Poetry and Discussion
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. (Robert Frost)
there is a moment overflowing
when a passing breeze
and the tree sways embracing the air
and it is too big, too good
following, straining, holding, reaching
stretching out to the passing air feeling
and quivering rests
hold and release this world too much for us
everywhere too much
and yet my fingers follow
reaching and grasping
memories of moments
beyond me swept
train. bus. almonds and a cool breeze. new hampshire summer air sweetly scented like pine and mountains of oak and musk and fresh flora. so crisp and real and unlike what i came from and what i will eventually go back to. mailing letters past the due date that read of girls drunk on fatigue and insights on howls and Howl and the present effect of alcohol on her social skills. self conscious about the corporation versus the art and how the two are inappropriate toward each other, foreign intruders (of redundancy) who don’t belong in an office mail box. basket? holder?
muscle and muscle and muscle and naps, an ampersand holding them together with fierce shiraz adhesive glue; veins and contours that taper into a form so familiar and missed and sad. gay men married to beautiful women. san francisco 1955. with the steams of and grinds of and maybe a wink of a working eye and the trickery of a phone number. a set up. a scenario of entrapment. roasts & blends.
Suburbia was never the problem.
The ethical dilemma that faced us as demonic teenagers was
Moving forward in "punk clothes" clutching drum kits and amps tight
Through the washed out backroads of New Hampshire.
Suburbia was never the solution.
The lack of consistency, the omnipresent hypocrisy
Encountered both in school and the venues was
Fighting and arguing for our place
have their own order
and their own
as the order that binds them
the pieces from the darkness
between the spaces where they were
and as if
in loving care
guides and whispers, soft persuasion uses,
to the new born blankness
of shatterings oblivion
to postures new and
it’s f-o-u-r and i’m humming songs about mariners like the birds outside. i’ve taken my placebo but the stress beat its ass and i’m now i’m just waiting for the sun to rise. in my head. i’m drawn to the water but even more to the fire; seen it been there done that. i’ll let it burnburnburn.
i stumbled and gasped. it felt good, like blood rushing to a scape; stinging and pulsing and alive. a little reminder of who. why. where we are.
i’m a native of the sea but i grew close to waterfire.
Standing at the edge of the world
The waves flowing over the side
Into impending nothingness.
Take one last breath.
We sailed away from the shoreline
Raised the anchor
Strove forth like valiant youth we were
And funny now how we are knocking on heaven's door.
Before the sail breaks!
Recordings in Order:
1. Dana Nolan and Valerie Stein Jamming on Guitar and Violin.
2. Cedric Ashley reading a poem.
3. Dana Nolan Screaming a poem accompanied by Valerie Stein on Violin
4. Jeremy Munro reading Bukowski
5. Tom Hickey reading a poem.
6 and 7. Valerie Stein on Violin
The proud pines scratched the sky in swaying unison
And the soft floral creatures rambled between tangled roots
Foraging for flair, sniffing out the rare words
That once grew and splashed in tune with the rushing stream
You cannot speak of these stolen words with any soul
For the dark pines screamed and scratched that angry stranger
I found myself standing at the gates of hell.
I guess thats what happens when you give your ticket back.
Oh well. I'll live in hell. I'd rather be in my Hell than in this good.
Its precisely the good I can't enjoy,
Thus, Hell is preferable to Heaven.
He stood behind me, shaking his head.
Wrapped in his hoodie like me, with a hole through his chest.
The Argument from Recollection
seeing not here
wild eye stares
cloud trails across stars
behind the moon
another night’s light.
empty branches sway
with leaves of another summer
under them darkness
overflows and drips
with lack of you.
people look up
peer back at me
with your face
around each corner
in which you were
out of balance
memory seeks out
in the real
dissolves its fabric
impaling its center
like a specimen
to the wound
through which life is
to the eternal
through the present
to what will be
by what is
and forgetting is death.
it's from that earth she leans and sways. sleep is arbitrary. she smells like sweat
and boy and girl and denied it all for so long. the ringing in her ears is a pantheon of sound to her but crickets to another.
she blinks from
the sun rises at five.
Last night (3/14/11) Lucubrations held its first Open Mic since our inception. The turnout exceeded expectations and there were acts ranging from passionate songs, angry poetry, and hilarious comedy (as opposed to unfunny comedy).
The event was held in the Comiskey Center Black Box Theater, giving the perfect atmosphere for an Open Mic. The atmosphere was made better by creative seating placement and stage design by the talented Justine Johnson who arrived very early to setup. Lucubrations would like to thank the Fine Arts Department and Professor Asbury for their permission to use the space.
Professor Banach made delicious pulled pork for sandwiches and his famous homemade bread which met with great approval from all.
We hope to plan more Open Mics and events in the future thanks to all the postive feedback.
Catch Me If You Can
My life began in 469 BC,
in the ancient land of Athens,
which gave birth to Western philosophy.
Conversing by the Coliseum is where I’d reside;
pondering life’s questions consumed most of my time.
I didn’t do this for money,
no my lessons were free;
I had little concern for material possessions nor the practice of sophistry.
The clever man can dazzle and appear to be what is not,
though through the teachings of rhetoric,
truth is never taught.
Honest philosophy is uncomfortable;
it can judge us or force us to judge ourselves.
“What does it profit a man to have a keen understanding, but not live well?”
Sophia is my child whom I cherish, nurture, and love;
a virtue of the highest universal form,from the world of being, above.
I followed her beauty, though fellow citizens couldn’t understand;
claiming I was corrupting the youth,
they banned me from their land.
A purpose placed upon me by the mortal man,
to the guiding voice from within.
Rather than wandering, I acted out of honor,
making my telos to be remembered as philosophy's martyr.
Little did they know, their punishment,
in truth, was my reward.
Ignorance of small minds restricts the soul from moving toward,
the only idea worth aligning with one’s focus;
the flaming fire, which awoke us
and broke us out of the cave,
freeing our being.
We’re no longer appearances’ slave.
So I've been kicking around doing a multi part poem/story thing that I publish once a week. Actually, I haven't really been kicking around the idea, it just came into my head 4 minutes ago after I wrote this poem.
As he sat there
In the crowded room
And felt reality crowd in
Thicker than ever
He saw a parting of the mists.
That Exit sign over the door beckoned to him
This was his chance
To break out of the dream.
I am throbbing with violent labor pains,
I am pregnant,
my baby's head is protruding from my...
ok I know it sounds weird but give me a break I just started,
oh boy! Here it comes,
excuse me as I sream in pain,
It has arrived,
nacked, red, wailing with the umbilical chord still attached,
but it will grow to be great and beautiful
Not as morbid as you might think. I never liked the stigma death had. If you are a salvation type person then shouldn't you be happy? Unless you think said person went to hell I guess. And atheists shouldn't care overly much. Death is very liberating if it is the next step and if it isn't then the world probably has no meaning anyway. Or it still does. Who knows.
Off a mid level office building
Or rocky cliff