April 24: "Oxymorons," U.P. Poet Laureate, "Reading Poetry"

Billy Collins focuses on contradictions . . . 

Oxymorons

by:  Billy Collins

Family Fun.

Beach Culture.

Office Party.

Dog Person.

Children's Hospital.

Light Pollution.

Happy Birthday.

Halfway through the week and the poetry festival.  To steal Collins' idea, I feel calmly frantic.  Lots more events and programs to go.

Tonight was U.P. Poet Laureate night, with two poet friends reading--the first U.P. Poet Laureate and the current U.P. Poet Laureate.  Both are wildly different in subject matter and technique, and both can steal my breath away with their words.

Saint Marty is feeling energetically exhausted.

Reading Poetry

by:  Martin Achatz

is different from

a poetry reading.

The former requires

a great book and concentration.

The latter requires

alcohol and friends

pretending they understand you.

February 28: Reading Poetry, Robert Morgan, "Audubon's Flute:

Seems like all I've been doing today is reading poetry.  My poetry.  Robert Morgan's poetry.  A couple Sharon Olds poems.  Some Whitman.  Trying to get in the right frame of mind for tonight's reading.

I was tempted to simply assemble some of my favorite poems from other poets to read, but I didn't think the audience would really appreciate that.  After all, they are showing up to hear some original stuff from me.  Oh, well. 

Saint Marty did, however, find a really beautiful poem by Robert Morgan.

Audubon's Flute

by:  Robert Morgan

Audubon in the summer woods
by the afternoon river sips
his flute, his fingers swimming on
the silver as silver notes pour

by the afternoon river, sips
and fills the mosquito-note air
with silver as silver notes pour
two hundred miles from any wall.

And fills the mosquito-note air
as deer and herons pause, listen,
two hundred miles from any wall,
and sunset plays the stops of river.

As deer and herons pause, listen,
the silver pipe sings on his tongue
and sunset plays the stops of river,
his breath modeling a melody

the silver pipe sings on his tongue,
coloring the trees and canebrakes,
his breath modeling a melody
over calamus and brush country,

coloring the trees and canebrakes
to the horizon and beyond,
over calamus and brush country
where the whitest moon is rising

to the horizon and beyond
his flute, his fingers swimming on
where the whitest moon is rising.
Audubon in the summer woods.