Poem Spam

Nov. 4th, 2007 09:42 am
aquabean: (Roy - Weight of the world)
Jet Lag
by Eve Robillard

He flies over the ocean to see his girl, his Sorbonne
girl, his ginger-skinned girl waiting for him in the City

of Light. Everywhere river and almost-spring gardens,
everywhere bridges and rainy statues. Streets going

nowhere, streets going on all night. I love you my mona
my lisa, my cabbage, my gargoyle, Degas' little dancer

in dawn's ragged gown. But on the third day she
picks up her books, tells him she needs to study:

she adores this town, she's not coming home in May, she's
going to stay all summer. Lowers her morning-calm eyes.

He's all right in the cab, all right on the plane droning
him home in only three hours American-key in his lock now

his tick-tock apartment, shiver his shadow, his need
to sleep. Then with a tiredness washing over and

over him and through his raveling bones
he begins to know.

Fishcount!

Oct. 5th, 2007 09:22 pm
aquabean: (Dragonsprout)
Eight:

Ike (currently sick with fin rot, on day five of medication and still eating and acting like himself)
Alexander (formerly The Guinness Fish, now hard-pressed not to keep his bowl clean)
Mickey (entrenched behind his little wall of rocks and peering out over Battlefield Living Room)
Sammy (who needs a cleaning and is growing a fine white beard)
Travis (the Rooster Fish, who jumps out of his water to attack his food)
Casey (who gets bigger and purpler every day, the spaz)
Sydney (the daylight sky fish, whose plants are now growing entirely upside down as they float on the surface and give him something to cuddle)
Taisa (the midnight fish, that still hasn't got the hang of eating, but rather treats it more like play. Also, this is one pretty fish)

...

Eight bettas. All in separate bowls. Not to mention Phil, Philbaby1, Rhodes, and Q-Tip, the resident houseplants. That's a lotta life going on in a little apartment.

Oh, yeah, and the Girl and me, too. And whatever's growing in the dishes in the kitchen. Yeeg.

Poem Spam

Oct. 2nd, 2007 07:53 am
aquabean: (Siwon - sole searching)
On Faith
by Cecilia Woloch

How do people stay true to each other?
When I think of my parents all those years
in the unmade bed of their marriage, not ever
longing for anything else— or: no, they must
have longed; there must have been flickerings,
stray desires, nights she turned from him,
sleepless, and wept, nights he rose silently,
smoked in the dark, nights that nest of breath
and tangled limbs must have seemed
not enough. But it was. Or they just
held on. A gift, perhaps, I've tossed out,
having been always too willing to fly
to the next love, the next and the next, certain
nothing was really mine, certain nothing
would ever last. So faith hits me late, if at all;
faith that this latest love won't end, or ends
in the shapeless sleep of death. But faith is hard.
When he turns his back to me now, I think:
disappear. I think: not what I want. I think
of my mother lying awake in those arms
that could crush her. That could have. Did not.

Poem Spam

Oct. 2nd, 2007 07:41 am
aquabean: (inkspot)
Marcus Millsap: School Day Afternoon
by Dave Etter

I climb the steps of the yellow school bus,
move to a seat in back, and we're off,
bouncing along the bumpy blacktop.
What am I going to do when I get home?
I'm going to make myself a sugar sandwich
and go outdoors and look at the birds
and the gigantic blue silo
they put up across the road at Motts'.
This weekend we're going to the farm show.
I like roosters and pigs, but farming's no fun.
When I get old enough to do something big,
I'd like to grow orange trees in a greenhouse.
Or maybe I'll drive a school bus
and yell at the kids when I feel mad:
"Shut up back there, you hear me?"
At last, my house, and I grab my science book
and hurry down the steps into the sun.
There's Mr. Mott, staring at his tractor.
He's wearing his DeKalb cap
with the crazy winged ear of corn on it.
He wouldn't wave over here to me
if I was handing out hundred dollar bills.
I'll put brown sugar on my bread this time,
then go lie around by the water pump,
where the grass is very green and soft,
soft as the body of a red-winged blackbird.
Imagine, a blue silo to stare at,
and Mother not coming home till dark!

