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Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees
Reading a bad poem is like having a bad dream: You can't/ ask for your money back." Richard Jackson, Resonance, "Fines Doubled in Work Zone
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Bringing Poetry And High Culture To Sao Paulo's Periphery

"Poetry in an unlikely place: In a grim urban shanty town in the middle of Sao Paulo, budding poets from the poorest sections of Brazilian society get together weekly to compose and recite poetry." "Sao Paulo is one of the biggest cities in the world and one of the economic engines of South America. Its center is known for its fancy malls, posh departments and even helicopter landing pads. The outlying areas where the vast majority of the workforce live are known for poverty and crime, less often for poetry and high culture. NPR's Lourdes Garcia-Navarro reports on efforts to change that. LOURDES GARCIA-NAVARRO, BYLINE: Booze and poetry have a long and honorable tradition that goes back millennia. In ancient Greece, poems would be recited at drinking parties. Here in Sao Paulo's peripheria, or periphery, poetry night is held at a corner bar by necessity, not by choice. And there aren't any marble columns. Located in a shanty town, when we arrive, the bar is so full that people flow out onto the street and sit under streetlamps smoking and holding small glasses of beer, waiting for the event to begin."

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Per Fumum, a Poem by Jamaal May

"         (through smoke)

 

My mother became an ornithologist

when the grackle tumbled through barbecue smoke

and fell at her feet. Soon she learned

why singers cage birds; it can take weeks

to memorize a melody —

the first days lost as they mope

and warble a friendless note,

the same tone every animal memorizes

hours into breathing…."

 

More poems by Jamaal May: http://wp.me/3ODMp

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Baseball, a Poem by Gail Mazur

Baseball, a Poem by Gail Mazur | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it

"The game of baseball is not a metaphor 
and I know it’s not really life. 
The chalky green diamond, the lovely 
dusty brown lanes I see from airplanes 
multiplying around the cities 
are only neat playing fields. 
Their structure is not the frame 
of history carved out of forest,…"

 

More poems by Gail Mazur: http://goo.gl/qK8ohW

 

Gail will be reading on May 4 at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. 2014

 

Massachusetts Poetry Festival | May 2-4 

 

Blacksmith House Poetry Series: 3 Generations/3 Voices

10:30 AM - 11:30 AM, May 4, 2014

Peabody Essex Museum, Bartlett Gallery 

 

The Blacksmith House Poetry Series has a long history (40+ years) of featuring both established and emerging poets. This event presents three poets at three distinct points in their poetic lives: Gail Mazur, Andrea Cohen, and Jamaal May.

 

For more on the 2014 Poetry Festival: http://goo.gl/3JpORu

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What Ever They Want, a Poem by Gail Mazur

"Tonight, my students can ask me anything.
I’ll tell them the story of my life,
whatever they want. Outside, traffic shimmers
in the gulf haze, mosquitoes incubate
in the bayou. My students laugh softly
at the broad a of my accent, evidence—
if they need it—of my vulnerability,
a woman fallible enough to be
their mother…"

 

More poems by Gail Mazur: http://goo.gl/qK8ohW

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The Gates of Paradise, a Poem by Andrea Cohen

"The Gates of Paradise

are bitter, my father says.

Don’t tell Francesca.

He doesn’t mean to seem

ungrateful, tasting what he thought

he shouldn’t—the dark

chocolate replica she’s made

of a portion of Ghiberti’s gates,…"

 

More poems by Andrea Cohen: http://goo.gl/8mK3De

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Maxine Kumin, Pulitzer-Winning Poet With a Naturalist’s Precision, Dies at 88

Maxine Kumin, Pulitzer-Winning Poet With a Naturalist’s Precision, Dies at 88 | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
Ms. Kumin, an author of essays, novels and children’s books, was best known for her volumes of sharply observed poetry, one of which, “Up Country,” won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973.
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Conduit: Connecting All the Stampeding Hearts

Conduit: Connecting All the Stampeding Hearts | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
[Note: Each month we feature a guest post from a contributor to Poetry’s current issue. Jamaal May’s “There Are Birds Here” and “Per Fumum” appear in the February 2014 issue. Previous posts in this series can be found on the Editors’ Blog.] In the photograph the man smiles and waves. A sun smiles on his [...]

 

"I needed the poem that night to help me remember why creating and sharing was vital. This college reading was my first featured appearance after a six-month bout with stage fright that kept me from taking readings I couldn’t afford to pass up financially. I grappled with the possibility that I would never again be able to stand in front of an audience and recite what I had written. “Pomegranate Means Grenade” was a necessary poem in my push to break the spell of defeat. It always connects me to something larger, something more important than my own sense of comfort.

 

“Pomegranate Means Grenade” was written in the summer after my first year of working with the Inside Out Literary Arts Project. The poem was inspired by students there who were so open and brilliant and creative, I couldn’t help but fear for the safety of their spirits. It opens with an epigraph from one such student, Jontae McCrory, an eleven year old who on the first day of class raised his hand and asked if I read Lord Byron. Throughout the year Jontae showed an attention to language and love for fresh metaphor and imagery that was astonishing. “The heart trembles like a herd of horses,” writes Jontae in his poem “Burning Soul.” Here is the poem in its entirety."

