The Noisy Pen: Poems by Don McIver

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She forgets her job, blushes, giggling heatedly, and looks coquettishly away as bottles gather her nectar, drop by drop slipping past their lips. They guessed Barb was 60 pounds lighter after the liposuction. The wide buttocks were gone, the heavy rolls of the belly. She was left with a few sharp angles covered by leftover skin.

People joked that she might have wings if she stretched her arms out. Unkindness helped to mask the vague longing they felt, the loss of their desire to crawl into her lap, bury themselves in the soft flesh of her middle. In desperation, they contrived ridiculous Bacchanalias, forced reasons to bring food to the office.

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They never looked at Barb, who stayed in her cubicle, but urgently offered each other pieces of cake, tried to persuade each other to eat just one more slice of pie. Sasha was executed yesterday, stoned to death in the square for being a Jew. The desert air is a scar. Burial mounds dot the moon-drenched cemetery. An old bearded man, shoes untied, stumbles, cries, searches for his wife's grave. I climb a hill outside the city, look down to Kabul, throw three rocks at the devil, walk towards the city lights. The desert air is a diaphanous skin I can't touch. I breathe dust. Blood flowers from my ears.

The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump: ‘I am the least racist person there is’

I can't live here anymore. In Kabul, tomorrow is my enemy, and I hunger for Sasha's touch. Bobby always ran home accusing someone of something, bringing his mother back to yell at the rest of us. When we built a tree house, Bobby fell and broke his arm. His parents demanded the tree house be torn down, and it was. One day, on a bluff overlooking the inlet, we were going to try to fly using a giant homemade kite tethered to a tree. Bobby demanded to be first. We strapped him and the kite tightly together. He jumped, swept down the face of the bluff, got enough air to get lift and he flew.

When he was well over the cold gray waves of the inlet we cut the tether. Inertha was terrified of small things. Pennies made her cringe, as did dust mites and thumb tacks. Often before an episode of Diminution Hysteria, Abel's pudgy little arm, holding a bottle of Gerber's blended carrots or peas or celery, would rise up from the highchair, and he'd smash it on the green linoleum. She'd howl at the broken glass, scattered into countless terrifying shards. But because it was Abel's doing, and he could do no wrong, she was temporary healed.

Like homeopathy. One day the bottle didn't break. It just bounced. She screamed. He laughed.

January 15-21, 2007: Don McIver and Ed Higgins

She gave him up for adoption. Nowadays he works for Underwriters Laboratories. Electric sockets amuse him. Since that encounter, I have found wild horses to be an irresistible attraction. Many of us have succumbed to the pull of these majestic animals, and my best way of managing this addiction is with a camera in hand. Then, at least, I can feel I have some control over their pull, even as I know I am the one who is hopelessly in love.

I have been blessed with witnessing many stages of their lives: births, newborns finding their first legs, the ceremonial establishment of pecking orders, magnificent battles, powerfully joyous play, and unavoidable signs of the final chapter. I find there is much to learn and value in how they live their lives. Untouched by politics, clocks, appointments, or phone calls, these animals epitomize the meaning of living in the moment.

My photography attempts to capture these moments in raw and bold form. I rely on flexibility, attention, and intimate knowledge to create my images. I pull from my past career as a psychologist for three decades in focusing primarily on their behaviors and relationships. To make a beautiful photograph, all that I require is my camera and lens and a little lighting help from nature; the horses provide the rest. My photography attempts to capture some of these elusive moments for humans to experience. My ultimate goal is to share the rawness of nature with my viewers in a manner that stirs emotion and wonder.

The display runs from February 26 through March The prints have been generously offered by Avi as a benefit for PAS. The reception is at 2 p. Beyond this show, please look to www. You may contact Avi at avi davidcramer. David's work was was featured in the Signpost in September, Two Albuquerque poets will share the podium—Lisa Gill and Don McIver, both well known for their poetry and their poetry-activist activities in the area. Each has organized numerous events over the years, giving many poets an opportunity to read their work and to hear other local poets.

Essentially, this latter work is dramatic poetry while her other works are lyric poetry. This work is an illustrated memoir containing poetry, prose, and art. Gill, who was the organizer of the Stir Poetry Festival a few years ago which included poetry readings in multiple venues in the greater Albuquerque area, has read her poems around the country, most recently at the Beyond Baroque Poetry Center in Los Angeles.

McIver has performed his poetry all over the United States winning the National Poetry Slam—the largest in history , produced poetry events big and small, and was the media director for the Bravo Awards. There will be a short open mic period after the two featured poets have read. If interested, please sign up immediately upon arrival for the event. They discussed al-non and Buddhism: disability and the mom-po list; Portland poets and food.

