Artists Among Poets

Why why why so many murals of hateful things; waves are towering across the town, the moon the moon devours us All good things must die in shame all bad things must live in piece. Even so the nightingale calls with tremors of the earth with roars like engines; Machines digging across the yard Searching for a new earth beneath the soil bones like gold, bones like watches.    Time and time again we see the landscape of your forehead beating us like waves; slap, slap, slap of meat. Squirrels rushing to fill the juicy cave with nuts of gold piece after piece after piece of crushed glass cuts at my feet and the blood becomes an ocean. Rubies of glimmering sundrops drop drip drop    down to the earth and bones and the creatures that live yet further beneath drip drop drop    of blood and rain and sundrops sunlight on the moon moonlight on the gravelled road, the graveyard road peacocks walking their pretty necks outstretched to catch a glimps of the golden deeadlight

This place, it saddens me.  The closer I get to the end the clearer I see the trap that's been so neatly woven around it. All these people mashed together in a hotpot of nerves and broken spirits.  The constitution that was supposed to be a beacon, turned out to be the money bin of Uncle bloody Scrooge. Grasping tight for the dollars, even when we ask for new chairs we get hand-me-downs from the more fortunate;  The golden cows, the ones that are expected to carry the name and lure in more cash.  We are the less fortunate; the bastard child of this configuration. Yet even the money cows don’t have a say. They are expected to fall in line, do the work and keep their yaps shut. They came here with dreams, just like the rest of us. But even they got disregarded for the ever growing sea of golden coins that make up the foundation on which we stand.  Somewhere along the way we became forgotten.  Slaves to the constitution even though WE are the ones who pay THEM to help

Ways to be be in the sun. I        On a green carpet of grass carpet outstretched in the sun                              Under a sunhat waring a striped bikini on a striped sun chair. Yellow and red red and yellow and green and blue green blue green. Baking and browning in the sun 70's midwife. II                             In the shade under a tree shading. Not sunbathing shading. Shading not sunbathing under a tree.                    In the cool light away from the warm. The branches providing cover. Little droplets. Little droplets of sunlight shines through shines through the branches dancing on my face. Dancing             squirrels dancing on my face. Dancing light and squirrels on my face. III In a desert baking in woollen clothes keffiyeh wrapped around your head head your head wrapped.                                Your body wrapped in woollen parkas in wool wool of the camel the camel beside                                               

Make sure I get all my assignments done on time so I don't fall behind Make sure I take time for my loved ones so they don't think I've forgotten about them Make sure I eat healthy meals so I stay energized Make sure to practice my language every day so I don't forget how to speak Make sure I go to the gym more often so I don't get too squishy Make sure I sleep so I can concentrate on work Make sure to wake up early so my days get longer Make sure I apply for a Visa so I can stay and work in the United States Make sure to look for jobs so I can earn my keep Make sure I remember everyone's birthday so they don't feel underappreciated Make sure I remember people's names so they don't feel unimportant Make sure I spend enough quality time with my boyfriend to get the most out of our time together,    while also making sure we don't get too distracted from our work Make sure I go to all the necessary meetings and presentations so I don

This melancholy I feel; Dried leaves in rain --- Ljudet av en välbekant melodi; Att vara insvept i täcket på morgonen --- Your warm hand in mine; Shelter in a snowstorm --- Your laughter in my ear; Rumbling rocks, murmuring water in sunny woods --- Din sovande gestalt i min säng; Barnaminnen om en ljusare framtid

"The image is the poet's pigment The image is not an idea, It is a radiant node or cluster; A vortex through which and from which and into which ideas are constantly rushing. It is as true for painting and sculpture as it is for poetry." - Ezra Pound When it comes to shaping my poetry and breaking the lines, my approach so far has been pretty basic. I've noticed that my poems tend to look fairly similar on the page; The lines are usually of similar length and my punctuations are almost always at the end of a line rather than somewhere in the middle. Occasionally I've been experimenting with the lineation, but reading the handouts given to us in class, I've realised just how tame those attempts have been. My realist poem was meant to convey an emotion of unease so I broke up my stanzas to take the form of a saw, but even then the shape is regular enough to not really challenge the stable sense of symmetry. I've always thought about the way I shape