“Heat Wave”

mmonroe_heatwave

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Greetings Bloginistas!

As promised, an original work by yours truly! It has been SO HOT here in Southern California that I decided to write about it. I hope this poem gives a feel of what it’s been like these past weeks. Enjoy!

Heat Wave

Walking
in the hot, hot sun
through
staggered
curtains
of
heavy, solar
velvet.

I half expect
some
shock
to appear from
behind
the next curtain;
a monster or
a man from Omaha –
a long-lost wallet or
missing set of keys –
but it’s just
more heat;

Heat rising off
pavement –
opaquely
transparent:
a dirty window,
a thought fully formed
but not communicated,
meditation, interrupted.

This much
heat
is like fog, but
an oxymoron,
because fog requires
Nyx’s curtain
to first be
darkly drawn
across the evening sky,
but the way
my head feels and
eyes see,
fog makes
perfect sense.

But there is no
judgment
or
reason in
heat like this,
only absence and
an unending, relentless
pressure,
a darkness
that can be felt
even when,
all around,
there’s light.

© Jamy Sweet 2014-09-22

Jamy :-D

A Quick Programming Note…

To All My Gorgeous Bloginistas,

arhythmrunsthroughit.wordpress.com is now simply http://www.arhythmrunsthroughit.com!

I have meant to register the domain for some time now, and finally took a moment to put thoughts in to action!

Do you want to know who you are? Don’t ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.

–Thomas Jefferson

Jamy ;oD

p.s. Up Next: An original work by yours truly! (and no, “yours truly” is not a pseudonym of e e cummings…HA!)

My Latest New Favorite Poet: Roy Scheele

My latest new favorite poet is Roy Scheele. The below poem (from American Life in Poetry: Column 342) is spectacular. The words are woven together so beautifully and the result is a fine fabric of language. This sonnet does what many truly great poems do; take everyday experiences and make them somehow universal.

Woman Feeding Chickens


Her hand is at the feedbag at her waist,
sunk to the wrist in the rustling grain
that nuzzles her fingertips when laced
around a sifting handful. It’s like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve,
except that less escapes you through the chinks
when handling grain. She likes to feel it give
beneath her hand’s slow plummet, and the smell,
so rich a fragrance she has never quite
got used to it, under the seeming spell
of the charm of the commonplace. The white
hens bunch and strut, heads cocked, with tilted eyes,
till her hand sweeps out and the small grain flies.

My personal favorite lines:

“It’s like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve, …”

What a marvelous comparison!

The full article can be found by clicking here.

Enjoy! ;oD

Jamy

A Little Bit about Frank O’Hara

I was reading an article today on The Poetry Foundation’s website about the 50th Anniversary of Frank O’Hara’s “Lunch Poems” and wanted to share it with all my fellow Bloginistas along with a poem of his of which I am rather fond. I have always loved Mr. O’Hara’s work, and after reading the article and the following poem, I hope you’ll see why.

Poem [Lana Turner has collapsed!]

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

© Frank O’Hara, Lunch Poems, 1964

My favorite line is the last line:
“oh Lana Turner we love you get up”

It evokes emotion, movement, and the sense of what happened in the poem and in real life.

Enjoy! :-D :-D
Jamy

Happy Fourth of July! An Independence Day-Related New Favorite Poet: Barbara Crooker

My latest new favorite poet is Barbara Crooker (from American Life in Poetry: Column 484).

Those of us that can identify writing our names and other words or shapes in the air with sparklers (as children OR adults ;-) ) should feel a certain nostalgia when reading the below piece. The real thing about the poem though, is the almost filigreed fineness of the words themselves.

Sparklers

We’re writing our names with sizzles of light
to celebrate the fourth. I use the loops of cursive,
make a big B like the sloping hills on the west side
of the lake. The rest, little a, r, one small b,
spit and fizz as they scratch the night. On the side
of the shack where we bought them, a handmade sign:
Trailer Full of Sparkles Ahead, and I imagine crazy
chrysanthemums, wheels of fire, glitter bouncing
off metal walls. Here, we keep tracing in tiny
pyrotechnics the letters we were given at birth,
branding them on the air. And though my mother’s
name has been erased now, I write it, too:
a big swooping I, a hissing s, an a that sighs
like her last breath, and then I ring
belle, belle, belle in the sulphuric smoky dark.

My favorite lines:

“And though my mother’s
name has been erased now, I write it, too:
a big swooping I, a hissing s, an a that sighs
like her last breath…”

In them, she lets the reader know, in a certain, special way, that the sparklers help her feel her mother again.

The full article can be found by clicking here.

Enjoy! :-D

Jamy

Girlie Show — Edward Hopper

A Rhythm Runs Through It:

Thanks Biblioklept! Hopper is one of my favorite artists, there’s such poetry in his brushstrokes…

Originally posted on Biblioklept:

girlieshow1941

View original

How Anne Sexton Won the Pulitzer Prize : David Trinidad : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation

A very enlightening yet stinging (for me, that is) article on my poetic idol and the process behind how she won the Pulitzer prize for “Live or Die”.

As far as I am concerned, she did not win it by “default”, for her work is so incendiary, inspirational, and truly masterful, that it was well-deserved. Just read Sylvia’s Death and you’ll see what I mean.

But (as the blog post states so well), it seems that the jury for the 1967 prize was unfocused and unable to come to a true concensus, which in this blogger’s humble (and YES, more than a bit biased in this case) opinion, the end point at which a prize jury should find themselves. Enjoy!

How Anne Sexton Won the Pulitzer Prize : David Trinidad : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation.

:-D

Jamy