Sojourner
Backward foam is offered up by Venus
and a blacksmith, fallen to the sea,
only to return
it there, finding in its deepest black
the spreading -- continents spreading from Africa.
Burdened an searching, Isis
straps on her sandals, brave Isis
is searching in the night. Pale Venus
light guides her out of Africa,
through the delta to the sea.
It waits in fish black
for her return.
A return
of the leg, Isis
finds it, of the black,
coarse hair, she finds it. Fish have swallowed Venus,
fat, decapitated, out of sea,
into an Austrian tomb, a Slovakian tomb, across Africa
to a tomb, not Africa --
off cliff face, into water and foam, a return
to the sea.
In trees and under sand, limbs gathered; Isis
places them like pineapple in a basket, but Venus
rests belly deep in black,
in fish guts, a black
pearl first: Rodinia first, Godwana second, Pangaea third, Africa
fourth. First, Venus,
second, phallus, then Osiris erected upon his return,
the old leaf phallus cast by Isis,
the flesh lost out to the sea.
Into the foam, Isis went, into the sea
to find Venus, rescue from the black.
God will have to satisfy Africa, the flesh won’t return
~ By Robert Balkovich ~
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Monday, April 06, 2009
Poetry: Collada
Collada
El niño with his little hands is playing in the kitchen
with a miniature bindle stick made from ball lightning fragments
and shards of eddy. Balancing it against the eye wall,
el niño hitches the neap tide and claps his little hands together.
Tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
Above a nocturnal thunderstorm, by the jet stream,
the thick albedo quakes the atmosphere.
El niño, tired from riding the mountain waves,
curls up inside an ice jam. His muggy little hands
are awake and stay curious:
Do battle with the isopleth! The North
Pacific high approaches. Azores high and Bermuda
high, el niño stands at the nadir and contemplates
the lotus. Beneath the omega block he cultivates a lotus.
El niño meditates:
The lotus has five white little fingers. It grows
in the aphelion. It sips hoarfrost from the tip of
each white little finger. It blossoms at red tide
and dies at mare’s tail. Stands in a field of moist adiabat;
tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
~ By Benjamin Korman ~
El niño with his little hands is playing in the kitchen
with a miniature bindle stick made from ball lightning fragments
and shards of eddy. Balancing it against the eye wall,
el niño hitches the neap tide and claps his little hands together.
Tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
Above a nocturnal thunderstorm, by the jet stream,
the thick albedo quakes the atmosphere.
El niño, tired from riding the mountain waves,
curls up inside an ice jam. His muggy little hands
are awake and stay curious:
Do battle with the isopleth! The North
Pacific high approaches. Azores high and Bermuda
high, el niño stands at the nadir and contemplates
the lotus. Beneath the omega block he cultivates a lotus.
El niño meditates:
The lotus has five white little fingers. It grows
in the aphelion. It sips hoarfrost from the tip of
each white little finger. It blossoms at red tide
and dies at mare’s tail. Stands in a field of moist adiabat;
tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
~ By Benjamin Korman ~
Poetry: The Unnatural Scale
the unnatural scale
but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnson. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.
~ By Adah Gorton ~
but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnson. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.
~ By Adah Gorton ~
Poetry: A Translucent Dream
A Translucent Dream
He read the classics, Huck Finn twice,
And took coffee black with sugar.
When I was a girl, I took sugar and cream,
And wrote poem after poem
And wrote dream after dream
Of the houses and the people in this town.
Remember when I went to your town?
You kissed good, and how I missed your sugar!
Under your sheets, we made love twice.
My skin was dark, against yours, (a fair cream)
And I showed you that poem
And dreamed the sweetest dream.
It was night and the snow fell like sugar
When we were driving into town.
You stopped for a coffee; I took mine with cream.
That winter, I read her book of poems twice,
And dreamed less real dreams
So I just drank the poems.
Remember sleeping in church, twice?
Once in the morning, and you woke from a dream.
Next at midnight– we were the only kids in town.
Looking up at the ceiling, painted cream,
I recited to you one of The Small Poems:
We sat at the table with nothing but sugar.
