Pomegranate Grenate

2011-02-21T16:50:00.000-06:00

So many worlds are going digital these days. Music. Movies. Relationships. The publishing world is moving in that direction faster than we can speak. Many printed books are now available as ebooks on sites like Amazon, and sites like ebookling are adding legitimacy to self-published ebooks, but how does poetry fit in?

Poetry, like fan fiction, has had it's place in the internet realm since the days of dial-up. With every middle school cranking out hundreds of net savvy "poets" each year, there's a lot of crap to wade through. My guess is, most people don't bother.

I started Pomegranate Grenate about a year ago because I was tired of believing that, if I wanted to be a successful poet, I had to follow the rules and immerse myself in the world of "pure" poets. These are the poets you find at readings, giving readings. These poets are tied, almost obsessively in some cases, to a print world. They may use the internet to network, or to promote, but few use it as a tool to distribute. Most of their work is done in real space and on printed pages.

The problem with this is it has limited reach when compared to the internet. You gain recognition based on the circles you work your way into, but unless you become very successful and mainstream, your audience is going to remain pretty limited.

I've been on the lookout this year for online poets that I think are worthy of respect. I've found a few blogs (Amanda Joy @littleglasspen, Graham Nunn of Another Lost Shark). Today, with the help of Tessa Zeng I discovered DeviantArt.com, and it seems like there is some good, relevant work going on there. A lot of crap, too, but it's a starting point.

I had a friend tell my once that my poetry made her realize she liked poetry. That's a big statement. I'd love it if I could cause that spark in more people, and I think the best way to do that is to bring good poetry to the digital publishing world. This is fast becoming my focus, and I will be gathering ideas for how to best get this rolling. Anybody ready to join me?

Sunbathing

2011-02-21T12:03:00.001-06:00

Her hair trails down the back of the lawn chair,
Thick red tendrils
Stretching to meet the ground.

The screen door bangs shut.
Her sister’s seven-year-old gait
Rattles the front porch slats,
Announcing her presence.
She sighs, pushes her sunglasses further up her nose.

She chomps at her gum in annoyance
But bites her tongue instead.
She rolls the gum across the roof of her mouth
To distract from the pain.
She presses her tongue into its rubbery flesh,
Smoothing its ridged surface
Like a smeared fingerprint on a store window
Or a nose print that sits above a circle of pressed lips.

Her tongue reaches up again,
Rolls the gum forward, past her teeth
Launching it in a high arc.
It glistens against the sky,
Lands where the sidewalk curves.
Embracing the concrete,
It waits to greet the sole of her sisters
Sneaker, when she runs to gather the mail.

Poetry Hides

2010-10-24T21:37:00.001-05:00

in the corner shadows of a horse's stall,
the bright scales and slime of a cut throat trout,
the white paint borders of a soccer field,

in fragments of dreams
and white bowls of green grapes,

in jeans rolled up, cuffs heavy with salt water and sand,
the shouts and whispers that dance around a campfire,
the silver chill of a pre-dawn sky,
a frost covered sleeping bag,

in catching fireflies,
a fiery moonrise over the lake,
the coffee and garbage smell of a monday morning,

in a dangling lightbulb,
a cold kitchen floor,
steam rising to meet the hovering shadows,

in the opening scenes of horror films
and unscripted break ups,

in the bins of vinyl resting on the rough floors of record shops,
the ones with stray nails that will rip your jeans if you sit down to dig in,

in the spiraling smoke of incense
the rising of dumplings
and too sweet cake batter,

in the paper clip i picked up off the kindergarten floor
and twisted beyond recognition,

in the spin of the fan hovering over my bed,
the black hole of glow in the dark stickers,
the music box tinkling "Puff the Magic Dragon"
dissolving my adolescent angst,

in well worn yoga mats and pots of chili,
bus rides through the mountains and snowy summer mornings,

in coats abandoned and adopted at the train station
with old tissues puffing out the pockets.

JM, October 24, 2010
******
Just some thoughts I might share with my classes. We all need to know where to look for poetry, especially when the big concepts want to trick us into trite middle school verse.

Away from the Light

2010-05-08T18:34:00.002-05:00

Someday the cracks in the wall will mean something.
In sleep I will stumble across the key,
wake up understanding,
have secrets to share with my sketchbook.

Someday the chill of this bedroom will
overpower the naked bulb overhead,
but I've never been afraid of cold or shadows.

I won't allow my roots to sink through the clay.
I'll just begin to notice things:
the way your eyes are slightly offset,
the coffee and garbage smell of a Monday morning,
the uneasy candle's flame,
and shadows that curve from the light.
-JM, 2009

Phoenix, AZ

2010-04-27T20:50:00.001-05:00

Today through the windshield
Camelback grew like large
mushrooms in the sand.

Each mound crumbled forth,
covered from the sun down
in dust, like a red

and dull-throb contusion. I saw
the green-and-flower spine-forks
of desert drink bloom

elegantly in the moonrise,
steady through the breeze.
The stars found her back
raised high and breeding inward

when the praying monk
breathed through them.
-JM, ca. 2000
Photograph taken in January 2009 at White Sands (not Phoenix, unfortunately).

