Showing posts with label poetry music mash up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry music mash up. Show all posts

Music & Poetry Mash Up: We the Common - Thao and the Get Down Stay Down + Living In Numbers - Claire Lee

original photography by Umit Ince / free shipping item
nikolay bozhinov
We The Common

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Living In Numbers
Sunday, August 22, 2010:
Number of times I’ve woken up after
oversleeping and sprung out of bed like a ninja: 959
Number of broken bones: 3
Number of scars, physical: 4; emotional: 947
Number of funerals attended: 7
Number of friends, Facebook: 744, real: 9
Number of cavities filled: 0

Percentage of people I can stand in the world: 3.5
Number of times I’ve laughed so hard my sides would bruise: 2,972
Number of times I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out: 320
Number of things I regret: 11
Number of things I know: 918,394

Monday, August 23, 2010:
Number of times I’ve woken up after oversleeping and sprung out of bed like a ninja: 960
Number of broken bones: 3
Number of scars, physical: 4; emotional: 1,293
Number of funerals attended: 7
Number of friends, Facebook: 800, real: 7
Number of cavities filled: 0

Percentage of people I can stand in the world: 3.4
Number of times I’ve laughed so hard my sides would bruise: 2,973
Number of times I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out: 321
Number of things I regret: 13
Number of things I know: 918,390

Music & Poetry Mash Up: Fly So Free - Luella & the Sun + Canon 501 - Brian Swann

iona rozeal brown: ...hold on... 2009
iona rozeal brown

Fly So Free

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Canon 501
The song was moist, filing away,
   drifting while we drifted, something
in blackface, Al Jolson of birdland,
   not quite right, prophesizing until hoarse
who knows what. The locals say he
   draws poison from you, angatkuk,
shaman, though they don’t believe it.
   Then the incongruous smell of
chrysanthemum crossed us up and
   we remembered the service-station
with someone in handcuffs. Probably
   a mistake, said the attendant, though
they do get violent. The prisoner yawned.
   Our map lumbered from point to point
as if trying to remember something itself,
   anything. We tossed it and got out.
On the long walk back the tundra looked cozier
   by moonlight, everywhere the same,
white as bleached whalebone. But
   things had not been right all day.
In the damp heat everything was wobbly,
   even the bride at the old mission who
seemed to grow clouds like companions,
   drawing them after. I glimpsed a ring
of seal-fur flash on her wrist. Mm-hmm,
   unh-hunh they went. The honeymoon
was spent beyond the rigs. It was enough
   for them it didn’t rain or snow though
the driftwood fire they made beside the boats
   was all smoke. The sea sounded obscure
as if it had no shape and was empty.
   We tried to capture it on Canon 501
and sent it south, but even that seemed staged.

Music & Poetry Mash Up: Same Love - Macklemore & Ryan Lewis + Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds - William Shakespeare

129276 600 Marriage cartoons
marriage - joe heller

same love

+

let me not to the marriage of true minds

Let me not to the marriage of true minds   
Admit impediments. Love is not love   
Which alters when it alteration finds,   
Or bends with the remover to remove:   
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;   
It is the star to every wandering bark,   
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.   
Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks   
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,   
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.   
  If this be error, and upon me prov’d,   
  I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

 

Music & Poetry Mash Up: The Gods Are in the Valley - Dana Levine + Rabbit Runs a Destiny - Duquette Johnston

Huge Rabbit, Normal Bear - Limited edition, hand-pulled screen print of a rabbit and bear and their relationship, red, black, white
churny

Rabbit Runs a Destiny

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The Gods Are in the Valley
The mind sports god-extensions.

It's the mountain from which
the tributaries spring: self, self, self, self—

rivering up
on curling plumes
from his elaborate
head-piece

of smoke.

His head's on fire.

Like a paleolithic shaman
working now in the realm of air, he

folds his hands—

No more casting bones
for the consulting seeker, this gesture

seems to mean.
Your business, his flaming head suggests,

is with your thought-machine.

How it churns and churns.

Lord Should and Not-Enough,
Mute the Gigantor, looming dumb

with her stringy hair—

Deadalive Mom-n-Dad (in the sarcophagi
of parentheses

you've placed them)—

He's a yogi, your man
with a hat of smoke. Serene, chugging out streams

of constructed air...

Mind's an accident
of bio-wiring, is one line of thinking.

We're animals that shit out
consciousness, is another.

The yogi says:
you must understand yourself

as projected vapor.
Thus achieve your

superpower.
 

