yay! i have new work up at canopic jar!!!
July 23, 2008
Squeetle!
Take a look at my poems as well as the entire issue.
Comments
11 Responses to “yay! i have new work up at canopic jar!!!”
Got something to say, toughguy?
This is my blog wherein I, Dana Guthrie Martin, write things and stuff. Most of the time, writing and I hobble along in a sort of three-legged race where there is no finish line. (more...)
This stuff was settled in the 1950s: The New Critics lost. We won. — Sam Hamill
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beg, borrow, but don't steal
This work is licensed under Creative Commons. If you don’t credit Dana (by using her full name and preferably by linking back to the appropriate post) for however you copy, distribute, transmit or adapt her words, you are being bad. And naughty. And she will have her servant monkeys hunt you down and cut your hands off so you can never copy, distribute, transmit or adapt anyone’s work again and call it your own.
(Unless, of course, you were to use your butt cheeks to manipulate your keyboard with the copying, distributing, transmitting, adapting and whatnot, but Dana fortunately has only met one person whose butt cheeks are that talented. He could play a major third on a piano using nothing but his ass. She kids you not.).
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flick, flick, flick
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i cannot be bought
Congrats.
yay!
and those are great pieces.
remind me the name for the form used in the second one? it’s one i want to try. you’ve inspired me b/c sometimes when it’s used it’s clunky and obvious but this was masterful, my dear!
Thanks, Noah.
PDW, pantoum. It doesn’t sound repetitive because I cheated on a couple of lines to make them work for me. I see a form, and I say “Fuck you, form.” Then I do what I want. I am ballsy like that.
Since I was a good girl, I did just what you said. And I read Kay’s poem too. I especially liked the pantoum, I remember reading it before, and I loved the way it flows, even with all the repetition. I can’t help wondering about the first one though, I mean, I know Sonny and Cher and Donny and Marie are pop idols, but since they are also real people, aren’t you leaving yourself open to a lawsuit? Just curious. I know that Americans tend to take things to court much more than we do here.
Catherine, doubtful but very good point. I’m not slandering them, just talking about the narrator’s feelings and personal impressions. Also, it’s clearly satirical, and in the U.S. that sort of thing is covered under the law, otherwise shows like “Saturday Night Live” would not exist. I mean, they make fun of Dubya.
Also, it’s a work of art, like that sculpture of Britney Spears giving birth (which is magnificent, if I may say so). We tend to give artists a break in this country, except for that incident about 10 years ago when Rudy Giuliani had a major freak-out over The Holy Virgin Mary. (He’s had other tantrums over contemporary art since then, many of which have been eclipsed by his stellar handling of 9/11.)
Also, Donny Osmond is a fantastic man who I adore and nearly want to stalk. He is great at making fun of himself, seems to seek those opportunities out. Have you ever seen him in the green screen version of Al Yankovick’s “White and Nerdy” video? It freakin’ rocks. What I love and admire about Donny is his ability to at once be totally campy and nearly artificial but also able to absolutely embrace the deconstruction of that persona for the purposes of entertainment.
So. I am safe. Art, for the time being, is safe in this country. And I think if I were to send this and my other dozen poems about Donny to Donny, he’d love it, eat it up.
I love these poems. I love your DO series. Can I read them all, pretty, please?
Deb,
i think you can, ’cause i did…
:-))
Deb, the Donny poems are below. Some of them are sad. I actually think they are all a little sad.
What Would Donny Do?
Donny is not himself today.
He is smaller.
His hands pass through objects
as they do in his dream where
the dining room table is set
but there are no utensils.
Donny moves slowly to avoid
going through a wall
without meaning to.
The sun moves along the sky
like a prop.
The living room is elevated:
one, two steps up.
Glitter everywhere,
half-empty hairspray cans,
floor littered with balloons.
Has there been a birthday?
When did his persona
become his life, he wonders.
He looks out to his audience.
* * *
Again Donny Wakes in Panic
In the last moments of sleep
Donny hears himself breathing,
air shallow and contained
as if admitted and expelled
through a straw.
Each breath seems to come
from a long way off
and to not be his own.
* * *
Donny Shows off the Donny Osmond Dolls on His Mantel
Here, at brunch with Barbie:
rickety outdoor furniture,
Barbie in her stiff boots,
service from a tacky tea set.
(It’s nearly impossible
to purchase quality doll
accessories these days.)
Here, look at me
standing in the gazebo.
I cut the Astroturf out myself.
My grass is always greener.
Here, we have the full TV-show set.
I’ve locked myself inside
Marie’s dressing room
to try on her funky costumes.
* * *
Marie on ‘Dancing with the Stars’
What bothers me is not the way she flung herself
into her brothers for a big finale
then stretched her plump body
across them like a cat
or an intoxicated bachelor party entertainer —
or the way Donny held her midsection,
that red fringed fabric, with both hands
and for a moment too long
in an awkward sideways hug/squeeze
before sending her back to the stage
with a small thrust as if
returning a snared fish to water.
What bothers me is not that she collapsed
after doing her samba routine —
or that this made the audience giggle —
but regained consciousness in time
to get her scores from the judges,
saying, This is what happens to me sometimes
when I get winded; I’m sorry,
as if all women pass out when we get
a little too worked up and as if this is something
for which we owe public apologies.
(Where are the fainting couches
and smelling salts when we need them?)
What bothers me is not the time the camera cut
to Donny days after their father died
and he cried through his make-up
as he cheered his graceless sister on.
It is not even the time he whistled through his fingers
for her when she did not flub up the mambo.
Nor is it what you think it is: her dressing up
like a doll from a pedophile’s wet dream for the freestyle,
flashing her frilly pastel undergarments
and letting Jonathan Roberts throw her around
the stage while her limbs hung limp
as if she were just another dead girl.
What bothers me is that, afterward,
the rouge, blotted on her face with the precision
of an eight year old, welled up with beads of sweat
like so many family secrets coming to the surface
and collecting with nowhere to go.
I only hope that, during the commercial break,
someone showed her the small compassion
of handing her an absorbent towel with which
she could daub herself and pull her act together.
* * *
Donny Flies with the Geese
He’s taught them all to hum
Tunes from Osmondmania!
He takes Marie’s part,
Makes the geese harmonize
Like his brothers.
Reminds them to push
From the diaphragm,
To not let performance anxiety
Get the best of them —
How it spoiled his life,
Reduced him to an audience of geese.
These awkward performances.
Air glides over his back and ass.
His arms stretch out: wings.
When he smiles, witnesses point
To the glinting sky.
Hey, congrats. I’ll be back to read more.
Love both poems! And hooray for Jo too! A great issue of Canopic.