We moved to a small room in an annex to the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church. Nada Gordon was teaching – I think we were free-writing, getting warmed up.
My marriage was a disaster and I did’t necessarily feel like feeling anything – so I focused on the room and the sounds and the imagery and the energy of nervous writers filling the space. I put a lot of pressure on writing to take the place of music.
I’m guessing this happened in 2004.
I was not prepared for this no-picnic picnic,
nor for sailors nor cyclists nor circus freaks
flying flags lost in the crowded firmament.
But this sphere is an image,
whether it be solid, liquid or gas
a holographic bubble densely curling
under the weight of its no-substance surface
ready to bust.
“translation” of 57 by the Sixth Dalai Lama–Tibet (1683 to 1706) Glaze thrash of tongues under dark moon salt water ripple stained rub rusty ring rang like minced groans the bang shook away our youth original poem 57 bya de khrung khrung dkar mo nga la gshog rstal gyar dang thag ring rgyang la mi […]
Writing is an act of excavating, an uncovering of layers and discovering our own depths and imagination. Many people view writing as a lonely craft. Holly believes that when we are present and honest on the page, we can take that experience into our lives and have richer, more dynamic relationships.