Poem Spam

Oct. 2nd, 2007 07:39 am
aquabean: (seeds for seasons)
The Hunkering
by Donald Hall

In October the red leaves going brown heap and
scatter
over hayfield and dirt road, over garden and circular
driveway,

and rise in a curl of wind disheveled as
schoolchildren
at recess, school just starting and summer done,
winter's

white quiet beginning in ice on the windshield, in
hard frost
that only blue asters survive, and in the long houses
that once

more tighten themselves for darkness and
hunker down.

F-family

Sep. 18th, 2007 09:52 pm
aquabean: (Seeds in love)
Today is the Gma's 93rd Birthday (and the Third Annual Celebration of Grandma's Last Birthday Ever).

There was pizza.
There was ice cream cake.

The Gma was talking about how, when you get to be her age, you appreciate having family around. Then, she turned to Karot and said, "And you're a part of this family too, whether you like it or not."

Then, after the birthday cake, when Karot was taking pictures, my mother said, "Well, Kelly, if you're really a part of this family, Elisa, you better show your father how to use the camera so he can take a picture of the two of you with your grandma."
Grandma said, "Yes, that's right, that's right."
I showed dad how to work it - "I just push the button, right?" "Yeah."
And so we were getting ourselves situated, and Grandma said to Karot, "That's right. You lose one grandma, you get another one."

And so we had our picture taken with my grandma. She smiled a lot, and she laughed, and then she made us take pictures of my father in a weird hat.

Mama never does anything without a purpose. In two days, it will have been a year and ten months since we began dating. It will be five months since we moved in together come mid-November.

Today, Karot sang "Happy Birthday, Dear Grandma," and maybe really got to mean it.

Poem Spam

Sep. 14th, 2007 11:18 am
aquabean: (Seeds in love)
Love at First Sight
by Jennifer Maier

You always hear about it—
a waitress serves a man two eggs
over easy and she says to the cashier,
That is the man I'm going to marry,
and she does. Or a man spies a woman
at a baseball game; she is blond
and wearing a blue headband,
and, being a man, he doesn't say this
or even think it, but his heart is a homing bird
winging to her perch, and next thing you know
they're building birdhouses in the garage.
How do they know, these auspicious lovers?
They are like passengers on a yellow
bus painted with the dreams
of innumerable lifetimes, a packet
of sepia postcards in their pocket.
And who's to say they haven't traveled
backward for centuries through borderless
lands, only to arrive at this roadside attraction
where Chance meets Necessity and says,
What time do you get off?
aquabean: (Capture. Hold.)
I have a cold again. Which seems like the only time I post here, but I feel there are a few folks I have been lax in talking to recently and they should know why.


Also, Facebook totally owns me. Wow so fun and weird and fun and random all the people from high school and college that I've found. Though mostly college. Awww, I miss Kenyon.


Let's see, other news since I'm here and coherent for a few minutes in a row...

- Dad got a MacBook today for when school starts at the end of the month (he's going to be 57 on the first of October and this will be his first quarter at UCSD where he'll be getting a BA in English Literatures. I'm kind of stupid proud of him).

- Dad's MacBook came with a free iPod Nano. Which he gave to me. It's blue and named Ben and I <3 both it and my papa for being so sweet to me.

- Karot has been working lots this summer and between us we've managed to have some fun, visit some people close by, and spend some really quality time with both our families.

- Karot's Grandmother died the day after labour day, but everyone is holding up well. We spent time with her parents and it was just nice. Also, I think they don't hate me, so that leaves me thrilled in an entirely selfish way.

