I'm a writer in search of a subject,
a patriot in search of a land.
I'm a lover in search of a longing,
an impostor in search of a farce.
I'm a joke in search of a punchline,
and a song in search of a voice.
I'm a poem that's lost its words,
a prophet who's lost his calling.
I'm an actor without lines,
a crime without sin,
hope without faith.
I'm the yearning that fills your heart right before it sinks,
the thought that steals your sleep just as it sets,
and the feeling that lingers from a dream
you didn't want to wake from.
I'm walking in fresh snow just when you thought it was spring,
I'm the meaning that glimmers right before it fades,
and the solitude that possesses you when you realize
it's all going well without you, and it always will.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Friday, October 07, 2011
"..Open City"
"Today I want to see your eyes without anger
Brown city, growing on the hills.
Poems are short tragedies, portable, like transistor radios.
Paul lies on the ground, it's night, a torch, the smell of pitch.
Impatient glances in cafés, someone yells, a small heap of coins lies on the table.
Why? Why not?
The roar of cars and scooters, hubbub of events.
Poetry often vanishes, leaving only matchsticks."
--Adam Zagajewski, from "Eternal Enemies"
Brown city, growing on the hills.
Poems are short tragedies, portable, like transistor radios.
Paul lies on the ground, it's night, a torch, the smell of pitch.
Impatient glances in cafés, someone yells, a small heap of coins lies on the table.
Why? Why not?
The roar of cars and scooters, hubbub of events.
Poetry often vanishes, leaving only matchsticks."
--Adam Zagajewski, from "Eternal Enemies"
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
It Was Me
I only try to kill time
so that it wouldn't kill me.
Here, in the shadow of affluence,
the city waits in a deep ravine
where lives tick by methodically.
Their faces turned, expressionless,
climbing the cold step of a tram,
or shattering on steely waters.
Their throats clear familiar sounds
rendered foreign and hurried
and full of phlegm.
I wait behind curtains
the color of freeze-dried spring;
at some point you'll be back,
closer perhaps, though the distance persists.
It isn't you who's kept it this time--
somewhere over there I linger.
In the flurry of departure, it turns out,
that thing that kept nagging me,
the thing we forgot to pack,
that which stayed behind--
it was me.
so that it wouldn't kill me.
Here, in the shadow of affluence,
the city waits in a deep ravine
where lives tick by methodically.
Their faces turned, expressionless,
climbing the cold step of a tram,
or shattering on steely waters.
Their throats clear familiar sounds
rendered foreign and hurried
and full of phlegm.
I wait behind curtains
the color of freeze-dried spring;
at some point you'll be back,
closer perhaps, though the distance persists.
It isn't you who's kept it this time--
somewhere over there I linger.
In the flurry of departure, it turns out,
that thing that kept nagging me,
the thing we forgot to pack,
that which stayed behind--
it was me.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
"Little Testament" by Joe Bolton
Whatever the night is,
I’d tell you it’s the heaving mass
Inside somebody’s kicked skull,
A dark so dark that intricate things begin to shine
Like a snail’s trail,
Like the lights strung out like cheap beads
Along some city street
Where people work and dream and die.
I don’t say live.
From a distance,
The city looks like broken glass
You see in any city lot
Under the faint, faithless chant
Of streetlamps.
South of the city, too,
The Spanish chapel without faith—
Is merely sad and lovely as the flowered dress
Of the girl who sweeps the chapel steps at dawn,
Or as the girl herself whose eyes
Won’t meet your eyes, or as the dust
That seems to resurrect itself
Wherever she’s just swept.
You can already tell I have nothing
To offer you beyond this flash of hope, this echo
Fading as it ranges westward
Across a continent that can, at night,
Still seem nearly empty.
Mine is the one
Window left lit as you walk
Through this neighborhood and through this night
That quicken your step.
And the night
Keeps coming back, as if you were the one
Returning to it—moments
When you hear what sounds like hell’s orchestra
Blasting from a car,
Or when what you’re afraid of seems to drift
Close to the shore of whatever river
You love:
Ohio, Mississippi, Rio Grande.
When now fails,
Was is all there is;
Elsewhere we lose always.
My cigarette smoke floating off in the night
Is the fire of my autobiography in ashes.
We only win at trying not
To be.
But anybody
Can tell you that—can call escape pride,
Meanness humility,
The arc and hiss of a match flicked into the water
The deep brief love they once felt for the world.
What little they find in my pockets
When it’s over,
You can have.
-from "The Last Nostalgia"
I’d tell you it’s the heaving mass
Inside somebody’s kicked skull,
A dark so dark that intricate things begin to shine
Like a snail’s trail,
Like the lights strung out like cheap beads
Along some city street
Where people work and dream and die.