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Whim Man Mammon - Abraham Smith + Noble Heart - PHOX

DJ Print
dj

(check out SXSW 2013 Music Preview)
noble heart

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whim man mammon
secret soil coital
the dove there
sounds blonde as
whipped oil
please appeal to
wimpling skies
journeying trees
there is but one fence
bone true and
one blockhead dog
inside
to rend
the smarts
of trees
at journey's end



 

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Burning the Old Year - Naomi Shihab Nye + A New Life - Jim James

new life.
aletheia schmidt
A New Life

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Burning the Old Year
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.  
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,  
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,  
lists of vegetables, partial poems.  
Orange swirling flame of days,  
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,  
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.  
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,  
only the things I didn’t do
  

Poetry & Music Mash Up: need me less and I'll want you more - Marilyn Hacker + Chained - The xx

Indoor Garden N3 - 8x10. Fine Art Photographic Natural History Print. Minimal simple style. Natural Home Decor. Indoor garden botanical
indoor garden n3

Chained

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Untitled (You did say need me less and I'll want you more)
You did say, need me less and I'll want you more.
I'm still shellshocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won't be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned
by wanting you so much it looks like need.

Music & Poetry Mash Up: As She Wrote - Harryette Mullen + Everyday I Write the Book - Elvis Costello

Write Write Write Art Print To Motivate Your Writing For Novelists Writers Authors Nanowrimo Participantskathy jeffords

Harryette Mullens will be reading in the city of salt on  April 4.


Everyday I Write the Book

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All She Wrote
Forgive me, I’m no good at this. I can’t write back. I never read your letter. 
I can’t say I got your note. I haven’t had the strength to open the envelope. 
The mail stacks up by the door. Your hand’s illegible. Your postcards were 
defaced. Wash your wet hair? Any document you meant to send has yet to 
reach me. The untied parcel service never delivered. I regret to say I’m
unable to reply to your unexpressed desires. I didn’t get the book you sent. 
By the way, my computer was stolen. Now I’m unable to process words. I 
suffer from aphasia. I’ve just returned from Kenya and Korea. Didn’t you
get a card from me yet? What can I tell you? I forgot what I was going to 
say. I still can’t find a pen that works and then I broke my pencil. You know 
how scarce paper is these days. I admit I haven’t been recycling. I never 
have time to read the Times. I’m out of shopping bags to put the old news 
in. I didn’t get to the market. I meant to clip the coupons. I haven’t read 
the mail yet. I can’t get out the door to work, so I called in sick. I went to 
bed with writer’s cramp. If I couldn’t get back to writing, I thought I’d catch 
up on my reading. Then Oprah came on with a fabulous author plugging
her best selling book.

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Oracle - Cate Marvin + Sylvia Plath - Ryan Adams

Sylvia Plath
sylvia plath

Sylvia Plath

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Oracle

Dead girls don't go the dying route to get known.
You’ll find us anonymous still, splayed in Buicks,
carried swaying like calves, our dead hefts swung
from ankles, wrists, hooked by hands and handed
over to strangers slippery as blackout. Slammed
down, the mud on our dress is black as her dress,
worn out as a throw-rug beneath feet that stomp
out the most intricate weave. It ought not sadden
us, but sober us. Sylvia Plath killed herself. She ate
her sin. Her eye got stuck on a diamond stickpin.
You take Blake over breakfast, only to be bucked
out your skull by a cat-call crossing a parking lot.
Consuming her while reviling her, conditioned to
hate her for her appetite alone: her problem was
she thought too much? Needling an emblem’s ink
onto your wrist, the surest defense a rose to reason
against that bluest vein's insistent wish. Let’s all
us today finger-sweep our cheek-bones with two
blood-marks and ride that terrible train homeward
while looking back at our blackened eyes inside
tiny mirrors fixed inside our plastic compacts. We
could not have known where she began given how
we were, from the start, made to begin where she
ends. In this way, she's no way to make her amends.

