Orion’s Belt, My Hips
I wail for a living’s sake.
I mumbled under my breath/
I trust you with my life as I walked to 25th street station.
I hate to see that evening Sun bite down/
one ruler for another
In the highway’s curve, in the swept/
light that precedes the car, I am/
coming home.
Each line of a poem is a mystery, a puzzle for the mind to solve. Good poems are mysteries so absorbing that only by carrying them around with me does the mystery begin to make sense.
The image of the Starving Artist in the garret has been supplanted by the Savvy Artist-Administrator in the office, on the stage, and on the iPhone.
Autobiographical or not, volumes of poetry feather open the writer’s human heart and lay it, pinned and spread, on butterfly pages.
From the Telegraph: The Internet is causing a poetry boom. Poetry reading groups – known as “series” – are becoming stronger thanks to the growth of online communities to back them up, he said. “These reading series often have Facebook groups around them. The net is helping smaller networks get together across the country so [...]