A Teeny Tiny Poetry Blog

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noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 01:54:00 +0000

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Another Poem and Collage

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 01:15:00 +0000

More text from an old Family Circle and image from a book of photos of Washington. I like this image of the road so much that I really didn't want to alter it in any way, so it seemed like a good idea just to shape a tiny poem for it.

A Collage and a Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 17:17:00 +0000

Two tiny stanzas of hay(na)ku, collaged onto a trading-card-sized piece of recycled paperboard. The text is from a 1941 issue of The Family Circle, and the images are from a book of pictures of Washington state and a magazine that I painted over.

Poem for Daylight Savings Time

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 18:30:00 +0000

This one's untitled. By "fire horse," I mean the Chinese zodiac element and animal. I know a few fire horses, but I'm thinking of one in particular here. :)

Your fiery nature
might burn
low,

oh,
but never
burns out, dearest

fire horse, pedaling
your bicycle
uphill

out
of winter,
into spring again.

On Depression

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 17:28:00 +0000

I don't write a whole lot about depression, but now and then I do...

Unipolar

My brain is a director who prefers
film noir, sets me up

with femme fatales and says
action. Play of shadows

and harsh light, setting
of dark alleys and street corners

where taxis won’t pull over.
Neon signs keep blinking

from shorts in the wiring.

A Little Morning Poem from Last Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 17:05:00 +0000

Good Morning

I talked so loudly she said
she tried shushing my discussions

from her dream, waking
to realize the noise all came

from me, two sides of an argument,
two parts of me she’d never seen.

I hope next time she’ll wake me.

Entry for the Seattle Rep's Speech and Debate Contest

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 08:35:00 +0000

On the Editorial Page

I recognized a name from high school,
tenth grade English, someone
near enough on the seating chart
that I’d always hear her voice
in the minutes before class started.
People liked her. In the homecoming assembly
she wore a long, dark red dress.

Assemblies were noisy, and school
wore me out. I used to take naps
at two o’clock when I came home
and in the late afternoon, I liked
to walk the dog before dinner. One time
someone passed by in a small, black car,
waved a little, and smiled at me.

I feel almost certain this was her.

Dear Blog, I Haven't Forgotten You

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:52:00 +0000

So I've been writing some new poems, but I haven't posted one here since August. Figured it was about time to post one then. This is brand-new, wrote it the other day and revised it this morning...

Unlimited Nights and Weekends

You could be anywhere. You’re calling
from a parking lot, not
someplace you meant to be
but the eye of, before and after

your real Sunday, your errands
and obligations with strangers
to me. Most evenings after nine
you call from bed, and I crawl

into mine, where I try
to resist talking your tired ear off
but fail miserably. I can accept
the consolation prize: your voice

for another five minutes,
scolding me for another too-late night.

Something from High School

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 21:32:00 +0000

OK, my favorite favorite favorite Pet Shop Boys song is the duet they did with Dusty Springfield, "What Have I Done to Deserve This" (if you want a treat, go and watch that video on YouTube; it always makes me feel good), but I have a bit of a soft spot for their remake of "Always on My Mind," hence the title of this poem... So yeah, here's a nostalgic poem.

Always on My Mind

Chorus after chorus, layers
of indistinguishable beats. I couldn’t tell

the Pet Shop Boys were gay
even when they played

love songs to each other.
I didn’t know gay people except

two math teachers with very short hair
but they weren’t for sure.

Culled from My Notebook

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 19:29:00 +0000

I started drafting this in April and forgot about it but found it in my notebook last night and tried to tighten it up. Sorry for the lack of posts; this reflects a lack of writing.

No Original Thoughts

Just my old ones
and several of yours

remixed and repetitive
as extended dance versions

which ruin pop songs.

Recycled Beauties: Poem from Collage

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 24 May 2009 22:01:00 +0000

I made a 12-page collaged booklet using (among other things) images and text from a book of pin-ups. The poem below is a reconfiguring of the text which makes up the booklet: each page in the booklet has a few lines on it, and here I've condensed and changed a bit.

