Renee Marie

One Evening

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 09:42:40 -0700

One evening

a little yellow

approaching

green

Swooped

in.Roosts

on a blue.

"Never seen you here before,"

purple drawls, reinvents a

the

key

of magenta.

"Now let's see..."

"what we can

see," cerulean

mutters, meanders past

red.

Phaedra Robinson/Privus (detail)

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L'Amour

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 20:16:03 -0700

I wanted you to have something waiting for you in case you checked.
We just had a wonderful tuck-in and are now in Paris, France.
We have a window on the Left Bank and a large bath.
We have hot chocolate croissants and two cafe au lait.
I would kiss you now but your mouth is full of chocolate croissant.
I am admiring the polaroids of us lounging in bed.
Here you are wearing my underwear on your head.
And here you are reading Men in the Off Hours naked.
Remember when I painted you nude in the Hotel Stratford?
You were so willing and lipstick appeared on an unlikely spot in the painting.
I've decided to write a poem about our time on the Left Bank and this is it.
Do you suppose it was the inspector in the mystery we just finished?
Paris is full of mysteries, just as you are full of mysteries...
I am full of L'Occitane lavender lotion slathered liberally over my body.
I am awaiting spontaneous enlightenment from my guru.
You are no cold potato, zipping up, I see you.
You are no dirty locomotive, you are a sunflower, Sunflower.
I wanted you to have something fabulous superterrific in case you checked.
And so I've written these lines for you, L'Amour, sweetheart.
Just as Stendhal said, 20 lines a day, genius or not.

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Self Portrait

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 09:25:47 -0700

WomenOutside_09

Self Portrait

No lay off from this condensery.--Lorine Niedecker

Peach floor, pale yellow walls

art teacher sits patiently

waiting for end of hour.

Be here in mundane space

or fly away imaginary--I fly

away, smoke a Rothman or

Galoises on the Seine.

Sky's cloudy grey back in art room

pictures of van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso.

My self portrait in colored pencil, cartoonlike,

stares back.

Lips funny shaped, nose nonexistent

eyes electric blue, cheeks rosy--

she wears fuzzy fuschia sweater

hair pulled up in ponytail.

She is me at 29, compassionate

wanting to succeed, she is shy--

I mean I, I drew this image

I am the I of this portrait.

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Good Friday

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 11:05:34 -0700

I woke this morning morning's mistress
     In gentle wonder spring addressed
            Spring in glory, spring a-gallop—
                  O sing of spring and live and dance!

The trees move with us and the greening
       Ever rolling hills come calling
               High there, beyond beyond the earthy red—
                         Ecstasy! We swing out, we surrender
               As a cloud's puff smooths out and over: light and free
   We cannot grasp it. My heart and head try to hold it--
The hiding thriving mystery!

Sage verbage and cerebral art, pride, act, and pomp, here
Break! And the breath that emanates from spring then, infinitely
Lovelier and more vigorous, more airy than contained.

No doubt about it: sheer air we breathe the breath of
Spring, and orange-pink twinkles in the grass
Grow, shore themselves, and burst gold-vermillion.

Joan Mitchell

Painting by Joan Mitchell

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RISE UP

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 08:51:47 -0700

Rise Up

Matthew Rohrer

                                                        I am emotionally translucent.
                                                        I am on the new sofa. I am wedged
                                                        between the 2 walls of the stoop. I am
                                                        unwashed & I'm self-conscious about it.
                                                        I am not helping. I make her feel like
                                                        she's eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.
                                                        And now she's slid back into a green sleep
                                                        in early Autumn and she will escape
                                                        out the back. If only the universe
                                                        weren't shaped so much like me, I might change
                                                        my approach. I must learn to say what I
                                                        never intended to say, like John Clare.
                                                        The good news is I saw the open door
                                                        of gentle wonder, where I want to live.

                                                                  --Matthew Rohrer

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A Little Called Kinga

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 18:20:11 -0800

Uploaded on August 1, 2007
by Pavlunka

A LITTLE CALLED KINGA

She lives as she lives and she lives and she is
And she is as and she is and as she is
She is wholly whole she is holy whole she is holy
And she and she and and she
She quotes quotable she lives fairly lives fairly well
And she loves all is all love is loved and loves well
She came by him by hum by human she came by
And she will as she will by will as she will
She flew up and flew by and flew out and over it
And she came by train as train has trains what was trains
She knew knowing too and knowing knowing who
And she what was she and she what was she she was she
She knew a little called Pauline a little called Pauline a little
And she wrote writing writ written she finished her poem.

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Poem d'or

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 07:01:03 -0800

Uploaded on May 9, 2007
by Elif Sanem Karakoc

"Because she arrives,

vibrant,

over and over

again; we

are at the beginning

of a new history,

or rather a process

of becoming

in which several

histories

intersect with

one another.

As a subject for

history, woman

always occurs

simultaneously

in several places.

(In woman,

personal history

blends together

with the history

of all women,

as well as national

and world history.)"

--Helene Cixous, quoted in Bhanu Kapil's

The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers

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the yellow shoes/world's bliss

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 16:04:23 -0800

Uploaded on August 23, 2007
by robynne faye

WORLD'S BLISS

Alice Notley

The men & women sang & played

they sleep by singing, what

shall I say of the most

poignant on earth the most glamorous

loneliest sought after people

those poets wholly beautiful

desolate aureate, death is a

powerful instinctive emotion--

but who would be released from

a silver skeleton? gems

& drinking cups--This

skull is Helen--who would not

be released from the

Book of Knowledge? Why

should a maiden lie on a moor

for seven nights & a day? And

he is a maiden, he is & she

on the grass the flower the spray

where they lie eating primroses

grown crazy with sorrow & all

the beauties of old--oh each poet's a

beautiful human girl who must die.

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Helpless, as blue roses are helpless

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 16:44:05 -0800

Uploaded on December 18, 2007
by Fukuda.

Helpless, as blue roses are helpless
He ransacks the room for a glass vase
How much longer shall I be able to inhabit the divine?
Where ants push closed their soft brown doors
Beauty longs to swim naked, languidly
He grabs the keys to his car
His black R Series Volvo
The black-sky landscape hung on the wall
My hair a portrait of deshabillement
He is integral to the portrait, cool
They go to the theatre: Pierre le fou
He finds amethysts for her fingers
Saturated reddish-blue
Wed to wakefulness, they go
Into the thin air of the show

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New Year New Poem

nobody@vox.com(Renee) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 07:41:59 -0800

New York Artist w/her Notebook

You are awake. A lovely song
Is playing in your ear
The Unicorn waits in state
Not a bad exposure

Ants push closed their soft brown doors
She murmurs
Writes a portrait
Of abalone shells

And each sleeping sister
Wishes to be free of ill humor
Mother discusses politics
Leda was nothing like Pandora

She dreams of swimming naked
Languidly

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