Music & Poetry Mash Up: Alphabet of Mother Language - Anne Waldman + Say Goodbye to the Night - Kail Baxley


seeking kali ray johnson

kali michael sims holiday

Say Goodbye to the Night

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Alphabet of Mother Language

If Kali were a car, what kind of car would she be? A Batmobile? She, as
primordial vehicle. She with emanations to wiles of any mother. She with hair
on fire. Mouth a flame with wrathful breath. This is the feminine speaking, this
is the mouth and body and curse of the female. See her on the street, in the
subway, at the endless-wait terminal. She waiting. Many storms of waiting.
Just below the surface. Red eyes, gaping mouth, lolling tongue. Definition in a
defining way the deafening roar of Kali which is the roar of Time. She is Time.
And She devours Time. Naked Time. Naked Kali. She is an open system. She
eats energy and manifests energy. No concept need apply. She is the flickering
tongue of Agni, fire. She is the mother of language and mantra. She is all 51
letters of the Devanagari alphabet, each letter a form of energy, a twinge of
energy, a torque of energy. Each letter a star, each letter a sign, each letter an
empyrean gesture, each letter a captured sound, each letter a resolve, each
letter a rune, each letter a whiplash, each letter a scorching brand, each letter  
a flame, each letter a twitch, each letter a bundle of firewood, each letter a
thirsty pioneer, each letter a charnel ground, each letter a rice harvest, each
letter a cooking pot, each, each letter a treasure, each letter a tide now rising,
each letter an eolithic moon, each letter a sun in shadow, each letter a love
affair, each letter a possible mistake, each letter a symbol of change, each
letter a wheel, each letter a wheel of change, each letter a triumph, each letter
a solar wind, each letter a storm, each letter a cameo appearance, each one a
treaty, each one a place where plutonium safely resides, each one an
hedrumite resolution, each one an epitrope, each one an orchestra of many
gongs, each one an evening, a morning with snow, a morning with scorching
heat, each one a necessary tribulation, each one a massacre that will be
revealed, each one a torture that will be revealed, each letter a bamboo
thicket, each one a candle lit to all the deities in all ten directions of space,
each one a pillow, a mat, a blanket, each one a water buffalo, each one a
bride, each one a hag, each letter a palpable hit...
 

Music & Poetry Mash Up: Dear Corporation - Adam Fell + All the Money or the Simple Life Honey - The Dandy Warhols

simple life irina

All the Money or the Simple Life Honey

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Dear Corporation
                     
                       I don't know how to
say how I feel politely, or poetically, or
without the jugular and collapse of the
immediate heart, so tonight, I won't
say anything at all. Just stare out the
window at our stunned little writhe. Hold
back the strongest urge to knock out a
few of the capitol's most critical walls,
replace its fiber optic cables with
lightning bugs, replace the investment
bankers all with bunker busters. I lock
eyes with the capitol's bright and empty
rooms and admit that, sometimes,
deep in my affluent, American cells, I
miss my body carved to projectile. I
miss trebuchet shoulders and knuckles
flaked to arrowheads, miss my hands
massive and molded from molten to
the bolts of ballistas. I miss blackjack
and cudgel and quarterstaff and
flintlock. I miss pummel and pike and
I am not proud of this. I know it's not a
healthy feeling. I try to un-arm, to un-
cock. I try to practice my breathing. I
try The Master Cleanse, The Stationary
Bike, The Bikram Sweat, The Contortion
Stretch, The Vegan Meatloaf, The Nightly,
Scorching Bath, The Leafy Greens and
Venom Television, The Self-Mutilation of a
Winter's Run, but we can only cleanse
our bodies so much before we realize
it's not our bodies that need detoxing.

Music & Poetry Mash Up: Kubota - Garrett Hongo + Feels Like We Only Go Backwards - Tame Impala


Feels Like We Only Go Backwards

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Kuboka

On December 8, 1941, the day after the Japanese attack on
Pearl Harbor in Hawai'i, my maternal grandfather had
barricaded himself with his family--my grandmother, my
teenage mother, her two sisters and two brothers--inside
of his home in La'ie, a sugar plantation village on O'ahu's North
Shore. This was my mother's father, a man most villagers
called by his last name--Kubota. It could mean either Wayside
Field or else Broken Dreams depending on which ideograms he
used. Kubota ran La'ie's general store, and the previous night,
after a long day of bad news on the radio, some locals had
come by, pounded on the front door, and made threats. One
was said to have brandished a machete. They were angry and
shocked as the whole nation was in the aftermath of the
surprise attack. Kubota was one of the few Japanese Americans
in the village and president of the local Japanese-language
school. He had become a target for their rage and suspicion. A
wise man, he locked all his doors and windows and did not
open his store the next day, but stayed closed and waited for
news from some official...
 

