Tuesday, November 26, 2013

ModPo'er Monica Saviron reviews New York Film Festival films with a poet's sensibility

Read her essay on the first nine films in Lumiere here.  Check out how she masterfully weaves ModPo poets and their works into her review.

Read her essay on the next 14 films here.   Same as above, but also check out how she riffs about the relationship between poetry and film.   

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Poems by ModPo'ers: Mark Snyder

Let’s go dance (End of ModPo ’13)

after reading the first poem
my head went numb–
have I answered your question?
how do I get started?
a quick rough sketch, warts and all
I think you’re going to enjoy THIS–
when they were good they were incredible.

Most of us don’t sleep,
I’m pretty sure Al doesn’t.

Most of these poets would have been sent
to the Ministry of Love and vaporized,
bourgeois decadence–
degenerate art–
making sense is overrated.

What do you make of her use of windows and doors?
What else could she have meant by Paradise?
I hadn’t the slightest idea.
You’re only disqualified from the group
if you forget your towel. Don’t panic.

How would one avoid the “splinter”
that shunts the brain out of its groove?

What do you see?
Isn’t any creative work bullshit
if you look at it in a certain way?

What I assume you shall assume–
she leads her alien invasion
as Williams dances like a lunatic
and Kathleen and the baby sleeps downstairs.

I’m not a lit guy, so I don’t know.
It’s always a conversation between you and the poet
Experiment, see what works for you.

Let’s go dance in front of the mirror
but make sure you have at least
one post per week
in the poem-specific subforums.

My ModPo wrap-up poem: Goodbye but not farewell

Goodbye but not farewell.
We will continue our conversations
and social media chats –
with new friends,
with old friends.

And we will continue writing poems:
together in small groups,
and at home, alone,
in the midnight hour that is not
midnight, but that
floats between isha and fajr -
the darkest part of night -
when passions die,
and distractions fall to the side.

The songwriting teacher said all I needed
was a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary –
but it hasn’t proven sufficient –

and there are no final words, anyway,
no bridge, no chorus, no refrain,
just a tight hug, a soft sigh, a tender kiss,
and a throw-away “see-you-tomorrow,”
maybe, if you’re lucky. And all my
countrymen are poets, and sailors.

No, goodbye is not farewell.
There is SloPo on Facebook,
and sudden spoon is resurrecting,
and the Breakfast Club opera is on track,
and KWH is always open,
and there are Sunday get-togethers in DC
whenever you are passing through.

And all our blogs and our websites are up,
and NaPoWriMo comes in April,
and Postcard Poetry Fest comes in August,
and before you know it, ModPo14!

Poems by ModPo'ers: Therese Pope

Mothers of Poetry

Who is this mother?
She sits and waits by a window
Tears streaming down her cheeks
With bratty babe sniffling at her sleeve

Is she Jane Austen's melancholy, forlorn side-kick
The kind who reads too much weepy Shakespeare
By candlelight, on a stormy night?

A hopeful Romantic
Now withered by form

Is her blood noble
Or is she strong and brazen
Stein-like, contemplating sentences?

A wild vixen who shushes grammar
Sinister, slinking
Sneaking up behind you
To scare the daylights out of rhyme

Look how she poses
Dabbing at her cheek

Who are these mothers?
Dancing around silky syllables
Accenting hazy lines
Plying us with
Diatribes that never really speak

These mothers of poetry
Sit,
Slumping in overstuffed chairs
That never fade with time

Forcing a half-smile
And with a woeful wink,
They wait for us
Words pressed to silent lips.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

ModPo Webcast 11/18/2013

Poems by ModPo'ers: Megan Worrell-Lupton

                         MODPO

Modern & Contemporary American Poetry
   MODPO MODPOPENN MODPOLIVE
                 MODPOPENPOLIVE
                           Modern
                        Anti Modern
                       Green glass
                          Spreading
                     We are the grass
                     Mending the Wall
                    Cut up into pieces
               and scattered on the floor
                         on the Page
                         In my hand
13 Ways to connect with Toronto, Ecuador, Hawaii, Sydney,
Israel, San Fran, South Carolina, Connecticut, Philadelphia-
                               Etc
                 etc etc etc etc Etc etc
                     MODPOPENNPO
            In wild room dancing to 12 tones
                   and in this moment
                    this is the moment

                             THIS
                               is
                         the Poem...

                    To lift Kelly's cup
          and sip together-to another year of
                           Dwelling

                  And Let the Splinter
                          Swerve

From the beautiful mountains of North Carolina,
Love and Many Blessings,
I'll see you in the forums
and again next year. Until we re-open the present....

-Megan L. Worrell-Lupton

Poems by ModPo'ers: Sara P. Dias

Ciao without a Vuvu

(to Wallace Stevens, after ‘Farewell without a Guitar’)

Spring’s bright promise has come to this.
So the thousand-dreamed home fails to show.
Ciao, those days.

The thousand-dreamed home
Speaks to this trumpet of lies
At its most venal culmination –

A Cape Flats gale,
A vast, stark corrugation,
In which a cab drives home without its riders,

Shades down. The recurrence of recounting,
The shunt and shuttles of raw senses
Of the riders that were,

Are ticking constructions,
Of zinc and sun, of state banality
And of those others and their desires.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Poems by ModPo'ers: Maria Milonaki

Who said that shelters are there to protect?
     
Who said that words mean promises?

            Who told you that love is forever?

I know almost nothing. Just time and distance.

I hide, forget and seek. The name of the game is oblivion.

I rest in peace. I fly in dreams.

I was once crucified. Where is my martyrdom.

How many times have you closed your eyes to your death.

Is shadow to shade, what loneliness is to solitude.

Has love always been an enigma and life a mystery?

Where do you plan to raise your voice.
In darkness or in light?
How to do you plan to raise it?
In a song or in a box?
When do you plan to raise your voice?
In life or after death?

Count to three and you will rise, my resurrection.

Did you rehearse your today-self yesterday?
Is your suit suitable?

Did you put on your smile or your grave facade
on the morning mirror reflection?

Is the mirror reflecting you or
are you reflecting the mirror image?

Did you have your first sip of coffee,
before or after praying to your god?

Will you sharpen your knife before
killing your desires or will you offer them slow,
painful death (the name of the death is waiver).

Did they teach you how to follow that path
or did you lose track of yourself on your own?

Did you tie your laces standing or sitting?

That has always been a fateful choice.
Which of the two do you prefer, a life or life?

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Poems by ModPo'ers: De Cesare Patrizia - And I Die

And I die.

And I die
The Giants I hold up the umbrella
of misbehaviour
and turn the square axle
my dark sky
clouds and storms that befit me
savory nights
the regalia of my Opera
where no glittered stars.
So wild a den I
to complain in my hair disease incurable.
My syllables in its leghold trap.
Here's the Hunter
It was spring, a day!

(reprinted here with the author's permission)

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Experimentation in standard time

Autumn urban afternoons
get shorter and sweeter -

standing in the middle of I street
I await a very specific angle on the bow
as my ship called Earth comes about:
a unique perspective on how time passes –

in the distance you can see Virginia:
but how many beats per measure
are there in Standard time?

the future is reaching back to join us,
to warn us, to help us alter course
to starboard so we can pass port to port –
the present and the future,
like two ships, passing in a storm.

We post to a blog or sing a song:
we write some non-rhyming words
we call poetry –

and time is a social construct
a contractual agreement we accept
from fear of things we don’t know –
dawn to dusk, high noon
to the darkest part of night –

a 24 second shot clock.
We sink a three pointer
that leaves a vacuum in its wake –
the chain nets echo its refrain.

11/05/2013