 

Here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/?p=80684

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The Reading: Ode to a Nightingale, a Poem by John Keats

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Mr Edwards and the Spider, a poem by Robert Lowell

"It's a critique of the religion of Lowell's New England heritage. He was related to Mr. Edwards who preached sermons promising sinners the flames of hell."

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Trove of Emily Dickinson manuscripts to appear online

Trove of Emily Dickinson manuscripts to appear online | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
"Emily Dickinson was well known for her reluctance to publish her work. Only a smattering of her poems appeared in print during her lifetime, anonymously and likely without her knowledge. A fellow author scolded her for her reticence: 'You are a great poet — and it is a wrong to the day you live in, that you will not sing aloud.' • Now, Harvard will sing aloud for Dickinson. This week, the university plans to roll out the Emily Dickinson Archive that digitally gathers, for the first time in one place, all surviving Dickinson autograph manuscripts and letters, along with contemporary transcripts of Dickinson poems that did not survive in autograph. The website says the aim is to provide a resource from which scholarship can be produced. • The development of the digital collection has not been without bumps and resentments — many rooted in the conflicts over ownership of Dickinson’s work that date to the late 19th century and reflect the deep and abiding fervor that her work inspires."
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Eva Rider's curator insight, October 20, 2013 5:01 PM

A wonderful gift to the world to awaken to Emily Dickinson's great Soul

 

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The Art of Poetry No. 83, Billy Collins

BILLY COLLINS "I’d like to get something straightened out at the beginning: I write with a Uni-Ball Onyx Micropoint on nine-by-seven bound notebooks made by a Canadian company called Blueline. After I do a few drafts, I type up the poem on a Macintosh G3 and then send it out the door. INTERVIEWER Well, that’s certainly the kind of information we’re after, but can you tell us about the actual making of what you send out? Could you go through the genesis of a poem? COLLINS There’s a lot of waiting around until something happens. Some poets like David Lehman and William Stafford set out on these very willful programs to write a poem a day. They’re extending what Catullus said about “never a day without a line.” But most poets don’t write a poem a day. For me it’s a very sporadic activity. Until recently, I thought “occasional poetry” meant that you wrote only occasionally. So there’s a lot of waiting, and there’s a kind of vigilance involved. I think what gets a poem going is an initiating line. Sometimes a first line will occur, and it goes nowhere; but other times—and this, I think, is a sense you develop—I can tell that the line wants to continue. If it does, I can feel a sense of momentum—the poem finds a reason for continuing. The first line is the DNA of the poem; the rest of the poem is constructed out of that first line. A lot of it has to do with tone because tone is the key signature for the poem. The basis of trust for a reader used to be meter and end-rhyme. Now it’s tone that establishes the poet’s authority. The first few lines keep giving birth to more and more lines. Like most poets, I don’t know where I’m going. The pen is an instrument of discovery rather than just a recording implement. If you write a letter of resignation or something with an agenda, you’re simply using a pen to record what you have thought out. In a poem, the pen is more like a flashlight, a Geiger counter, or one of those metal detectors that people walk around beaches with. You’re trying to discover something that you don’t know exists, maybe something of value."
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The Canterbury Tales, a Poem by Geoffrey Chaucer

"According to legend, it was on this day in 1397 that Geoffrey Chaucer recited The Canterbury Tales (books by this author) to the court of Richard II. Although there is no evidence that this actually happened, it is easy to imagine the scene, in part because of a famous painting of Chaucer reciting his poetry to the court, painted in the early 15th century." "Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye- (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages "
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New and Selected Poems: 1962-2012 By Charles Simic

New and Selected Poems: 1962-2012 By Charles Simic | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
"Charles Simic, America’s barnyard insomniac, our modern-day beatnik, the only poet equal parts Robert Frost and Charles Baudelaire, has written some of the strangest, most opalescent poems of the past half-century, many of them collected in his new book, “New and Selected Poems.’’ Beginning with the Belgrade-born poet’s earliest work and ending in the near present — with Simic, post-US poet laureate, edgily ensconced in New Hampshire — it is a marvelous and punishing assembly. Here is the poet in purgatory, as a witness, as a sensualist chum. Here is the poet, estranged from himself, consuming a new American identity, one poem at a time.
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Hum for the Bolt, a Poem by Jamaal May

Hum for the Bolt, a Poem by Jamaal  May | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it

"It could of course be silk. Fifty yards or so

of the next closest thing to water to the touch,

or it could just as easily be a shaft of wood

 

crumpling a man struck between spaulder and helm.

But now, with the rain making a noisy erasure

of this town, it is the flash that arrives

 

and leaves at nearly the same moment…." 

