by Kay Ryan

    Wow!!! I can hardly believe it but we’ve reached post 600! Let’s throw a party 🙂
    Need another reason to throw a party? I will have two poems in print (some of us still care about print) in the new EveryDayPoets Anthology 2. More on that book to come…

    Now, let’s get back to poetry. Today’s poem is from Kay Ryan as featured on American Life in Poetry! Enjoy!

    American Life in Poetry: Column 391
    BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
    Kay Ryan was our nation’s Poet Laureate at The Library of Congress for the 2008-2010 terms.
    Her poetry is celebrated for its compression; she can get a great deal into a few words. Here’s an
    example of a poem swift and accurate as a dart.

    Pinhole

    We say
    pinhole.
    A pin hole
    of light. We
    can’t imagine
    how bright
    more of it
    could be,
    the way
    this much
    defeats night.
    It almost
    isn’t fair,
    whoever
    poked this,
    with such
    a small act
    to vanquish
    blackness.

    American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2011 by Kay Ryan, whose most recent book of poems is Odd Blocks, Selected and New Poems, Carcanet Press, 2011. Poem reprinted from Poetry, October 2011, by permission of Kay Ryan and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
     

    American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
    Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
    This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

    September 18, 2012

  • "Born at the Wrong Time"

    wanted to take a look at one i posted back in the first days of this here blog 🙂 enjoy and have a great weekend. #readpoetry!

    ***
    One summer, I saw a Texas-style Paul McCartney
    in a dark mahogany leather coat
    slurring to Bob Dylan’s “rainy day woman”
    outside the full moon at a wrangler bonfire in
    Colorado.

    Last night, I saw a gray haired woman, four feet tall,
    in full length tattered gown
    swirling in her mess of beads
    and her hands in the air like she was
    summoning back
    the 60’s.

    I saw myself tripping on the old Baltimore cobblestones.
    I saw myself drunk with Janis and having a grand old time.

    September 14, 2012

  • "From a Bridge" Guest Post

    WOW. gives me the chills – enjoy this fine poem by David St. John, courtesy of American Life in Poetry. If you haven’t yet signed up for the column, you can do so here.

    American Life in Poetry: Column 390
    BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
    David St. John is a California poet whose meticulous care with every word has always impressed
    me. This poem is a fine example of how clarity can let us see all the way to the heart.

    From a Bridge

    I saw my mother standing there below me
    On the narrow bank just looking out over the river

    Looking at something just beyond the taut middle rope
    Of the braided swirling currents

    Then she looked up quite suddenly to the far bank
    Where the densely twined limbs of the cypress

    Twisted violently toward the storm-struck sky
    There are some things we know before we know

    Also some things we wish we would not ever know
    Even if as children we already knew & so

    Standing above her on that bridge that shuddered
    Each time the river ripped at its wooden pilings

    I knew I could never even fate willing ever
    Get to her in time

    American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2011 by David St. John, whose new collection, The Auroras, is forthcoming from Harper Collins. Poem reprinted from “Poetry,” July/August 2011, by permission of David St. John and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

    American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
    Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
    This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

    September 12, 2012

  • Book of Etiquette – Take 2

    let’s take a look at one posted some time ago called “Book of Etiquette“
    http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/06/book-of-etiquette.html

    thoughts? has anyone read this book? better yet, read and followed it? hehe.
    enjoy the evening! poetry will be back as soon as i dig out of work………….

    September 11, 2012

  • Not Carl Sandburg’s Men

    Our men crack Bohs,
    trade tales slurring
    to a pause; days spent
    crawling over coal and salt hills
    like Sisyphus.

    If these had been
    Carl Sandburg’s men,
    their backs would be bronzed and
    their spines made
    elegant like Chicago corn.

    But this is Baltimore.
    Our bones are the Bay’s
    murmurs; those
    armed with intentions
    are weak by pavement,

    Oh Carl,
    such danger here –
    that hopelessness, even
    doors stay off their hinges
    too sore to do their work.

    September 6, 2012

  • the me in gasoline

    the me in gasoline on water is a rainbow
    of potential sliding around, skimming the tops, spreading then
    unraveling with every
    exhale of the Bay
    shape shifting like a scream
    my perplexed smirk distorted then tortured
    and mad in the only possible way

    the slick bird above me
    purple to orange to blue to barely discernible shine –   
    oh shine on, you gull, shine on
    free from such thin and colorful prisons as this.

    September 4, 2012

  • fish out of water

    Boston’s Back Bay
    gets left behind –

    (how easily this train takes to its track
    how slippery this movement through time)

    Imagine Back Bay
    in its watery wet past – we were there once (wistful) in a deep blue green bay full of life.

    Such current land fill suffocates
    makes all us fish happy to leave.

    August 31, 2012

  • Quietly Disappearing (To Mia)

    Friend, I asked the great poets but for all their flowery words
    They couldn’t capture your breathless manner of speaking.
    I searched the sea and the ocean but they just kept repeating,
    (Repeating) and I beseeched the birds but they just kept circling and
    I was dizzy; a statue? too stiff, unfeeling.
    Flowers? too trite with grieving – I went back pleading with the poets
    “Write me a new constellation in the sky and call it Mia!” but they
    Gave me cold cracked bells tolling, so unappealing–
    More fitting – I on a marble stoop sitting, my beer streaming out,

    Watching bubbles slowing, exhales burying a sidewalk steaming,
    All… all… quietly disappearing.

    August 24, 2012

  • untitled (quilts always warm)

    you don’t have to remind me of that
    orange and brown
    soft knit afghan quilt that
    matched nothing
    in our house
    but in theirs —

    the olive green
    and the hanging plates
    and that day
    laying on the hardwood waiting

    no games, no pick up sticks
    only a new jewelry box
    and my reliable Alley cat
    in a house creaking with grief

    dismissed
    gathering stones
    in the drain pipe
    that felt like a river bank
    little sister in hand
    knowing more than they knew –
    quilts always warm.

    (poem from Jan 2011)

    August 23, 2012

  • Ursula (in Fells Point)

    In Fells,
    her hair in short braids and
    shaved sides
    popular on boys in the 80s,
    she stands
    in the humidity that wraps
    around her baggy shorts,
    rolled socks, under a street lamp
    that drenches her tie dye Dead shirt—

    She is singing
    “will it go round in circles”
    guitars follow “will it fly high like
    a bird up in the sky”
    and the drums inside
    remind me of the late hour.

    She looks pleased on the cobblestones.
    Her Robert Johnson voice
    sings this valedictory song
    to no one in particular.

    (poem from 2010 republished today!)

    August 22, 2012

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