On your birthday, I thought the salt was sugar
So I made your cake twice,
Then bought vanilla ice cream.
Your friends came from out of town
And I found my old poem
About the wildest horses, and the wildest dreams.
After the end I wrote you a poem.
She said, a love affair merits a poem twice:
When it is stale and when it has sugar.
We met in my saddest dreams.
You were a ghost in my town,
A shimmering translucent cream.
Night sky is a poem, and the moon is cream
Dashed with sugar for stars in my town,
Twice baked, but only in that dream.
~ By Rachael Taylor ~
He read the classics, Huck Finn twice,
And took coffee black with sugar.
When I was a girl, I took sugar and cream,
And wrote poem after poem
And wrote dream after dream
Of the houses and the people in this town.
Remember when I went to your town?
You kissed good, and how I missed your sugar!
Under your sheets, we made love twice.
My skin was dark, against yours, (a fair cream)
And I showed you that poem
And dreamed the sweetest dream.
It was night and the snow fell like sugar
When we were driving into town.
You stopped for a coffee; I took mine with cream.
That winter, I read her book of poems twice,
And dreamed less real dreams
So I just drank the poems.
Remember sleeping in church, twice?
Once in the morning, and you woke from a dream.
Next at midnight– we were the only kids in town.
Looking up at the ceiling, painted cream,
I recited to you one of The Small Poems:
We sat at the table with nothing but sugar.
On your birthday, I thought the salt was sugar
So I made your cake twice,
Then bought vanilla ice cream.
Your friends came from out of town
And I found my old poem
About the wildest horses, and the wildest dreams.
After the end I wrote you a poem.
She said, a love affair merits a poem twice:
When it is stale and when it has sugar.
We met in my saddest dreams.
You were a ghost in my town,
A shimmering translucent cream.
Night sky is a poem, and the moon is cream
Dashed with sugar for stars in my town,
Twice baked, but only in that dream.
~ By Rachael Taylor ~
Friday, March 27, 2009
Poetry: Inside
Inside
inside
two voices
one is Southern
the other is mine
Southern says speak, act as if, & play
mine feels radiowaves signal across a haywire field of fucker-uppers
but instead says okay
Southern presses record
mine suggests the gray slab of building has cupped thoughts in an alley
by the Metro where the maple leaves have scattered thunder
mine shows a poem in the backpocket, directs words for Southern
my arm’s a pillow & my foot’s a saint
Southern intimates a question with pursed lips
mine deliberates that the world has blown up and asks finally
about the tape recorder
mine jumps the void, clinging to the window frame
~ By Aldrin Valdez ~
AldrinValdez
inside
two voices
one is Southern
the other is mine
Southern says speak, act as if, & play
mine feels radiowaves signal across a haywire field of fucker-uppers
but instead says okay
Southern presses record
mine suggests the gray slab of building has cupped thoughts in an alley
by the Metro where the maple leaves have scattered thunder
mine shows a poem in the backpocket, directs words for Southern
my arm’s a pillow & my foot’s a saint
Southern intimates a question with pursed lips
mine deliberates that the world has blown up and asks finally
about the tape recorder
mine jumps the void, clinging to the window frame
~ By Aldrin Valdez ~
AldrinValdez
Theme Submission: Fingers
Theme #1: The Body
Fingers
Lead chopsticks open their maws
Polygraph scratch
Across naked flesh of cotton canvas
Fingertips letter pressing keyboard keys
A blur of motion, and a speed so rapid
The rapping reminiscent
To the subdued salvo of a machine gun
Wrists becoming the faucet
Rusted pipes directly pouring
The gum in my head
The bread stuffed between my ears
The meat behind my pupils
The potion in my beaker
Type
Rhyme
Type
Rhyme
My words knitting stockinet
And my fingers commit the crime
~By Rachel Vasquez~
Rubixchick.com
Fingers
Lead chopsticks open their maws
Polygraph scratch
Across naked flesh of cotton canvas
Fingertips letter pressing keyboard keys
A blur of motion, and a speed so rapid
The rapping reminiscent
To the subdued salvo of a machine gun
Wrists becoming the faucet
Rusted pipes directly pouring
The gum in my head
The bread stuffed between my ears
The meat behind my pupils
The potion in my beaker
Type
Rhyme
Type
Rhyme
My words knitting stockinet
And my fingers commit the crime
~By Rachel Vasquez~
Rubixchick.com
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Poetry: Purple Merkin
Purple Merkin
A clump of pubic hair pasted on his chin crawls up in curly patches,
up his cheeks and down his jowls, down this neck
in bushy ringlets connected to his pubic mustache connected to his
pubic sideburns connected to the long pubic hair hanging over his pubic ears
with two blue balls hiding behind pubic eyebrows,
one positioned on either side of his nose sprouting pubic hair of its own,
vibrating above a tiny pink
hole in her stocking below the hem of her dress—a shirt
she calls a dress that ends just under the curve of her ass. A black belt
wrapped around her waist keeps the fabric from moving
when she stands, but when she walks, she reveals
Everything is ruined forever, said the elephant.