I don’t say live.
From a distance,
The city looks like broken glass
You see in any city lot
Under the faint, faithless chant
Of streetlamps.
South of the city, too,
The Spanish chapel without faith—
Is merely sad and lovely as the flowered dress
Of the girl who sweeps the chapel steps at dawn,
Or as the girl herself whose eyes
Won’t meet your eyes, or as the dust
That seems to resurrect itself
Wherever she’s just swept.
You can already tell I have nothing
To offer you beyond this flash of hope, this echo
Fading as it ranges westward
Across a continent that can, at night,
Still seem nearly empty.
Mine is the one
Window left lit as you walk
Through this neighborhood and through this night
That quicken your step.
And the night
Keeps coming back, as if you were the one
Returning to it—moments
When you hear what sounds like hell’s orchestra
Blasting from a car,
Or when what you’re afraid of seems to drift
Close to the shore of whatever river
You love:
Ohio, Mississippi, Rio Grande.
When now fails,
Was is all there is;
Elsewhere we lose always.
My cigarette smoke floating off in the night
Is the fire of my autobiography in ashes.
We only win at trying not
To be.
But anybody
Can tell you that—can call escape pride,
Meanness humility,
The arc and hiss of a match flicked into the water
The deep brief love they once felt for the world.
What little they find in my pockets
When it’s over,
You can have.
-from "The Last Nostalgia"
Sunday, January 02, 2011
New year, new beginnings!
Just like one year has to end for another to begin, new beginnings often mean new endings, as well. I have finally handed over the reins of PhillyPoetry.com, and the new administrator of the site, Sherone, has kindly featured me as the Spotlight Artist of the month.
Thank you, Sherone, for that, and for taking on this labor of love. I wish you the best of luck with the site in the New Year & beyond! And I kindly ask all of you to continue to use and support the site so that poetry may continue to flourish in Philadelphia.
Thank you, Sherone, for that, and for taking on this labor of love. I wish you the best of luck with the site in the New Year & beyond! And I kindly ask all of you to continue to use and support the site so that poetry may continue to flourish in Philadelphia.
Friday, October 15, 2010
"Everybody" by Pablo Nedura
I, perhaps I never will be, perhaps I was not able,
never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?
I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.
I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.
-from "The Sea and the Bells"
,
translated by William O’Daly
Yo tal vez yo no seré, tal vez no pude,
i,
perhaps i never will be,
perhaps i was not able,
never was,
never saw,
don’t exist:
what is all this?
in which June,
in what wood
did i grow until now,
being born and born again?
i didn’t grow,
never grew,
just went on dying?
in doorways, i repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
i asked myself, with wonder
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
i was always arriving late.
i had traveled far from who i was,
i could not answer any questions
about myself,
i had too often left who i am.
i went to the next house,
to the next woman,
i traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you,
for everybody:
and where i was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn't today,
it was tomorrow.
why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
this is how i found out
that i was exactly like you
and like everybody
--alternate translation
(translator unknown)
never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?
I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.
I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.
-from "The Sea and the Bells"
, translated by William O’Daly
—————————————-
Todos
Yo tal vez yo no seré, tal vez no pude,
no fui, no vi, no estoy:
qué es esto? Y en qué Junio, en qué madera
crecí hasta ahora, continué naciendo?
No crecí, no crecí, seguzí muriendo?
Yo repetí en las puertas
el sonido del mar,
de las campanas:
yo pregunté por mí, con embeleso
(con ansiedad más tarde),
Ya estaba lejos mi anterioridad,
ya no me respondía yo a mí mismo,
me había ido muchas veces yo.
Y fui a la próxima casa,
a la próxima mujer,
a todos partes
a preguntar por mí, por ti, por todos:
y donde yo no estaba ya no estaban,
todo estaba vacío
porque sencillamente no era hoy,
era manana.
Por qué buscar en vano
en cada puerta en que no existiremos
porque no hemos llegado todavía?
Así fue como supe
que yo era exactamente como tú
y como todo el mundo.
—————————————-
i,
perhaps i never will be,
perhaps i was not able,
never was,
never saw,
don’t exist:
what is all this?
in which June,
in what wood
did i grow until now,
being born and born again?
i didn’t grow,
never grew,
just went on dying?
in doorways, i repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
i asked myself, with wonder
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
i was always arriving late.
i had traveled far from who i was,
i could not answer any questions
about myself,
i had too often left who i am.
i went to the next house,
to the next woman,
i traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you,
for everybody:
and where i was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn't today,
it was tomorrow.
why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
this is how i found out
that i was exactly like you
and like everybody
--alternate translation
(translator unknown)
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"Letter To N.Y." by Elizabeth Bishop
Just heard this on Fresh Air; it reminded me why I love poetry so...
