art music poetry

Robert Pinksy Poem-Jazz

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Robert Pinsky writes poems that have earned praise for their musical energy and ambitious range. Born to a working class family in Long Branch, New Jersey, in high school he was voted “most musical boy.” The three time U.S. Poet Laureate writes his poems to be spoken, with a focus on the timbre and musicality of the words. His PoemJazz project, in which he “plays” his poetry with jazz musicians, brings a new level of performance to his reading.

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Not Armageddon by David Michael Jackson

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trickster
Not armageddon
not armageddon 36″ x 48″ 2014

armageddon in the back yard?

no

a barbeque?

no

“Something for the them to throw away”
He flails like it means something
like anything matters
like fire itself wasn’t limited
like there was something left to say
after
after
after she’s gone
after he’s gone
and the paintings in a dusty attic
then found and left in a musty basement
are the same as those in the finest museum
in the
end
He throws the knife across the room.

 

 

Artist Statement.

 

Keep me or throw me away…it ain’t up to me and pleasing anybody but myself with art isn’t in me…I like to be in your face daring you to say it’s not art or not good art………maybe I’ll cut it up , glue it on the wall and use a belt sander next then burn it on the courthouse lawn. That would be an “installation”. Maybe I’ll just paint them, not sign them and leave them somewhere like in the parking lot at Home Depot, maybe beside those guys with signs pointing you to a restaurant. A string on a nail is art. A rectangle is art. A blank canvas is art. An empty room is art.We gotta put paint back on the damn canvas.

 

Rita Dove Reads ‘Daystar’ | Poem

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Rita Dove

Rita Dove

Daystar  by Rita Dove

She wanted a little room for thinking:
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind the garage
to sit out the children’s naps.
Sometimes there were things to watch –
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf. Other days
she stared until she was assured
when she closed her eyes
she’d see only her own vivid blood.
She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared
pouting from the top of the stairs.
And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice? Why,
building a palace. Later
that night, when Thomas rolled over and
lurched into her, she would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour — where
she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day.

Rita Dove reads ‘Daystar’ from BillMoyers.com on Vimeo.

 

 

The Autumn Moon Hangs, a Poem by Frances Kakugawa

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The Autumn Moon Hangs

I am a poem
And I am ageless.

When I was one and twenty
I spoke of lingering sunsets into night,
Envying that solitary bird flapping vigorously,
Racing the sinking sun at end of day.

Decades and one later
I am still poem.
I am that sunset, sinking into the sea.
That golden leaf, waiting for that last gentle breeze.
I am that Autumn moon hanging
Over crayoned fields, now free of summer harvest,
Waiting for the last flight home.

I am still poem.
I am ageless.

©Frances Kakugawa

We Could All Build Bird Nests in our Hearts by Ken Peters

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We could all open state parks

We could all open state parks

we could all build bird nests in our hearts
we could all open state parks in our souls
we could all end the suffering
just letting sunshine roll
we could all tend the garden
drink tea with friends at 4
we could all be a little kinder
that’s no stranger at your door
we could learn to listen
we could remember to breathe
love to you my brothers
may all your pangs be relieved

namaste

Daisy Sidewinder interviews Ken Peters

Ken Peter’s poetry at Motherbird

We Could All Build Bird Nests in our Hearts © 2013 Ken Peters