They discuss rape and abortion and being sexualized versus being desexualized. They discussed chandeliers and mirrors and clothes they landed at the thrift store. They discussed meditation and their dharma teacher and common household cleaning products and which was the best public library branch. They discussed college versus no college and grants and business plans and swimming pools and yoga. They discussed the projects of others and what it would take to get a teaching job. They traded ideas and books and groceries and clothes. They traded sorrows and worries and happinesses and printer paper.

Andrea could do things that Jennifer could not do and she did some of these things for her. Conversely, Jennifer did things for Andrea; things that Andrea did not know how to do. He is my true friend in the sense that he deeply cares, I mean, deeply does not care, who I am. Jennifer Bartlett. She suggested I send a few poems of mine. New Strings of Silk new strings of silk between me and my morning chair bright light sunrise tethered optic fiber back and forth back and forth on air I walk the long way.

Raised by Old People Mowgli was raised by wolves Tarzan was raised by apes I was raised by old people. I ride the train to Florence from Lucca and think of the pueblo in New Mexico where Corn Dance Clowns shake the earth as the train clickity clacks over the rails incantation.

Visit Dante's home on Dante Alighieri street climb the stairs with the few curious tourist from China I gaze at his dagger, his masterpiece open, lovingly placed under glass with blue illumination. Dante, your streets the old winding roads of your Comedia still weep in anguish and the swallows, as always leave drops of blood in the sky to fall on us like so much else. After all these years do you still miss the sweet charms of her soft earth? In the morning pale sky the church bells awaken the dead. Shepherd flocks graze the green hillsides - oh, where is my name among the poets?

Years ago when Joe was living in Placitas, we had a lot of fun putting together the rather wild Oriental Blue Streak, a mimeo pub from duende. Here's Joe Bottone on the right. The late Bill Pearlman sitting in foreground. Thanks, Joe.

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See AnnValleyFox. The whole event was a memorable moment in our time. From ten to twenty, Joanne practiced the violin. He holds a choke of words in his throat benevolently, like Shiva the Rescuer, blue-faced with poison. Tidal rhythms rinse and pull back, as gratitude floods the sheer shelves of continents.

As for heartbreak, eye-dropped into our sparkling vials, this is how we recognize animal warmth in others. Forgive me.

Anne Valley-Fox. May I remove them? He shrugs his assent and sits on the stool in sleeveless tee-shirt, unnervingly sexy, like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. He tells me he wants to leave his wife, the stick-thin queen, for another woman. I once knew a man of power, I say, who made a similar switch at his age; it was a train wreck but in the end, everyone came out okay. The queen keeps popping into the room to lob an acerbic remark. Because he believes it's his absolute right, he'll leave her for someone who morphs into somebody else.

There may be more children. No one involved will be happy, or exactly unhappy. Bored by our antics, fate turns a blind eye. Sending a long poem for Jack Spicer written some time ago but never published in its completed form. If too much ask for something else. Latif Latif no! In the pantheon of voices choices need to be made take your fly powder like an aspirin tell everyone to have the guts even Roberts one, two and three gee are they dead too say cheese if you please lead our darling ones astray into a meadow of back slapping waltzes they the leaders resent the magical fly powder of a man like yourself your dead sons educate you it is sad this waltz too but take apart your lovely heart and put it together again Period as the last fly ball is caught the last pool ball clunks down retrieved only by quarters ressurecto this leather hide oh plunk your quarters down Mr.

It is my rewarding aplomb to announce: Barter Within the Bark of Trees is available from the resurrected Duende Press. Latif is the man who drove Jack Spicer to his last poetry reading at the Berkeley Conference , by the way. Jill and Joe Somoza in the Organ Mountains when the poppies were in full bloom. Joseph Somoza sends us 3 poems.

People may think what they think. What are we anyway, famous? Step outside ourselves and notice the flowering bushes, the Victorian facades, the old Japanese woman walking home with groceries. If we lived here? If we came from here? If we had gone to grade school here? Poet He speaks nonsensical whimsy for the love of hearing speech phrases in a visible form he can modulate, re-combine fancifully, evocatively, or, just, undermine his own expectations, liking to hear a possible, new language one would speak for no reason but the love of how it sounds.

A Million Lives Amazing always, but especially now in the early. A freight train passing through town, down the hill where tracks lie in wait for a train to come blow its whistle while I sit in morning shade Joseph Somoza construction by Jill Somoza. See my poem "California Dream" at the beginning of this blog Laurie Macrae.