You can trust me,
for I am plaid and purple and perfect in every way.
But the world is not perfect or plaid or even purple people
don’t understand the meaning of peace poor people poor
people feel responsible.
~By Colleen Morrison~
A clump of pubic hair pasted on his chin crawls up in curly patches,
up his cheeks and down his jowls, down this neck
in bushy ringlets connected to his pubic mustache connected to his
pubic sideburns connected to the long pubic hair hanging over his pubic ears
with two blue balls hiding behind pubic eyebrows,
one positioned on either side of his nose sprouting pubic hair of its own,
vibrating above a tiny pink
hole in her stocking below the hem of her dress—a shirt
she calls a dress that ends just under the curve of her ass. A black belt
wrapped around her waist keeps the fabric from moving
when she stands, but when she walks, she reveals
Everything is ruined forever, said the elephant.
You can trust me,
for I am plaid and purple and perfect in every way.
But the world is not perfect or plaid or even purple people
don’t understand the meaning of peace poor people poor
people feel responsible.
~By Colleen Morrison~
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Fiction/Poetry: "Lions", "Proof", and "Smallness"
How is it that a bird sits centered in memory, but the cage and the living room and the color of a mother's robes have faded to sepia? Remember on the shelf a mug that said Trafalgar Square in red. For nine months it was the bus stop. Now no lions can impress.
I found missing letters for green envelopes; found english polaroids. Statues blur at high speeds--a caption reads is this the only time they move? Don't send me anything more ce sera le dernier. Hear that heartbeat underwater. Through pipes I can feel the ocean just two-hundred feet away. I press my ear to the waves that are born between this island and yours and there must be millions.
An ocean between like this: I sit on the phone as the sun rises and wait as the transatlantic static collects like Creeping Buttercups in the alley, like Hare's Foot Clover in my Soho, in your Soho.
Proof
It is in a candid cheek kiss, subjects still overcoated, blocking the entrance to the party. The lady wears a hat (now ladies never wear hats) and the man's white neck tie is only visible in the shadows. Ascots and feathers and molding trimmed ceilings; pearl earrings, Jacquard skirts peeking from beneath swing coats.
She asked if it was real, as her mother sat brushing the soft curls into her hair. She asked about Father and dinner parties before there were record players. Now, now.
Left going in, again (always, forever, amen), when the boy with freckles held down the shutter and lit up the room with a light unlike the soft yellow overhead. Shoved in deepest pockets, no peeks promised, a hidden message developing in the dark.
Found in the corner, in his scrawl--proof, a one-line drawing by fingernail. White as the Monday morning they met when he told her of the waves he bore into, of the spices bought on coasts with no maps.
Some Smallness
Was it rain or dew this morning
turning things too wet for touch,
for holding? I saw the yarn yellow
and fence snared--all flagging
in the wind--untethered over
night, embodying an absence.
The rabbit cage had a hole
and one bunny too few. The
fence had been dug under
and in the grass on the other
side she rested slick, lacking
dignity. When I held her in
my hands I could feel
the skull halved, held together
only by skin and fur (so soft).
