Poetry and Discussion

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.  (Robert Frost)
Facebook Workshop Group is Here

Lucubrations Creative Tuesday

Sep 20 2011 6:00 pm
Sep 20 2011 9:00 pm



Recipe for a Box

Must be a genius.

Must have a BIG

loving heart for fuckups.

Wear collared buttondowns, surfshorts

and "slippahs" with shades.

Long gray ponytail. Laugh.

What is it about the late night?

What is it about the late night?

I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm not focused

yet up I sit and up I stay

staring at a screen, waiting on a wheel

that spins round, and round, and round

internet's slow, everyone online, but I don't mind

it's odd but I'm content to sit, to watch

to ponder, but ponder's too heavy, I'm not doing much

just sitting haunched, squinting with out glasses

excited about this new world, this new place

where I am free, I can be creative, I can express!

me, do I want myself here? putting it on the line

in front of strangers, people I don't know, never met, never saw

I'm scared, but exhilarated, who cares?! I'm here!

I'm free to be, free to think, to hope, to dream

it's late I need sleep, classes to survive

but up I sit and up I stay

What is it about the late night?

Audio from Open Mic at the 2011 Open House

The Quality isn't the best and we missed the beginning (Jeremy Munro's epic introduction). The recording starts in the middle of Justine Johnson's reading, and then in order appear Tyler Lavallee, Prof. Banach, Valerie Stein, Lauren Miller, and Valerie Stein again. Thanks to all the performers. We had a great time!

National Poetry Slam in Boston August 9-13

Aug 9 2011 12:00 pm



There is a moment overflowing

there is a moment overflowing
when a passing breeze
the leaves
and the tree sways embracing the air
and it is too big, too good
too much
billowing branches
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 I've Given You Nothing And Now I'm Everything.


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


waits formless





things  coming   apart
have     their    own                order
and                their   own

as the order that binds them
                magic grabs
   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
                                      calling fragments
                                      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.

(.  syntax.)

i’m a native of the sea but i grew close to waterfire.

Abandon All Ships.


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.


Captain, Captain!

Before the sail breaks!
Hold fast.

Lucubrations Artistic Tuesday Photos and Recordings

Lucubrations Artistic Tuesday Album


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

Through The Lens Of A Watchmaker


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

At The Gates Of Hell


So yea,

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

The Argument from Recollection

seeing not here
not now
wild eye stares
at nothing.

cloud trails across stars
uncover absences
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

turn around
peer back at me
with your face
around each corner
another place
in which you were
out of balance
tipping towards
what was
is not

memory seeks out
empty spaces
in the real
dissolves its fabric
collapses consciousness
impaling its center
pinning it
like a specimen
with pain
to the wound
through which life is
to the eternal
through the present
what was
to what will be
by what is

remembering is
and forgetting is death.


tender is the night

 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.

Lucubrations Open Mic Summary/Review

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 by Kimberly Martel



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.

Ask yourself,

“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,

no comparison,

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 Good,

the flaming fire, which awoke us

and broke us out of the cave,

freeing our being.

We’re no longer appearances’ slave. 



Random images

  • Shakespeare 2010-3930.jpg - By: dbanach
  • 2010-June-5201.jpg - By: dbanach
  • Gleason-2-2.jpg - By: dbanach