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    Mary Kasimor silk string arias 978-1-934289-85-3 "Mary Kasimor's latest collection is aptly titled. Narrative ellisions are not so much slippery as silken smooth. Textual distilliations manifest into strings of text, but strings bearing the steel scaffolding of witty alchemy. Arias are for readers to complete with their engagements. Hence, ""apples rose from the roses with / its special skins / gleam tooth gleam"". These poems are purrrrr-fectly pitched. —Eileen Tabios “[A] backwards glance / gleans a new understanding” It is this reversal of understanding, or rather standing under a the world from a vantage point differing from and at later time that Mary Kasimor reflects upon. Her poems are tight weavings of music, singing of and for the mouse in an open field, for corn flakes and her ancestors’ bones. All visions, ‘calm-eyed about life and death.” Startling in its even tempo, Kasimor is a virtuoso. I urge you to read this book. —Geoffrey Gatza This is an astonishing book of poems from a poet who deserves your attentions. — Clarice Waldman " "Mary Kasimor Why do I write poetry? Sometimes my desire to write poetry really does make me feel out of balance. It is somewhat of a self-flagellating endeavor in our commoditized culture. Poetry has always been on the fringes of most societies—and I am not sure that it is any better or worse here, in this country. But I do continue writing poetry for several reasons: I like experimenting with words—how they sound, taste, look, feel, and mean; figuring out how I interpret my world; and I suppose I see writing poetry as an “in your face” expression against the value of materialism. I see it as something that has no earthly value but is so necessary and vital to a culture. What would we do without William Carlos Williams, Emily Dickinson, Frank O'Hara, or Barbara Guest? On a somewhat different note, Thoreau said that he was “self-educated” at Harvard. Perhaps self-education should be the goal for everyone. I have done just about everything the wrong way; my paths to education have always been somewhat chaotic, but it has always been right for me. I have an M.S. in Communications—something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, not such a great idea. I also have an M.A. in English from the local state university. I had a great time getting my master's in English-- reading, researching, and writing. Now that I look back at that time, there was very little pressure—I did what I wanted to do, and my thesis was a creative thesis. I started to write poetry seriously when I was in my early 20's. After I graduated from college with an English degree, I decided to get a job as a waitress and to write poetry, without any real goal in mind. I spent my 20's writing poetry and drinking a great deal. After I had my two children, I quit writing for about ten years. I needed to have a different idea for writing poetry. I was bored with the kind of poetry that I had been writing, and I was too busy as a single parent with little time for myself. After I returned to school to get my M.A., I began to read many interesting poet, and that propelled me into writing poetry again. I have been influenced by many poets, including Frank O'Hara, Barbara Guest, Mina Loy, William Carlos Williams, Louis Zufkowsky, Olga Broumas, Diane di Prima, Leslie Scalapino, Lorine Niedecker, Homer, Shakespeare, the Beats, and many other young and old writers. I have “trained” as a poet by reading as many other poets as I can get my hands on. I've been published in online and print journals: Moria, BlazeVox2k3, GutCult , Lungfull!, Prosodia, Volt, Milk, Bird Dog, Coconut, Big Bridge, How2 , and am a regular contributor to Jourine Ensemble , among others. I also have a book published by BlazeVox Books, entitled A Pure Bowl of Nothing. "

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    Mary Kasimor silk string arias 978-1-934289-85-3 "Mary Kasimor's latest collection is aptly titled. Narrative ellisions are not so much slippery as silken smooth. Textual distilliations manifest into strings of text, but strings bearing the steel scaffolding of witty alchemy. Arias are for readers to complete with their engagements. Hence, ""apples rose from the roses with / its special skins / gleam tooth gleam"". These poems are purrrrr-fectly pitched. —Eileen Tabios “[A] backwards glance / gleans a new understanding” It is this reversal of understanding, or rather standing under a the world from a vantage point differing from and at later time that Mary Kasimor reflects upon. Her poems are tight weavings of music, singing of and for the mouse in an open field, for corn flakes and her ancestors’ bones. All visions, ‘calm-eyed about life and death.” Startling in its even tempo, Kasimor is a virtuoso. I urge you to read this book. —Geoffrey Gatza This is an astonishing book of poems from a poet who deserves your attentions. — Clarice Waldman " "Mary Kasimor Why do I write poetry? Sometimes my desire to write poetry really does make me feel out of balance. It is somewhat of a self-flagellating endeavor in our commoditized culture. Poetry has always been on the fringes of most societies—and I am not sure that it is any better or worse here, in this country. But I do continue writing poetry for several reasons: I like experimenting with words—how they sound, taste, look, feel, and mean; figuring out how I interpret my world; and I suppose I see writing poetry as an “in your face” expression against the value of materialism. I see it as something that has no earthly value but is so necessary and vital to a culture. What would we do without William Carlos Williams, Emily Dickinson, Frank O'Hara, or Barbara Guest? On a somewhat different note, Thoreau said that he was “self-educated” at Harvard. Perhaps self-education should be the goal for everyone. I have done just about everything the wrong way; my paths to education have always been somewhat chaotic, but it has always been right for me. I have an M.S. in Communications—something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, not such a great idea. I also have an M.A. in English from the local state university. I had a great time getting my master's in English-- reading, researching, and writing. Now that I look back at that time, there was very little pressure—I did what I wanted to do, and my thesis was a creative thesis. I started to write poetry seriously when I was in my early 20's. After I graduated from college with an English degree, I decided to get a job as a waitress and to write poetry, without any real goal in mind. I spent my 20's writing poetry and drinking a great deal. After I had my two children, I quit writing for about ten years. I needed to have a different idea for writing poetry. I was bored with the kind of poetry that I had been writing, and I was too busy as a single parent with little time for myself. After I returned to school to get my M.A., I began to read many interesting poet, and that propelled me into writing poetry again. I have been influenced by many poets, including Frank O'Hara, Barbara Guest, Mina Loy, William Carlos Williams, Louis Zufkowsky, Olga Broumas, Diane di Prima, Leslie Scalapino, Lorine Niedecker, Homer, Shakespeare, the Beats, and many other young and old writers. I have “trained” as a poet by reading as many other poets as I can get my hands on. I've been published in online and print journals: Moria, BlazeVox2k3, GutCult , Lungfull!, Prosodia, Volt, Milk, Bird Dog, Coconut, Big Bridge, How2 , and am a regular contributor to Jourine Ensemble , among others. I also have a book published by BlazeVox Books, entitled A Pure Bowl of Nothing. "

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    34 views15 pages

    Silk String Arias by Mary Kasimor Book Preview

    Uploaded by

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Mary Kasimor silk string arias 978-1-934289-85-3 "Mary Kasimor's latest collection is aptly titled. Narrative ellisions are not so much slippery as silken smooth. Textual distilliations manifest into strings of text, but strings bearing the steel scaffolding of witty alchemy. Arias are for readers to complete with their engagements. Hence, ""apples rose from the roses with / its special skins / gleam tooth gleam"". These poems are purrrrr-fectly pitched. —Eileen Tabios “[A] backwards glance / gleans a new understanding” It is this reversal of understanding, or rather standing under a the world from a vantage point differing from and at later time that Mary Kasimor reflects upon. Her poems are tight weavings of music, singing of and for the mouse in an open field, for corn flakes and her ancestors’ bones. All visions, ‘calm-eyed about life and death.” Startling in its even tempo, Kasimor is a virtuoso. I urge you to read this book. —Geoffrey Gatza This is an astonishing book of poems from a poet who deserves your attentions. — Clarice Waldman " "Mary Kasimor Why do I write poetry? Sometimes my desire to write poetry really does make me feel out of balance. It is somewhat of a self-flagellating endeavor in our commoditized culture. Poetry has always been on the fringes of most societies—and I am not sure that it is any better or worse here, in this country. But I do continue writing poetry for several reasons: I like experimenting with words—how they sound, taste, look, feel, and mean; figuring out how I interpret my world; and I suppose I see writing poetry as an “in your face” expression against the value of materialism. I see it as something that has no earthly value but is so necessary and vital to a culture. What would we do without William Carlos Williams, Emily Dickinson, Frank O'Hara, or Barbara Guest? On a somewhat different note, Thoreau said that he was “self-educated” at Harvard. Perhaps self-education should be the goal for everyone. I have done just about everything the wrong way; my paths to education have always been somewhat chaotic, but it has always been right for me. I have an M.S. in Communications—something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, not such a great idea. I also have an M.A. in English from the local state university. I had a great time getting my master's in English-- reading, researching, and writing. Now that I look back at that time, there was very little pressure—I did what I wanted to do, and my thesis was a creative thesis. I started to write poetry seriously when I was in my early 20's. After I graduated from college with an English degree, I decided to get a job as a waitress and to write poetry, without any real goal in mind. I spent my 20's writing poetry and drinking a great deal. After I had my two children, I quit writing for about ten years. I needed to have a different idea for writing poetry. I was bored with the kind of poetry that I had been writing, and I was too busy as a single parent with little time for myself. After I returned to school to get my M.A., I began to read many interesting poet, and that propelled me into writing poetry again. I have been influenced by many poets, including Frank O'Hara, Barbara Guest, Mina Loy, William Carlos Williams, Louis Zufkowsky, Olga Broumas, Diane di Prima, Leslie Scalapino, Lorine Niedecker, Homer, Shakespeare, the Beats, and many other young and old writers. I have “trained” as a poet by reading as many other poets as I can get my hands on. I've been published in online and print journals: Moria, BlazeVox2k3, GutCult , Lungfull!, Prosodia, Volt, Milk, Bird Dog, Coconut, Big Bridge, How2 , and am a regular contributor to Jourine Ensemble , among others. I also have a book published by BlazeVox Books, entitled A Pure Bowl of Nothing. "

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    of 15

    silk string arias

    Mary Kasimor

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Buffalo, New York

    silk string arias by Mary Kasimor Copyright 2008 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 1-934289-85-X ISBN 13: 978-1-934289-85-3 Library of Congress Control Number : 2008932198

    BlazeVOX [books] 14 Tremaine Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

    publisher of weird little books

    BlazeVOX [ books ]
    blazevox.org
    2 4 6 8 0 9 7 5 3 1

    an epic about 10 I wrote an epic about last year it was young and old it was about 10 sparrows in a tree it was a murderer and I was a woman it built more homes than were needed it wired itself into channels I can hear everything it explodes and the news dismisses its significance an acre on land that knows its alive and seduces relativity the mountains are flattered nature doesnt understand itself but there is a display of things for baby in the middle of a big box store and next to that we determine proximity as its closeness to nothing did we die? I am not learning our future language I want to be metaphysical I want to describe the days after it arrives as time without sequence I want to press all the buttons at once

    hannahs bucolic cat hannahs bucolic cat the moons grimace reflects

    no more morality is necessary and that makes me excited the list appears spinning in cyberspace code signifies turmoil appearing as in and out the nursery rhyme remains an interpretation of magical times first sin in being born an original sin/ thought thinking about fruit cutting open the apple johnny apple seed when johnny came marching home again we hid him from brutality crunching numbers crunching implosion/new born numbers bird watching and safe exits come back one year after another human measures blow out the candles simile of stars raptures on the left hand choosing hundreds of riddles nothing changes nothing remains the same count the words and undo them yesterday left us in a deep crisis forever picked clean a cloud hung by 12 blackbirds choked on worms the story was a lie you sat around blackened stones adapted for use you foresaw yourself saying/where am I

    10

    girl says girl says I cant and who am I girl asks this tree of elegance and missing parts such as legs and leaves dont go my loneliness is a statue girl says nothing said I dissolve in the water all fizzy and scared moments instigated this people followed me and left me behind until I couldnt tell if I was them girl says I was forsaken in the photo of time deserving of a name nameless girl of last nights leftovers boiled potatoes bread and bruised apples statues break on the floor I was broken swept up broken glass broken wrist and body girl says broken into night broken sky girl says breaking

    11

    gleam tooth apples rose from the roses with its special skins gleam tooth gleam oranges could take you anywhere next to the garden with organic citrus air desires about wine bananas calm the night and yesterdays happiness served with wind chimes

    12

    supermans sufaces superman in a comic Book on a string she (who) carries the Celestial weight she who calls herself No one (the same as nothing) he falls into garbage onto stones eating rust Soaring hope the road runs Away staying away from Surfaces she stares at depth nothing resists the hero shortly she grows wrong Without angelic thoughts filling the Bowl with pleasure supermans Fame obscures the problem

    13

    division the girl decides that depression was yesterday when she died the girl has two lives one as a boy one as a rose the girl knows that she will never die as herself the girl makes claims that cannot be proven the girl believes they are all true when her life as a stone begins the girl is cold beginning a pre-historic time she is satin and deep pink someone told her that it was the only color the girl suspects the sky is falling when she woke up she knew it was more profound than true the girl say I am alive and drew a vial of blood the girl says that roses bloom and poems rise from the back of her neck

    14

    born again/every may 25th voluptuously born tomatoes at blood time leave tracks night shadows apparently asleep sucking the air the oxygen burns demanding selfless craving one bite (but) sweetness is not enough a backwards glance gleans a new understanding at becoming hearsay or bombastic or poisonous making up the story simply nothing happened but we know eyes skin scream sleep only gets better wearing your heart (is an accomplishment) and graciousness not by design in the garden between the fingers misunderstood disguised fruit lovely you are in your brave new skin

    15

    for cormac mccarthy entered escapes then calls for all we are here we walked up the steps always up to babel bewildered and small as in lost child lost manuscript expanding world sizes imploding to no more nothing found in the hole up the mountain we chased the escape between lines of laundry and lyricism found in bones of bleached prayers of last centurys arcane manners the men killed the women and then each other

    16

    bearers of pain pain punctures balloons and falling down. slides into silly. putty happy birthday bellows forth every second only. first admired its shape telling us emotion is red. dancing blue stars piercing eyeball and bullish afternoons discrete weapons. by the river drowning. visions detailed without inflection monologue chants the antics of animal. crackers on new years joyous last minutes remembering 1999 countdown to just this. agonizing decimated ghosts pale skinned intellectually weak reflection. echoes of bolsheviks joining fingers around glasses of tea fraternizing died quietly piling into assassination. martyrs and heroes gleaming bears in the light the hunters. play guitars in the dark figuring their way out.

    17

    as she admires herself you as I am one then you tear it apart it is admissible trees grew their fingers out scraping away another system specific with what I dont want the girl is still within and without you I would be still I admire the symmetry of asymmetrical time in motion cracking stones at the settlers edges control our depth if I were not brought up to avoid the essence of stinks coming from the essence oh well it will come back to show off I will decide to undress it I will want to sleep with the imposters of perfect skin

    18

    gotham city because there were no gardens the graphic novel contained no roses the grass grew blue steel the outdoors evolved and now now we live in gotham city and we looked out through glass it had a way of making us feel private an eye was our discourse we had tunnel vision there was a person next to me this person who I almost loved they told me the ending and I was afraid of nothing ever happening again the dark again the light although I walk barefoot I try to tell myself it will never happen you arent like them nor are you like yourself but the animals share your fears a reflection in the window is past further away I am running from you

    19

    perfume. simultaneously The unequivocal guy searches key words. with astrology and religion without she is slender. but passionate. perhaps she cooks perhaps she cooks and wears perfume. simultaneously match active within browsing one hour single cruising. keep it simple love based on my income I am sensitive. I like fast food and NFL bookstores are all about chemistry. a few extra pounds sarcasm that photo was taken. years ago in thunderstorms you will find my favorite colors. in my bedroom are my favorite things you are. my disembodied love I desire to meet. and potatoes I do like your profile and dogs too. email me or I may disappear who live with me. sometimes no response or your money back.

    20

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