A Gentile Kaddish Sung for All Fallen in the Sun Written after finishing the book Spain in Our Hearts, about those who died No, son, only a lucky few of us are Jews -thick micks, Belgians, Germans -we were and are-- yet proud enough to have known those earth deep people of that Tribe of Moses, or the Gente of Nuevo Mexico and the loving folk of Vietnam Louisiane, Africa, Spain-- oh, any fine land where they still breathe free Aghanistan Iraq those of faith those of Allah or even the good believers in Pope or Lenin, Rastafari or Buddha, for sweet Christ's sake! Mary Oishi Larry, Attached are 2 poems that I haven't already published.

One is obviously really recent. What I've been up to? Working in public radio takes up much of my time not spent sleeping. Then there's writing and performing poems, both of which are acts of joy and magic. Oh, and there's taking care of dogs--mine and friends' on occasion. Volunteering with gay youth one night a week, which I've done for 19 years. Preparing my blues show--that's about 9 hours of prep time.

Listening to and cataloging new CDs for airworthy tracks. Checking Facebook. Ranting about the state of things. Trying to grab hope and keep dancing. Nothing much, I guess. A brutal something. If he kills ten people by firing a gun into a crowd, he may be a character in another story. He may loom too large for the story you had in mind.

If he kills fifty, he may require an essay. If this character needs a course in reasoning, you might send him to France to learn pure and applied logic and new depths of deadpan. Or you might want to open a whole new aspect of the narrative featuring this second character. And if the answer is an AK 47, this character could well belong in another story. If the man fires into a classroom where he assassinates the teacher and nearly all the children, then turns the gun on himself after firing several rounds at the police who enter by the same door, you have the beginning of a Great American Novel.

Gloria Frym. John Roche 78 Grandmothers When Sinjar was liberated in November the Peshmerga uncovered mass graves, one containing 78 Yazidi grandmothers. When the black-clad conquerors arrived in August they sorted the Yazidi women by age, a simple triage: The maidens to be sex slaves, their mothers to be servants, their grandmothers to be shot or buried alive. Nor equate warrior culture, religious fundamentalism, and patriarchy.

Nor analyze the rise of this particularly savage apocalyptic cult. Only say, there is a grave in Sinjar containing 78 grandmothers. Only say, the poet's curse be on those who disrespect grandmothers. Only say, the poet's curse fierce and ineradicable be upon the heads of those who slay the 78 grandmothers, and upon those who slay the grandmothers, and upon those who slay the 7, grandmothers. May they be immediately rendered impotent and suffer a thousand humiliations and torments, and may a coward's death soon follow.

Only say, may peace come to Sinjar, and children play with grandmothers, and brides be dressed by grandmothers, and babes be held in the arms of grandmothers. John Roche who, by the way, lives when he can in Albuquerque, in fact has moved here and just got married to Jules Nyquist of the very active Poets Playhouse Who would not agree? Larry Goodell I wrote this early morning of the wedding of Jules Nyquist and John Roche and was so honored to read it during the wedding ceremony. And Margaret Randall read for John and Jules too.

Thanks to all. Blessings in festival of the seasonal reverberates, history making new history the story telling itself over and over in ever new ways is what you are beginning to tell. Love folds out in creaturehood and presents us with a map of understanding and your partnership. Love always and with gratitude June 18th Wedding Day, from Larry.

Joe Shooman writes: April

Note: 3 lg poems just appeared thanks to Kenneth P. Gurney whose Adobe Walls published many of our area poems. This new venture is called Watermelon Isotope. I have no name. I turn my foot as zombies chase. I go to the basement to change the fuse. I leave to pee and never return. I wear red on the away team. I know that glorious cantankerous craving to be special, to be the one and only to not be mistaken for someone else.

There are perks to being the sidekick. No autograph hounds pester me. But lets face it. Call me Robin, or Wilson, or Watson, or Tonto. We are famous in our own ways. We are also necessary. We remember their stories. We ride behind them. We have their backs.

Take the Mic: The Art of Performance Poetry, Slam, and the Spoken Word

Deborah Coy. See Beatlick Press for some of Deborah's editing publishing and original work.


Since then, he has lent editorial and management assistance to a number of literary and artistic ventures, such as MadHat, Inc. You remember when you truly understood that no help was on the way. Since then, you find pleasure in your own company and rely on your own mind to occupy you.

Since then you grow as the tree, at once into the sky and into the earth. The lotto numbers on fortune cookies have become your numerology, power found in patterns that have weight due to your will. Dogs will fight over your remains. But when you are alone with yourself, there is always one stranger present.