Book Reading

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Book Reading at TweetSpeak Poetry

The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker
Fiction

It’s about a poet, talking about the writing he should be doing, and
his live-in woman friend that has moved out, as well as mentioning other
odd thoughts that he tends to have. He strings the whole thing along going
from his life stuff to what he knows about rhyme and free verse poetry. It’s odd
but not too unusual, it’s frustrating in the way that our own lives can be, in
that it takes us forever and a day to get through some things, if ever. And yet,
some of the information on rhyming starts to sound okay as he relates it to
different things, like song and beat.  He takes time to inform the reader of
his poetic knowledge by talking about certain poets and poems. If it were not
for the story of the love interest in Roz, and the ones about his dealings with his
friends and editor, it would basically be that introduction to the anthology that
he is trying to get himself to write. You can tell that Baker once attended a school
of music as much as he likes to emphasize the beat and rhythm of poetry in
this book.

I can understand about the sound of words and the rhythm of a line…but,
i think one can get a little too caught up in thinking about how to do something
instead of just doing it.  Or even allowing it to happen. Just like the unwritten
anthology in the story.

I like how the story relates how people do things differently, which is what can
make poetry so remarkably interesting in the long run.

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photo via flicker

bad old woman blues

i’m having a hard time with dying
this growing old
this decay of body and mind
my soul aches for a consuming love
one
passionate
kiss
a cool breath of spring
warm breeze of summer on my skin
easy laughter
i want to be in love
to believe with someone
to be beautiful in someone’s eyes
and i know better
i know
my heart is set on breaking
and the best that i can do
is let it break

sometimes the truth needs to be shared
even if it makes you feel really ugly and spoiled and pitiful.

in the midst

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in the midst
in the mist
of my days
only my heart senses
a small understanding
of pain

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I wrote the above because, today, I followed a tweet by Glynn Young
to his Saturday Good Reads post.
And there, under his list of poetry, was a familiar name that caught my eye.
John Blasé …a poem…”20 July 2012″…i clicked on the link.

And this is what i found …

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20 July 2012

O my God, take me not away in the midst of my days… ~ Psalm 102.24

The news reporter said you just can’t make sense
of something like this. He referred to understanding,
the singular sense; but what about the plural senses?
I can clearly make senses of something like this for I
see the tears huddling in the corners of my eyes and I
feel the trembling of my hands at the keyboard and I
taste the copper of blood from biting my lips and I
smell the fear that sucks oxygen out of thin air and I
hear the sleeping of my children who for now are
safe as the sun also rises on this dark July morning
that seems, I must report, to make no sense at all.
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memo

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all i need is Love
everything else is garbage
i can’t buy me any Love
don’t need to
just need to pay it some attention
seeing is believing
believing is seeing
it’s all there
in the fine print
up close and personal

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