tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53137876508760442622012-01-17T21:24:12.854-05:00Greetings from National Poetry Month <br>(and Beyond)Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.comBlogger561100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-6334911595247194032010-04-26T22:29:00.000-04:002010-04-26T22:29:23.810-04:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-3488569659999802222010-04-05T21:34:00.000-04:002010-04-05T21:34:14.534-04:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-61131801437685931732010-03-18T13:22:00.001-04:002010-03-18T13:23:16.448-04:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-25785198022483479232010-03-13T20:33:00.002-05:002010-03-14T10:02:44.679-04:00

Originally printed in Rolling Stone 4-11-85. This is a response to Sandburg's "Fog," seen on postcard here.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-44886693264048289942010-03-09T14:38:00.005-05:002010-03-11T11:10:02.166-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-1335112103219554072009-07-24T10:06:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.359-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-36439646719174724782009-05-08T23:38:00.002-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.360-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-27146797823921520102009-05-07T13:21:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.361-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-86048021634274524132009-05-04T22:33:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.363-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-36364824476696618682009-05-03T09:43:00.002-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.365-05:00

Noteworthy websites to visit:www.markyakich.com--The editors here at the AP have read Mark's books, heard him read, played poetry bar games, even ate brunch with him. If you have the chance to meet him, do it, in the meantime, pick up one of his books.www.raybuffalo.com

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-41824475355048672582009-05-01T13:48:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.366-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-2636573451867617392009-04-30T22:08:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.367-05:00

After Cedra Flipped her FocusWe slow to see poolsof blood or splotches ofbrain—a tossed salad of glassand flesh. Now we seeas in a sideview mirror—stilled tongues are closer than they appear.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-61826049622975365072009-04-30T00:56:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.368-05:00

Two Ways to Write Poems"I am who I am." I wonder what one has to payTo say that. I couldn't do it. For yearsI thought, "You are who you are." But maybeYou weren't. Maybe you were someone else.Sam's friend, who loved poetry, played footballIn school even though he didn't want to.He got hit. Later he said to me, "I write poems.I am who I am...but my neck hurts."How many times I have begun a

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-16957980650255756212009-04-29T12:48:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.369-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-55006120727521479092009-04-29T10:07:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.370-05:00

Saturday: T. Reverend Bridgewater takes a stab at HedonismHe woke Sunday afternoon reeking of semen in a tangle of sleeping bodies, his hand clutchinga damp breast. He unburiedhimself, gathered his clothes and stumbled home,where he stood in the tub and vomited, wishing to drown in holy water.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-65934482388709276692009-04-28T12:37:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.371-05:00

For the giraffe this poem was supposed to be aboutA flat in Cadillacreminded us of our own livesand deaths. Deflation holdssuch power when it comeswith noise—POP! The end.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-1198158473974078502009-04-27T15:53:00.002-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.372-05:00

The poem is by Kristi Orange. The picture is Concetto Spaziale (Spatial Concept) by Lucio Fontana, 1957 at the Museum of Modern Art in Vienna, Austria.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-35392286309634112262009-04-27T08:09:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.373-05:00

DecemberSnow clings to eaves. Our breath,in the air, drifts and stallsin a fishtail night.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-50002327278989865402009-04-26T19:20:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.375-05:00

And here he lived alsoT.R. Bridgewater Walking Tour, site 6Here he spent his Gray Perioddrinking vodka and orange juicestirred with a blue screwdriver.In apartment B he wrote "the Red Canoe,"spat green, ate bananas.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-87650531123272555372009-04-25T19:39:00.002-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.375-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-84886347574758103162009-04-24T22:28:00.007-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.376-05:00

Part IPart II--Katie HustonP.S. In case any one had any doubts, that first card is Old Town Square Prague.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-13313670009429578082009-04-24T13:35:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.378-05:00

hard times at the Brokeneye Jazz Society and Jogging ClubSines and cosines, light and sound, tides, grains, goodbyes," she said, "are the kinds of wavesthat roll through our lives like tour buses packedwith gawkers and fat-assed binoculars..." She slunga bag over her shoulder. "You've sucked me dry."I'm a dried-out paintbrush. And an out of tune piano."The car door clicked shut. She rolled the

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-89962752687230607812009-04-23T11:56:00.003-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.378-05:00

A TroisWhen we sing, we sing leftand pull right. This isosceles loveswings its legs like handson a clock, snaps like a gator jaw,acutely hinged on the greater than & the equal two.When we love, you love, you love,you love. When we singand are silent; burn; turn your back and hide your eyes. Exuent

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-43250137528300282112009-04-22T13:34:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.379-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-44103079085586447012009-04-22T12:50:00.006-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.381-05:00

you know it is spring whenthe thunder is your lullabyand the birds are your alarm clockand math is left undone--------This is a true story: I wrote this poem during a quiz, which I left 90% blank, in Mr. Lynch's pre-calculus class, sometime around April my junior year of high school. The next year I took statistics.As an added Earth Day Celebration, comment to this post with your favorite poems

