kate greenstreet
kate at kickingwind dot com
about
some poems online
scheduled readings
case sensitive: get it here
March 2006
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<[[[[[[-[[[[0{:}0]]]]-]]]]]]>
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31 MAR 06
"The street market in Soho is fierce with light. Raw meat, china mugs, and silk stockings blaze in it... Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?"
(Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room)
Week 7, 14 sentences:
[his] I walked away from you and got as far as the boy who'd been shooting baskets. But now he was standing with a dog on a leash. And you know how kids never really say hi, to us. He looked right up at me and said hello. I had been feeling like a hurt boy. But when he said hello I felt a thousand years old. And I didn't want to seem upset, so I just said: hello. And then I said hello to the dog.
[hers] My mother raised me to understand that my brothers were more important than I was. Not smarter, not better, not even stronger exactly, just more important. It was obvious. It wasn't discussed. Ghost as a verb. He has the conflict that everybody has: he wants it both ways. Keep yr hand on yr own knob.
Thanks to Matt Henriksen, I read last night at the Brooklyn venue of his Burning Chair series and was made to feel very welcome. The Fall Cafe was packed with people who had (mostly) come to hear Joe Massey and/or Brenda Iijima and the room itself was friendly (leaf shapes stenciled on its wooden floor). I was happy to lay eyes and a hand on quite a few people I've known only from their poetry or blogs or via email.
Brenda read from her new manuscript Remembering Animals. She had enlisted poets in the audience to also occasionally read lines: two-person choruses--one chorus female, one male. Having voices from the world of the poem suddenly arise from different parts of the room created an experience I haven't had before, and I'm interested to see what she'll do next with that.
Each poet is faced with the challenge of bringing the poem off the page and delivering it to the listener. And we each have to deal with our own obstacles. Joe was by his own assessment drunk, but his poetry was characteristically lucid. I look forward to hearing him when he reads in New York again, with Jess Mynes at the Poetry Project in June.
I still have a long way to go until I can create the sound I'm after. For one thing, I need to get into a better relationship with the microphone, so I can read in a relatively quiet voice without causing anyone to strain. And of course there's always fear to work through, the change in me that the poems demand.
As a contributor to the Bring Joe Massey To NYC Fund, I was given a copy of the first issue of Cannibal. A work of art.
Good mail: Chapbooks came a few days ago from Brenda Iijima, the designer/publisher of Portable Press [click the image above for a better look at the covers]. The one I've spent the most time with so far is Diane Ward's When You Awake, which I love. You can read Matt Henriksen's review of it (& of John Coletti's Physical Kind, also from Portable Press) here at The Burning Chair.
Brenda is also a wonderful poet (as you probably already know). I'm excited to be reading with her and the inimitable Joe Massey tomorrow. The reading was scheduled to be at the Cloister Cafe, but yesterday had to be switched
to the other regular Burning Chair venue:
The Fall Cafe
307 Smith St.
Between Union & President
Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn
(G/F to Carroll Street)
new time: 6 pm
If I were traveling by boat, or floating through the air, the new address is closer. We see Brooklyn across the bay from the beach near our house, one of our regular walks:
I've only recently discovered Google Earth. Type in an address and drift over to it from wherever you start. Pretty cool. Pretty spooky. It looks like all of America was shot at the same time on the same day, when we all had the same sunny weather.
23 MAR 06
I'd always be trying to see something like this.
(Reflected trees in the doorglass of a house we pass
on Main Street. One day I get a picture as we drive by.)
How is the desire to zoom related to the urge to blur?
"Who's waiting in there?" is what we're always asking (he said) art or life.
I hate to think how she had to let him push the piano from the wagon. After they'd made it so far. I couldn't think about the rest of that journey. "Crawling in and out of the details of maps"? Every night. At least we can smoke. Well, I can smoke, she can't, not till later. "When we meet, in my country, we don't ask: what do you do? We say: what can you tell me about maps?" What they mean to me? Lines have meaning. Some are red, some are black. Show where the coast is, how far. Tell names. Of towns and rivers. Of roads. And say you can go.
17 MAR 06
Week 6, 14 sentences:
"They help her, and so are drawn in."
"We had no names."
"The whole aesthetic of a bridge is confidence."
"My goal for the listener?"
"I'm more interested in how we really talk."
"Is there an emoticon for static?"
"The exact cadence of a scold."
"You wend, I'll wield."
"It might remind me of the first time I tried to do a hammer-on."
"My friends were Rockettes."
"Memory sank islands."
"Bunny, give him the slate."
"There's only knives in the pen box."
"I feel the punctuation is elaborate."
"I'm sorry but I think I hate woodcuts."
the tiny 2
Truly, at 134 pages, not too very tiny. A wealth of contributors, myself included, and PayPal ready.
A tiny sample, from The Frank Poems by CAConrad:
Frank found eggshell
in his hair
"MOTHER!" he yelled
"why didn't you
teach me to dispose
of my shell like
other healthy young birds!?"
"because you're a boy!" she hollered
he flapped his arms and clucked
"STOP THAT!" she hollered
he pecked bugs off the ground
the rooster led him
into the hen house
*
Frank hammers
carrots
all day
it works
the earth
can't
leave us
*
(CAConrad. More from The Frank Poems in the tiny, issue 2.)
. . . .
