Janet Kuypers Video Haiku

Professional performance artist Janet Kuypers (http://www.janetkuypers.com) is a writer, photographer and professional singer and published, editing 2 literary magazines while running Scars Publications (http://scars.tv), publishing magazines, books & CDs. She has 80+ books published (poetry, prose, novels, art), sung in 3 bands, and her CD releases (40+ in 2010) appear at iTunes & other online vendors. She ran an Internet radio station from 2005-2009, & now hosts a weekly poetry open mic in Chicago(http://www.chaoticarts.org/thecafe), with weekly Podcasts.








 

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Praseodymium, “Periodic Table of Poetry” poem by Chicago poet Janet Kuypers

Praseodymium

Janet Kuypers

from the “Periodic Table of Poetry” series (&#03559, Pr)
with elements of the poems “a Match” and “Rings Like Gravestones”
10/15/13

“I once set fire to my fingernail.
I wanted my finger to be a
human candle.”
She dropped another match into her glass.
The flame sizzled
in the drops of drink at the bottom.

In a corner booth, in this small club
the flame she aroused looked like
any other table light.
But if you looked too closely,
the light would scorch your soul,
would burn your eyes hollow.
That little piece of energy she held
could be so intense
that you needed that Praseodymium
in your eye glasses
just to look for another second.

The flame she aroused
looked like any other light,
but she knew she was destined
for the big screen,
complete with studio lighting
and projector lights
from the motion picture industry
broadcasting her to the world
through arc lights.

So she struck another match
at the side of the box.
Six or seven lay on the cocktail napkin,
ten more at the bottom of the glass.

She’d watch the reflection
of the gemstones in rings
across her fingertips
reflecting that flame.
The yellow-green cubic zirconia
on each of her fingers
bounced the light of the flame
in thousands of directions.

She likes gemstones
on her rings, she doesn’t bother
with big earrings
or expensive necklaces —
she looks at her hands
because she likes rings;
she can’t help it.

A few of those peridot-inspired stones
were gifts from a loved one,
because they knew they were dying soon.
So she becomes the only one
treating these rings live gravestones,
even when no one has even died yet.

And the person that gave her these rings,
she knows they want to be cremated.
Just then you could see the flame
dancing at her fingertip.
She shook the match. She dropped it in her glass.

The Night, The City | John Eagle and Andy Derryberry | Story Telling

John Eagle
John Eagle
John Eagle

The Night, the City

by John Eagle (Music by Andy Derryberry)

The boardwalk is a canvas

For sound in the night,

Hard leather striking fissured cypress,

Dark music for a luminescent orb,

Alone in a crowded indigo expanse

Hung over a silent, yet torrid river.

Such a setting for the night, the city

As footfalls echo the solitary thoughts,

Then you stop,

Long pull on a cigarette,

Single ember gleaming,

Smoke swirling in the chilled air.

With more force than it takes

You toss the live stub into the river,

Hear the pfist of its death,

And descend the levee steps.

The street greets you,

Rain and loss add a glazed look,

Your steps, undaunted, yet without purpose,

Ring clear along your clouded path.

Couples walk, hand-in-hand, along the brick banquet,

Their shy glances secretive

And you do not care.

A short burst of music from a bar

Blooms like a time-elapsed photo–

Dwindles just as quickly.

You pull your collar up against the noise and chill

And look for a place to light.

A bar, cloaked in quiet, pulls you in.

You smell stale beer and cigarette smoke

And still find a seat at the end of the bar.

You order whiskey without a call

And absently light a cigarette.

Smoke rises, yet the whiskey is still dark

Behind the billowy shroud.

You hear a soft ballad from the jukebox

But lose its meaning

In the acrid taste of whiskey and smoke.

A single bark of laughter awakens you.

You drop your cigarette into the whiskey,

Turn and leave the bar

Into the night

Where the city awaits.

 

The Night, the City  © 2014 John Eagle

Robert Bly. Poet

robert bly

robert bly