Where does your muse dwell? What kinds of things or situations or emotions draw her out?
My muse dwells in the house of my tears.
My muse dwells in the house of my tears.
Colors, carefully laid out.
Three reds. Orange. Green. Green.
Two whites. Brown. Yellow. Purple.
Someone had to be there to protect you, I thought
Red. Peppers. Red. Wine. Red. Tomatoes.
your mother was busy with her nightly rituals—your father
with his nightly coke. Not the kind you put rum in.
In my dream sequence…
Purple. Slice. Yellow. Slice. Purple. Slice. Salt it like this.
Onions. Three minutes.
Hands. Water. Cold. Water. Water. Water. Water. Warm. Water. Water.
White. Chop.
Sautee half olive oil half butter.
Basil. On that shelf there.
Water. Water. Water. Water. Hot.
Sponge.
Soap.
The dogs barked. We got the gun and jumped into the truck.
It was quite funny, really.
Mushrooms and eggs squeak when done. Plate.
Green. Chop. Orange. Chop.
I think we should use all the mushrooms.
Turn down the fire, please.
That time you came back
I was trying to protect you too.
French gray sea salt. On the bottom shelf.
No. There.
Glass empty. More?
Yes. Please.
…false hopes. What else?
I only knew false love then.
Lid. Steam. Glasses. Laugh. Taste.
More salt.
I just didn’t want you to get hurt.
The Black Forest is so far.
Stir. Timer. Taste. Bowls.
I guess I shouldn’t have worried so much.
Everything turned out fine.
in the house I live in
in my mind in
my dream sequence there
is a room, there
just below the floor, there sub
strata, sub domain, sub
demesne, sub terrainy, an
apartment with no windows and
I have to crawl on
my belly, wriggle,
wiggle, writhe,
ride the escalator
down, down through a
narrow, low tunnel,
not a channel,
not a chunnel, there,
under a sloping roof, there
is a room, there
is a couch, a
sofa, a red sofa
with pillows, and
cushions, and
other accoutrements, they’re
green: mint and
purple: lilac and
they don’t clash with
over
on
against
the red sofa
in my apartment
beneath the floor, there,
if I go on
further, there
is another passage, there
in the corner, there
is a set of stairs
winding stairs
sliding stairs
finding stairs where
I least expected, they’re
built low and
steep and
deep and
down I go
to another apartment,
apart, yet a part
of the house in
my mind in
my dream sequence and
this one holds water,
plants–red salvia–and
the little humming-
birds hover over the red
salvia, dipping, humming,
sipping nectar and
dew, there
are windows there
in the sub sub domain,
down below,
windows through,
windows to, through
which I have to
crawl, wriggle, wiggle,
and the breeze is blowing through, the
Zephyrus, the
bringer of
harbinger of
singer of
Spring, the
West Wind, it tickles
my hair and
awakens me
beckons me
reckons me
among the blessed there
in the house I live in
in my mind in
my dream sequence there
In answer to your question last night
To be a poet— a real poet—
is to be an intellectual.
I am quite certain.
To be a poet
is to ask
convoluted questions
that don’t really mean anything
at all.
To be a poet
is to pretend to understand— and
to give a damn— about those
convoluted questions.
To be a poet— a real poet—
is to sound erudite—
learned—scholarly—lettered—wise— /Pretentious/
at all times,
even if you’re not.
To be a poet
Is to wear the right clothing— and
to practice your cool face in the mirror
so you’ll get it just right
at the next poetry reading.
To be a poet— a real poet—
is to write
in jagged
little
lines
and think you’ve done
something
quite profound.
If that is what it takes
to be a poet— a real poet—
I’d rather you called me
a writer.
Going up to see the destruction later
on. Lines and pipes. Crypts in your breast.
Where can I go to find your soul?
As the winds blow and the mists
roll in down the mountain I cry
for the soul that never found its way
up out of the crypts.
Through the yellowed grass
thistles, barbs
and piles of dead
wood—home to rodents—
I trudge, hauling on my back
some form of tribute to you,
to your ways, to your soul.
