links for 2006-10-21

inspired by ezra pound and radio lab

O stupid queen!
For thinking of the past
as anything other
than a trap
for women,
a time that calls you
a disease.
I drop my head
into a bath
heated most modernly.
My chin-length hair
floats away.
Your voice does too.

good, take 2

breathing in and out of seared lungs
air rushing over pink-cold hands

and pushing
floating past

the red-gold tree blazing
before the late afternoon sun

breathing pushing

and the black dog hasn’t yet
carried off my soul

so long as I can

dance around the corner
and bolt across the street
thru traffic
on two slim curls
of rubber & aluminum

sunday scribblings: good

I don’t feel good.  I have a headache that starts somewhere between my shoulderblades and comes up over my head to rest between my eyebrows and circle around my jaw.  I feel a million things to do (should have done already) lurking at the base of my skull, waiting for me to remember and be shocked.  But I’m unshocked right now: I’m looking down at the floor and saying: “yes, I know, I forgot, I’m sorry.  I’ll get on that.”  But I don’t really want to “get on that” either.  I want to go back to bed.  I want to watch TV until my brain rots.  I want to get on my bike and head out and not come back.

Temporary, right?  Being un-good is just a temporary thing.  Doesn’t feel that way, not in the least.

And I’m writing this here, out on the tightrope of public space, out of a weird sense of obligation: being a good blogger, a good writer, a good representative of the Black Dog club.  I know if I write this, exactly what I feel in this sore sour ungood moment, that somebody or another is going to say something with the intent of helping me to feel better or less alone or whatever, and the bad side of me wants to tell them, whoever, to just go to hell.

Which doesn’t seem very good either.

So much pent up bad feeling, and every damn thing gets on my nerves.

I read a book recently on depression on motherhood (no, I’m not planning anything), and there was a side note about bursts of anger.  The typical picture of depression doesn’t allow for that sort of thing, but it appears all in the scientific literature, or so the book said.  And I feel that evil mood on me right now.

So, yeah.  Come back later, when the good Elaine is out and about.  She’s not here right now.

links for 2006-10-20

links for 2006-10-19

links for 2006-10-18

links for 2006-10-17

poetry avoidance

This week’s poetry Thursday prompt is “what we avoid” and in being true to the spirit of the idea, I’m revisiting the one poet for whom I have a serious and active loathing:

Ezra Pound.

The last semester of my senior year of college, I took an advanced poetry writing course, in which we were inflicted with a variety of unpalatable modern poets. (Why, no, I didn’t much care for the class.) Most of them were forgettable, or at least I have forgotten them, but my knee-jerk dislike for Pound has lingered on.

So I’m going to give him another shot and see if — 10 years later — I can get something out of the experience. If any of y’all like his poetry, I’d sure appreciate a pointer to what and a bit of why, too.

Update, Oct. 20: I poked around the internets looking for various things by Pound; some of the notable bits are now in my ezrapound tag in deli.icio.us. I think I’m going to stick by my judgement of 10 years ago: mostly pretentious, snobby, self-referential crap. But there are a few gems, when he gets out of his own way. But I’m not finding that I’m inspired to write anything of my own, either way.