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-35492919666467947252009-04-21T10:13:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.382-05:00

A Little Boy’s Lost Balloons: an OdeHe screamsas you drift away.His arms reach to grab your strings,but you are free,floating across Holland. Goodbye.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-4230947889446171782009-04-20T18:50:00.002-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.383-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-84199158878042648802009-04-20T18:46:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.383-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-31774988490706817962009-04-20T17:34:00.005-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.384-05:00

The Best of TimesThrough transcription, much of history has arrived to us in error. Take Marie, who is widely reported to have said, "Let them eat cake." It was actually, "Let the meat cake." She was talking about a meatloaf—which, oddly enough, was burning.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-74548426077142665012009-04-19T02:53:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.385-05:00

We threw it all in the trunk, took our time with it, letit rot a little, pale in the sunlight.At your funeral they served leftover pizza in the old preschool room. Nobody had planned. We sat at tiny chairsat tiny tables, kept our jackets on.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-71315002649969729742009-04-18T10:25:00.003-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.386-05:00

Write your haikus*, sand down those sestinas, rush to finish your epic: the deadline for entries to the contest slouches toward us to be born. Gotta say, the chances for you are looking pretty good; 100% if you enter right now. You've got nothing to lose except the contest and your dignity!-AP*I use the term loosely, though you might be docked one (1) mad prop for each extra syllable. You have

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-24788032057484327632009-04-18T10:18:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.387-05:00

"You're not getting any funny ideas, are you? just because I knocked on your door."-The Trial, Franz Kafka, writer; Orson Welles, directorThat night I bought my first prostitute. She was long and skinny, a flat-chested brunette who never got along with her stepdad. I was 19, drunk, bourgeois and ordering Chinese when she rang the bell. I muted the discovery channel, opened the door to her, her

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-34772890749446267702009-04-17T00:33:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.388-05:00

"The Answer, My Friend..."Among the odors of Highway 1—exhaust, sweat, black licorice—death trumps all: a fawn,still, stinking—its pink chestexposed to those who see,pause, breathe.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-88633667747495727442009-04-16T13:41:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.388-05:00

--from Kristi in Chicago

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-76522428496302044842009-04-16T13:35:00.006-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.389-05:00

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-60320485762513438182009-04-16T09:08:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.390-05:00

Rub-a-dub-dub, our souls in a tubI dreamed your body a river, warm,woke to find my fleet washed away.Expansion and contraction, my heart a brittle pan.Foul lonely creatures of fate!

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-10809698900820563812009-04-15T09:16:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.391-05:00

The Poet Announces his Retirement from Professional WrestlingPress conference—San Francisco, 1965-2009I fall into black holes all the time. It's no big deal, just a matter of sorting through antimatter for what really matters. An answer to your question: a watch in orbit above the earth moves slower than a clock on the surface; in a black hole a watch has three sets of hands, each hand moving

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-36019143508806691892009-04-14T00:37:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.392-05:00

My Teeth HurtI was brushing my teeth tonight.I pulled the brush out, and it was red.I spit, and it was red.I brushed again.I pulled the brush out again, and it was red.I spit again, and it was red.I found my mouth was bleeding.I bled from my mouth more than ever before.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-16548342987815014632009-04-13T09:28:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.393-05:00

like a camel misses watertonight i feel like sitting quiet. this is what thursdays do. stretch.stretch across the continent, babe,blanket my mattress.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-58034520983687697572009-04-13T09:18:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.394-05:00

My love for you is an unfinished letter.Yes, I have loved you. NightsI kept the stoop lit, a stopin the door. Now the wind knocks, and your door answers in squeaksand slams. When the phone lines lie still and tangled, I'll casta tin can to your window.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-78366012599487315782009-04-11T09:43:00.008-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.395-05:00

Many of you have wondered how you can participate in the Aloha Project's celebration of National Poetry Month. Here are some ideas:--Read a poem. To yourself, to the commuters on the subway, to the eaters at Subway, to birds in the park. For sources of poetry, see your local library, bookstore, the results for "poetry" from your favorite search engine, or bathroom wall graffiti.--Write a poem. It

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These sorts of things occurAnts never plan on hardcandy in the yard or above,a magnifying glass

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-31299573102389535622009-04-10T13:46:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.396-05:00

from Czeslaw Milosz in Second Space (Harper Collins, 2004, New York; trans. by Milosz and Robert Hass)If There is No GodIf there is no God,Not everything is permitted by man.He is still his brother's keeperAnd he is not permitted to sadden his brother,By saying that there is no God....and from Robert Bly's collection, Eating the Honey of WordsWhen Threshing Time EndsThere is a time. Things