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
PhilaNOMA Art Expo 2010
I'll be showing some of my artwork (wax collage / conceptual sculpture / video installation) tomorrow at the PhilaNOMA 2nd Annual Art Expo and Networking Event. That'll be at Triumph Brewery in Old City; so you can grab some good locally grown organic food and a couple of their great craft beers, as well, while you’re there:
I hope you can make it!
PHILANOMA ART EXPO 2010
@ 6:30 PM - 9:30 PM
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Triumph Brewing Company (2nd Flr Gallery)
117 Chestnut Street - Philadelphia, PA 19106
This unique exhibition showcases works of art created by some of Philadelphia's finest urban architects, artists, photographers, graphic artists, fashion and interior designers.
Enjoy complimentary hors d'oeuvres while networking amongst entrepreneurs and artistic individuals from various professions. There will be something for all art lovers to enjoy, including photography, illustration, paintings, poetry, fashion and more! COME to browse, buy or just mingle amongst friends...
Happy hour drink specials are available until 9:30pm.
MAKE SURE TO RSVP!
Admission is $5 donation* at the door WITH EVENTBRITE RSVP.
*Proceeds from this event will help benefit PhilaNOMA's CAMP Sustain.Ability program for 8th & 9th grade students interested in architecture. Visit http://philanoma.noma.net for more information.
I hope you can make it!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Handing over the Reins
Since I haven't been very active in the Philadelphia poetry circles recently, I've been thinking of handing over the Philly Poetry website, calendar and Facebook group to someone else who's more involved these days. And as readers of this blog, I thought I'd offer you this opportunity and see if any of you would be interested in taking it on.
The calendar and the website are still the no. 1 & 2 search results on Google for "Philadelphia poetry", so they get some decent exposure. I currently pay $30 every 6 months for the web-hosting of the site (along with my own personal site, through 1&1). I have ads on it, but I have to say I have yet to collect any revenue from them. We can figure out how to transfer the hosting of the site and other details, if you're interested. Let me know...
The calendar and the website are still the no. 1 & 2 search results on Google for "Philadelphia poetry", so they get some decent exposure. I currently pay $30 every 6 months for the web-hosting of the site (along with my own personal site, through 1&1). I have ads on it, but I have to say I have yet to collect any revenue from them. We can figure out how to transfer the hosting of the site and other details, if you're interested. Let me know...
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
"Diet Man"
There's a belly in heaven that I love.
It wriggles with satisfaction
like a Buddha's would
at the sight of Jello and whipped cream.
______It doesn't give a damn.
There's a belly in heaven that I miss.
______It jiggles with beer.
It's great for a hug and a squeeze.
It devours cakes, cookies, and pies.
It shakes, rolls, and giggles at bad jokes.
______Get out of my sight diet man.
Take a hasty trolley to hell
______mean man,
______lean man,
______bean man,
______exacting man.
______Scram
new man,
reasoning man,
jogging man,
calculating man,
______whose thoughts you won't reveal,
sly man.
by Angela d'Arista Solli
from Regrets Only: Contemporary Poets on the Theme of Regret
Friday, March 19, 2010
My Beirut (Song of Eternal Damnation)
Forgive me
for writing to you in a language foreign to you,
not that I know what language you speak,
you who speaks them all in silence…
Forgive me
for writing from a distance,
for writing reluctantly,
for writing seldom…
I only write because he asked me to,
he who loves you,
he who lives you.
I write because I’m incapable of refusing him such a request,
and because, yes, I miss you…
But I’m not sure I got anything left to say to you.
I feel that I’ve said it all, and I’ve said it often.
Some have heard it, many have not.
But you, I don’t know if you can hear…
I’m not sure anymore if you exist,
for who are you but those who haunt you?
And those who haunt you are mad, and I’m one of them
even if I’ve abandoned you…
Did you mourn me when I left you?
I did, for the both of us.
But sorrow moves on,
like everything, with time it all does,
as the old song goes…
And what remains when the sorrow’s gone?
Is it love? Or is it only a stale bitter anger?
Sometimes they taste the same…
What I fear is what’s left when even that anger passes;
for that, too, shall pass…
I fear because I do not know the reasons for my anger;
but what is anger if not the lack of reason?
It may not be your fault or mine,
but I’m angry at being treated like a second-rate human
solely for being born to you.
I’m angry because I can’t seem to live with you,
as I can’t seem to live without you,
to quote another old song…
I’m angry because your inhabitants are mad,
and your drivers are mad,
and your leaders are both murderous and mad…
I’m angry because your beauty is invisible,
and no one will take my word for it,
for I too, like the rest of them, am mad…
I look to other cities:
they too are ugly and beautiful at once,
and they too are all mad.