- My own Gma turns 93 this upcoming Tuesday, and I'm pretty stoked on that. She's had shingles for the past couple of months, which has been rough, but she's pulling along okay and just as wacky as ever. My parents are spending pretty much all their free time up at her place now, and it's interesting to watch my mother go from indulgent to frustrated to just resigned all in the space of five minutes. She has the patients of a saint, that woman.

- Bear is in Colorado right now and the family all miss her and I've finally, finally come to terms with the fact that my kid sister is the Gold Child. 'Cause she is. But somehow I'm really proud of her for that. I have this life that I'm insanely happy with, and if she can go out into the world and make her music and find that same thing for herself, then I know she'll be okay no matter what.

- We now own seven fish. Seven. This is officially the end of the line because there's just no where else to put another fish. Except for that one spot with the empty bowl on the bookcase. But we're saving that for when we find a little girl fish we just have to take home. For the time being it's staying empty.

- Today I finished reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, which was exactly what I needed. Despite the fact that she says over and over all these things I already know about writing and the writing process she does it with such good humour and irreverance that it just hit home. I think I may actually have to go and get some work done sometime soon. Woe is me.

- Karot (who is sitting on the sofa with me and being sympathetic despite my constant whining about how my head is full of snot) would like it noted that just the other day we watched My Neighbors the Yamadas, and loved every minute of it. It's not often that you find movies like this, stories that told for the sheer joy of the moment, with genuine whimsy. That's right, it's whimsical, and perfectly lovely. There's laughter that stems from the truth of family, and other moments that nothing more that happily absurd. There is even one perfect scene of quiet personal tragedy that made me smile because of the truth of it all.

- Karot starts school at the end of the month with my dad, and she's getting geared up for it slowly but surely. It means fewer work hours but more time doing work at home. It also means more time figuring out work schedules and bus routes and all kinds of things. It also means I get to wander around campus and pretend I'm a student. ...I wonder if I'll run into Papa. Heh.

- "High School Musical 2 was a disappointment and Corbin Bleu is still gay." Both of Karot's statements are true, though I would have to add that I did love the bit in the movie where Chad and Ryan traded shirts between scenes. I want to know what went down in the locker room to make that happen.

- Vanessa Hudgens, star of the previously mentioned HSM world, recently made the news because someone leaked naked pictures she took of herself when she was like 15. What makes this amazing was that my dad knew about it.

Scene: *follows a conversation between Karot and myself about Ashley Tisdale and how we <3 her while in the car with dad after work today*
Dad: *driving* Yeah, some Disney girl had naked pictures on the internet--
Me and Karot: Vanessa!
Dad: --They said it was going to ruin her career but I don't buy it. I'd never even her of her before now.
Me and Karot: *give him gossipy details on the story*
Dad: Well, times sure have changed. I mean, it's not like that's not how she is all the time under her clothes anyway.
Karot: Magic nakedness!
Dad: Heh.

- The KFC across the street from us is now surrounded by a chain-link fence with a large white banner reading, "Closed for remodeling" and then address of the next closest KFC. This would be less wildly entertaining if the building were, in fact, still standing. You rather reassess your definition of "remodeling" when faced with a lot composed of nothing more than one unlit KFC bucket and a whole lot of dirt.

- My only real concern with the new Pod is that I'll get too caught up in listening to Prairie Home Companion podcasts or something and forget to look before crossing the street and die.


That about sums it up for meaningful content over here. It's time for dinner and then bed (boo work at 7am I'm still not sure I'll be well enough to go to), besides which all those fish need feeding too. Maybe that's why it looks like they're all giving me the stink-eye from the tops of their bowls.

Poem Spam

Sep. 12th, 2007 01:42 pm
aquabean: (Gnarled she dances)
Late For Summer Weather
by William Carlos Williams

He has on
an old light grey Fedora
She a black beret

He a dirty sweater
She an old blue coat
that fits her tight

Grey flapping pants
Red skirt and
broken down black pumps

Fat Lost Ambling
nowhere through
the upper town they kick

their way through
heaps of
fallen maple leaves

still green-and
crisp as dollar bills
Nothing to do. Hot cha!
aquabean: (Bad Hoodoo)
Alright.

