glass_icarus: (korra: korra firebending streetfight)
1. Leaving this up top for anyone who, like me, is in danger of disappearing into a political news vortex: How to #StayOutraged Without Losing Your Mind

2. The65 has a list of issues and weekly calls to action, which are likely to be super helpful.

3. An incomplete list of shit going down as seen on fb, from 4 days in: It's Tuesday y'all )

4. Verso's Fuck Trump Reading List

5. Poem: From the Encyclopedia of Alternative Facts

6. Indivisible Guide: a practical guide for resisting the Trump agenda
glass_icarus: (saiyuki: goku gold)
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it --
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.

The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.

And the people in turn believe --
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.

The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.

-- Shu Ting (trans. Donald Finkel)
glass_icarus: (wave)
I recently read a Marxist history of the city by George Rudé
to help me understand why so many English decided to leave

for New Zealand, among other places. I can see why now, and
with compassion. The historian says there aren't many histories

of faces in the crowd. He talked about mistreatment of
minority believers, gin's evils, class differences, diseases -

all before the Victorians' great reforms when our people were
taken into the British family of nations to be kept as children.

It's an old story of course retold by many such as Lemony Snicket
in his recently completed A Series of Unfortunate Events.

-- Robert Sullivan
glass_icarus: (bibliophile)
A poem thought it saw
the flash of an axe or ninja
star spinning toward it
in the dark. But the poem really saw
a man standing on a corner
waving his hands. The poem
got startled. The poem
got scared. The poem
didn’t understand what
the man was saying. If
the poem mistook the man
for a hydrant, would the poem
have shot? )

-- Patrick Rosal
glass_icarus: (amelie)
After a truly gorgeous weekend spent catching up with old friends from undergrad and waking up to an epic April rainstorm, I suppose it's safe to say that spring weather has finally been achieved! HOORAY, and double hooray for today not being an office day so I can attempt to do my work reading holed up in the house.

Since it's poetry month and I've barely posted anything, here's a couple of poems by Aimee Nezhukumatathil! I'm in a bit of a foodporn mood, in case you couldn't tell... *g*

THE WOMAN WHO TURNED DOWN A DATE WITH A CHERRY FARMER
Fredonia, NY

Of course I regret it. I mean there I was under umbrellas of fruit
so red they had to be borne of Summer, and no other season.
Flip-flops and fishhooks. Ice cubes made of lemonade and sprigs
of mint to slip in blue glasses of tea. I was dusty, my ponytail
all askew and the tips of my fingers ran, of course, red

from the fruitwounds of cherries I plunked into my bucket
and still — he must have seen some small bit of loveliness
in walking his orchard with me. He pointed out which trees
were sweetest, which ones bore double seeds — puffing out
the flesh and oh the surprise on your tongue with two tiny stones

(a twin spit), making a small gun of your mouth. Did I mention
my favorite color is red? His jeans were worn and twisty
around the tops of his boot; his hands thick but careful,
nimble enough to pull fruit from his trees without tearing
the thin skin; the cherry dust and fingerprints on his eyeglasses.

I just know when he stuffed his hands in his pockets, said
Okay. Couldn't hurt to try? and shuffled back to his roadside stand
to arrange his jelly jars and stacks of buckets, I had made
a terrible mistake. I just know my summer would've been
full of pies, tartlets, turnovers — so much jubilee.

CHEESE CURDS, THE FIRST TIME

Dairy aisle, and I'm confused. No one explains
why here in southern Wisconsin, all I can find
in the chilled silver bins at my local grocery
are blocks of orange 'cheese food,' wheels of it,
even sliced, individually wrapped if I desire.
Of course it's food, but the fact they

have to qualify it makes me suspicious.
And rightly so, says my neighbor, leaning
a meaty elbow out her window. In between
bites of potato salad she says, You's gotta go
to the Farmer's Market and getchu some
cheeeese curds. The way yellow oozes
out of the corners of her mouth when she says

this makes it hard to even sip my cola later
as I wander the maze of fresh produce and people
in wide-brimmed hats. A swarm descends on a booth
selling said curds, each person wanting the freshest bag-full:
white chunks, bite-sized, more solid than I imagined,
just a bit salty and sweet. Even a baby's
pink, fat hand (hoisted high above us) clamors

for a waxy bag of her very own. How I love
the grab and pull for something you can't name, only
knowing you want more. The thinness in your voice
as you try to describe all the breads and heaps
of fresh beans just waiting to be snapped.
I have not yet mentioned the squeak in your teeth.