Sister who cried out at dawn
I hear you in my dreams calling
out—My children! O my children!—
I hear you. The purple beauty of the
mountains rolls down with the mist
as I climb to you. Yellow-orange monsters
have raped and ravished you, leaving you
scarred, gaping, unable, at last,
even to cry.
1.
Finches gather seeds
of thought while
clouds pass across
imaginal vistas
rain-washed vestiges
tracing
the lines leaving you
far behind leading
to the brink of
what’s reality and
what’s recycled,
yellow-green bellies
and clarion calls.
2.
Immersion
in Poetry
Light and
clouds sailing by
an azure arc
above
viridian seas
swatches, snatches
flashes of
winged jewels
humming
nectar drops
of dew
scent of time
lingers on
the air as crisp
as apples
3.
The birds are in the basil again
eating what’s gone to seed
bringing to mind Monsanto
and mutations
unintended consequences of
not-so-well-thought-out plans
Dying Monarchs
bright orange and black
bellwethers, bees
and canaries
(After John Ashbery)
by Annisa Tangreen
A note to readers: This poem is part of a journal of imitations done in the spring of 2011 for a class on contemporary American poetry given by Professor Tenney Nathanson at the University of Arizona. This particular poem is an imitation of the style of John Ashbery, a 20th century American poet. The other poems in the series consist of an imitation of Frank O’Hara (Egypt), Charles Bernstein (Thorny Crowns of Optimism), and Leslie Scalapino (Choices).
The rough dog birdbath superficial eye cactus grill
ground under your cigarette butts
fallen… push…
leaves you empty. Sunday
those slippers were there
eavesdropping nonversations… the droning
it’s gotta be done
fur hat jutting indifferent over steelies
click of going round
glutenous death grease spot on the pavement
rips open…
pants on the ground with rabid dogs and the
Crunch crunch crunch
of gravel, and birds
most calloused conductors training
it was extremely rude of you not to wait
the jiggle of too many
and sour sweat bomb shelters
muk a luks asscheeking the seminal youth
seminaries
on bicycles binoculars
we can and if you haven’t… Please show
the rigid honeyseeking pricks
in fast cars all the time and fuck
off and… smell the and grease up the counters clean
you don’t do it because you’re lazy What?
No… I do that all the time
pedagogical pedometers and then
hissing mystery lectures, random snatches
and high heels
over – just don’t ever call me again, she said
dried toads under Volvo hubcaps
poignant vernal heliotropes
charlatan churls brooming the ice
and seawater… do not
worry they are
coming
(After Charles Bernstein)
by Annisa Tangreen
A note to readers: This poem is part of a journal of imitations done in the spring of 2011 for a class on contemporary American poetry given by Professor Tenney Nathanson at the University of Arizona. This particular poem is an imitation of the style of Charles Bernstein, a 20th century American poet. The other poems in the series consist of an imitation of Frank O’Hara (Egypt), John Ashbery (Do Not Worry They Are Coming), and Leslie Scalapino (Choices). **NOTE: The typographical errors in this poem are there on purpose.
Incredible capacious blankness,
blackness drowning
pangs of longing,
knowing joyful opulence
sheltered some years, you’ve
grown and all and. Nighttime
more incendiary, insinuating
memories a farce a,
paucity, paltry some a and.
Stairs. Stop. The and mighty if
only. Stop. Thorny crowns of optimism.
“All aboard the Jolly Roger!” Stop.
“Get the ones that are easy to grow. That way everyone will think you have a green thumb.”
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Compelled
to experience those things
that complete us, at last.
Forging ahead unheeding, unaware
of those things left behind.
Screaming
of our destinies, the future, always.
Little boys become men and
little girls, women. Before our eyes,
before their time. Then we only notice
the now, as compared to what has been,
what once was and will never be again.
You shall respect your mother and your father.
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Sinking
the
in while
floods
What matter
I my
and my me?
When thousands
of are
and bloated
on the
of
Dead
that were
playing the
of far -yen?
And
is ok
and invited
jewelry !
As anyone
alone
any more
I dog
special because
Because
the richest
in the
, that doesn’t
earthquakes
or
My gets
and tofu
and , and
And purple
up shore
Japan.
isotopes drift
the .
