|photo by Yours truly|
So where to go from here, right? Well, of course, we are going to do it again! I am assuming that I have at the very least the committed contributions of all of those who participated last time, and I hope we might have a few more undercover, or hell, even professional poets jump on board. I plan to follow the exact same format, giving any one who contributes the opportunity to claim their poem or remain anonymous. If you would like to put your name on your work, I will add a link to whatever site or blog would most benefit you.
When commenting on the poems from last time (to which he contributed), Diego over at Demolishing the Block noticed that it felt like a less aggressive poetry slam of sorts, and I really liked that. My good friend Cliffton told me that doing a project like this is similar to curating an art show, but in a completely virtual space. And now my little wheels are turning as to what I, and you dear reader, can do with this blog. I think the prospects and possibilities are exciting to tell you the truth. When all of thoughts flying around in my brain that have resulted from both the success of the poetry post, and these astute observations have formed into something I can share, I plan on presenting that vision here, but it still needs some time to cook. Just stay tuned, ok?
In the meantime, here is a poem by the late great T.S. Eliot that I read when packing up all my books to move a couple of days ago. It resonated with me because it is a prose poem, which is my favorite form, and secondly, because it has a really great narrative. It gives a snapshot into a mundane and awkward moment, and anyone can understand it. I dig accessibility. So without further ado, I give you Mr. Eliot's Hysteria. Get inspired.
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
|Wyndham Lewis -- "T. S. Eliot"|
Durban Art Gallery, South Africa
- As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
- in her laughter and being part of it, until her
- teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
- for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
- inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
- in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
- the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter
- with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading
- a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
- green iron table, saying: "If the lady and
- gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
- if the lady and gentleman wish to take their
- tea in the garden ..." I decided that if the
- shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of
- the fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
- and I concentrated my attention with careful
- subtlety to this end.
p.s. While I am hesitant to put a time frame on poetry submissions, I would like to have the next collaborative post ready before September 1st. Feel free to send me poetry anytime between now and then at email@example.com.