Her breaths still came out
labored and she blinked
twice in my lap as I stroked
her bunny ears,
now reared (always to be reared).
Autumn rolled back
over. There was a
tree bare branched. There
was a tree relieved of
leaves. Weight shifting
in the wind, it did not
bemoan those fallen,
but rather it whistled.
~By Caroline Gormley~
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Poetry: An Automated Harvest
An Automated Harvest
The machine that spins wire also spins rope and in nature is more akin to a twisted umbilical cord than an arachnid's spinnerets. We must tie every fetus down to a womb. We hold babies in plenitude, but the mother-end of the strand is largely unclaimed. We receive a call for intimacy, but the caller must leave a message or hang up. We don't know how long the cassette tape will run. Already there are spools stored in a warehouse. Hundreds of feet of magnetic tape. Play it to hear a whisper.
“I know you are still afraid of the dark. I was there when you dreamed of the blood soaking your legs only to wake in a puddle of your own urine, I know that you hit her. I know your shame...”
“I know that you woke with his screams and his fists, and wondered why, until you changed the sheets. I know that you've forgotten what it's like to be kissed...”
“I know that you want your grandfather to die. I know that you are already afraid of being useless...”
“I am afraid of being forgotten. I am afraid for my children. I am afraid that you do not love me the way I love you. I am...”
The first length of tape is a WORD hanging in the air by a single strand.
(The machines will finish the harvest, because there aren't enough men and women to clip and carry every sheaf of wheat.)
~By Zachary Garver~
The machine that spins wire also spins rope and in nature is more akin to a twisted umbilical cord than an arachnid's spinnerets. We must tie every fetus down to a womb. We hold babies in plenitude, but the mother-end of the strand is largely unclaimed. We receive a call for intimacy, but the caller must leave a message or hang up. We don't know how long the cassette tape will run. Already there are spools stored in a warehouse. Hundreds of feet of magnetic tape. Play it to hear a whisper.
“I know you are still afraid of the dark. I was there when you dreamed of the blood soaking your legs only to wake in a puddle of your own urine, I know that you hit her. I know your shame...”
“I know that you woke with his screams and his fists, and wondered why, until you changed the sheets. I know that you've forgotten what it's like to be kissed...”
“I know that you want your grandfather to die. I know that you are already afraid of being useless...”
“I am afraid of being forgotten. I am afraid for my children. I am afraid that you do not love me the way I love you. I am...”
The first length of tape is a WORD hanging in the air by a single strand.
(The machines will finish the harvest, because there aren't enough men and women to clip and carry every sheaf of wheat.)
~By Zachary Garver~
Poetry: Inches to Miles
Inches to Miles
We push past knees and hide our smiles
I watch the smoke curl its back into the night
the sky shouldn’t be moving like this.
Wait, whispered as the door closes.
I count the fractures and disconnects
tiny mistakes printed on bodies
sunbursts watermarks footprints.
Later, we draw a map.
~By Chenice Greenberg~
We push past knees and hide our smiles
I watch the smoke curl its back into the night
the sky shouldn’t be moving like this.
Wait, whispered as the door closes.
I count the fractures and disconnects
tiny mistakes printed on bodies
sunbursts watermarks footprints.
Later, we draw a map.
~By Chenice Greenberg~
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Poetry: Half Dark & Untitled
Half-Dark
How many half-darks I have seen? I could probably
calculate a number. Couldn’t we?
Darkness has little chance of half-existence with
full-breasted mountains in the distance. Sure, light comes over the top of them occasionally.
Sure
the snow is a source of some sort
Don’t go out there she tells me
then remembers her mother
then becomes quiet and shares my triumph,
when I have one
If I stopped watching, stopped calculating
stopped altogether
spoke a language no one knew
got my finger stuck between the keys?
The clock wastes time: a comet going on for miles past the time in which
we have spotted it and named it a comet. It knows not letters it soars it travels speedily through space
perhaps forever. Perhaps forever it doesn’t rest and that is what we should remember about it
A gypsy sleepless night an understatement.
