Naphtali is a doe set free who brings forth beautiful words.
There is so much more that I haven’t shared.
Things that happened just today–
a new job, a complicated up set,
a set of sneakers that need to be run.
When my heart is spilling over with heavy
trains and paths and joys,
I only want to sit and share
there is so much more than what you
have seen or read or heard or thought.
And I know there is more of you.
When do we get to dive in?
I tick the minutes
by
singing MY HEART
out
actually
I do
32 singers
in any language
working all
matching
pitches dynamo
vowel sounds and ritmo
unified dignified not a cry
for help
(or all by myself)
full song of
earnest moments
unrolling my
heart
out on some table
someone is building
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m singing.
This is my step.
It is small.
It is innocent.
It has no pretension.
It doesn’t get me very far.
But as I keep taking it,
I grow adept
and even a little bit proud,
anticipatory
of running.
What do you call a seed
of a seed
of
a seed
of a seed?
Sometimes
I call it
today.
This girl, she knows how to capture a feeling in a photograph. Check out Danica Myer’s photos from last week’s Pie, Piano and Poetry night here. If you need a photographer, e-mail her!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Pie, Piano, Poetry, Paintings and Preciousness
Northeast Minneapolis, Minnesota
Dear sweet love,
I want to say thank you
with all my throbbing,
heart that bears too much
and beats too hard
and pumps out more
blood than I have
for filling my limbs with
your own blood
and for bearing the throbbing
with super strength
and for tearing out dry and scornful
demons
that ever thorn-cling to my sides.
Tonight showcased some absolutely beautiful spirits at Pie, Piano, and Poetry–Minneapolis Chapter (pan). I drove up to the city after a long 4/20 day at school and a longer night previous filling out paperwork. Tired was not an adequate description to my state upon parking my car. But after some laughter, hugs, coconut cream, key lime, quotidian icons, emotional presence, homemade butterflies, fresh songs, fresh tries, and heart to heart discussion-confession, I drove home with lots of popping in my mind.
I can’t remember all the thoughts I had, but here are a few:
You gave my songs life again.
Privacy is special.
Satisfaction is enough.
Waiting to speak brings soft words. Marinate in silence.
I want your songs to have life again.
I want you to have life.
How shall we stop-animate?
Porches. Porches. Porches.
Mandolins. Guitars. Dueling keyboards.
Tambourine.
Don’t be frustrated with yourself. Accept yourself. Accept your work. Accept your heart. Accept your creative voice. Listen.
Be gentle. Be gentile. Be honest.
No rush.
Send me your words
your poor and poorly thought
words
your richly and seasoned
ideas
Send me the morning regret
the afternoon hope
the evening peace
the middle of the night fear
Send me your graphic descriptions
and your tired avoidance
Send me your nonchalance or over-thought,
under-intended, trying-too-hard, not hard enough
letters next to thoughts that make
words.
Send me your half-thoughts and over-grown ones, too.
I’ll put the fragments, the wholes, the colorful, the drab
the old, the new, the over and under-used
back together, rearranged, sensible to me
and send them back to you.
Then, please
send me your words.
My heart is a big city–
people running everywhere
getting from to to fro,
taking care of business,
moving up and moving down
ladders and making art
on sidewalks and park benches
and in museum halls
that no one visits, expect for
people who don’t live in my
city heart.
Naphtalia 