I will not be posting any new poems during the month of April.
I will, however, revisit poems from the 3000+ poem backlog I have here online and elsewhere, and repost them; some I’ll be revising.
Just thought it might be good to see where I’ve been. I’ve posted 81 new poems this year so far, which I think is slow for me but feels right at this time. A little retrospective feels right.
Working on another project for a bit, so won’t be posting new poems for a short time. Please come back and read through the back pages…there are about 2000 poems to choose from.
Thanks.
Since this blog was created in May of 2009, there have been a lot of poems posted, a lot of comments, and a lot of readers coming by.
We’ve just passed 100,000 unique hits.
Thank you.
I’ll be gone for the next couple of days doing the family thingie, so Happy Holidays to all! Enjoy and be at peace.
Just wanted to drop a note to the regular subscribers here (and anyone else coming by, for that matter):
First off, thanks for being here. It’s gratifying to know there’s a regular readership for this.
Second, thanks for all the comments lately. I’m normally really good about trying to respond to each one and it’s been tough lately. Will get back to that soon, promise.
Last point: I don’t usually refer to it here, but if you’re interested in The Duende Project, my poetry and music recording and performance project, you might want to join us on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/TheDuendeProject
You’ll get updated info about shows, streamed tracks, occasional downloads for fans only…oh, I’m sure you know the drill.
Thanks, all.
T
Just wanted to thank all the folks who’ve been reading and commenting on the poems lately. It’s gratifying to know that people I’ve never even met are getting to see them and that they’re being read.
It’s the whole reason I do the Dark Matter blog in the first place — to put an ongoing body of work in public for public view. Sometimes it feels downright quixotic, and I’m gladdened when it seems to work.
Heartfelt thanks to all.
I’ve got a poem, “Awake,” in the new issue of Amethyst Arsenic!
Also includes poetry by Kristine Ong Muslim, Alexander Nemser, Tara Skurtu, Jade Sylvan, Michael Fitzgerald, Karen Locascio, Mangesh Naik, and more. Featuring artwork from Fred Byrd and Merlin Flower.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Just wanted to thank all the new subscribers who’ve signed on to follow the blog lately. There’s been a MESS of ya! Thanks for the support and hope you continue to read “Dark Matter.”
Tony
The poem I posted just previous to this, “The Meaningless Goal,” marks the 1000th poem posted on this blog since January 1st, 2010.
I intend to take a short break from posting poems here, but would appreciate it if those of you who subscribe and read the blog would take some time and go back and read some of the previous postings while I’m on hiatus. There will be more poems eventually, but I kind of feel like I need to take some time and do some other stuff for a while.
Thanks for your kind attention, and I’ll be back soon. Promise.
My hands fell into my lap.
My palms
opened
face up.
I called out,
Who has a hand drum?
hoping to pound this
away from me.
I sang “Shenandoah,”
hoping to lure Death
far away, across the wide river —
but he stayed
for his flamenco moment.
Darkstruck guitar, dark heels and hands,
dark dance, dark jewel.
Cante jondo, they say. Deep, dark song.
Duende, putting a song into the air
to fill a hole
in the air. It’s not about death,
they say. It’s about life. And it is, and
they also say it is enough
though it is not enough.
But say it enough, maybe
it will become enough.
At the hospital, no music.
What sound they had for me was thin and cruel.
It’s nothing to repeat here.
I came home after I listened and heard enough,
and sat with
my hands
in my lap,
palms up.
Cante jondo, duende,
what can you bring to this,
to the hole in the air, to the not enough?
I am waiting to receive word
from far away, you rolling river,
from across the wide Missouri,
of dark eyes wide open,
a flash song in the deep, even just a chord. That
will be enough,
even if at once
it is not enough again…oh,
where is my bright dancer?
Storm has taken out my home internet for what may be a few days…so expect a slower posting schedule. Thanks.
As of today, I’ve posted 900 individual new poems here since Jan.1, 2010. My intention is to post 100 more by the end of the year, to make a two-year total of 1000 poems posted.
Why do I do this? It’s explained on the “About” page here in detail, but here’s a capsule version.
Simply put, a few years ago I embarked on a project to make public my entire process as I created a body of work, posting ALL the poems I worked on over time in a single, publicly accessible blog. I thought there might be some value in documenting this — all the poems, good, bad, and mediocre that I worked on over time.
I still think this is an interesting idea. And I’m going to continue doing it.
I’ve been gratified by the feedback I’ve gotten from you over time. I hope the work stands as a testament to how one poet explored themes multiple times, edited and revisited some works, and left others behind as failed experiments (there are a lot of those here, if you ask me).
As I move closer to the “Meaningless Goal” of 1000 poems in two years, I hope you continue to enjoy and find meaning in the overall work, as well as in individual pieces.
Thanks for reading. Onward, and I hope you continue reading. As always, I invite your feedback.
My good friend, Victor Infante, has recently established a wonderful new poetry blog called “Radius.” Some great and innovative features here with unique thought behind the connections among various aspects of the many-headed beast called poetry.
Subscribe if you like what you see; submit if you’ve got the work that meets the admittedly tight guidelines. Highly recommended.
A moanfully long
time for this to go on.
In the crickets’ legs,
grieving.
What a bright star —
no, that’s a can full of people
getting away. If I could fly
I’d fly to them and knock
on the windows. Wow,
they’d say. What was that?
The grass hasn’t started growing
today, it awaits the sun —
signal to get moving toward
my eventual mowing. (There it is again,
a death reference.) God, I’m
boring myself. Dating myself.
I’d never go out with me, who
am I kidding? All this mope
and dim longing; all the snow
melting away, and all I see
is the trash underneath. Spring’s
the hang-up season. No reason
to weep, but weeping
is what works. Ask the crickets,
who must be from Rome
and must be fireproof to have made
this a life’s work. Must be
an alien song. This doesn’t sound
like my planet, much as that
wasn’t my wishing star.
stole the white
transistor radio
in brown leather case
my father never missed it
sat beneath the tree
that everyone claimed
bore figs once
then never again
captured and pilfered
baby birds that were kept
under the ribs of the dead boat up on sawhorses
until they flew or died (either fate was thrilling)
under there
first my fort
then later
my palace of ill repute
hideaway for play-groping
with neighborhood girls
before any of us understood
tightrope of good touch
obsessing over pop music
learning every song
wrestling in the shade
under the dead boat
voting in favor of tightrope
of good touch
along the ribs
dreaming of figs
Dark Matter 