Where have you walked? And slept and fought
Hair dried to the wood
The fungi the decomposers the invisibles
Remove me now
Untitled
Mom knitted
Dad
a sweater
years ago.
It wouldn’t fit him now
if it came out of the hope chest
She has since never knitted
never sewed
decorated
or arranged,
couldn’t be bothered,
I love her for it
Dad brings in the wood
She sweeps the woodchips,
loads domestic machines
She says “he got pissed off” “she got pissed off”
I got pissed off
But hardly ever
fuck
she left me a message
after work
“one of the residents died today”
she left me a message
“I decided I’m going to start knitting again”
~By Erin Heath~
How many half-darks I have seen? I could probably
calculate a number. Couldn’t we?
Darkness has little chance of half-existence with
full-breasted mountains in the distance. Sure, light comes over the top of them occasionally.
Sure
the snow is a source of some sort
Don’t go out there she tells me
then remembers her mother
then becomes quiet and shares my triumph,
when I have one
If I stopped watching, stopped calculating
stopped altogether
spoke a language no one knew
got my finger stuck between the keys?
The clock wastes time: a comet going on for miles past the time in which
we have spotted it and named it a comet. It knows not letters it soars it travels speedily through space
perhaps forever. Perhaps forever it doesn’t rest and that is what we should remember about it
A gypsy sleepless night an understatement.
Where have you walked? And slept and fought
Hair dried to the wood
The fungi the decomposers the invisibles
Remove me now
Untitled
Mom knitted
Dad
a sweater
years ago.
It wouldn’t fit him now
if it came out of the hope chest
She has since never knitted
never sewed
decorated
or arranged,
couldn’t be bothered,
I love her for it
Dad brings in the wood
She sweeps the woodchips,
loads domestic machines
She says “he got pissed off” “she got pissed off”
I got pissed off
But hardly ever
fuck
she left me a message
after work
“one of the residents died today”
she left me a message
“I decided I’m going to start knitting again”
~By Erin Heath~
Poetry: Coney Island & Untitled
Coney Island:
The lights from the
boardwalk
Leave
orange stains
on black water
It's
quiet now
The crowds have
all
gone home
except for
us.
We remain
With our toes
in the sand
pointing out
to sea,
our faces turned
to look
back
at the
ghosts
of other people's
dreams.
Untitled:
Were you but a jewel
held up
against the
sun
to bare the lights
and shadows
of your
soul
And show to me
what fire,
if any,
can be found
there.
~By Sophia Johnson~
Freshman COMD (Illustration)
The lights from the
boardwalk
Leave
orange stains
on black water
It's
quiet now
The crowds have
all
gone home
except for
us.
We remain
With our toes
in the sand
pointing out
to sea,
our faces turned
to look
back
at the
ghosts
of other people's
dreams.
Untitled:
Were you but a jewel
held up
against the
sun
to bare the lights
and shadows
of your
soul
And show to me
what fire,
if any,
can be found
there.
~By Sophia Johnson~
Freshman COMD (Illustration)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Open Mic
OPEN MIC ~ hosted by Nick Noir
Thursday April 10th and 24th
Musicians
Poets
Singers
Rappers
Writers
8 pm Sign up
8:30 Performance
Tillies of Brooklyn
248 Dekalb Ave.
Bklyn, NY
(718) 783- 6140
www.tilliesofbrooklyn.com
Thursday April 10th and 24th
Musicians
Poets
Singers
Rappers
Writers
8 pm Sign up
8:30 Performance
Tillies of Brooklyn
248 Dekalb Ave.
Bklyn, NY
(718) 783- 6140
www.tilliesofbrooklyn.com
Friday, April 04, 2008
Pratt Poetry Competition!
The Pratt Institute and The Academy of American Poets Present the Annual
Pratt Poetry Competition Spring 2008!
Pratt Students may submit one to three poems (any style, any subject) to:
Helen Anne Easterly
Mailbox North Hall
101
DEADLINE Wednesday, April 30th, 6 pm
Submit 3 typed copies of each poem with your name, dept., year (freshman, senior etc.) email address, and mailing address ON EACH COPY.