Scissor-tailed Flycatchers

2010-03-07T20:51:00.003-06:00

They perch on thin lines

while we lumber across the asphalt,

hauling luggage to our West Texas cars.

Small against the sky,

wings folded,

tails compressed.

We don't look up.

Memories once fit in a shoe box.
Now we drag holes in our duffel bags,
flip our rolling suitcases on the curb,
and hope the picture frames don't break.

No clouds mask the sun.

We won't look up

until a shadow flashes and we absorb
the shade of two forms flitting,

weaving through the dry air,

broadcasting their identity not by their wingspan,

their nobility or their strength,

but by the inverted "V"

and elegance they trail behind them,

doubling their size.

-JM 2008

Wind (a haiku revisited)

2010-02-08T18:58:00.001-06:00

Drifts of winter doves--

Frayed shreds of ribbon, edges

pulled thin by dim sky.

-JM 2010

Speaking of process... I thought I was done with this poem when I posted it last week, but the more I looked at it, the more it seemed unfinished. I decided I liked an older version better, but still not enough to let it go. So, I spent some time reworking the first line on Friday, and this was the end result. I like this version the best. I think I'll keep it.

Wind (a haiku)

2010-02-04T22:30:00.000-06:00

A slow drift of doves--

frayed shreds of ribbon, edges

pulled thin by dim sky.

Photo courtesy of Flowery *L*u*z*a*

I wanted to post this poem written in my own hand, but my scanner wouldn't work, so I find myself typing.

I've been thinking a lot about process. I'd really like to incorporate as much of my process as I can into this blog, and this poem seemed like the best place to start since its roots go back eleven years. It came out of a seed of a poem that I wrote my freshman year of college:

I saw a stream of doves drift by,

a silver silk scarf, on the wind against the sky.

I liked the idea, but not the form, and it lay tucked away in one of my notebooks for years. I recently rediscovered it, and started toying with it, hoping to harvest a haiku from it. These are the drafts (if you're not interested in process, stop reading now):

Streams of doves drift by,

silver silk ribbons, wind-tossed

against a dim sky.

Streams of doves drift by,

shreds of ribbon tossed by hand [handfuls]

[fraying out/frayed edges]

against dusty sky.

[dissolved by dim sky]

A drift of doves streams,

A shred of ribbon, frayed edges

Pulled thin by dim sky.

A drift of doves streams--

frayed shreds [streaks] of ribbon, edges

pulled thin by dim sky.

Slowly the doves drift,

frayed shreds of ribbon, edges

pulled thin by dim sky.

In the future I hope to post scans of typed copies of my poems, followed by scans of the drafts/notes that led up to the poem. I have to get a new ribbon for my typewriter, though, and apparently a new scanner. Until then, I'll just by typing them here. It's easier, that's for sure.

dear mick jagger,

2010-01-30T12:19:00.005-06:00

you know that song you sing, "you can't always get what you want"? i think you're right first of all.

but, do we ever get what we need and what we want at the same time?

i'm going to a reception today, and i'll probably drink some wine. there's no footloose man at my feet--but i think i'm doin' allright. i don't need to fill prescriptions, i don't do cherry red. i don't know many people named jimmy, but they wouldn't look at me and say "dead."

i hope there aren't any bleeding men near me--if there are i didn't mean it, i don't know about it, and i surely don't practice deception purposefully. my hands aren't bloodstained but i do bite my fingernails and have a few gobis from hanging out with el capitan the other day.

i try all times, and i find i get what i need. for sure. but maybe we each get one time when there's both? well, i was just thinking. you don't have to reply right away. i just like that song you and keith wrote, and saw some wisdom in it. but i think it would be nice to have want and need walk together, just once. i don't expect you to be the authority on want and need, but you did write a song about it so i figured i'd ask you.

maybe i'm just bleeding into my own glass, footloose at my own feet, and deceived by my own self. maybe you're right anyway. i guess i'll just go out and try some more--i'll let you know if want and need are hanging out together somewhere.

don't do too many drugs.

love,

mindy

**Guest post by Mindy Wiper.

To Salvador Dali

2010-01-26T16:51:00.005-06:00

I could stop and stare for hours,
twisting into focus
lines from your brush.
Lines that run down the page
without slingshot support.
Lines that fade into each other,
bring out double meanings,
release what the concrete hides.

Hovering over the page,
I forget being me.
Wonder what it's like
to have drawers unfold your sides.
I create too, sometimes.
Imagination flowing out,
lazing words over the edges of notebook pages.
Words that slip out of reality,
floating like your paintings.

So I ask you,
Is it better to start with the pomegranate
and explode through the bayonet?
Or does she always come first?
She is the one at the end of all the sodomy.
Bread, pianos, virgins, skulls--
It all leads back to her,
I can see it in her eyes.

When she has eyes.

-JM 2001

Photograph Courtesy of the Library of Congress New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.