Wednesday, December 17, 2003
APPARENTLY, THE PROCESS NOW BUTTON ISN'T GOING TO HELP
(or, as I will refer to it, PRESSING BUTTONS)
The last thing I remember
is the weight of my head
forcing my neck to bend forward
into the soft electric glow
of my computer monitor–like
some bloom drooping
into an errant ray of sun.
I hung there, flowerlike,
dreaming of the buttons
I pressed all morning and
would press all afternoon
until the nuisance of ringing phones
and gathering drool promted me
into consciousness. Then I resumed
pressing the buttons
which, I'm told, make a man
that I don't know at all
very rich.
(or, as I will refer to it, PRESSING BUTTONS)
The last thing I remember
is the weight of my head
forcing my neck to bend forward
into the soft electric glow
of my computer monitor–like
some bloom drooping
into an errant ray of sun.
I hung there, flowerlike,
dreaming of the buttons
I pressed all morning and
would press all afternoon
until the nuisance of ringing phones
and gathering drool promted me
into consciousness. Then I resumed
pressing the buttons
which, I'm told, make a man
that I don't know at all
very rich.
dear mr. dolling,
i call for a poem title recall.
would it be possible for you to provide an alternate title for your comrades to work off of, please?
the title you have provided has become my nemesis. i just want to move on with my life.
sincerely,
garance clavel
i call for a poem title recall.
would it be possible for you to provide an alternate title for your comrades to work off of, please?
the title you have provided has become my nemesis. i just want to move on with my life.
sincerely,
garance clavel
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
apparently, the process now button isn't going to help
apparently, i can't come up with anything to go with this title.
apparently, i've already written two full blurbs and have deleted both.
apparently, i have very definite ideas about how i want to connect to this title but i can't seem to do so in any even semi-satisfactory way.
apparently, i feel more inept in my writing abilities than usual.
apparently, i have chosen to give up on this particular exercise.
apparently, i can't come up with anything to go with this title.
apparently, i've already written two full blurbs and have deleted both.
apparently, i have very definite ideas about how i want to connect to this title but i can't seem to do so in any even semi-satisfactory way.
apparently, i feel more inept in my writing abilities than usual.
apparently, i have chosen to give up on this particular exercise.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Sunday, December 14, 2003
another snowy morning. when i looked out the window, i immediately thought of this passage and then thought i'd like to share it with you:
"the air of the room chilled his shoulders. he stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down besides his wife. one by one they were all becoming shades. better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. he thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live...
...a few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. it had begun to snow again. he watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. the time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over ireland. it was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous shannon waves. it was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where michael furey lay buried. it lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. his soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
~james joyce... from "the dead"
"the air of the room chilled his shoulders. he stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down besides his wife. one by one they were all becoming shades. better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. he thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live...
...a few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. it had begun to snow again. he watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. the time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over ireland. it was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous shannon waves. it was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where michael furey lay buried. it lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. his soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
~james joyce... from "the dead"
