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Moving to Ireland

For an MA in Writing — hoping to come out of it with a few publishable pieces. Come visit!

Posting poetry.

Well, I figure it’ll do more good in an open forum than locked away in a book on my shelf — I’ll be slapping some poetry up on these walls more frequently. Don’t steal it please, or I’ll sue you for the 10 dollars it may generate.  Ok, the 5 dollars.

In the sleeping city

nothing stirs

except the pigeon’s yellow eye.

Departure

Static electricity in the evening sky

jumps from atom to atom;

birds swim though it and it trails behind them

like comet dust.

The azure flies,

leaving the earth to itself.

No matter how desperately skyscrapers reach

the clouds don’t mind.

One day the wheat won’t

hush the world anymore.

Time will digest it.

Nobody hears

the sound of the sky;

it whispers beneath

the beats of  wings fading in the gray,

away.

 

Wikipedia: Away is a play written by the Australian playwright Michael Gow.

Wind in the Pines

The wind recoils,

dispelled by the hush

of rain on the water.

It finds the pines;

dispatches tendrils of gust

that cross creek and bog,

rummage blueberry bush and cinnamon fern,

pummel pitcher plant, sway spatterdock, leap lily pad,

and widen the yellow eyes of an owl,

onlooking.

Lake Atsion froths;

Grandpa snapping turtle descends,

settles beneath a thatch of weeds;

sunfish draw near their sandy nests

and outlying bass watch the sky quiver

as they forget their hunger

and gape.

Cabin entrenched in the shore—

orange glow buffers the windows,

chimney smoke disperses over the churning canopy;

Treetop bunches wrap around the heels of the sky and pull;

it descends, crashing through leatherleaf

and buttonbush, stumbling down dirt trails,

interwoven through the barrens, east,

where laurel leaves wither

and pitch pines grow pygmied, gnarled,

jealous.

Night whets the cold thrust

where wood meets estuary;

and onto the bay, rivulets channel airy streams

that spindle forward and moan upon the barrier island;

panting back and forth between rows of houses,

until they finally find the dune

and ascend.

There,

vast waters reflect

Oceanic Sky.

There,

the wind is released.

Wilhelmina

A lot has happened since my last post.

The biggie is that I got picked up by Wilhelmina. It’s a modeling and acting agency in Philly, New York, and most places.  It happened at Rittenhouse Row Spring Gathering.

I’ll definitely be sure to provide some updates here as I do more shoots, shows, and get parts! First time I’ve ever had an agent…

I haven’t posted in a while. To make up for the gap, here’s a fun one: Li Bai (or Li Po, depending on what you think of the guy)–well, my take on one of his poems. The poem is usually translated as, “Amidst the Flowers a Jug of Wine.” It’s worth looking up.

“Bear Swamp Hill, bottle of a Beaujolais.”

Among the pines, a clover bed, bottle of wine.
I lick the sweet of the lips, alone.
Coming to my feet I invite the Moon,
then notice Shadow wants company, too.

Well, neither Moon nor Shadow can drink;
Shadow’s just standing there, doing whatever I do.
Moon brought Shadow cause that’s its favorite trick;
but the rise of mirth should keep pace with spring.

Toward the bottom of the bottle I start singing,
dance around a little — Shadow tries to keep up,
but I can’t tell how he is in the dim light.

So I look up and say–
Hey, while I’m still conscious let’s have a good time,
but after I finish this wine, you leave me alone so I can go to bed,

unless this is finally the night
when we can take a swim in that starry river.