Winning poem will be chosen by Pratt Alumna E. Ward Herlands and Assistant Professor Helen Anne Easterly.
Cash Prize!
Pratt Poetry Competition Spring 2008!
Pratt Students may submit one to three poems (any style, any subject) to:
Helen Anne Easterly
Mailbox North Hall
101
DEADLINE Wednesday, April 30th, 6 pm
Submit 3 typed copies of each poem with your name, dept., year (freshman, senior etc.) email address, and mailing address ON EACH COPY.
Winning poem will be chosen by Pratt Alumna E. Ward Herlands and Assistant Professor Helen Anne Easterly.
Cash Prize!
Write-A-Thon & Draw-A-Thon!!!
So maybe you want to write instead of draw- or heck, maybe you want to attend both events.
Come to the Write-A-Thon!!!
When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm -7am (all night)
Where: 5th Floor Main building (right above the Draw-A-Thon)
Writing Faculty & Special guests will be conducting workshops and readings.
Pens/typewriters/music/paper/glue/books/magazines and newspaper/(for cut up and collage/ inspiration/pizza/coffee/ all available
$10 in advance
$15 at the door
Call 718- 636-3617 to make reservations
Questions: klamm@pratt.edu
*Entry into the Draw-A-Thon is an AUTOMATIC ENTRY into the Write-A-Thon because of the Draw-A-Thon's 20th Anniversary so you don't have to pay twice to go to both!!!
Come to the Draw-A-Thon!!!
When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm - 7am (all night)
Where: 4th Floor Main building
$10 in advance
$15 at the door.
Pizza, fruit,coffee, and refreshments...
Eighteen models circulate throughout the drawing studios, including one devoted to costume modeling. Specific rooms are dedicated to poses ranging from the energy and frenzy of fast action poses, to sessions of five minutes, twenty minutes, and one-hour duration. There is also the opportunity to work from extended poses of three and six hours.
Live African drum music.
Pratt will also be offering prizes that are generously donated by area art stores and will be awarded at the end of the Draw-a-thon.
Reservations call: 718-636-3617.
Photography is not permitted.
Come to the Write-A-Thon!!!
When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm -7am (all night)
Where: 5th Floor Main building (right above the Draw-A-Thon)
Writing Faculty & Special guests will be conducting workshops and readings.
Pens/typewriters/music/paper/glue/books/magazines and newspaper/(for cut up and collage/ inspiration/pizza/coffee/ all available
$10 in advance
$15 at the door
Call 718- 636-3617 to make reservations
Questions: klamm@pratt.edu
*Entry into the Draw-A-Thon is an AUTOMATIC ENTRY into the Write-A-Thon because of the Draw-A-Thon's 20th Anniversary so you don't have to pay twice to go to both!!!
Come to the Draw-A-Thon!!!
When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm - 7am (all night)
Where: 4th Floor Main building
$10 in advance
$15 at the door.
Pizza, fruit,coffee, and refreshments...
Eighteen models circulate throughout the drawing studios, including one devoted to costume modeling. Specific rooms are dedicated to poses ranging from the energy and frenzy of fast action poses, to sessions of five minutes, twenty minutes, and one-hour duration. There is also the opportunity to work from extended poses of three and six hours.
Live African drum music.
Pratt will also be offering prizes that are generously donated by area art stores and will be awarded at the end of the Draw-a-thon.
Reservations call: 718-636-3617.
Photography is not permitted.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Poetry: It's Raining Here for You
It’s raining here
For you
With your cigarette and black coffee mug in the same hand,
You
Who still keeps a typewriter in the closet
To pay homage to the old ways,
To those grown-up men trying to find their boyhood once again.
Breathe in the droplets,
Or they will smear the carbon copies
Falling from your trees,
Thin leaves for submission to the press.
Doesn’t anybody print unknowns anymore?
You cry,
Doesn’t anybody read?
You dye your
Second-hand clothes with the same tea
You make for me to drink,
So what am I to think
About the fairy tales of utopia you spin me now?
Let go.
Dance for the rain.
It came down for you and shimmered.