I look to other people;
they are all maddening
and stupid and proud.
But your people have made of chaos an art,
and have made you anything but dull…
I still don’t get it, Beirut.
I don’t get why I insist on addressing you as a person;
I don’t know why we all do.
I don’t know if any other people address their city as we address you.
For you are nothing but our very own collective being,
you are what we call us.
And we love ourselves,
and we hate ourselves,
and we, ultimately, do not understand ourselves…
I shall return to you,
forever and again,
you, my song of eternal damnation.
For I still don’t get you, and I don’t get me, and I don’t get them…
And yet I love you, and I love you, and I love you,
and yes, despite all, I love them, too…
For they are you, and you are them,
my Beirut.
for writing to you in a language foreign to you,
not that I know what language you speak,
you who speaks them all in silence…
Forgive me
for writing from a distance,
for writing reluctantly,
for writing seldom…
I only write because he asked me to,
he who loves you,
he who lives you.
I write because I’m incapable of refusing him such a request,
and because, yes, I miss you…
But I’m not sure I got anything left to say to you.
I feel that I’ve said it all, and I’ve said it often.
Some have heard it, many have not.
But you, I don’t know if you can hear…
I’m not sure anymore if you exist,
for who are you but those who haunt you?
And those who haunt you are mad, and I’m one of them
even if I’ve abandoned you…
Did you mourn me when I left you?
I did, for the both of us.
But sorrow moves on,
like everything, with time it all does,
as the old song goes…
And what remains when the sorrow’s gone?
Is it love? Or is it only a stale bitter anger?
Sometimes they taste the same…
What I fear is what’s left when even that anger passes;
for that, too, shall pass…
I fear because I do not know the reasons for my anger;
but what is anger if not the lack of reason?
It may not be your fault or mine,
but I’m angry at being treated like a second-rate human
solely for being born to you.
I’m angry because I can’t seem to live with you,
as I can’t seem to live without you,
to quote another old song…
I’m angry because your inhabitants are mad,
and your drivers are mad,
and your leaders are both murderous and mad…
I’m angry because your beauty is invisible,
and no one will take my word for it,
for I too, like the rest of them, am mad…
I look to other cities:
they too are ugly and beautiful at once,
and they too are all mad.
I look to other people;
they are all maddening
and stupid and proud.
But your people have made of chaos an art,
and have made you anything but dull…
I still don’t get it, Beirut.
I don’t get why I insist on addressing you as a person;
I don’t know why we all do.
I don’t know if any other people address their city as we address you.
For you are nothing but our very own collective being,
you are what we call us.
And we love ourselves,
and we hate ourselves,
and we, ultimately, do not understand ourselves…
I shall return to you,
forever and again,
you, my song of eternal damnation.
For I still don’t get you, and I don’t get me, and I don’t get them…
And yet I love you, and I love you, and I love you,
and yes, despite all, I love them, too…
For they are you, and you are them,
my Beirut.
Like This
A great poem by Rumi, selected by the incomparable Tilda Swinton as the inspiration for the latest Etat Libre d'Orange perfume, Like This:
Make sure you listen to Swinton's incredible reading of this poem on ELdO's website: www.etatlibredorange.com
If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.
If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.Like this.
How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.
How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us
Like this.
-From Essential Rumi(translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne)
Make sure you listen to Swinton's incredible reading of this poem on ELdO's website: www.etatlibredorange.com
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Language Rooms @ Wilma Theater: Special Offer!
The Wilma Theater presents the world premiere of Yussef El Guindi's LANGUAGE ROOMS, March 3 - April 4, a riveting dark comedy directed by Blanka Zizka about misguided patriotism and the true meaning of 'loyalty.'
Tickets start at $36, and the Wilma offers discounts for students and those in their 20s. Get $5 off full price tickets with code "Al Bustan" (not valid on Sat or Opening nights, cannot be combined with any other offer or applied to tickets previously purchased).
Click here to read an interview with playwright Yussef El Guindi who is of Egyptian heritage.
Thanks to Al Bustan!
Parental advisory: thematic content not appropriate for children.
Tickets start at $36, and the Wilma offers discounts for students and those in their 20s. Get $5 off full price tickets with code "Al Bustan" (not valid on Sat or Opening nights, cannot be combined with any other offer or applied to tickets previously purchased).
Click here to read an interview with playwright Yussef El Guindi who is of Egyptian heritage.
Thanks to Al Bustan!
Parental advisory: thematic content not appropriate for children.
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