Pennsylvania Music Poems

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All connected by the idea, blown by the incessant wind of this great nation. It is a message of power. Always more. Much much more in Chicago. Sandburg spoke all the dialects. He heard them all, he understood with great precision to the finest tolerances of a lathe workers micrometer. Sandburg understood what it meant to laugh and be happy. All fighting for life, trying to build a life, a new life in this modern world. I wonder if Old Man Wrigley watched his barges loaded with spearmint and double-mint move out onto the lake from one of those Gothic windows perched high above the street.

Would he open a window and shout to the men below to quit slaking and work harder or would he between the snapping sound he made with his mouth full of his chewing gum offer them tickets to a ballgame at Wrigley Field that afternoon? Would the men below be able to understand the man communing from such a great height? I listen to a man and woman conversing. They are one step behind me as we meander along Wacker Drive.

Sweeping Hearts

Do you know what I mean? I think to myself. What level are you I wonder? Are you perched atop the transmission spire of the Hancock Tower? Is she a kept woman? She is majestically clothed in fur hat and coat. What level is he speaking of? Many levels are evident in this city; many layers of cobbled stone, Pennsylvania iron, Hoosier Granite and vertical drops. I wonder if I detect condensation in his voice?

What is his intention?

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Is it a warning of a broken affair? A pending pink slip? Advise to an addict refusing to adhere to a recovery regimen? What is his level anyway? Is he so high and mighty, Higher and mightier then this great city which we are all a part of, which we all helped to build, which we all need in order to keep this nation the thriving democratic empire it is? This seditious talk! People are transported above the din of the street, looking down on the common pedestrians like me.

The cars, busses, trains and trucks are all covered with the film of rock salt. Salt covers my bootless feet and smudges my cloths as well. The salt, the primal element of the earth covers everything in Chicago. It is the true level of this city. The layer beneath all layers, on which everything rests, is built, grows, thrives then dies. To be returned again to the lower layers where it can take root again and grow out onto the great plains. Splashing the nation, anointing its people with its blessing.

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A blessing, Chicago? All rivers come here. All roads, rails and air routes begin and end here. It did not start the fire, we did. We lit the torch that flamed the city to cinders. From a pile of ash Chicago rose again. Forever Chicago! Chicago the beacon sends the message to the world with its windy blasts, on chugging barges, clapping trains, flying tandems, T1 circuits and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew a Chicago I will never know.

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He knew the rhythm of life the people walked to. The tools they used, the dreams they dreamed the songs they sang, the things they built, the things they loved, the pains that hurt, the motives that grew, the actions that destroyed the prayers they prayed, the food they ate their moments of death. Sandburg knew the layers of the city to the depths and windy heights I cannot fathom.

Hell even Chicago got its own brand of Blues. Its all here. It ended up here and was sent away on the winds of westerly blows to the ear of an eager world on strong jet streams of simple melodies and hard truths. A broad shouldered woman, a single mother stands on the street with three crying babes. Their cloths are covered in salt. She pleads for a break, praying for a new start. Poor and under-clothed against the torrent of frigid weather she begs for help.

I wonder if she is related to Sandburg as I walk past her on the street. Her feet are bleeding through her canvass sneakers. Her babes mouths are zipped shut with frozen drivel and mucous. The Blues live on in Chicago. The Blues will forever live in her. As I turn the corner to walk the Miracle Mile I see her engulfed in a funnel cloud of salt, snow and bits of white paper, swirling around her and her children in an angry unforgiving maelstrom.


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The family begins to dissolve like a snail sprinkled with salt; and a mother and her children just disappear into the pavement at the corner of Dearborn, in Chicago. Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg. Robert C Howard Aug Sam's Watch Engine thundered out of Blossburg station like an iron dragon breathing smoke and steam - whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley. Powered by coal the train carried coal to the waiting city of Elmira where Sam would press his mother's hand - perhaps for the final time. The wheels churning iron on iron across Pennsylvania farmlands, turned like other wheels before moving settlers west to break its ready earth - wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills.

New wheels now carried America to urban landscapes drawing us like electro-magnets to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores - new crops for a modern age. His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam came in a horseless carriage with Zoe, Marie and Edward, children now grown at their sides. Kurt Philip Behm Jan The Only Cost. Camilla Green Oct Future Days: A Response. Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy, sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white. She swung sunbeams into starlight And I thought it'd drone on forever.

Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils, pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy. With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust for December's cruel weather to warm, so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves. Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace, that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars. The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed- a dripping orb of love and light thrown against the burning oblivion of the universe. I pull in the horizon like a great fish net So much life in its meshes! I call in your soul to come and see. With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died, still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles, unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was. I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars. But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills, drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets. To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers- for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine, and still, you slathered it on. Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out, the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up, and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.

Kurt Philip Behm Dec Left To Brew. Kurt Philip Behm Apr 5. One Vow. Kurt Philip Behm May 7. Unholy Marriage. FACTS worth wagering on. He appeared in films between and Bud Jamison had a superb tenor singing voice, and loved to sing when the cameras were not rolling. Talking pictures gave producers a chance to exploit his singing, and for the rest of his career he would occasionally be called upon to vocalize in films. A brief series of color travelogues, filmed in , featured Bud Jamison and comic Jimmie Adams as "The Rolling Stones," two singing vagabonds seeing the country.

California, Maryland is 54 miles from Washington, D. Kurt Philip Behm Feb 9. One Truth. Kurt Philip Behm Apr Prime Minister The Last Lion. Kurt Philip Behm Mar Lost Candle Of Time. Venit Una Ex Multis. Hope May Till. Kurt Philip Behm May Daniel Irwin Tucker Dec I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses that is in all of us. A vagabond never quite understands the working-class woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand.

But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze. Work ethic Family hearth and home? Days of scent of freshly mown grass? TV and music blaring? Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall grasses swishing against pant legs.

Not only wishing but going deeper into the trees and bush burning speaking to our primeval consciousness. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses swishing. The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand? Yoon immigrated with her older sister and her mother to Victoria, Canada, in , when she was Her father, a dermatologist, remained behind to pursue his profession, and the family visited back and forth.

Her mother, speaking little English, relinquished her dentistry practice. But the pact failed to represent or satisfy the few surviving women or their supporters, who continue weekly protests at the Japanese Embassy in Seoul. No one in her family was a comfort woman, Yoon says. Still, the issue is personal. A native of Vietnam, Mr. Dinh has translated Vietnamese poetry in addition to writing original poems and prose. As founder and editor of The Drunken Boat, a Philadelphia literary journal, he published the work of poets and artists as well as anonymous "found" literature in the form of letters and journals.

He is on the Philadelphia Art in City Hall Advisory Committee and is active within the community of Philadelphia's alternative galleries, cooperatives, and non-profit arts organizations. In addition to his writing and visual arts activities, Mr. Dinh acted as was Guest Curator of the exhibit "Toys and Incense" at the Levy Gallery at Moore College of Art and Design in which the role of improvisation and the play in contemporary visual art was explored.

Blood and Soap was chosen by the Village Voice as one of the best books of No border separates Linh Dinh's poetry from his painting. In writings which allude to current events, politics, and art history, or in paintings in which fragmentary objects are iconically isolated on spare color fields or familiar masterpieces of Impressionism are mysteriously depopulated and rendered as vacant landscape, Mr.

Dinh's overlapping interests are immediately apparent.

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If you have something very urgent to say, you'll find a way to say it. There will be a writing assigment each week, with ensuing class discussions. By the end, each student will have a body of poems that reflects his or her state of the union. Permission of the instructor is required. Send a brief email stating why you wish to attend the workshop writing samples not required to linhdinh at yahoo.

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Erica Hunt works at the forefront of experimental poetry and poetics, critical race theory, and feminist aesthetics. Hunt has also worked as a housing organizer, radio producer, poetry teacher, and program officer for a social justice campaign. She is currently president of The Twenty-First Century Foundation which supports organizations addressing root causes of social injustice impacting the Black community.

Wisher's second volume of poems is a record of the genealogical journey she's been on since , when she started researching her roots in Ambler, Pennsylvania, once known as the "asbestos capital of the world. Students will encounter a diverse series of both written and audiovisual texts, weekly writing assignments that include poems and responses to the readings, and in-class activities that stretch your imaginative and collaborative abilities. Writing in various genres he is approaching his 30th title.

In he received the Jackson Prize for poetry. More info on this event: Kelly Writers House Calendar Course: In spring Torres taught English Writing and Performance , Mondays, pm: Writers are creatures of awareness, receptive beings who embody transition.

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Part of allowing the creative process its chance for reception is to encourage that initial creative trigger into transition, to align our natural trilingual voice—our speaking-seeing-hearing voice—with a lateral extension of the ground we claim. We can empower amazement when we open space for the transformative roar that defines our human expression. This course will use performance, movement, and sensory exercises to allow the body its place in writing. The course is structured as a creative laboratory in which the senses can meet each other, a reintroduction of brain to language where the writing process can begin.