Lucid Writing

Medea

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 18:03:34 -0700

Medea

What mother has not thought

in the secret passges

of her mind

"flee for the hills

or kill the bastards.

any way to be free"

the brothers are fighting again

“Mermeros got the fat

and I got none”

“Phereses ate the eyes

and I got none”

these little Jasons

want to conquer her body

breasts and arms

to snatch all the meat

from the soup-pot

she can scarce breathe

in the cave's close heat

she is hungry

she is a single mother

in hiding

taking the blade

she slits their throats

in their afternoon naps

she prays their final dreams

are of a joy

unrelated to conquest

moments later

a fist in the uterus

a limb cut off

she will regret

what cannot be undone

prop them up again

and they fall over

stitch on the heads

it will not work

her healing is done

riding a dragon

rising over princely burial mounds

she will rise

to the moniker

given her

Wiced Medea,

who has no home

but will always have a name

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

7/2008

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Please Welcome Erc!

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 10:13:06 -0700

Dear Neighbors,

Please join me in extending a hearty welcome to Erc http://erc675.vox.com/. His poetry is excellent! Please pop over to see his work. His Kindergarten poem is particularly lovely. I'd publish his work were I an editor.

Lucy, who enjoyed the Seattle thunder showers

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evolution

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 11:06:32 -0700

Evolution

the gecko curls his feet

in fetal bliss

wax-worm-fed

eyes shuttered against the light

like when he sat in his egg

content in warm goo

dreaming nothingness

and then a light

cracking through

calling him

to break the shell

and struggle out

a hungering

you too passed through ages

in mother's womb

floating in bliss

a lumpy egg

lizard-tailed

pig-snouted

you looked like swine

before you assumed

your primate shape

little skinny monkey

wrinkled

pale as an onion

or the moon

depending on mother's

hormonal moods

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

7/1/2008

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A poem by Carolyn Kizer

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:26:45 -0700

Carolyn Kizer is one of my favorite poets. Here is her fresh take on the Midas myth. Her rhyming is perfect and not contrived. The poem is pithy, concise and also sad.

The Ungrateful Garden by Carolyn Kizer

Midas watched the golden crust
That formed over his steaming sores,
Hugged his agues, loved his lust,
But damned to hell the out-of-doors

Where blazing motes of sun impaled
The serrid roses, metal-bright.
"Those famous flowers," Midas wailed,
"Have scorched my retina with light."

This gift, he'd thought, would gild his joys,
Silt up the waters of his grief;
His lawns a wilderness of noise,
The heavy clang of leaf on leaf.

Within, the golden cup is good
To lift, to sip the yellow mead.
Outside, in summer's rage, the rude
Gold thorn has made his fingers bleed.

"I strolled my halls in golden shift,
As ruddy as a lion s meat.
Then I rushed out to share my gift,
And golden stubble cut my feet."

Dazzled with wounds, he limped away
To climb into his golden bed,
Roses, roses can betray.
"Nature is evil," Midas said

Carolyn Kizer

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Foxglove Pupurea

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 07:12:50 -0700

Foxglove Purpurea

Foxglove curves like a spine

vulpine floribunda

purple cups

look nothing like fox gloves

that little bit of dark fur

on the paws

only looks like a back bone

with fluted vertebrae

digitalis in the nectar

every part a poison

I keep it away from my daughter

so tall, it exceeds the fence

and waves in the wind

paralyzing lovely

look! two have come together

spines entwined

rapture

stem to stem

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

6/28/2008

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Definition

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 07:05:23 -0700

yarrow grows in this rocky place

palest blue scent of comfort

green feather leaves

crush between my fingers

the Sound whispers the shore

stones – sigh – rock roll -sigh-rock -roll

then the scent is curling

in my nostrils

up to my brain

of spicy yarrow

and shellfish salt

of the water

and the color of evening

smells purple

yes, that is a lovely smell

and the water, those tiny lights

like fireflies or little boats

are drifting

mesmerizing

calling my soul out

to sea

you by my side

a heavy anchor

that moors the boat of me

good wooden keel

from being dashed on the rocks

or floating out

to be bleached by days of sun

you, shore of flesh

country, my country

where my hands have a home

your eyes, my navigation

see how the water washes

you and me

how desperately we need each other

and these waves

to define ourselves

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

6/29/2008

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Calling All Seattle Artists and Artisans!

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 16:07:30 -0700

I am seeking local artists and artisans for a series of interviews I hope to publish on this website.

New Phone Pics 031

If you would like to participate please email me. Thanks! This could be a neat project.

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Calling Seattle Artists and Artisans!

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 07:11:05 -0700

Dear Fellow Voxers.

I am a local published poet seeking to build my journalistic skills. I am looking for composers, artists and artisans to interview and photograph. The work would be published on my Vox site. My only requirement is that you use your real name and that I get to hang out in your workspace for a few hours, ask you questions and photograph your process. A link will be provided to your website. Art includes includes sculpting, wood carving, photography, painting, dance and theater. Artisans include jewelry-makers, potters, wood-turners and more. Composers include instrumental music, as well as singer-songwriters. I will select the work that most speaks to me, so I can write effectively about it.

This could be the start of something beautiful...

Lucy Simpson

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Sisyphus Learns

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 07:52:18 -0700

Sisyphus Learns

Sisyphus heaves the boulder

one mighty shove that first time

trudging ascent

after the tenth time

his chest bruised

he knows he is screwed

he learns to take it slow

to breathe between pushes

like perpetual labor

he measures contractions

and imagines

a green field

he floats in this egg

as his bones crack

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

6/20/2008

Sisyphus_by_von_Stuck

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Homo est Machina

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 06:56:28 -0700

Homo est Machina

He bends to his work

a man, whose name we do not know

Does he like olives?

Does he like the rain?

Clasping the wrench

turning steel bolts

with his might

there is a sea in his mind

we have not swum

The machine is:

a great puzzle

a wheel of life

a metal womb

with a great eye

watching

The man is a fetus

active boy

determined to win

try his luck

at life's wheel.

Year after year

the machine grinds him down

the once beautiful man

whose arms woman lay in

him, whose nectar they sucked

His lungs shrivel

Arms diminish to sticks

The machine will mutate

to different forms

created by man's scions

Each man will try his luck

at a different wheel

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

6/19/2008

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