Recycled Beauties

Not movie stars, much more than
sleek limbs followed by
countless others, these girls

who are now elderly women,
girls of a specific time,
a specific war, still promise

a wonderful postwar world.
Things are peaceful where
they wear sheer dressing gowns

or nothing at all.

Attempting a Ramage

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 06:24:00 +0000

Earlier this week, I happened upon a used copy of a tiny book called Turkish Pears in August by Robert Bly, and in it, he uses a form he developed called the "ramage" in which you have 8 lines of roughly 10 syllables each, and each line is also supposed to contain a repeated sound/syllable. OK, so below I am trying to repeat a sound like "air." I like trying to repeat a sound without using end rhyme; I try to do this anyway but not so specifically as trying to do it in every line. I may experiment more with this form, as an exercise to get myself writing if nothing else!

Cheers

Mortgaged as everywhere, our suburb
is sometimes carefree. For example, take me—
I bake brownies and bid for rare knick-knacks
on eBay, in a pair of plaid pajamas
until two or three. I do laundry when I dare
let it air-dry on warm afternoons
as I sit in my plastic chair. I sip
tap water or beer—come on by, and I’ll share.

Grapho Analysis

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 23:36:00 +0000

I've been working on some poems inspired by Uncensored, a pretty trashy mag from the 1960s. The issues I have (thank you, eBay) are from 1961, but this link will show you some ads from an issue from the late 1960s. I realized I haven't shared any of these poems on the blog yet, so here's one:

Please Reply in Your Normal Hand

Friends, I’ve advised thousands
like yourselves who want

to learn my kind of expert work
as a full-time job or dignified means

of extra income. I want
to send you, without charge,

a window to your personality
to acquaint you with this

science, an analysis of character
revealed through handwriting.

Ode to Belinda Carlisle

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 18:39:00 +0000

Next to The Bangles, I think I loved Belinda Carlisle and The Go-Gos the best--OK, well, I still do...

Dear Belinda Carlisle

For as many weeks as you are
on Dancing with the Stars
I’ll give all my votes to you

though I’ll forever think of you
all in black, maybe a pair
of gold hoop earrings, nothing

like the spangles and colors
the producers will make you wear
as you dance with a gentleman

instead of the women I remember.

An Ode to Grrrls

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 20:23:00 +0000

I don't suppose I was ever exactly a "grrrl" because I was busy watching old movies when others were going to concerts and making zines and stuff. But I'm hoping this new poem will fit into a series I've been working on for some time now that involves different first-person perspectives...

When We Were Grrrls

Ears ringing, all smiles
in the mosh pit, the opposite

of violence, sweltering
in the crush of strangers’ bodies

in our pact that nothing
but silence can scare us

that it’s best to shout
all we have into the static

of voices that shout back at us.

Finally, Another Tiny Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 19:23:00 +0000

I've been reading about this winter's weather troubles, and here's a very tiny poem on the subject.

After

Swans gather on lakes
formed in the flood. Horses
step from their trailers.
Pruning blueberries, we ignore
our strawberries gone under.

A New Tiny Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 21:50:00 +0000

Impossible

If mirrors would cease
reflecting—a relief

not knowing if my hair
is askew or graying, only

proof of me existing
in heaps of worn jeans

and clean underwear,
warm sheets where

I must have been sleeping.

A New Poem for Everyone's Neighborhood

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 02:35:00 +0000

Foreclosure

Next door is the property
of pests. It used to be
a family’s we never met
but waved at. Nobody’s home

but rats, black widows,
brown recluses, poisonous plants,
an unmown lawn of allergens,
irritants to skin. We call

the bank, the city, the county.
No luck reaching anybody.

Thanks to Ali Smith and Edith Hamilton

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 02:06:00 +0000

I just read (and totally recommend!) Girl Meets Boy by Ali Smith, a retelling of the myth of Iphis. I dug out my copy of Edith Hamilton's Mythology to look up Iphis; she doesn't retell Ovid's myth, alas, but I've always had a soft spot for Hamilton's book, so I've been reading bits of it. And the bits from Hamilton gave me an idea to work on a poem, which is good because I haven't had many ideas in that department at all.