 

More poems by Jamaal May: http://wp.me/3ODMp ;

 

Jamaal will be reading on May 4 at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. 2014

 

Massachusetts Poetry Festival | May 2-4 

 

Blacksmith House Poetry Series: 3 Generations/3 Voices

10:30 AM - 11:30 AM, May 4, 2014

Peabody Essex Museum, Bartlett Gallery 

 

The Blacksmith House Poetry Series has a long history (40+ years) of featuring both established and emerging poets. This event presents three poets at three distinct points in their poetic lives: Gail Mazur, Andrea Cohen, and Jamaal May.

 

For more on the 2014 Poetry Festival: http://goo.gl/3JpORu

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On Metal, a Poem by Jamaal May

"Hmm...drags at the back of a throat, occasionally
becomes mmmhmm...when three men huddle 
around a car, admitting some smaller defeat,
while not quite admitting the emergence of digital

parts means this won’t be solved by ratchet alone.
No one is happy to learn what an afternoon of chafed
knuckles, metal on skin, no longer solves…."

 

More poems by Jamaal May: http://wp.me/3ODMp

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Young Apple Tree, a Poem by Gail Mazur

"What you want for it you'd want

for a child: that she take hold;
that her roots find home in stony


winter soil; that she take seasons
in stride, seasons that shape and
reshape her; that like a dancer's,…"


More poems by Gail Mazur: http://goo.gl/qK8ohW

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Propeller, a Poem by Andrea Cohen

Propeller, a Poem by Andrea Cohen | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it

"To board the propeller plane, you

get to walk across the tarmac

like Cary Grant did or like you

did in your own innocent past. By

you, of course, I mean me, meaning

to imply a kind of universal you-

ness and me-ness, a linkage suggesting

we’re together on this tarmac, eyeing

the propeller suspiciously because

the thing that can take you

into the future can take your head off too…."

 

More poems by Andrea Cohen: http://goo.gl/8mK3De

 

Andrea will be reading on May 4 at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. 

 

2014 Massachusetts Poetry Festival | May 2-4 

 

Blacksmith House Poetry Series: 3 Generations/3 Voices10:30 AM - 11:30 AM, May 4, 2014

Peabody Essex Museum, Bartlett Gallery 

 

The Blacksmith House Poetry Series has a long history (40+ years) of featuring both established and emerging poets. This event presents three poets at three distinct points in their poetic lives: Gail Mazur, Andrea Cohen, and Jamaal May.

 

For more on the 2014 Poetry Festival: http://goo.gl/3JpORu

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On Blueberry Picking, a Poem by Andrea Cohen

"Mostly it consists of pretending

not to pick them, since the wild bush—

more a tree really, thrives in plain

view among scrub pines, along the road

that leads to the Truro sea. So when cars

near, we turn from the bush, busying

our hands in air,…"

 

More poems by Andrea Cohen: http://goo.gl/8mK3De

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▶ Todesfuge - Paul Celan - YouTube

Todesfuge - Paul Celan Bilder
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Fictional Characters, a Poem by Danusha Laméris

Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the white pages
and enter our world?

Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater
to catch the two o'clock
Anna Karenina sitting in a diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
serves up a cheeseburger.

Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires the tulips.

..................................


Poem: http://goo.gl/J7svFn


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Puhloglav Novac's curator insight, January 23, 9:41 AM

energija na PSU_k'nekey_ja*UNISEX

na pohodu_b al' žžžž.....ko Masha spi...1#++++*****

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Ode to a Nightingale, a Poem by John Keats

Ode to a Nightingale, a Poem by John  Keats | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,         But being too happy in thine happiness,—                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                        In some melodious plot         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                Singest of summer in full-throated ease."
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William Blake’s Breathtaking Drawings for Dante’s Divine Comedy, Over Which He Labored Until His Dying Day

William Blake’s Breathtaking Drawings for Dante’s Divine Comedy, Over Which He Labored Until His Dying Day | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
The sinister and sublime, in transcendent watercolors. It is not uncommon for great artists to bring literary classics to pictorial life,
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Seamus Heaney, Irish Poet of Soil and Strife, Dies

Seamus Heaney, Irish Poet of Soil and Strife, Dies | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
"Mr. Heaney, a widely celebrated Irish poet who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995, is recognized as one of the major poets of the 20th century. He was 74." "In 'Digging,' the first poem in his first collection, 'The Death of a Naturalist,' he exposed his method: 'The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.'"
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Northwest Passage, a Poem by James Pollock

Northwest Passage, a Poem by James Pollock | Poetry: Searching for Fire in the Trees | Scoop.it
"When you set out to find your Northwest Passage and cross to an empty region of the map with a headlong desire to know what lies beyond, sailing the thundering ice-fields on the ocean, feeling her power move you from below; when all summer the sun's hypnotic eye won't blink, and the season slowly passes, an endless dream in which you're forever diving into pools, .........."
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Aurora Borealis, a Poem by Jill Osier | Prairie Schooner (Spring 2013)

"Before all this, there was the cabin, its basket
of potatoes and jar of milk, its white
enamel sink and heirloom Austrian rug we fell asleep
on after midnight runs, curling with heat
and thoughts of each other stretching like a road

....."

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