Inside The Hearts' Walls

Little
rose,
roselet
at times,
tiny and naked,
it seems
as though you would fit
in one of my hands,
as though I’ll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
but
suddenly
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you loosened yourself like sea water:
I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.

This week we are not holding the poetry club that meets on Tuesdays in Albany from 3-4. Instead, there's a wonderful event going on at 3:30 in South Santiam Hall's art gallery, and it's a collaboration show of words and visual arts. Here is the link for the page for more info! http://linnbentoncommunitycollege.blogspot.com/2012/05/ssh-gallery-exhibit-nine-by-nine.html

If you can, try to make it to the poetry club being held on Thursday's from 5:30-6:30 at the Benton center in Corvallis! Its held in the conference room downstairs, and it is definitely happening this week.
I hope to see you at the event Tomarrow in ssh, or at poetry club on Thursday!

Buffalo Bill's

defunct

who used to

ride a watersmooth-silver

stallion

and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat

Jesus


he was a handsome man

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy

Mister Death

This weeks prompt is and here is...
I can't wait to see all the lovely poems that spring from this.
Come in and join us at our usual time and place, Tuesday, 3-4 hotshot cafe!

self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness
you
wonder where
the real ones are
what
giant cave
hides them
as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades
as
the fools are
fooled
again
you
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.
this self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions
centuries.
this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless
it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope
it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street
more difficult
near
damnable
as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness
as
the fools are
fooled
again
humanity
you sick
motherfucker.

In case you are unaware, there is now a poetry club at the Benton center!
They meet every Thursday from 5:30-6:30 in the conference room, which is located downstairs next to the entrance at the Benton center!
Now, if you can't make it on Tuesday at the Albany campus, maybe you can make it Thursday at the Corvallis campus!
Hope to see you enjoying some poetry in one, or both poetry clubs soon!

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting  

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked  

thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy  

beauty, how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and  

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true  

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover  

thou answerest  

them only with  

spring)

- e.e.cummings

This week in poetry club our prompt is one clear night while the other slept.
And, just so you all know, you don't need to write to the prompts, because the prompt is there as a sort of stepping stone to writing, and if you end up writing something related, then great! If not that's totally fine because it still gave you the inspiration to write.
Hope to see you tomorrow in poetry club!

Untitled, by Mira Mason-Reader

To touch
And smell-
Hard, finger fumes
Extending up ankle,
Past calf
On soft hills
With small beaten paths.
Air- or breath
Eroding away
Landscape
And hair meant to be kept
Keeping
To tender thoughts
On the balls of my feet.
No road can be too traveled
So, press harder
With your tires in my earth...
And there is no wildlife left
On these tired, tired hills
None to shoo away
The too tender caress
Of gods
Wrath-
But life lives in lips
On lips
That belong to you
And sweet as they are (like sap from sad trees)
They bring both day and night,
Dark and light,
To illuminate
The very phases
Of my grass gone missing, my tire treads
That your hands smooth back
To deep earth....
You look with your mouth, and see
Only things I thought were gone
Like green grass, blue skies,
And I do not question your lies,
I speak to you in smiles and sighs
And drape my landscapes in your skin
For safe keeping,
And possibly,
Restoration.

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

This week our prompt isn't so much an idea or concept, instead it's more of a challenge.
The prompt is to write a found poem.
Write one from anything, a book, another poem, a magazine article, a cereal box, whatever! Just write one and bring it to the poetry club to share!
See you at our usual time!