And We're Publishing Poetry, Too!

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Congratulations! AVQ will be publishing Air, Light, and Water in New York City and The Poet at Seventeen in our upcoming issue. Look for it Sunday, December 21st.

For my Friends When I'm Away (May 2000)

Regarding the above map in reference to my summer romance with Eli - I spent the first month as a counselor to spoiled slutty hellions. It was like living in a cabin full of myself at that age and it was TOUGH. ( Try sitting in on a meeting about how you let your 12 (but I'm almost 13!) year old camper out of your sight long enough for her to get caught blowing a counselor in training.) Um lets see, I was never there after they fell asleep and the brats weren't morons! Sneaking out to Eli's was easy - he lived in Boy teen village and I lived right across that small path in girls teen. When I went (read: it was mutual) to horseback second session, I lived over near the girls camp, in a staff cabin, past that tennis racket icon... That was what we call the walk of shame, getting caught walking around Lake Wendy in the morning... Luckily horseback staff started way before everyone else, so I usually just brought my work clothes and walked straight to the dining hall from his (literally) tent. At least it had a platform, which was quite useful for late night calls of the wild...
I thought it appropriate to start with some of the poems I copied into this journal from the kind of decrepit notebook only a writer could visualize... This is a fun poem I wrote when I was getting ready to leave for the hills of Georgia...

For My Friends While I'm Away (c)

Do some drugs
and think of me
bitching to bugs
in 110 degree
Georgia sun.
your laugh an echo in my head
I hope my girls don't wet the bed
and that there will be pot to smoke
that kosher food won't make me choke
So shake your head and roll your eyes
but if Orit can do it, so can I
So write me lots and party hard
We'll see if I'm the camp retard
That comes home from a hike to say;
" I lost only one camper, it's been a good day."
In ten short weeks I will return
Of course there'll be a joint to burn
Of course there'll be new boys to meet
preferably ones who eat cheese on meat.

YAY

(the short version)

Dear Bohopoetgirl( this is my edit)

Thanks for submitting your great poem "I Was Born In Sedona". We thought this was a wonderful write.

We have updated shelf 4 of our submitted poetry section along with August's Poetry dances section and have added you as a favorite writer for August.


Many thanks again-
and welcome to Poetry dances.com!

We look forward to hearing from you.



Anthony French



My Note: And there goes the anonymity. That lasted about as long as I watched Denise Richards:It's (not really) Complicated

OYE MI POEMA !

I hate how we artists, so different from the majority, so insecure and yet sure of our own genius, feel the need for disclaimers before presenting a piece of their work.

Backstories however, those are sometimes necessary. This is the first poem I ever published, which somehow came into my head nearly complete, a rare and magical gift for any artist, especially one whose medium is words. It is also the first poem I ever published, my junior year at UConn in the notoriously hard to get into Long River Review. I didn't appreciate the value of this until I worked on the review senior year and watched thousands of poems dismissed, picked apart, and thrown aside until only 39 remained. It is still a bit hard for me to fathom why a couple of poets got more than one spot. Then I was angry, now I just wonder who they were blowing or how much less partying they were doing than me. When I got the letter this poem was published, it was the best feeling I have ever had.. And then of course my delusions of grandeur had me dreaming I was the next Allen Ginsberg, put on this earth to bring poetry away from it's ivory tower of acadamia and back to the masses. But then I remembered. The masses are unable to understand poetry, and that I have never been a fan of the masses. Then my lofty ego decided to submit work to the most exclusive of journals, The Paris Review, etc, got a few rejection letters and buried my head in shame. I need to put myself back out there.
So I'm planning on reading this at the Bohemia Room's Cunnilinguistics night July 23 at Santo on Lincoln Road...Hope I don't talk myself out of it. I find the more I embarass myself and my loved ones, the better my work is... It's scary when the best stories are the ones that might make your family disown you... I'm starting to realize I'll forgive myself much easier for that than for not putting out the work I was put here to do. I'm rusty now, but I can get back to where I was... Someone once said there's nothing worse than wasted talent.... and I'm not getting any younger...


Whew! You still with me?

Here goes, brutally honest 19 year old me:

Naughty Nudie

Walking into high schools
blurred orange morning
I glance down
surprised and ashamed
at my own bare breasts

I have never had that dream

I was born naked
a baby playing in summer sun
naked
shrinking and shrieking
from the confines
of bathing suits and sunscreen

I was the little girl
who told all the neighbors
what happened when
you pulled her Daddy's finger

Who forgot to wear underwear
to a cousins Bar Mitzvah
announcing it as
we pulled into temple
a place where even the hair on my head
should not be naked
my parents laughed at my inanity
the next few hours
I enjoyed the breeze

Naked has been my way
in every sense

On a tipsy adolescent night
two boys dared me
to run naked
from pond to pool
and back

At private school on Monday
I was the slut.

Reputation fails to erase the memory
of the feeling
night wind and bare skin
unencumbered movement
the thud of my entire body
and nothing more
as it met with the earth.

In a summer sundress it is easy
to be naked
even as I sit here now
I am still naked.

Some may wear cloaks
and masks
makeup and jewelry
to show the world
who they think it thinks
they should be.
That's fine with me.

I'll be naked.



Naughty Nudie

OYE MI POEMA!!!!!!!!!!!!

This small verse I just stumbled upon in a notebook looking for weird song weds... It is not quite yet a poem, yet it's something... It has potential I think... Here you go:


Stumbling back
on my hands and
knees through coal dust
to get back
to where I was
before; when I had
no reason to be happy
other than the fact
that the weight of
life had not pressed
down on my head
then; nearly as much as
now.

The years pass....

Oye Mi Poema Thursday

Next weds a group of local blogger chicas and I are hitting up Ingrid B's Bohemia Room spoken word event; Cunnilinguistics, A night of erotic poetry... Only problem is, the only finished poem I have that's slightly erotic that I haven't destroyed or lost I read last time I was there. I'm going to have to actually write a new poem. It's been almost a year I think... But going through my old stuff on my dino desktop I found this poem, which I wrote in Miami, a little over a year ago... And decided to share. I was inspired my Billy Collin's poem of the same name. He is such a great poet... I wonder if I can get some erotic poetry inspiration there? No, best keep it safe and look through my Adrienne Rich ;)

The Best Cigarette
by B.L.



There are many that I miss

Having flicked my last one over a balcony

One dark night, a firefly disappearing in the trees.

The obvious ones, of course;

After an evening joint, the double indulgence

As one fades to ash, two light up

And lean back, the end of a long

Exhale;

At the end of a greasy breakfast

The day waiting to begin

Blue-grey haze curling and dancing from the ashtray;

Or in a hot tub, resting an elbow on the edge

Holding the damp filter until it burns out.

It’s a strange dichotomy, these moments

of flame and relief.

The most pure memories are mornings

When the next line keeps appearing

Through the tangle onto my computer screen,

The endless Miami sun.

Newly downloaded music in the background

With it’s own beautiful surprises and familiarities.

I would grab for the pack without looking

Away, lighting up as I read my own

Words as if they were a letter

To myself, written

Long ago..

And it would be the exhale of breath

Left hand raised to hold it

As I lean back in the chair and

Smile at my own truth.

Then I would be my own sunshine

All bright energy as I returned to work

My thoughts like beams of light

Little rays whispering,

The catalyst of soul growth

All the poems that brought me

Here, came from somewhere

Warm.

That was the best cigarette.

Smiling at the monitor.

Every ounce of light within

Shining on these words.