September 23, 2010
Lord, I live
by your word.
My life is in the spoken sentences
and paragraphs from Your mouth,
not the black and red ink on
rice paper that can be burned to ashes,
added to the pile;
but by Your voice that etches
the tablets of my heart,
by Your breath that permanently
marks my mind,
the breeze that brands my soul
as Yours
I live.
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Developing Voice
August 27, 2010
from notes on drafts:
[Develop your voice
your singular voice.
Huh?
But I have many voices.]
at last stanza:
When I'm dead will the things that I've said (written) still matter?
Developing Voice
"The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you."
Thomas Lux, "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently"
The black & white home movies of the early sixties
silenced my infant voice;
until the reel-to-reel recorded it again one
Christmas morning singing Jingle Bells into the taste
of the aluminum microphone.
A decade later, the tape had stretched its vocal chords
and was no longer recognizable.
I once lost my voice
in high school, auditioning for a role in “The Fantastiks.”
I sang one line and then it just stopped...
as if someone had flicked a switch or a fuse had popped
and I didn't have a penny to fix it.
I found it again
proposing pacifism, debating doctrine, singing psalms;
and again on the sidewalks for the unborn, the uninformed;
and again parading prophetic in ecstatic glossolalia utterance.
There's the voice my children have heard.
There's the voice my grandchildren hear.
There's one for the dog.
My wife knows my voice
when I'm setting up a bad pun,
when I'm up on my soap box,
when I'm asking a question
or broaching a sensitive subject.
There is one only she knows
when our door is closed
or when we're not talking.
I have a telephone voice
and a cell phone voice:
they are different.
It actually goes up
about half an octave
when I'm waiting tables.
This phenomenon seems to affect most servers.
When I try to talk to you,
what if
what if I stut...stut...stutter;
suppose my syllables slip into lisp;
perhaps the words no longer exist.
And what if we don't speak the same language?
¿Y si no hablamos el mismo idioma?
Where I come from, we don't have an accent.
And when my lips are peeled back from my teeth,
and my tongue has been eaten by worms,
will my voice still be heard in the heads of my kids
when they speak to kids of their own?
from notes on drafts:
[Develop your voice
your singular voice.
Huh?
But I have many voices.]
at last stanza:
When I'm dead will the things that I've said (written) still matter?
Developing Voice
"The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you."
Thomas Lux, "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently"
The black & white home movies of the early sixties
silenced my infant voice;
until the reel-to-reel recorded it again one
Christmas morning singing Jingle Bells into the taste
of the aluminum microphone.
A decade later, the tape had stretched its vocal chords
and was no longer recognizable.
I once lost my voice
in high school, auditioning for a role in “The Fantastiks.”
I sang one line and then it just stopped...
as if someone had flicked a switch or a fuse had popped
and I didn't have a penny to fix it.
I found it again
proposing pacifism, debating doctrine, singing psalms;
and again on the sidewalks for the unborn, the uninformed;
and again parading prophetic in ecstatic glossolalia utterance.
There's the voice my children have heard.
There's the voice my grandchildren hear.
There's one for the dog.
My wife knows my voice
when I'm setting up a bad pun,
when I'm up on my soap box,
when I'm asking a question
or broaching a sensitive subject.
There is one only she knows
when our door is closed
or when we're not talking.
I have a telephone voice
and a cell phone voice:
they are different.
It actually goes up
about half an octave
when I'm waiting tables.
This phenomenon seems to affect most servers.
When I try to talk to you,
what if
what if I stut...stut...stutter;
suppose my syllables slip into lisp;
perhaps the words no longer exist.
And what if we don't speak the same language?
¿Y si no hablamos el mismo idioma?
Where I come from, we don't have an accent.
And when my lips are peeled back from my teeth,
and my tongue has been eaten by worms,
will my voice still be heard in the heads of my kids
when they speak to kids of their own?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Happy Birthday Bush
March 18, 2010
The last of the assignments from Creative Writing 238 (which I passed with a resounding A). Instructed to stroll about campus in teams of four and find objects out of place. I found a birthday streamer under a bush.
Birthday streamers
damp from dew and rain
draped about the ground around me,
clinging to the earth
like a sheer silk nighty,
mingling with my roots,
becoming one with the mulch:
carelessly planned,
but I do appreciate the thought.
The last of the assignments from Creative Writing 238 (which I passed with a resounding A). Instructed to stroll about campus in teams of four and find objects out of place. I found a birthday streamer under a bush.
Birthday streamers
damp from dew and rain
draped about the ground around me,
clinging to the earth
like a sheer silk nighty,
mingling with my roots,
becoming one with the mulch:
carelessly planned,
but I do appreciate the thought.
…a set of Ginsu® steak knives—ABSOLUTELY FREE!
March 15, 2010
This was an "assignment" from Jim Lundy, emcee of Monday Night Poetry and Music (aka Monday Night Blues) held every Monday at 8:00 at the East Bay Meeting House. He challenged us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. I researched Ginsu® steak knives, they have a website, they are still available.
I am at rest,
set in my appointed slot
set in the block of wood
set upon the kitchen counter
set for service.
Hold my ergonomically designed handle,
perfectly balanced,
in the palm of your hand;
let my stain and rust resistant
stainless steel blade
do the work—
gliding over sinews,
releasing hot juices.
Another slice?
My serrated teeth,
that are never in need of sharpening,
chew the flesh,
part it as I pass,
its tenderness no match
for my razor sharp wit
ness, ness
my cutting power.
I have served,
you are satiated.
In time,
the local law
find me set,
set within
the twenty-fifth fatal wound.
Film at eleven.
This was an "assignment" from Jim Lundy, emcee of Monday Night Poetry and Music (aka Monday Night Blues) held every Monday at 8:00 at the East Bay Meeting House. He challenged us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. I researched Ginsu® steak knives, they have a website, they are still available.
I am at rest,
set in my appointed slot
set in the block of wood
set upon the kitchen counter
set for service.
Hold my ergonomically designed handle,
perfectly balanced,
in the palm of your hand;
let my stain and rust resistant
stainless steel blade
do the work—
gliding over sinews,
releasing hot juices.
Another slice?
My serrated teeth,
that are never in need of sharpening,
chew the flesh,
part it as I pass,
its tenderness no match
for my razor sharp wit
ness, ness
my cutting power.
I have served,
you are satiated.
In time,
the local law
find me set,
set within
the twenty-fifth fatal wound.
Film at eleven.
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