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By stbond - About Me - E-mail this page - Add to My Favorites - Add to Blog List - See other blogs in Poetry

Tuesday, April 4, 2006

Poetry and nail fungus

So I'm reading some poetry by Ted Hughes, or trying to, trying to get rid of the old knee-jerk distaste I always had for the man who left Sylvia Plath, a woman whose happiest hours had been spent tanning beneath American or Mediterranean suns, to struggle with two children and wrestle with her art... Sign in to see full entry.

posted by stbond at 5:29 AM | add or view comments (0) | leave calling card | link to this | view only this entry

Monday, April 3, 2006

"Panning Gold," a song

I wrote this a while back when I was in the rare Western-settler mood. You know the feeling? I'm panning gold in a rushing stream I'm panning gold I'm looking for the American dream I'm panning gold I left for Californ-i-ay One snowy Carolina day I left behind my favorite friend Said, when I'm rich... Sign in to see full entry.

posted by stbond at 11:14 AM | add or view comments (0) | leave calling card | link to this | view only this entry

That night

We flew like bats that night Tearing eagle claws into each other Into a piñata full of stars They fell like snow Como nieve, you said We touched tongues that night Two serpents on a rock Warm, even at medianoche Where a strand of the sun's hair still trailed Like gold, you said, como oro We saw... Sign in to see full entry.

posted by stbond at 9:06 AM | add or view comments (0) | leave calling card | link to this | view only this entry

Sunday, April 2, 2006

Cabinet of the night

In the cabinet of the night The just-born moths are soft as breath They move their drying wings Their name is stars, Their history brief as a cave’s cold floor In the cavern of the night Minerals lengthen, brim like tears They ripen and fall And stab the heart of sleeping things The blood they draw... Sign in to see full entry.

posted by stbond at 10:45 PM | add or view comments (0) | leave calling card | link to this | view only this entry

I retain the rights to my work

I’m making quiche from milk and processed cheese I search the want ads only when I please Wrote “writer” under job just yesterday Then checked my roots to see if they were gray I retain the rights to my work My mailbox bulges with a Kmart tome Sometimes I think my poems sound alone I’m making... Sign in to see full entry.

posted by stbond at 1:49 PM | add or view comments (5) | leave calling card | link to this | view only this entry

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