People in
in ,
in the they
yesterday.
As if the Kardashians matter at all to anyone in the world, ever, in the long run.
And all the knowing of answers
and telling and. Wasted breath, wasted
time is precious, specious.
All of this. This is all.
Cyclical hopes of fortuitous
turnings. Risings, repenting,
lamenting. “You were right.”
Turning up; up the stairs
tuning out
the call because you
were always loved
too much.
(After Leslie Scalapino)
by Annisa Tangreen
A note to readers: This poem is part of a journal of imitations done in the spring of 2011 for a class on contemporary American poetry given by Professor Tenney Nathanson at the University of Arizona. This particular poem is an imitation of the style of Leslie Scalapino, a 20th century American poet. The other poems in the series consist of an imitation of Charles Bernstein (Thorny Crowns of Optimism), John Ashbery (Do Not Worry They Are Coming), and Frank O’Hara (Egypt).
PART I
alienation
the sense of
— their – her –
having
made all
the wrong
decis-
ions
where they – she –
could have
said
black – their—
her –
mistake
was yellow
having said
— given –
the
wrong – not their –
answers and
coming
apart
so many
— the children—
having depend-
ed on her
having made
any
choice at
all
it was not then — but now – that having known what could be known; calling shots retroactively; they suppose – her, their – having wasted opportunities wasted time
it was when the girl was in the window and out the window – the boy coming through; and she – they – having made a wrong choice, having been oppressed, not having had another choice.
PART II
yellow it
was his
hair
–having
chosen
yellow over
black –
striking her
hard
and her – their –
will was,
had been
for some
time, over
ruled by
violence
and having put
— being driven –
herself into – under —
the marriage – she,
they –
having made
the only
choice
up it was
and
down
time after
time, she – they —
having made promises
could not
but keep
them
the children had chased her – the girl — all the way home from school like a dog from a pack; chanting, advancing, driving; and she had been able to find no sanctuary in the church
PART III
not then –
knowing how
things would
turn out – she would
have been doing
it all differently;
having stayed
she – they –
suffered
are the children better off? his example, her example versus his example, her example – their – of cowering, standing, running, loving – sanity/insanity; will they
people – he, she – change every cell in their – his, her – bodies in seven years and it had been twenty one so that’s thrice the difference but is it?
four months
had it been
and he – they, not her –
having given
a ring
she – not her –
sympathetic
to his
— not her –
plight
kids are resilient
they bounce
back then
their – I, not she –
not having known
better
nor having thought
better
having made
all
the wrong
choices
PART IV
a box
a car
having wrecked—
ruined—
their – his, her –
chances for
having made
the right
choices
he had lost something – just a box! – important and she did not understand, so she – he, they – kept misunderstanding, and that time they were arguing in the bathroom.
it was too late to start over, having that thought of making love and peace; but there were choices and she – they, he – having been too stubborn to see the right choice, or their being it
scrubbing of the
pots and
pans
while she – he –
wrote and worked
– having been quiet –
but is the choice
the one
keeping them
– him, her –
moving
in the
right direction
a choice?
Sinking into the Velvet Moon
2009 Cabernet
in crystal
while the world reels
in isotopes and the ocean
floods the land.
What does it matter
if I hate my job?
Hundreds of thousands
of people are displaced
and bloated purple bodies
wash up on the shore
of Japan.
Dead,
purpling,
bloated bodies
that once were children
playing on the shores
of far Ku-to-yen.
And on Facebook
everything is ok,
and I’ve been invited
to a jewelry party.
Jewelry!
As though anyone —
let alone I –
needs any more STUFF!
I mean aren’t there
more important things
in this world?!
I feed my dog
a special diet
because I can.
Because I live
in the richest country
in the world.
In a state that doesn’t
see earthquakes
or tsunamis.
My dog gets steamed veggies
and tofu
and flaxseed oil
and herbs.
While bloated purple bodies
wash up on the shore
of Japan.
While isotopes drift
across the Pacific.
While people huddle in shelters
in blankets
in the clothes
they wore yesterday.
And I’m sure
they’re not thinking
about jewelry.
Annisa Tangreen