In 30/30 Project for Tupelo Press, daughters, Writing Manifestos on 02/04/2013 at 21:30
Daughters age so fast. Wars disappear from view as we watch, mostly don’t watch. Pervasive violence of contemporary culture as “war.” My daughters Sonia (four) and Alma (one) as “daughters.” Wanting to write the beautiful horror of these things together, to hold them as they run through my fingers, to make permanent this terrible enchantment of being; what luck to have these skies and not those with drones coming to bomb us, what luck to wake to brilliant daughters, what horror of universities building of elements to melt flesh, what horror of mechanized death, how to write these things with the same breath, think them with the same mind. Forcing my quotidian happiness into dialogue with that terror.
Because I believe in the value of formal constraints, I am doing the above through the following:
1) Poems will be 28 lines long.
2) Poems will start with a line from a poem by another poet, going in reverse alphabetical order (first day Zawacki, second day Young, so on).
3) That line will come from the 28th page of a book or project.
4) Where possible, poets who will provide the first line have been asked to choose the line themselves.
In 30/30 Project for Tupelo Press, Sprung, Writing Manifestos on 02/02/2013 at 20:44
A poem a day? For February? Why for? I say:
For slip happens more than catch & grasp mars even with tenderness. For wrap cares more than embrace when all is said & gone. For the hand breathes elephant trunks that lift, shower, & cradle.
For justice divests blindfold & balance to witnesses the kiln firing. For the medicinal claim declares neither reparations nor manumit. For the lesion that rips the nerves open. For the deceives we suffer. For semipermeable wonders.
For months waked & wordless turns matters blasphemous & messages plunderers. For hanging threads demand the mangle-truth. For the hack who repairs more softly than the cutter. For the oil-pastel tucks under the mechanic’s workbench. For form boxes the unexpected, aligns the discoveries.
For lilac, seven years fallow, blossoms liquids of warm scents in spring air. For canvas & piano & clay puckers inside poems—mouthed or minded. For tremulous kisses’ lockings beneath Corinthian columns.
For beckon retorts even when satisfied. For flushed skin around the hip of the hot Saki carafe. For book & tongue saturates ecclesiastic & sensual aural & oral awe. For what poses fascinations beyond the wet-spot.
For any more & less moots the Golden Mean. For the nothing nothings, yet poetry, somehow something, silks harangued scatters of mood. For subconscious, shuttering bellies ovulate only so long. For the trunk & handle of the grave seems a still mistake.
For those & despite those & for many more those, I will muster.
–William David Ross
In 30/30 Project for Tupelo Press, aviator, Writing Manifestos on 02/02/2013 at 00:17
I’m writing to make sure perspective isn’t buried under pop-culture. Well, or even buried under so many other layers of life. And to give myself a place to breathe & listen to the worries I have.
I am writing, as ever, so that my sweet clam, my darling son, will always know that being creative can be amazing & that the opportunities for his little heart-dreams are boundless. And so he can be proud that I followed my passion, & so too, follow his.
And I write, so that I can process my husband’s deployments in Afghanistan & in Africa. Poems give way to bear the weight of his absence, his aviation.
And I write, to remember & remind, that we must not forget that there are so many widows among us, who need us, who need our thoughts & words daily. This is for them, for the weight they carry, for their folded flags.
–Jacey Blue Renner