The czars and I and even you can all enjoy the ballet;
Your words,
They will wait for you to untie your wet boots.
Jennifer Stohlmann
For you
With your cigarette and black coffee mug in the same hand,
You
Who still keeps a typewriter in the closet
To pay homage to the old ways,
To those grown-up men trying to find their boyhood once again.
Breathe in the droplets,
Or they will smear the carbon copies
Falling from your trees,
Thin leaves for submission to the press.
Doesn’t anybody print unknowns anymore?
You cry,
Doesn’t anybody read?
You dye your
Second-hand clothes with the same tea
You make for me to drink,
So what am I to think
About the fairy tales of utopia you spin me now?
Let go.
Dance for the rain.
It came down for you and shimmered.
The czars and I and even you can all enjoy the ballet;
Your words,
They will wait for you to untie your wet boots.
Jennifer Stohlmann
Monday, February 18, 2008
Poetry: Search and Rescue
My mother brings home an
owl with a broken wing and winces
when she wraps it in warm towels,
like a part of her is broken too--
maybe there is. I make the bed
like you will sleep there: no sheet.
It takes three days for your
lingering scent to stop lingering or
for my nose to adjust--
either way, it's gone.
The owl dies over night and
my mother begins planning the funeral.
Two birds build a nest on our porch.
I say ours but it was never ours,
now was it?
A ferry sinks on the evening news.
the water is warm and thick,
like breast milk,
so they decide to swim.
I remember the skin behind your ears
and loving you,
violently. I want your blood on my hands.
Dirt in carpet, shovel in sink,
and the owl is still wrapped,
swaddled, on the kitchen counter with
the cat pawing the back door and
mother in the yard,
whispering our father in heaven hallowed be your name.
I make up my mind to
swim to you but by the time I
make it to the Atlantic,
the notes in my pocket are too wet to read.
I forget if they were
love letters to begin with. So I swim home.
Dear mother, did the deer join the prayers
at the owl's funeral?
An obvious ending:
The men and women on the ferry later say
the search was better than the rescue.
The less obvious:
The owl unburied himself
and flew away.
Stephanie Willis
owl with a broken wing and winces
when she wraps it in warm towels,
like a part of her is broken too--
maybe there is. I make the bed
like you will sleep there: no sheet.
It takes three days for your
lingering scent to stop lingering or
for my nose to adjust--
either way, it's gone.
The owl dies over night and
my mother begins planning the funeral.
Two birds build a nest on our porch.
I say ours but it was never ours,
now was it?
A ferry sinks on the evening news.
the water is warm and thick,
like breast milk,
so they decide to swim.
I remember the skin behind your ears
and loving you,
violently. I want your blood on my hands.
Dirt in carpet, shovel in sink,
and the owl is still wrapped,
swaddled, on the kitchen counter with
the cat pawing the back door and
mother in the yard,
whispering our father in heaven hallowed be your name.
I make up my mind to
swim to you but by the time I
make it to the Atlantic,
the notes in my pocket are too wet to read.
I forget if they were
love letters to begin with. So I swim home.
Dear mother, did the deer join the prayers
at the owl's funeral?
An obvious ending:
The men and women on the ferry later say
the search was better than the rescue.
The less obvious:
The owl unburied himself
and flew away.
Stephanie Willis
Poetry: The Consequences of Fearing Loneliness
I fall asleep in the bathtub to be closer to the ocean.
I invite others to sleep near me. Their bodies
keep me warm like water: cold, cold, cold,
and then you adjust.
October becomes November and I can't distinguish
my breath from smoke. Think of me next time
you drink lukewarm soup or touch a girl
who can't stop shaking.
I am sorry for thinking
the wrong people are wonderful,
for thinking I am wonderful, for thinking
of he and me as we.
I’m sorry for holding his shoulder when he tried to leave.
I apologize for the kiss on the mouth. Don't remember me for that.
Remember me by all thirty knuckles and strands of hair
in your mouth and Sunday mornings.
Let me get ahead of myself now. Let me think of
sharing a grocery cart and doorman greetings by name
and waking up under flannel and down.
Don’t ask to know what I am thinking.