It should be noted that LJ has been eating ALL my comment emails and apparently has been for some time. So. If you responded to me and I never got back to you and you thought I should have? Well. Yeah. Let me know now? Ahurrr way to go sixA.

Hmph.

Poem Spam

Sep. 5th, 2007 01:59 pm
aquabean: (History)
Candles
by Carl Dennis

If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.

Poem Spam

Sep. 2nd, 2007 09:39 am
aquabean: (inkspot)
Seagulls
by Louis Jenkins

There were no seagulls in the harbor, none at the marina. I saw none in the air. There were no seagulls at Canal Park, or McDonalds, or at Russ Kendall's smokehouse, or at the Kmart parking lot, or any of their favorite hangouts. It's winter and snow is falling, but I don't believe seagulls fly south. I've often seen them standing around on the ice all day, as if they were waiting for a big bus to come and take them to a casino. Where are all the seagulls? This is not a question I ever thought I'd ask myself. You get used to someone being around and if they go away you miss them. That's how life is. But seagulls are primarily a nuisance, and if you can't count on that, what can you count on?

Poem Spam

Aug. 30th, 2007 08:53 am
aquabean: (History)
Psalm
by Stuart Kestenbaum

The only psalm I had memorized was the 23rd
and now I find myself searching for the order
of the phrases knowing it ends with surely
goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life and I will dwell
in the house of the Lord forever only I remember
seeing a new translation from the original Hebrew
and forever wasn't forever but a long time
which is different from forever although
even a long time today would be
good enough for me even a minute entering
the House would be good enough for me,
even a hand on the door or dropping today's
newspaper on the stoop or looking in the windows
that are reflecting this morning's clouds in first light.

Poem Spam

Aug. 29th, 2007 07:25 pm
aquabean: (Gnarled she dances)
Meadowbrook Nursing Home
by Alice N. Persons

On our last visit, when Lucy was fifteen
And getting creaky herself,
One of the nurses said to me,
"Why don't you take the cat to Mrs. Harris' room
— poor thing lost her leg to diabetes last fall —
she's ninety, and blind, and no one comes to see her."

The door was open. I asked the tiny woman in the bed
if she would like me to bring Lucy in, and she turned her head
toward us. "Oh, yes, I want to touch her."

"I had a cat called Lily — she was so pretty, all white.
She was with me for twenty years, after my husband died too.
She slept with me every night — I loved her very much.
It's hard, in here, since I can't get around."

Lucy was settling in on the bed.
"You won't believe it, but I used to love to dance.
I was a fool for it! I even won contests.
I wish I had danced more.
It's funny, what you miss when everything.....is gone."
This last was a murmur. She'd fallen asleep.

I lifted the cat
from the bed, tiptoed out, and drove home.
I tried to do some desk work
but couldn't focus.

I went downstairs, pulled the shades,
put on Tina Turner
and cranked it up loud
and I danced.
I danced.

Poem Spam

Aug. 17th, 2007 08:08 am
aquabean: (Family)
No Work Poem #1
by Virgil Suarez

what hurt my father most after his accident
where one bad turn to the water fountain
nearly cost him his life, a forklift dropped
a pallet of 526 pounds of compressed card—
board on him and crushed him like a bug,
was how the company told all of his work friends
that because my father had gotten a lawyer
they couldn't talk to my father anymore,
that it was policy that no one come in close
contact with him as though he had malaria
or some other contagious disease. My father
was depressed by this, a man who shared hard
work with other men, and they were his friends,
and his true friends came by anyway to share
stories of what went on at work, and this helped
rehabilitate my father, slowly, and I saw it
in his eyes when his best friend, Manzano,
told my father how many fewer boxes of coffee
they packed without him, that my father,
el campeon, still held the record—I didn't
understand this kind of work-talk,
but I saw how my father when he thought
he was alone would raise his hands and look
at them in the light, as though they were gifts,
and they were; with his hands he worked,
hard, with his hands, he beat the clock,
with his hands he provided for his family,
and proud, he looked at them, the way his
thin fingers now moved; with his hands
he clawed at life, what is given, what is taken.
aquabean: (SiTeuk - connecting dots)
So I've spent my day so far making High School Musical icons. It's full of shiny and happy and sparkles and adorable little blonde girls in tons of pink.


