Awakening Presence Week 2 Recording
Here you will find:
1) a recording of me reading this week's poems
2) the poems printed
3) a handout for the pantoum form
4) sample poems for the optional writing prompt
1) a recording of me reading this week's poems
2) the poems printed
3) a handout for the pantoum form
4) sample poems for the optional writing prompt
The recording:
The poems:
Frame, an Epistle
By Claudia Emerson
Most of the things you made for me—blanket-
chest, lapdesk, the armless rocker—I gave
away to friends who could use them and not
be reminded of the hours lost there,
not having been witness to those designs,
the tedious finishes. But I did keep
the mirror, perhaps because like all mirrors,
most of these years it has been invisible,
part of the wall, or defined by reflection—
safe—because reflection, after all, does change.
I hung it here in the front, dark hallway
of this house you will never see, so that
it might magnify the meager light,
become a lesser, backward window. No one
pauses long before it. But this morning,
as I put on my overcoat, then straightened
my hair, I saw outside my face its frame
you made for me, admiring for the first
time the way the cherry you cut and planed
yourself had darkened, just as you said it would.
Dear Michael (25)
By Mark McMorris
If poetry is not bread
to fortify the righteous
is it because we miss
in it the savor of contest
the whisper of blessing
over a martyr’s name
the light of sacral plans
to take the citadel once
and for all, or give it up?
On the original streets
lit by the sun of nineteenth-
century novels the workers
are gathering to march
for their dignity and bread.
The planters did not die
of happiness. Other exhibits
show their meadows
their horses and women
the English sunset in lands never more than a sigh
like a vowel far from home.
We ask too much when of
the little that we have.
In good health fondly yours.
By Claudia Emerson
Most of the things you made for me—blanket-
chest, lapdesk, the armless rocker—I gave
away to friends who could use them and not
be reminded of the hours lost there,
not having been witness to those designs,
the tedious finishes. But I did keep
the mirror, perhaps because like all mirrors,
most of these years it has been invisible,
part of the wall, or defined by reflection—
safe—because reflection, after all, does change.
I hung it here in the front, dark hallway
of this house you will never see, so that
it might magnify the meager light,
become a lesser, backward window. No one
pauses long before it. But this morning,
as I put on my overcoat, then straightened
my hair, I saw outside my face its frame
you made for me, admiring for the first
time the way the cherry you cut and planed
yourself had darkened, just as you said it would.
Dear Michael (25)
By Mark McMorris
If poetry is not bread
to fortify the righteous
is it because we miss
in it the savor of contest
the whisper of blessing
over a martyr’s name
the light of sacral plans
to take the citadel once
and for all, or give it up?
On the original streets
lit by the sun of nineteenth-
century novels the workers
are gathering to march
for their dignity and bread.
The planters did not die
of happiness. Other exhibits
show their meadows
their horses and women
the English sunset in lands never more than a sigh
like a vowel far from home.
We ask too much when of
the little that we have.
In good health fondly yours.
Below is the worksheet for the pantoum form.
| pantoum_worksheet.doc |
The poems for the optional writing prompt:
"pantoum: landing, 1976"
By EVIE SHOCKLEY
dreaming the lives of the ancestors,
you awake, justly terrified of this world:
you could dance underwater and not get wet,
you hear, but the pressure is drowning you:
you’re awake, but just terrified of this world,
where all solids are ice: underwater boogie,
you hear, but the press sure is drowning you:
the igbo were walking, not dancing:
where all solids are ice, underwater boogie
is good advice, because they’re quick to melt:
the igbo were straight up walking, not dancing:
and you’ve still got to get through this life:
take my advice, quickly: they’re melting:
you could dance underwater and not get wet:
and you’ve got to, to get through this life still
dreaming the lives of the ancestors
"Pantomb"
By Kiya Nicoll
This lonely howl down the storm wind whip
Outside the stony silent gates of mist
Calls up the company of caul-born souls
To open up the harvest heart.
Outside the stony silent gates of mist
A memory awakened by a tale
To open up the harvest heart
To recover what was lost
A memory awakened by a tale
Of things that never happened and were true
To recover what was lost
Or kindle what was never had
Things that never happened and were true,
This lonely howl down the storm wind whip
Kindling what was never had
Among the company of uncalled souls
"pantoum: landing, 1976"
By EVIE SHOCKLEY
dreaming the lives of the ancestors,
you awake, justly terrified of this world:
you could dance underwater and not get wet,
you hear, but the pressure is drowning you:
you’re awake, but just terrified of this world,
where all solids are ice: underwater boogie,
you hear, but the press sure is drowning you:
the igbo were walking, not dancing:
where all solids are ice, underwater boogie
is good advice, because they’re quick to melt:
the igbo were straight up walking, not dancing:
and you’ve still got to get through this life:
take my advice, quickly: they’re melting:
you could dance underwater and not get wet:
and you’ve got to, to get through this life still
dreaming the lives of the ancestors
"Pantomb"
By Kiya Nicoll
This lonely howl down the storm wind whip
Outside the stony silent gates of mist
Calls up the company of caul-born souls
To open up the harvest heart.
Outside the stony silent gates of mist
A memory awakened by a tale
To open up the harvest heart
To recover what was lost
A memory awakened by a tale
Of things that never happened and were true
To recover what was lost
Or kindle what was never had
Things that never happened and were true,
This lonely howl down the storm wind whip
Kindling what was never had
Among the company of uncalled souls