Music & Poety Mash Up: Baseball and Writing - Marianne Moore + How You Like Me Now - The Heavy

Shoeless Joe Jackson July 16, 1887 – December 5, 1951

How You Like Me Now

+

Baseball and Writing
Marianne Moore

(suggested by post-game broadcasts)

Fanaticism?  No.  Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
   You can never tell with either
      how it will go
      or what you will do;
   generating excitement--
   a fever in the victim--
   pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
 Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
 To whom does it apply?
 Who is excited?  Might it be I?

It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel--
a catcher's, as, with cruel
   puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
      back to plate.  (His spring 
      de-winged a bat swing.)
   They have that killer instinct;
   yet Elston--whose catching
   arm has hurt them all with the bat--
 when questioned, says, unenviously,
   "I'm very satisfied.  We won."
 Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We";
 robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
   the massive run need not be everything.
      "Going, going . . . "  Is
      it?  Roger Maris
   has it, running fast.  You will
   never see a finer catch.  Well . . .
   "Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why
 gild it, although deer sounds better--
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
 one-handing the souvenir-to-be
 meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
   He is no feather.  "Strike! . . . Strike two!"
      Fouled back.  A blur.
      It's gone.  You would infer
   that the bat had eyes.
   He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
   I think I helped a little bit."
 All business, each, and modesty.
        Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
 In that galaxy of nine, say which
 won the pennant?  Each.  It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos--
   like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-
      diagnosis
      with pick-off psychosis.
   Pitching is a large subject.
   Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
   catch your corners--even trouble
 Mickey Mantle.  ("Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!"
 With some pedagogy,
 you'll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying
indeed!  The secret implying:
   "I can stand here, bat held steady."
      One may suit him;
       none has hit him.
   Imponderables smite him.
   Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
   require food, rest, respite from ruffians.  (Drat it!
 Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice,
 brewer's yeast (high-potency--
 concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez--
deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes,
   it's work; I want you to bear down,
      but enjoy it
      while you're doing it."
   Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
   if you have a rummage sale,
   don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
 Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
 O flashing Orion,
 your stars are muscled like the lion. 

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Twenty Questions - Jim Moore + Holding on to Good - Delta Rae

 

be thankful oliveandbirch

Holding On To Good

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Twenty Questions

Did I forget to look at the sky this morning
when I first woke up? Did I miss the willow tree?
The white gravel road that goes up from the cemetery,
but to where? And the abandoned house on the hill, did it get
even a moment? Did I notice the small clouds so slowly
moving away? And did I think of the right hand
of God? What if it is a slow cloud descending
on earth as rain? As snow? As shade? Don't you think
I should move on to the mop? How it just sits there, too often
unused? And the stolen rose on its stem?
Why would I write a poem without one?
Wouldn't it be wrong not to mention joy? Sadness,
its sleepy-eyed twin? If I'd caught the boat
to Mykonos that time when I was nineteen
would the moon have risen out of the sea
and shone on my life so clearly
I would have loved it
just as it was? Is the boat
still in the harbor, pointing
in the direction of the open sea? Am I
still nineteen? Going in or going out,
can I let the tide make of me
what it must? Did I already ask that?

Poetry & Music Mash Up: America (Try saying wren) - Joseph Lease + Mad World - Gary Jules

the world gone mad meganzii

Mad World

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America (Try saying wren)

                 Try saying wren.

It's midnight

in my body, 4 a.m. in my body, breading and olives and
cherries. Wait, it's all rotten. How am I ever. Oh notebook.
A clown explains the war. What start or color or kind of
grace. I have to teach. I have to run, eat less junk. Oh CNN.
What start or color. There's a fist of meat in my solar plexus
and green light in my mouth and little chips of dream flake
off my skin. Try saying wren. Try saying
mercy.

                          Try anything.

Poetry & Music Mash Up: In a Beautiful Country - Kevin Prufer + Hallelujah - Brandie Carlile

 
 

whole world - the americas havilah savage

Hallelujah

+

In A Beautiful Country

A good way to fall in love
is to turn off the headlights
and drive very fast down dark roads.

Another way to fall in love
is to say they are only mints
and swallow them with a strong drink.

Then it is autumn in the body.
Your hands are cold.
Then it is winter and we are still at war.

The gold-haired girl is singing into your ear
about how we live in a beautiful country.
Snow sifts from the clouds

into your drink. It doesn't matter about the war.
A good way to fall in love
is to close up the garage and turn the engine on,

then down you'll fall through lovely mists
as a body might fall early one morning
from a high window into love. Love,

the broken glass. Love, the scissors
and the water basin. A good way to fall
is with a rope to catch you.

