Gift from writer Sherman Alexie, a signed copy of his fine letterpress #book.
“A Memory of Elephants” is a limited edition of only 500 copies.
This slim volume is a confessional collection of poems that explores mental disorder, regret for things left unsaid to parents, tribal identity, #love and questions to #God.
There's blue, and then there's blue.
A number, not a hue, this blue
is not the undertone of any one
but there it is, primary.
I held the bouquet
in shock and cut the stems at a deadly angle.
I opened the toxic sachet of flower food
with my canine and rinsed my mouth.
I used to wash my hands and daydream.
I dreamed of myself and washed
my hands of everything. Easy math.
Now I can't get their procedure
at the florist off my mind.
The white flowers arrived! They overnighted
in a chemical bath
and now they have a fake laugh
that catches like a match
that starts the kind of kitchen fire
that is fanned by water.
They won't even look at me.
Happy Anniversary.
-- Robyn Schiff
A different world comes into view for an instant, hidden within the bits of this one. Pieces and particles below the surface tension of solidity and immutability. A network of whispering secrets reaching out to all the unspoken things.
And you start to think, that maybe, just maybe, if you could collect enough of them, you could be different too.
We can only measure our velocity in relation. In the velocity of our relations. But, what is the worth of measuring the aim and rate of something so fleeting and so small? Minuscule mammals on a mid-sized planet. Wanderering dust upon a wanderer, wandering around a common yellow star...
#OnThisDay in #history - in 1638, Sibylle Schwartz died at the age of 17 after a sudden illness. Sibylle was the daughter of the mayor of Greifswald (in northern #Germany or Pomerania) and she wrote #poetry from the age of 7. She wrote many poems influenced by her experiences living in the Thirty Years' War, when her town was occupied. Sibylle's work was published to much acclaim after her early death. #OTD#histodons#author#poet@histodons
Her collected poems: https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_Lms_AAAAcAAJ
We buy time. We pay attention. We wonder about our worth. Try to steal a moment. Production, consumption, and trade. Gifts turned into commodities. Dividends distributed, but not always to the highest bidder. Sometimes simply the most convenient. The supply of yearning with the loudest demands. The hollowest shell. The emptiest well. Scarcity, craving, deprivation, and fear.
We come into contact with an eschaton. An apocalypse. Revelation and disruption at once. A moment that redefines what everything means. “A moment that changes [all] the moments that follow,” Erin Morgenstern says. One that revises and reshapes. Starts and concludes. One that marks the end of everything you thought you knew, and the beginning of a whole new way to be you.
I was sick, and you said "You look fine to me".
I was sick, and you cast me off.
I was sick, and you used it against me.
I was sick, and you took my health care.
I was sick, and you battered and killed.
I was sick, and you fought for a wooden hammer.
I was sick, and you fought about blue and red.
I was sick, and you fought as the nations watched with disdain.
I was sick, and you fought the "wrong" while resembling it.
I was sick, as you fought for "all" but, forgot about us.
My adaptation of Matthew 25:39 inspired by the work below. (Not an endorsement for religion or church)
I was hungry, and you blamed it on the communist
I was hungry, and you circled the moon.
I was hungry, and you told me to wait
I was hungry, and you set up a commission.
I was hungry, and you said "So were my ancestors".
I was hungry, and you said we don't hire over 35.
I was hungry, you said God helps those…
I was hungry, and you told me I shouldn't be.
I was hungry, and you told me machines do that work now.
I was hungry, and you had napalm bills to pay.
I was hungry, and you said the poor are always with us.
Lord, when did we see you hungry?
Something happens when you give yourself to the simmer. To the sound of soft breathing. To the heat of skin on skin. When one thing leads to another. Something happens when you unravel. When you unfurl. When you unfold.
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
-- Langston Hughes
There are patterns that govern our lives. Postulates that outline what we think to be true. Methodologies. Beliefs. Strategies. Assumptions. Master narratives and grounding principles. Our own personal unified theory of being in the world.
And then, there are moments when we discover that all of our itemized presumptions don't mean shit.
I’ve been asked to contribute #poetry for a #book in honor of #sineadoconnor & have just submitted my #poem . Will keep you posted when chapbook is available.