But what kind of world would be complete without some kind balance?

Welcome Bearforce1, everybody.*




Considering that I saw a guy at work with the bear paw tattooed on his ankle, I find this just right and good and proper somehow.


*Seriously. They're not a joke. They're just made of freakin' Hollandish Awesome.

Poem Spam

Aug. 15th, 2007 09:31 am
aquabean: (inkspot)
The Book of A
by Wesley McNair

Raised during the Depression, my stepfather
responded to the economic opportunity
of the 1950s by buying more
and more cheap, secondhand things
meant to transform his life.
I got this for a hundred bucks,
he said, patting the tractor that listed
to one side, or the dump truck that started
with a roar and wouldn't dump.
Spreading their parts out on his tarp.
he'd make the strange whistle
he said he learned from the birds
for a whole morning
before the silence set in.
Who knows where he picked up
the complete A–Z encyclopedias
embossed in gold and published
in 1921? They were going to take these
to the dump, he said. Night after night
he sat up, determined to understand
everything under the sun
worth knowing, and falling asleep
over the book of A. Meanwhile, as the weeks,
then the months passed, the moon
went on rising over the junk machines
in the tall grass of the only
world my stepfather ever knew,
and nobody wrote to classify
his odd, beautiful whistle, formed
somehow, in the back of his throat
when a new thing seemed just about to happen
and no words he could say expressed his hope.
aquabean: (History)
First day off in a while. Had good news and bad news and now I'm just tired.



I love my job. Or. Well. Not precisely. I love the company I work for. But I've come to the realization that the job I do is... not going in the direction that I want and I'm bored. Which makes me less productive. Which makes me paranoid. Which makes me tired.

In this case I think it's a little less about performance anxiety than the fact that I'm over qualified and under-stimulated, and just not making enough money to not be anxious about that instead.


All drama with my family is a post for later. Though that makes me even more tired.


But at least my fish are doin' awesome. ...Kinda need to clean the new kid's bowl. Hm. Maybe later. I've got nothin' else to do but dishes anyway.




ETA: Okay, so even if the job front is discouraging, reading Die Hard slash over at [livejournal.com profile] hard4brains helped. Heh.

Poem Spam

Aug. 9th, 2007 07:31 pm
aquabean: (Gnarled she dances)
The Mower
by Philip Larkin

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

Poem Spam

Aug. 7th, 2007 08:31 am
aquabean: (into the distance)
The Bachelor
by Leslie Monsour

No family pictures on the wall, no books,
A drafting desk, a travel magazine;
No children, one divorce, a satellite dish—
A cold, efficient exercise machine,

And in the corner with the firewood, stacks
Of videos. The fridge comes with "lite" beer
And non-fat milk for the granola stored
In jars. I've looked, but there's no sugar here.

Platoons of running shoes camp by the door;
His Boston fern, neglected, pays the price;
His one unfriendly cat purposefully saunters
Across the threshold, searching hard for mice.

As he begins to age, and his gray beard
Inaugurates the thinning of his hair,
He'll pale with each sensation in his chest,
Each flutter, every pain and numbness there—

No cardiologist, nor any chart
Will ever find the trouble with his heart.

Profile

aquabean: (Default)
Bean

Most Popular Tags

April 2009

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
121314151617 18
19202122232425
2627282930  

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags