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Here's my Christmas poem.
No spirited Ariel condemns The master who frees him from his pen, Gracing imagination with air and light Whose force-folded wings through the night But husbanded their flight. Only we, undreaming seamstresses who weave Close-wrought prisons from our misery, Detailing tales that tie our tongues, Tell in subtle tapestries of grey thread What we will not wail in honest dread--- Only we curse the sun that comes to us And damn the wind's interrogatory gusts, Sitting down in our own dark to contemplate How blind's this world we hate.
Gregg Glory
12/22/2007
Music, arts, crafts, prizes and more at the Internet Cafe
For more information, please visit: yogalifesociety.com
11/26/2007
How much un-green energy are you using?
Your "carbon footprint" is a measure of your impact on the environment, in terms of the carbon dioxide emitted as a result of your daily activity.
Use this calculator to estimate your carbon footprint from the energy you use and the vehicle you drive--and learn how PG&E can help you reduce your footprint.
Linked from: Pacific Gas and Electric Company
10/03/2007
A whittled mystery of girl / boy knowing encoded.
It's been a while since I foisted a poem on you. But here's one that comes under the header, I think, of male / female relationships. Any feedback? Is this you? Your lover? The man on the moon?
Look into my eyes with a lover's rage--- No panther acknowledges her cage. Pace to the edge of what existence brings And set the periphery on fire in a ring! There is no boundary that being obeys But a fountain's circle that leaps for a day. So jump and burn and snarl and rage, I know my darling but trods her stage.
Gregg Glory
8/13/2007
Floaty lyrical meditation from the discombobulated monarch.
Occassionally this embed will have trouble connecting to the .MP3 file it is trying to play. Just try again the next time you come here. Among other things, Gregory Schwartz has been creating poetry since grade school, wowing those who still know how to hear.
Gregory Schwartz
7/26/2007
An intriguing post from the Freakonomics blog.
July 11 is National Cheer Up The Lonely Day, an increasingly necessary task according to the National Science Foundation General Social Survey, which found that Americans are more socially isolated then in previous decades despite (or because of?) the growth of communications technology.
Melissa Lafsky
7/11/2007
A starry-eyed stab at versioning one of my favorite poems.
Ae weet forenicht i the yow-trummle I saw yon antrin thing, A watergaw wi its chitterin licht Ayont the on-ding; An I thocht o the last wild look ye gied Afore ye deed! There was nae reek i the laverock's hoose That nicht - an nane i mine; But I hae thocht o that foolish licht Ever sin syne; An I think that mebbe at last I ken What your look meant then. The Wavery Water-bow One wet fore-night in the July cold-snap I saw that recherche thing, A wavery rainbow in the watery light Beyond the downpouring; An' I thought of the last wild look ye gave Afore ye died! There was no smoke-reek in the lark's house That night -- and none in mine; But I have thought of that foolish light Ever since that time; An' I think that mebbe at last I ken What your look meant then.
7/02/2007
Ken Bastard's one-man art show at Jersey City's LITM (Love is the Message) lounge.
LITM is proud to present bold new paintings from self-taught artist Ken Bastard. Each piece is like a snapshot, blown up to stop you in your tracks and force you to look closer. Claiming influences as diverse as Basquiat and the Wyeths, Jack Kirby and Will Eisner, drawing on references from pop art and punk rock, fashion magazines and tabloid papers, Ken Bastard creates works that are a style all his own. He loves making a mess and "slathering paint around." He doesn't take himself too seriously, but he is serious about his art.
Artist's Statement: Welcome to Bastardville. A place where Beauty, Trash, Hope, and Despair live together in a community of Losers, Hipsters, Junkies, Artists, Celebrities and Criminals. My name is Ken Bastard and I made this. I fashioned it out of wood from job sites, painters' drop cloths, mistake paint from every paint store in NJ, and Blood Sweat And Tears. It bears my mark. My obsessionns and my fears are here. These works are me. These works exist because they have to. They begged to be made. They tell stories in a million fragmented, and everyday ways. I have to do this. I am under the impression that I have given up everything for this. Welcome to Bastardville.
Bastardville: New Paintings by Ken Bastard Opening Saturday June 9th 6-9 LITM 140 Newark Ave Jersey City, NJKen Bastard
7/01/2007
Dawn Heavenly-Body Kourage's epithalamion for Tim and Shana James.
It was the way she could skip stones across the cool stillness of my mind. It was the coy, liquid songs that spilled from her breath and drenched my plethora of inbetween spaces. It was the meticulous devotion with which she swept stray moonbeams and stardust from the floor of the night sky. It was how her smile spiraled like a wild galaxy from a universe yet unborn. It was the haunted sound of her wings beating in the dark expanses of my soul. It was how he shamelessly drank of me. How his unwavering eyes scattered my mind across the corridors of time. It was the way the fiery rays of his gaze set my curvacious flesh ablaze like a howling moon. And when i cry, he gathers my tears and makes the sweetest honey. Oh, and how he takes my complaints and purees them into a smooth, decadent soup. It is the way we play, like two hawks circling in infinitudes of blue. Beloved, I want to joyously cry, you and I at each sunrise from now until the last salty drop of time spills from her sacred eye. Applaud the sun feverishly as he dips below the horizon as if for the first time each night. And then writhe and bask in the psychodelic aftermath of colored puddles bleeding across the sky. And when it's dark, let's fall apart in eachothers arms. My Love, let's put all our small and ridiculously false beliefs about ourselves and this Mystic Life in God's pipe and share a HOLY SMOKE! Dawn Heavenly-Body Kourage
6/19/2007
Enlisting friendship to the highest cause.
What is the highest cause or value that you can bring yourself to intend? The "Gregglory Friendship Society" is ready to take on new members and to create, preserve, or revert to, a better world! Suggestions welcome.
Email your replies and receive a FREE manifesto! gregglory@aol.com.
5/15/2007
Training a wide mind to notice minutiae.
Spring has come with its hubbub and troubles. The creaking need to get outside and stand in the foolishly alive air is upon us again here in New Jersey. The chemical smokestacks greet the new season with their votive fires. And I, a poet despite myself, am to be found scribbling among the nooks of my office cubicle. Or sitting dazed on the stoop at lunchtime while busy birds thread their nests into being. Take note! I tell myself. And so, here are a few Spring notes I've penned on my palms like a new phone number, each new number over-writing the last until, finally, my hands are a palimpsest, and all the Springs run together in one wash of soapy ink.
There are two versions of the introductory poem (of course!). I can never say either "Hello" or "Goodbye" just once.
Swatting a fly-- rolled paper on the screen door-- What? Haiku! Swat that fly! With what? Rolled paper against the screen... Haiku! Ratty winter grass in the cool quadrangle-- Spring dawn Spring breeze-- All night on the lawn a paper kite Spring birds at dusk-- Even the kids next door settle on the stoop Spring is here! No more long nights dreaming of cherry blossoms! Carefully the cat sniffs the windowscreen-- Spring breeze Spring evening-- The curious moon uncloaks a last patch of snow Spring nighttime--- Drunks behind the Irish pub play on the beach Breeze by breeze through the stirring grassblades Spring arrives For over an hour calling the dogs in to eat-- Spring dusk Spring night-- Everyone leans against the bar in less clothes Spring cleaning-- Dirt under my fingernails from the flowerbox Visiting mom's tomb --this Spring too, dogwood blossoms Spring rain-- under my old ball cap wet hair Autumn already? But, I'm not yet tired of wiping sweat
More haiku (scroll down new page).
Send me one of your haiku! Email gregglory@aol.com.
5/02/2007
Join Us! 2 - 4 PM, May 5th. Meet at HoJo's in Asbury Park, NJ
Make every day Earth Day.
Grab a trash bag and some friends and head on down to an area in your local community that could use some TLC and give it a good dose. Last year Burners Without Borders cleaned up beaches and parks in five states and three countries, and this year we are going for all seven continents.
Join Us! 2 - 4 PM, May 5th. Meet at HoJo's in Asbury Park, NJ
What to bring
4/27/2007
". . . space, here I come!"
Stephen Hawking finally made it into outer space.
Theorist in s-p-a-c-e-!
4/26/2007
Flustered poems of loveless self-reflection.
When death comes for us, we give up the ghost. Life loses its fragrant appeal and we begin cheering for the terrorist with his firm hand at our throats. Maybe I'm just talking for myself, but poets everywhere will recognize the Stockholm Syndrome that paralyzes even the most stalwart objectionist when presented in the guise of a moving metaphor. What is individuality when compared to a "truth larger than ourselves"?
topped by Gower's lugubrious head
Of course, as a poet, I don't have much respect or use for the ordinary kind of truth. Only the incandescent, inner truth will do! Do I have the faith, strength, willpower or God-knowledge to assert some meaningful connection between that inner glow and the outer darkness? Will Superman reach the onrushing train in time to rescue Lois Lane? The self-important interior monolog of a know-it-all can offer a refreshing interlude of laughter and tear-stained contemplation for even the most harried of modern-day commuters. Sit down at my sick heart and eat.
Hell, Darling, Gregg Glory's latest volume of poems, has been fattened over the course of this year and is ready to be perused in the "Blast Press" section of this site.
The Fly All our nobility's munched blank by Time; impossible dreams fit simply in an unattended trash can topped by Gower's lugubrious head. Dead again in my dreams, repetitive as a horror flick, unfixed as a workaholic's mealtime or freckles on a cancerous face. The august face of a kicked-up possum's skull mocks my mutable deportment, my rubbery reckoning with the moment's emotions. Where now the surprised eye bright as a blackberry cell? O possum! Once rooting for riccola in the compost bucket, tipping its richness, now a fly (always the same fly, same fly as ever) straddles the corpse of a rind on a mound of coffee grounds in a moonlight you are done with rummaging, and I almost done, rubbing its hands.
4/17/2007
Review of a volumne of political poetry, Black Champagne, available in the "Blast Press" section of the site.
by Chuck Moon, author of God-Speck Exhibitions.
As with most of Gregg Glory's work, Black Champagne has the familiar tone of great literary poetry, the kind that can paint in delicate swaths the conceptual nuggets of perception and emotion celebrated in the numerous self-published volumes of his work. Whereas some literary poetry can become bogged down with heavy words and obscure references, Glory always reads at a brisk enough pace and a fresh enough language to avoid that pitfall. Granted, there are some weighty phrases and classical allusions, but he never bores or condescends, but excites the reader to journey on and even to explore beyond the words to discover the sources of Glory's often enigmatic and theatrical verse.
Yet Black Champagne is a significant departure from what one has come to expect from Glory. There is the same voice, but what is new is his passion, his perturbation, and his wisdom. Though only in the past taking casual stabs at politicized lines, Black Champagne becomes a virtual treatise on traditional patriotism, driven by juxtaposed principles and grandstand proclamations. Rarely has his poetry felt so angry, and rarely has he allowed his poems to become like sausage-linked verbiage, notwithstanding the consistent high quality of his writing. "We call on God like a waiter when our intuition sours," is one line from "Lesson Plan", capturing one of the two major dimensions to this books message. Here it is his aggravation with the Left and their objections to the Iraq War. No less vitriolic is his other strongly worded invocation, that the perpetrators of the 9/11 tragedy ought to be brought to justice, regardless of the seeming squeamishness of Democrats and liberals to draw lines so darkly in an obviously multi-faceted world. In the poem "Dim NIMN" one is treated to graphic details of Saddam Hussein's crimes, an alarmingly Bush-esque hind-sight justification in the face of a clearly barbaric invasion by the United States. One can only assume that Glory became very caught up in the accusation, counter-accusation arguments between right and left, one that those who commit to either side easily run into. Such partisanship generally blurs the lines of rational acceptability, strips the intellectuals of their normal moral insulation and invites them to choose black or white. The only disappointment of Black Champagne, then, lies there. That Glory's first venture into hardcore political poetry ends with a blur, a confused response wherein he maintains his agnostic disinterest in theology, yet champions the very patriotic cannibalism that theocratic right-wingers cherish. Likewise, his obvious horror with the 9/11 attacks seem to have aroused a bloodlust uncontained by sound judgment. Certainly Saddam Hussein was a monster, but a student of Shelly and Byron should appreciate that tyranny cannot eradicate tyranny. It is in the hands of Iraqs' people, and not the armaments of the Western democracies, to change their leaders. Even Glory should know that Hussein only survived as long as he did on account of Western support, not in spite of it, and did so while his oppression was at it's worst.
In all, another collection of well-written and thought provoking poetry. In response to debates with friends over liberal and conservative policy, it shows a healthy grasp of the political landscape by Glory, but still leaves the reader somewhat confused as to what principals Glory is trying to uphold, if any. He is caught, it seems, between two extremes. The one is the realizations of a classic romanticism and the other is a bent toward traditional patriotism. Both are commendable in their own right, but an improper mixing of the two can result in some serious chemical burns.
Chuck Moon
04/14/07
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd any thing.
A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, you shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
This is today's poet's pick for the "Poetry Daily" email newsletter, selected by Victoria Chang.
I like the way it describes how Love twists your arm to admit it in. It can be just as hard to accept affection and attention as it is to deal with rejection. In fact, it may even be harder to accept such attention because we don't want to see ourselves as resisting love, and therefore refuse to notice the ways in which we keep postive attention at bay. We have to be comfortable and self-assured enough in and of ourselves to feel worthy of being loved. To be looked at with love by others can be an unsettling experience. What are they looking at? What's making them so damn happy? It can't be me, I'm too mundane to be a source of joy in the world.
But once the dialog with love begins, where can it go? The poem seems to say that dealing with Love involves a deep engagement with reality. "You must sit down" and squarely address the issue and experience of Love. I really like that Love, in the poem, says you must "taste my meat." Love must be fully digested, must become a part of us, to really be experienced at all. There are no other options. You can't "sip" love, or "play" with love; the dalliance of a dilettante just won't do. Get in there and mix it up.
And that's just what the speaker in this poem does. After all the doubts and hesitations, the shame and maybes, the speaker "did sit and eat."
04/09/07
Speculation on a safe, prosperous Middle East by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
This is just a short, exploratory note to look into the notion of the United States becoming more, rather than less, involved in Middle Eastern affairs. Just as the United States maintained a huge garrison in Europe after WWII, and with the connivance of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization put continuing muscle behind the idea of the death of fascism and dictatorships for Western Europe (excepting Spain, of course), so we should enter into a long-term series of entangling obligations in the Middle East.
Perhaps starting with the Saudis and Kuwaitis, but eventually embracing all the states that wish to avoid undue Iranian influence or attack from the terrorist hordes of Hezbollah (the so-called "Party of God"). An American presence in such an organization (let's call it METO) would guarantee that member states wouldn't attack each other without drawing a super power into the fray. Our continuing interaction with all of these states would encourage, and eventually demand, democratic reforms within the member states themselves. An expanding tradition of democracy, or at least a deeper familiarity with democracy, would inevitably arise from our being there--proudly sharing by example the virtues of the American Way of Life. It is a way of life that values individual responsibility and freedom. Such freedom is infectious.
The only trip-up I can see is Americans abroad genuflecting to the hide-bound social customs of the states that they are visiting. With member states of METO dependent on American goodwill and cooperation to keep them from each others' throats, a vigorous defense of Americans abroad, like Teddy Roosevelt's, would be a helpful foriegn policy attitude for us to adopt and express. For those who'd prefer to see American exceptionalism live within the bounds of our borders and not have an outward, international, or essentially revolutionary character, I'll leave you with a quote from TR to consider: "The welfare of each of us is dependent fundamentally upon the welfare of all of us."
03/28/07
A volume of terse verse, portraits, and peccadilloes by Daniel J. Weeks
Thirsty readers of Daniel J. Weeks' poetry will be refreshed to learn that his latest venture, "Small Beer," is at the printers. He returns to BLAST PRESS after an hiatus of several years for a book of diverting minor poems. BLAST PRESS published Mr. Weeks' first book of "X-Poems," a few of which were recently featured in the local NJ poetry magazine, "The Idiom." Mr. Weeks has mentioned a surprising satisfaction upon reviewing the poems in this volume, which will be available by February 2007. The contents of the chapbook have accreted over several years and include a humorous poem about the contemporary poetry scene in the United States with a unique ballad-like nonsense refrain. The text of the book will be available on this website as soon as an electronic transcript of the text can be made.
The sub-title of this intriguing packet of poems is "A volume of terse verse, portraits, and peccadilloes." Make of it what you will.
01/10/07