The official "RUN !" Is a motivational, inspirational visual poem performed by Philip Dane Poet of Southern California who focuses his visual poetry on inspiring people to live conscious & empowered lives.
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"RUN! Trailer: Inspirational Visual Poem By Philip Dane Poetry Of Southern California"
"RUN !" Is a motivational, inspirational visual poem performed by Elevated Poet, Philip Dane Poet of San Diego who focuses his poetry on inspiring
Juan Felipe Herrera was born in Fowler, California in 1948. The son of migrant farmers, Herrera moved often, living in trailers or tents along the roads of the San Joaquin Valley in Southern California. As a child, he attended school in a variety of small towns from San Francisco to San Diego. By middle school, he was drawing cartoons, and by high school, he was playing folk music the likes of Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie. He graduated from San Diego High in 1967, and was one of the first wave of Chicanos to receive an Educational Opportunity Program (EOP) scholarship to attend UCLA. There, he became immersed in the Chicano Civil Rights Movement, and began performing in experimental theater, influenced by Allen Ginsberg and Luis Valdez.
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
Silent beside the never-silent waves,
At rest in all this moving up and down!
http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1328.html
http://wc3.worldcrossing.com/webx?14@@.1de35bad/13
Gary Snyder was born in San Francisco in 1930. He has published sixteen books of poetry and prose, including The Gary Snyder Reader (1952-1998) (Counterpoint Press, 1999); Mountains and Rivers Without End (1997); No Nature: New and Selected Poems (1993), which was a finalist for the National Book Award; The Practice of the Wild (1990); Left Out in the Rain, New Poems 1947-1985; Axe Handles (1983), for which he received an American Book Award; Turtle Island (1974), which won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry; Regarding Wave (1970); and Myths & Texts (1960). He has received an American Academy of Arts and Letters award, the Bollingen Prize, a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, the Bess Hokin Prize and the Levinson Prize from Poetry, the Robert Kirsch Lifetime Achievement Award from the Los Angeles Times, and the Shelley Memorial Award. Snyder was elected a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets in 2003. He is a professor of English at the University of California, Davis.
Kenneth Charles Marion Rexroth was born December 22, 1905 in South Bend, Indiana. Orphaned at fourteen, Rexroth moved to live with his aunt in Chicago, where he was expelled from high school. He began publishing in magazines at the age of fifteen. As a youth, he supported himself with odd jobs--as a soda jerk, clerk, wrestler, and reporter. He hitchhiked around the country, visited Europe, and backpacked in the wilderness, reading and frequenting literary salons and lecture halls, and teaching himself several languages.
Poets.org has partnered with TextTelevision to offer TextFlows, an alternative approach to reading and experiencing poetry. By converting text dynamically into Flash animation, poems are revealed phrase by phrase through motion and light, and at a pace controlled by the reader. The simplified words and crisp motion fixes one's attention on the subtleties of language, increasing involvement, engagement, and understanding.
The Tran Da Tu poem below is now up on Guernica, a very fine journal of art and politics. In the same issue are interviews with Don DeLillo and Iraqi feminist Yanar Mohammed.
Winner of the 2001 Electronic Literature Award for poetry, Cayley's windsound is a long digital poem in QuickTime format. Poet Heather McHugh was judge of the competition.
Anstett glances, attempting his best alert, intelligent animal look, interested in project schedules, imagines being taxidermed, pelt propped up with sawdust and armature...
The man who was to fall to earth in four years' time still floated in his cloud of silvered fame...He'd been a Kon-Rad, King Bee, Manish Boy, a Lower Third. He'd be a thin white duke. He'd be a Christ, an alien, he'd be a dance club king.
His house had cracked vinyl siding, cobwebbed windowsills, and blind mammals nesting in the chimney. There was a continual scent of expired milk and a trigger-happy answering machine with messages leftover from the college years.
Moon burnt up in a tree limb's wobble. Heaven's sort of nimble. Not to want the origin of light, to want its myth. To want the stroke across the jaw without the fist.
You are so high in the tree. If you jump you will live a full life while falling. You will get married to a hummingbird and raise beautiful part- hummingbirds.
Whoever kissed time on its exhausted crown With filial tenderness will then Remember how time lay down to sleep In the grain snowdrift past the window.
She looks carved from a ghost. Takes off her dress. It's lace. A spiderweb. She is wearing a slip. Petal pink. Thin as hammered metal. She throws herself on a bed.
There's a hole in the middle of life. (the body) The flashbacks will remind us. See what the room sees. A collection of cells. Your face on that small screen. Your blonde guitar, my plaster Buddha.
We look at a statue and feel uncomfortable. I am backwards light, which isn't as cool as it sounds...Time is a series of pellets...It's my own fault I'm anywhere. When the rain in my mind begins, I don't run for cover.
This feature begins with questions of fidelity: how close should the poet remain to his or her source text? What does it matter? Other contributors ask more technical questions, how to translate names, what to make of computer-generated translations, how
A multilanguage blog with links and information on poetic invention – our term for exploratory/ investigative/ experimental/ radical/ conceptual poetry. [Graphic poetry, or poetic graphics...]