A good way is with something to drink
to help you march forward.
The gold-haired girl says, Don't worry

about the armies, says, We live in a time
full of love. You're thinking about this too much.
Slow down. Nothing bad will happen.

Poetry & Music Mash Up: History of Hurricanes - Teresa Cader + Sandy - Caribou


hurricane sandy the telegraph

Sandy

+

History of Hurricanes

Because we cannot know—

we plant crops, make love in the light of our not-knowing

A Minuteman prods cows from the Green with his musket,
his waxed paper windows snapping in the wind,
stiletto stalks in the herb garden upright—Now

blown sideways—Now weighted down in genuflection,

not toward,

And a frail man holding an Imari teacup paces at daybreak
    in his courtyard in Kyoto

a cherry tree petaling the stones pink and slippery
    in the weeks he lay feverish

waiting for word from the doctor, checking for signs—Now

in the season of earthenware sturdiness and dependency
    it must begin, the season of his recovery

No whirling dervish on the radar, no radar, no brackets
no voices warning—no Voice—fugue of trees, lightning

Because we cannot know, we imagine

What will happen to me without you?

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Eletelephony - Laura Elizabeth Richards + Wolf Like Me - TV on the Radio



sheep in wolf's clothing chetart

Wolf Like Me

+

Eletelephony

Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—
(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I've got it right.)
Howe'er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I'd better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)

Poetry & Music Mash Up: Found Letter - Joshua Weiner + Adventures in Your Own Back Yard - Patrick Watson


thankful katya horner

Adventures in Your Own Back Yard

+

 
What makes for a happier life, Josh, comes to this:   
Gifts freely given, that you never earned;   
Open affection with your wife and kids;   
Clear pipes in winter, in summer screens that fit;   
Few days in court, with little consequence;   
A quiet mind, a strong body, short hours   
In the office; close friends who speak the truth;   
Good food, cooked simply; a memory that’s rich   
Enough to build the future with; a bed   
In which to love, read, dream, and re-imagine love;   
A warm, dry field for laying down in sleep,   
And sleep to trim the long night coming;   
Knowledge of who you are, the wish to be   
None other; freedom to forget the time;   
To know the soul exceeds where it’s confined   
Yet does not seek the terms of its release,   
Like a child’s kite catching at the wind   
That flies because the hand holds tight the line.

Poetry & Music Mash Up - Two Views - Wyatt Prunty + Signs & Signifiers - JD McPherson

Signs & Signifiers

+

Two Views
       1
Into the laterals and faults of strata
Whose linear seams are like memory,
Water wades its way, settling matters
In small aquifers, incised meanders;
Then floods over a landscape that teaches
Plains are only so much sediment,
Silt the slow ocean of any reach.

Think travertine and serpentine mantel-
high in living rooms, or kames and tills
Scattered like loose change, the marvelous marble
Of dolomite and metamorphic rock,
Or granite now as coolingly aloof
As someday overhead . . . small seismic self
Feeling a gust rattle years through the roof.

Meanwhile, there’s still the phone and mail, the door,
And the reassuring fact the fault’s not yours
As you’ve not budged. Not even the cat crosses the floor.
Outside, the world’s continuum of nests
Is full of cries announcing differences,
While mineshaft down, the brittle shale of self
Waits, certain of its own circumferences.

One is colossus of one’s growing doubt,
With ideas like past presidents profiled
And floating enthusiastic shouts
From old elections, conclusions of the will,
The dehydrations of mere permanence.
But high wing over shadow, how the world
Doubles in its transience.

          2
Resplendently fragile, more color than weight,
As agile of flight as of changed habitat,
The birds are choric in the fate
Of their varieties; predictable
Of habit and Darwinian choices,
Myriad on one scale, and on another
Essential and of but one in all. And voices,

This side liquid whistles followed by a trill,
While there, a series of clear carolings,
Then the rapid whinnies of descending will
While somewhere overhead a finch attempts
All notes at once, as though to summarize
The way limbs ladder up, step green to blue
So shadows rise.

But year on year, wing beat and season,
Fattened or starved, silent or full
Of migratory sass, one reason
Brings each back, whether the same or no—
Warbler and thrush, sparrow and finch, wren, jay,
Thrasher and dove, tanager, waxwing, owl, crow, hawk . . .
They light, feed, breed, migrate or stay.

Calendar wise in their brief histories
And vulnerable as any emigrants
Searching to eat, they are geographies
Of days, convergences of now,
And needed if for nothing more than their arrival
When, worthy that again we crane to see,
They bring survival.