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-41592593608026181102009-04-10T09:50:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.397-05:00

Fly PaperBorn in a barn or something, that's right, I was, so walk on through that wide opensky, come and go like a highAugust breeze over the stink of the stalls. You know I've always been open like a 24-hour one-night stand on a Wednesday afternoon, like a pupil at midnight,always closed like an empty flask.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-84635694929944036702009-04-09T00:32:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.399-05:00

The pancakes stick on the wall, the stainsof ketchup, along in the living room carpet.I'll find you again on a seaboat over an ocean,somewhere, I tell you, sometime. This is howthe wind blows us, these tiny sails, around the globe,like a bumper-car sea, all whiplash and laughter.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-43566108466363946522009-04-08T09:34:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.400-05:00

"Play it like notes on a scantron," said the hipcat motor bass to the nervous kid with the firecracker mouth, "Like freeze-dried sugar cane, green bananas in your lunch box. Got it?"Oh he got it. Got it like scrappy beans stuck between couch cushions. He played that drum til the walls shook and the women trembled. He played it like Mount Carmel visitations, parrot-talk.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-80098988973588599182009-04-07T18:23:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.401-05:00

-Chelsea Adams

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-3987118354189943532009-04-07T12:40:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.402-05:00

Listen to last week's episode of Hearing Voices, "Wordshakers," here. It's hosted by Adrei Codrescu and features:--Lord Alfred Tennyson--Walt Whitman--Carl Sandburg--stories by Scott Carrier (a great storyteller and freelance radio producer)--Alex Caldiero--Jack Kerouac--Allen Ginsberg--"found" poetry...and many others.It's also worth it to listen to any of the stories or episodes posted on

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-76966887536733385972009-04-07T08:50:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.403-05:00

My ears helicopter, she buttons her blouse.My body, uncovered now by her mountain stream—we are the babbling brookof this twin riverbed.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-73754950459482324582009-04-06T00:06:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.404-05:00

Jazz in a Bluegold NightI was never in love with you.I liked the taste of yourcigarettes. Which do you like better:the Beatles or my touch to your elbow,the Kinks or finding each other on the streets?I'll bum a smoke, music, yogurt, whateveryou offer; I'll buy you an eggroll in return.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-87766436242576558292009-04-05T11:15:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.405-05:00

Their grandmother told me, take my keys, why don't you drive her out to the back road?A little known fact: It isn't all dry and hot. It snows, too, but when the snow melts the Colorado doesn't flood. Not like Pennsylvania, the Susquehanna. In Phoenix your tears dry up before anyone can notice.I'd tell my younger self: buy a Harley, pull into Yuma before sunrise, let this divorce be your last. If

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-73019051689317488902009-04-04T09:44:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.405-05:00

Air ArchitectureYou saw me in the kitchenbaking muffins in tin foil pans,muffins to fill the spaces of my ribs;and I saw you belowthe whirlwind ceiling, paintingyour breast in blue.

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-80171605365800957062009-04-03T00:51:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.406-05:00

Jungle JuiceWe roamed the streets dressed as baboons and toucans. The party wasn't our scene, anyway: bad music and too many jaguars getting it on with Tarzans right there in the kitchen—the bedrooms being occupied with tigers, striped and stoned smoking Jumanji. So we prowled the streets with faces painted and a buzz in our blood. Blowguns chased us down Main; we swung vines across 7th. We met

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-61407060742409911212009-04-02T12:11:00.000-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.407-05:00

From Traveling at High Speeds by John Rybicki(Western Michigan University 2003)Junkyard PoemLove brings me to the heartof a junkyard near Connors and Mack.I slam my pick-up truckthrough the padlocked gate,climb onto the flatbedto rattle my pinball machine,its Mardi Gras lights winkingoff the rusty cheeks of bumpers,off the undercarriages balled up like fists.I shake its silver hips.I tap the gay

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-25373823556448909972009-04-02T00:31:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.408-05:00

Heard it through the grapevineMost of what you think you know about Dionysus is hearsay and myth. Really, to those who were close, he was more of a wine snob than a drunken lush or a spoiled frat boy—more interested in subtle smokiness than smoking-hot babes. Though once, at his weekly gathering of backgammon enthusiasts, they finished early, and so switched to Scrabble. In a decisive play that

Jeremy Bensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17616220795253615714noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313787650876044262.post-6265930582109833362009-03-31T12:29:00.001-04:002010-03-11T11:09:34.409-05:00

LinesHe brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name.Many ways to draw lines. Harold had a purple crayon. A girl I knew avoided eye contact, the best mime. She built invisible boxes around us all. With enough erasers the wall of China could be rubbed to dust: "This is China," read the bricks, but only from space. Say

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