Andrea Corbin's Storefront

a fine mess of a blog!

• Happy April; have a poem.

  2009 May 01

  With but an hour left before poetry month completely passes me by (with the whirring noise of work and presentations), I thought I would do one small thing to commemorate it. That small thing is to share with you a poem I once wrote.*
  
  Ahem.
  
  

  Meditation on our existence upon this spinning blue marble called Earth
  
  Gummi bear
  On the floor,
  All alone.
  It was red.

  
  
  *I have written more than one poem since exiting that particular phase of teenagerdom. I am not proud of this fact. I am proud of the fact that every poem since then has been funny.

• Three facts!

  2009 Apr 20

  I have missed nearly half of National Poetry Month. This would be a perfect time to ramp up the posts about Poetry That Doesn't Suck, but at this particular moment I have been distracted by no fewer than a dozen other things. To celebrate poetry I point you to the past which you can browse here. Some of these poems will likely be featured in future PTDS instalments! It's like a sneak peek.
  
  This has been an intense semester, and every week I think that life will let up a little next week. It never does. I don't mind, except it means that some things fall through the cracks, like the this blog and things I want to do with it. I won't say that in a few weeks life will let up a little, becuause simply by saying that I would guarantee that the opposite will happen. In the mean time, I will leave you with three facts:
  
  1. I work at Borders and it is enjoyable.
  2. I am not sure if I love the new Peter Bjorn & John, but I definitely like it. (On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I love the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs.)
  3. I am flying into Waco on My 14th and out again the 19th, and if you are there when I am, I almost definitely want to see you. (It being graduation weekend was a bit of an accident.)

• Another poem, at last.

  2009 Mar 23

  

  
  
  Welcome to another edition of "Poetry that doesn't suck." In this installment, we are focusing on a fruit whose season has recently ended, but whose juice can be enjoyed at any time of the year. I hope you are ready for this.
  
  “Pomegranate” by D. H. Lawrence does not suck for several reasons, not the least of which is its colorful references to things like ancient Venice, royalty, and broken hearts. And anyone who can use “integument” sensibly while talking about how beautiful a broken heart can be deserves a second look.
  
  As a member of that elite group known as “Masters of both prose and poetry,” Lawrence cannot rightly be ignored, even if you think he’s naught but that so-called dirty mind behind Lady Chatterly’s Lover.
  
  I admit, the first reason I bothered paying attention to this poem was its apparent subject matter, because pomegranates are wonderful, tough outside with a hidden trove of jewels. Delicious jewels. If you do not like pomegranates, this poem may be less effective for you.
  
  Pomegranate
  D. H. Lawrence
  
  You tell me I am wrong.
  Who are you, who is anybody, to tell me I am wrong?
  I am not wrong.
  
  In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women,
  No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate trees in flower,
  Oh, so red, and such a lot of them.
  
  Whereas at Venice,
  Abhorrent, green, grey-bearded,
  Whose Doges were old and had ancient eyes,
  In the dense foliage of the inner garden,
  Pomegranates like bright green stones,
  And barbed, barbed with a crown,
  Oh, horrible crown, of spiked green metal,
  Actually were growing.
  
  Now, in Tuscany
  Pomegranates to warm your hands at,
  Braziers,
  And crowns,
  Kingly, generous, tilting crowns,
  Over the left eyebrow.
  
  And, if you dare, the fissure!
  
  Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
  You prefer to look on the plain side?
  
  For all that, the setting suns are open
  The last day fissured open with to-morrow,
  Rosy, tender, glittering within there.
  Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure?
  No glittering compact drops of dawn?
  
  Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument,
  shown ruptured?
  
  For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
  It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic, within the crack.
  
  --
  *This is where things get confusing. I think the book this poem comes from just falls into the public domain, as best I can tell, so I have no qualms about posting the poem here. If I'm wrong, I'm willing to be corrected and fix this post-haste. Etc etc disclaimer disclaimer.