Magpie Tales 71 - Poem: String Bikinis



String Bikinis

pantylines air brushed
into the night
blush Clorox bright


2011 © Michael A. Wells






Magpie Tales 71





Confesson Tuesday - Size Matters Edition

Dear Reader:

It's been one week, one more anniversary, a blissful piece of Italian Wedding Cake and finally watermelon since my last confession.

Growing up and visiting my grandparents often in the green hills of north central Missouri I tasted some of the best watermelon. I confess a weakness for watermelon that has not diminished as the years have passed. But, I'm telling you that last year something happened to all the watermelons that made it to our stores.  Evidently some disease stunted their growth. Further, their price was inverted to their size.
It's been the same this year.

We actually now have bought two that were on sale at HyVee and for their sale price and size I'd say the two were almost a good fit.  Now I confess these two melons were to die for.

So last night I'm back at HyVee but the price is back to $7 bucks for a melon that might be good for three servings. I kid you not!  I passed on them. Where are all the normal melons?

~0~

My Facebook Writer/Poet page is stalled three "Likes" from becoming an official page.  I confess that you can make this poet happy by going here and "Like" the page if you have not already.  If you already did....  Thank you - Thank you!

That's it for this week...thanks for stopping by - may all your watermelons be big, juicy, and withing your budget!

The Whole Poem Experiance or the Poetics of Location

Some recent chatter about the "multi delivery system" of poetry has me thinking not only about the topic but broadening the spectrum even more. I mean I guess I never thought a lot about the idea of the poetic experience very much until the conversation.  I mean even before the advent of a multi delivery approach to poetry there were varying delivery systems.


Of course newer on the scene is the e-reader but we sometimes read individual poems in a journal and later find them in a published manuscript by the author. Or we may find them published in an anthology. How do I feel about the impact on the source of the poem I'm reading? 


Another question that could be asked is how much credibility, artistry, etc. can be transferred to a poem by where it is found. What can such transfer if any add or detract from the overall experience of the poem. 


Examples could be  Filter Literary Journal - see here and here.  Such craftsmanship and individual artistry are something a traditional publisher doesn't match.  Then of course there is the difference between a very well established Journal like Paris Review, Missouri Review, Rattle as opposed to say a new Journal or one one to three years old.  Who else in in that same Journal, can that make a difference? Reading a poem in Norton's Anthology surely must seem antiseptic compared a Journal or The New Yorker. Then there is a well strung together manuscript or one of those same poems in a book of the author's collected works 1972-1998 surely this experiance is different.


I'm guessing that in reading a poem as well as my observation of many thhings, I am enfluenced by the sideshows more then I think. With this in mind, the whole discussion that Nic Sebastian has sparked is not a new issue, just a different version of the one above. One that I've never really explored till now.

Hey Dad.... let's go for a walk?

The humidity is pretty overwhelming here today. Barry and I went for a walk a while ago and I was jealous of the people at the Disk Golf course playing. I've never seen so many in spite of the fact that it's I'm a killer day to go walking up some of those greens. Still, I haven't played for a while and I had been thinking about it several weeks ago so of course it brings it back to the forefront of my mind. 

I've been doing some office work I brought home and was ready to take a break and write some, but the idea of some exercise won over. I do need to write after while.

Kudos to Kelli Agodon for yet another award for her book Letters from The Emily Dickinson Room. I knew when I read this book that it was no ordinary book of poetry.

This is just a quickie - I've got to pick up my wife. I have several other things to blog about today but they will have to wait till later.

My Facebook Poet's Page

This week I set up a separate Facebook Writer's page. I say separate because it differs from regular Facebook format because it is intended for individuals who are especially interested in poetry in general and what I'm up to . Announcements about readings, newly published items, recommendations of other poets and books I think are worthy of mention.  If this sounds like information you'd like me to share with you then by visiting the page and clicking on the LIKE button you will there be kept abreast of  my world of poetry.  You must have a Facebook account to do this.  You can make this poet a happy poet by going here and clicking on the "like" this page button. 

Thanks in advance!

Confession Tuesday - Saint Monica of the Console Edition

It's that time again. Yes, it's been a week since my last confession. A week in which I laughed at Father's lame jokes during Mass, cleaned the dog-do off my wife's tennis shoes and swore life was too short to let other people's crap bring me down, and then I promptly let it. Now for the record, the crap I'm referring to was not what I scraped off my wife's shoes. Now to the confessional....



Dear Reader:

I confess that I'm worn slick by the drama of others. I've looked for ways to shake the negative drama dust off me but it seems to blow back with the wind. It gets all over other people, even people in our household, people you love just carry in (not wanting too) it just comes in on their shoes, in their hair, on their shoulders like it were dandruff. There is no shampoo for it, and this stuff ain't magic glitter!



And who swiped my creativity? I confess I've gone through a week of such lousy writing that this morning I wanted to post lost posters on poles asking if anyone has seen my missing creativity. I confess that I suspect a linkage between the drama dust and the absence of my creativity. It may also have been responsible for burnt corn dogs and the shocking escalation in grocery prices at Hy-Vee.



None of these things I've confessed are personal failings mind you, but I have another confession. The confession of a sneaky poet, a conniving poet, but a well meaning poet just the same. There is no one in my family who shares my appreciation or love of poetry. I'm not sure any of them suffer from metrophobia, that's quite severe, but they are clearly lacking the poetry DNA in their blood.



So this morning as we were driving into the city for work I carried out to the car my copy of Saint Monica (chapbook by Mary Biddinger) and strategically placed it on the faux turtle shell console between my place on the driver’s side and the passenger seat that would soon be occupied by my wife. I've done this before... a sneaky way of putting poetry out there within her reach. This time, I stopped at Quick Trip for my 52oz Diet Coke (what else?) and upon returning to the car, she was caught! Red handed! There she was reading, Saint Monica! She had finished one poem.... Saint Monica's Sweet Sixteen. I'm not sure but she may be scared.



Tomorrow is our 37^th wedding anniversary. I confess I’d like a do over. The deal is I want all the same players for the repeat 37 years. Same awesome woman… the same children.  I just want to relive those years again with them!



That’s it for today. Until next week, shake off all the negative dust!

Fathers

"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters

 who I remember he was."   — Anne Sexton