Our Neighborhood

At pick-up games, Apollo
shows off the same
arms, legs, chest of the athlete

he used to be, maintained
with twenty minutes a day
on his Bowflex machine

as Hermes lugs boxes
up and down the street
for UPS, and artists who watch

from windows don’t know
they’re sketching the gods
in our image, everyone’s

weekend one tableau
of overtime and basketball.

How Colorful

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 06:58:00 +0000

I haven't been posting because I haven't been writing poems. Enough said. But I did work on this poem earlier this week.

Brown

Corduroy, seared surface
of well-done beef, skins

of russet potatoes, upholstery
of old sofas and cars,

nutshells, chocolate bars,
certain parts of darting bodies

of flickers and chickadees,
fifteen feet of tree trunk,

patchwork of dirt and dry grass,
slats of our privacy fence.

Poem from the Patio

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 13 May 2008 04:21:00 +0000

I was sitting on the patio and noticed some ants, and so it goes... I was glad to work on a poem as I've felt kind of stalled out, probably because of being super-busy with teaching lately.

Weeds, Anthills

Did they crack our patio
or did cracks come before
in one or more earthquakes

before we lived here?
No one cares. It’s an old slab
of cement with no one

to repair it. Only I can
see it with spring filling out
the neighbor’s hydrangea

and our mock orange.

Spring Cleaning

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 19:30:00 +0000

I haven't been posting because I haven't been writing much, just a few notes here and there, hopefully toward a project that will ultimately come together in a more satisfying way, but too early to tell. I finally wrote a little poem that I felt I could post, so here goes.

Tidy

Goodbye, flickering lamp,
mismatched towels, threadbare

sweaters and jeans. The van
for donations comes today.

Mom calls it Tobacco Road
if we store boxes on the porch

even temporarily. Goodbye,
sturdy boxes from the liquor store.

Two Tiny Poems

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 06:21:00 +0000

Dear Blog-Friends, I haven't forgotten you, but I haven't been writing much poetry because of needing to write assignment sheets instead and also because of grading papers. Here are two very tiny poems, which, you never know, could become part of something bigger about "road trips" as I'm always wanting to write more about road trips since I do try and write in my notebook whenever we drive somewhere and stay in a motel...

And speaking of tiny poems, I'm collecting short poems for a mini-anthology called Poems for Your Pocket, with a submissions deadline of March 28. I plan to hand out the anthologies for free at the college on Poem In Your Pocket Day, so send me tiny poems if you want to participate.

After Mountains

An ancient restaurant
perched over a river--
let’s stop for root beer.

**

Interstate 5

My fingers hurt
from the cold and damp
and from driving.

The Little Road Over the Dam

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 02:36:00 +0000

I don't know if it's still like this, but it used to be you could drive over the top of the dam on Baker Lake. I don't usually write about being a kid, but I got this idea after reading the following prompt in In the Palm of Your Hand by Steve Kowit: "Recall something that happened many years ago near a body of water."

Baker Lake

Dad takes the narrow road
over the top of the dam.
In the back seat, we study the lake

like cats regard what’s behind
a shower curtain. We hear
each pebble under the tires

of the Malibu, watch
waves lap the dam, through
the residue of window decals

Dad tried to remove.

Poem in the Dark

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 04:05:00 +0000

It's still so dark in the morning. I usually sleep in, but sometimes I wake up early. I guess the events of this poem actually took place at like 5 in the morning, but it felt like the middle of the night.

Is it a shame that my poems don't have more "original" titles? I don't like to push it.

Well, I like that this poem fits in with my "weather" series. Also, I really like looking at the snow.

Middle of the Night

Woke up a little shook up
from dreams I couldn’t remember,

took my pills, looked out
between the blinds. Snow

had piled up while I slept,
everyone’s yards blurred together

under an unseen moon.