A Room For Poetry

"Well, your face doesn't show no tragedy" Ted Wilson, Dec 2011

I am oft in awe While in your bed The comfort that I allow    myself to experience As I lie beneath the sheets she picked out. by Janet Jarrell April is poetry month - long live Al Purdy!

            To Admit So, she paints her face white Looks deep in the mirror To see if there is anything there "Am I worthy?" "I am afraid." She blesses herself To prove she is clean Then drinks back the wine and takes the bread She finally admits who she is A mystery By Janet Jarrell http://countylive.ca/blog/?p=10981

Struck...as My lips remain dumb I am in awe of myself Dancing in the rings of the full moon Working in the fields, harvesting time Remembering me yet Not knowing me In want of me Je suis tu es ils est elle est nous sommes ... No second chances Mark has butter sandwiches and you and Mimee Turn out ok Goo goo ga joob...

Before bed, she painted her face she wore her mask to bed so no one would know her                     in her dreams She dreamt of painting and dancing Of speaking to Jesus Of dating a woman And writing                 the truth All of these things made her happy As she slept

A wee look into my thought process... Mar 24/09 In search of wisdom and contentment, I start yet another journal - this one dedicated to truth and lies, poems and prose - me. I want My father died still in want It is spring and the land is wanting what lies beneath not wanting to be found I want In want to be larger than life Yet want to shrink away into nothingness In want of a child In want of Love To be Loved To Love I want Janet Jarrell

So, she paints her face white Looks deep in the mirror To see if there is anything there "Am I worthy?" "I am afraid." She blesses herself To prove she is clean Then drinks back the wine and takes the bread She finally admits who she is A mystery

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am." "Kiss me and you will see how important I am." "If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days." Sylvia Plath (1932-10-27 – 1963-02-11) So much like Sylvia, Iam. Iam. Iam.

If everyone could be so confident and cool as Pinky Tuscadero, and snap their fingers, and be loved by Fonzi - well, true poetry is subjective...

This may not be a poem, but it is certainly poetic. I was quite moved when I saw this in When Nietzsche Wept and thus was compelled to share it with you here. "We were friends and have become strangers to each other. This is as it ought to be. We do not want either to conceal or obscure the fact as if we had to be ashamed of it. We are two ships, each of which has its goal and its course. And finally, Dr. Breuer, we have to become strangers to one another, because it's the law to which we are subject."

" Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it . " Maya Angelou US author & poet (1928 - )

Leathered berry tongue Deep heaving breaths A wet face Upon this plank pine Nay to thee terracotta Have it Have there Have thee Adam and Eve The want, the knowing The peace amidst the chaos The wet breeze after the rain That leaves the body damp The smell of dust The sounds of night pending The rush – haste – awe of it all Thank thee now Fugerit invida The knowing, to know is to Beat the serpent Good and Evil – who decides But together – good or bad – We are one Bring life, breathe life from the dust One will always Die from the knowing Attempt to covereth with man God always knows Submit – submit – supplicate Forgive me Father, for I have sinned by Janet Jarrell

Ascend, ascend, ascend There are times when you will never know what side of the wall you are on. Why does the caged bird sing? Maya Angelou asks For the same reason the pianist plays! replies Roman Polanski and he should know "Why the fucking coat?" "I'm cold." Inspired by the movie The Pianist Janet Jarrell

deviantArt The new bookkeeper looks disheveled – she is about my age but her eyes are tired. She smiles at times but it appears forced. For the most part, her expression is less – expressionless; and as she sits like that the corners of her mouth turn down just slightly – enough to suggest some complacency and slight unhappiness. There is no real effort. Janet Jarrell

With special permission, I am posting a beautiful poem from Kenia, a fellow avid blogger, writer and poet (not necessarily in that order). The following poem, much to my absolute delight, was dedicated to me. I shared the poem with my children on Thanksgiving as a little toast during our dinner. Kenia has a gift. She has the ability to express truth beautifully through words; what more could be asked from a writer. I love visiting her blog, reading her words, and seeing my own thoughts expressed skillfully in her poems, both in Portuguese and English. For a little taste of her inspiration… http://poesiatorta.blogspot.com/ Vou usar seus olhos alegres Como armadura Quando minha imagem no espelho For difícil demais de olhar E buscarei neles a bravura necessária Para travar minhas intermináveis batalhas Diárias E chegar em casa em tempo de prepara-te o jantar - Porque é exatamente isso que as mães fazem e você não ouse esquecer que por trás de todo o metal há um coração que pulsa por voc...

see myself staggering through deep snow lugging blocks of wood yesterday an old man almost falling from bodily weakness - look down on myself from above then front and both sides white hair - wrinkled face and hands it's really not very surprising that love spoken by my voice should be when I am listening ridiculous yet there it is a foolish old man with brain on fire stumbling through the snow - the loss of love that comes to mean more than the love itself and how explain that? - a still pool in the forest that has ceased to reflect anything except the past - remains a sort of half-love that is akin to kindness and I am angry remembering remembering the song of flesh to flesh and bone to bone the loss is better Beyond Remembering - The collected poems of Al Purdy.

THE golden-rod is yellow; The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down. The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun. The sedges flaunt their harvest, In every meadow nook; And asters by the brook-side Make asters in the brook. From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather, And autumn's best of cheer. But none of all this beauty Which floods the earth and air Is unto me the secret Which makes September fair. 'T is a thing which I remember; To name it thrills me yet: One day of one September I never can forget.

More than a storey high and twice that long, it looks igneous, the Buhler Versatile 2360, possessed of the ecology of some hellacious minor island on which options are now standard. Cresting the sections in a corona part dirt, part heat, it appears risen full blown from our deeper needs, aspirating its turbo-cooled air, articulated and fully compatible. What used to take a week it does in a day on approximately a half mile to the gallon. It cost one hundred fifty grand. We hope to own it outright by 2017. Few things wrought by human hands are more sublime than the Buhler Versatile 2360. Across the road, a crew erects the floodlit derricks of a Texan outfit whose presumptions are consistently vindicated. The ancient seabed will be fractured to 1,000 feet by pressuring through a pipe literal tons of a fluid — the constituents of which are best left out of this — to tap the sweet gas where it lies like the side our bread is buttered on. The earth shakes terribly then, dear Houston, dear p...

Something moves just beyond the mind's clumsy fingers. It has to do with seeds. The earth's insomnia. The garden going on without us needing no one to watch it not even the moon. by Lorna Crozier

Last night during dinner, my family and I enjoyed listening to Canada Live on CBC 2. This was a most special broadcast for me as it featured Rufus Wainwright live in Niagara on the Lake. Overall, I enjoyed listening to him tell little stories, including an elegy to Jeff Buckley, in between his performances. His opening song was I’m Going To A Town . On the cusp of the Health Care Reform platform that Obama is pushing for, Rufus dedicated this song, which he called a poem, to the United States. This is just a partial of the lyrics, my favourite bits… I’m Going To A Town Tell me do you really think you go to hell for having loved? Tell me and not for thinking everything that you've done is good (I really need to know) After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood I'm so tired of America (I really need to know) Making my own way home Ain't gonna be alone I got a life to lead America I got a life to lead I got a soul to feed I got a dream to heed And that's all I need Ma...