Or, teach me to stand still. Teach me to be quiet
and steady and comfortable in this moment alone.
Teach me to stop expecting the best for me
to be what I expected.
I apologize for lingering too long. I apologize
for kissing him when I tasted only like beer.
I woke up with his elbow in my face.
I licked his elbow. I am sorry for this.
Touch my thigh in the morning. Think of the last bed
and its inhabitant— think of her short hair and lazy mouth.
Teach me indifference. Kiss my mouth and
go home and stop answering the phone.
Go back in time to a favorite moment.
The winter at the beach—the way my feet
sunk into the sand. Choose to stay here;
claim there has been nothing worth returning to.
Consider my ribcage and wrists. Consider
coin tosses and drawings passed back and forth
and the tops of my feet in the cold.
Return to me.
Stop missing the small things: toes and teeth and eyelashes
left on the pillow. Or miss them more.
Go back with me to that beach. Breathe only fog.
Reach as far as you can reach. See if we can touch.
Stephanie Willis
I invite others to sleep near me. Their bodies
keep me warm like water: cold, cold, cold,
and then you adjust.
October becomes November and I can't distinguish
my breath from smoke. Think of me next time
you drink lukewarm soup or touch a girl
who can't stop shaking.
I am sorry for thinking
the wrong people are wonderful,
for thinking I am wonderful, for thinking
of he and me as we.
I’m sorry for holding his shoulder when he tried to leave.
I apologize for the kiss on the mouth. Don't remember me for that.
Remember me by all thirty knuckles and strands of hair
in your mouth and Sunday mornings.
Let me get ahead of myself now. Let me think of
sharing a grocery cart and doorman greetings by name
and waking up under flannel and down.
Don’t ask to know what I am thinking.
Or, teach me to stand still. Teach me to be quiet
and steady and comfortable in this moment alone.
Teach me to stop expecting the best for me
to be what I expected.
I apologize for lingering too long. I apologize
for kissing him when I tasted only like beer.
I woke up with his elbow in my face.
I licked his elbow. I am sorry for this.
Touch my thigh in the morning. Think of the last bed
and its inhabitant— think of her short hair and lazy mouth.
Teach me indifference. Kiss my mouth and
go home and stop answering the phone.
Go back in time to a favorite moment.
The winter at the beach—the way my feet
sunk into the sand. Choose to stay here;
claim there has been nothing worth returning to.
Consider my ribcage and wrists. Consider
coin tosses and drawings passed back and forth
and the tops of my feet in the cold.
Return to me.
Stop missing the small things: toes and teeth and eyelashes
left on the pillow. Or miss them more.
Go back with me to that beach. Breathe only fog.
Reach as far as you can reach. See if we can touch.
Stephanie Willis
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Poetry: Relics
Relics
Spine/I am shattered pieces of memory
Unwilling to part from each other
Compressing and extending in curves
Perhaps never straight
Shoulder/an endless possibility
A radius of a sphere
Everything and thus nothing
Almost insignificant
Fingers/we lock into each other
Each one of us flexes and extends
To create a knitted surface
Its dimensions always morphing
Elbow/who are you faceless creature
Who resembles something of everything else
An element too simple
Whose footsteps only exist in a single plane
Knee/whatever happens
whatever its complexity
It all comes down
To flexion and extensions
And Marrow/your invasive warmth
Crawled into my emptiness in silence and
You stood up slowly
And you became me
- Hilary H.
Spine/I am shattered pieces of memory
Unwilling to part from each other
Compressing and extending in curves
Perhaps never straight
Shoulder/an endless possibility
A radius of a sphere
Everything and thus nothing
Almost insignificant
Fingers/we lock into each other
Each one of us flexes and extends
To create a knitted surface
Its dimensions always morphing
Elbow/who are you faceless creature
Who resembles something of everything else
An element too simple
Whose footsteps only exist in a single plane
Knee/whatever happens
whatever its complexity
It all comes down
To flexion and extensions
And Marrow/your invasive warmth
Crawled into my emptiness in silence and
You stood up slowly
And you became me
- Hilary H.
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