Among poets there are probably higher than average rates of clutch burnout, job turnover, rooting about, sleep apnea, noncompliance, nervous leg syndrome, depression, litigation, black clothing, and so forth, but this is where we live...C D Wright, Coolin
I think we're in the ghost-town whorehouse in Blackhawk. Under one roof ..........sleeping with all of them -- ....................bush clover, poker chips.
Doorstep is a jumble of debris: clay, straw, twigs. Some moments pass before I notice three baby house martins among the mess, a couple of days old, dead. An almost imperceptible motion - one of the babies is moving.
Haibun is open to a huge range of expression: from the surreal and dreamlike to straight discursive narrative -- even journalism: from impressionistic writing to exposition and storytelling, meditation and the personal diary -- an exploration of the wilde
Haibun is a form of prose poetry, developed from Basho's traveling diary style; linking haiku to prose, haibun imagistically recreate a life's moment, epiphany, pilgrimage, journey, awakening, fleet awareness, or new understanding.
On linking haiku to prose in haibun...one might do it “’renku’ style – not a direct carry on from the prose telling some of which has already been said – no – it should lead us on – let our mind wander more...
a poet uses fragments to imitate and so to make an assertion about the nature of human perception: perception consists of fragments, fragments are what we assemble into meaningful wholes...giving haibun a sense of immediacy...
A haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A haibun usually ends with a haiku. Most haibun range from well under 100 words to 200 or 300. Some longer haibun may
The literary journal Fence, which has published both emerging and established writers such as Annie Dillard and Rick Moody since 1998, is moving from New York City to the New York State Writers Institute at the University at Albany.
The Bush administration / the people who chose / The Perfect Bacon / the game went on / the media company / The Ducks won / the Stooges brought / the tough bake-sale squares / the best place to learn [paraphrased]
Exhibition space of the Ontological Museum of the International Post-Dogmatist Group. The poetry on this site has been selected from 'CollagePoetry' postings.
Touchon's works are constructed from distressed street posters that have been carefully edited...almost become recognizable letters or perhaps proposals for a new poetic alphabet but always slip back into forms and spaces...
By using nothing but the figure/ground relationships of letters, engaging and powerful pieces are built up through a process that is less reminiscent of collage than it is of burnishing, worrying, plying, or even kneading.
The human brain seems hardwired, no matter what, for pattern recognition and for metaphor making. All good poetry is actively engaged in the latter. All good concrete poetry actively engages both.
...immediately apprehended in the way a road sign or...a navigational icon is. Slipping in under the threshold of awareness, the twisting scalpel of subverted meaning can strike that much deeper...
a poetry far beyond paraphrase, a poetry of direct presentation--the word, not words, words, words or expressionistic squiggles...reminiscent of permutational poems of the cabalists, the anagrams of the early Christian monks, the carmina figurata of the G
This is a themed blog (poems about poetry) that will lead to a print anthology. Dan Waber invited five of his favorite poets to send him an ars poetica they'd written along with the names and email addresses of five other poets. He then invited those twen
world in the words of the os, an ode, unspoken, hole in its infancy, uncuretted, sealed, not yet yielded, nulliparous mouth, girdle against growth, inland orifice, capital O, pore, aperture to the aleph, within which all, the overstocked pond...
So far, have managed, Not Much. So far, a few fractures, a few factions, a Few Friends. So far, a husband, a husbandry, Nothing Too complex, so far, followed the Simple Instructions.
pilgrim, i did not mean to be so loose / of tongue, so bold in all i loosely told / in my smut so smug, so overly sold./ i did not mean, pilgrim, to traduce. // ...poet, though you have the right to scold / it was highsouled you who made my mouth hold / w
We could shut the door / on this vertigo, but Mother when we / come to ourselves our feet skim the tiles./ Spoons shine on the table, and Mother, / we're dancing. I'm mouthing the words / to a song I never knew...
Lynda Hull in her short life (1954-1994) wrote memorable poems, distinctive for their flamboyant shadows, a created world where pathos always has some swagger of the doomed: a quality that you might call (depending on your decade) Goth, punk, noir or maud
Boundaries. Water / and singing stones, day world to night world...the waves' incantation, over and over, runnel / to ascent and crest, the torn lace of collapse. /The singing stones, the night the bandaged ward / shut down, morphine swaddles her riddled
I have always loved these moments of delicate transition: walking alone in a borrowed house to a slim meridian of dawn barring the pillow before the cool breeze, a curtain of rain on the iron steps, rain laving lawn chairs arranged for a conversation fini
From “Suite for Emily:” “...doors you (I?) might fall through to the underworld / of bars and bus stations, private rooms of / dancing girls numb-sick & cursing the wilderness / of men’s round blank faces. Spinning demons.”
I could never face anything / without the wig. Transformed, the old vaudeville desire / struts & kicks its satiny legs, the desire to be / consumed by ruined marquees, these last drifting hotels, / to be riven, served up singing, arched & prismed / from a
Never before such a distant season of derision. Across town, the silo siren heralds an encore to panic. The lake below Mexico City shivers like a Plexiglas dance floor.
The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze at the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.