+1 Aimee

Apr. 19th, 2014 03:56 pm
glass_icarus: (to smell)
Apropos of the smell exchange I ended up doing today (I thought I was just going to pawn off my BPAL stuff for the moment, but my dance friend ended up giving me her samples... one of which is labeled in a scrawl that looks like but cannot possibly be "fuck life"?):

Small Murders

When Cleopatra received Antony on her cedarwood ship,
she made sure he would smell her in advance across the sea:
perfumed sails, nets sagging with rosehips and crocus
draped over her bed, her feet and hands rubbed in almond oil,
cinnamon, and henna. I knew I had you when you told me

you could not live without my scent, brought pink bottles of it,
creamy lotions, a tiny vial of parfume—one drop lasted all day.
They say Napoleon told Josephine not to bathe for two weeks
so he could savor her raw scent, but hardly any mention is ever
made of their love of violets. Her signature fragrance: a special blend

of these crushed purple blooms for wrist, cleavage, earlobe.
Some expected to discover a valuable painting inside
the locket around Napoleon's neck when he died, but found
a powder of violet petals from his wife's grave instead. And just
yesterday, a new boy leaned in close to whisper that he loved

the smell of my perfume, the one you handpicked years ago.
I could tell he wanted to kiss me, his breath heavy and slow
against my neck. My face blue from the movie screen—
I said nothing, only sat up and stared straight ahead. But
by evening's end, I let him have it: twenty-seven kisses

on my neck, twenty-seven small murders of you. And the count
is correct, I know—each sweet press one less number to weigh
heavy in the next boy's cupped hands. Your mark on me washed
away with each kiss. The last one so cold, so filled with mist
and tiny daggers, I already smelled the blood on my hands.

-- Aimee Nezhukumatathil
glass_icarus: (hp: mwpp up to no good)
Happy things:

1. Dancing tonight!!

2. I finished Heyer's Cotillion and it was fantastic, and I don't think it is a spoiler to say that I think Freddy is the greatest, heh. :D

3. Reorganizing the closet, I stumbled upon a pile of BPAL things from a few years ago that I never really got round to trying! I tried one that seems to have aged well (Crow Moon) and which smells interesting enough on me that I may keep it, but knowing my usage habits, there's little point in me attempting thirteen more smell tests at this late date... I can put up a list, if anyone is interested?

4. Are All the Break-Ups in Your Poems Real?

If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck
in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,
the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—
then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,
bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—
and when I say I am married, it means I married
all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.
Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many
slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal
for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot
on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps
in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another
whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single
one of them wonders what time I am coming home.

-- Aimee Nezhukumatathil
glass_icarus: (saving face: wil bowl)
More and More

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.

-- Margaret Atwood
glass_icarus: (saving face: viv)
(Flushing Meadow Park, 1984)

...And then at dusk the woman
climbed atop the picnic table
and belted out a Patty Kim hit,
plastic spoon a clutched mic in her fist!

And the galbi spit and bubbled dark
as azalia and crushed black diamond,
meat soy-sauced and sizzling in the July heatwaves )

-- Ishle Yi Park

Pillow

Apr. 20th, 2013 03:23 pm
glass_icarus: (daniel liu jacket)
There's nothing I can't find under there.
Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.

Everything but sleep.

And night is a river bridging
the speaking and the listening banks,

a fortress, undefended and inviolate.

There's nothing that won't fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.

And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.

Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.

Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?

There's nothing that hasn't found home there:
discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet.

Everything but sleep. And night begins

with the first beheading
of the jasmine, its captive fragrance
rid at last of burial clothes.

-- Li-Young Lee

Grace

Apr. 16th, 2013 12:14 am
glass_icarus: (winter girl)
for Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, )

-- Joy Harjo
glass_icarus: (bibliophile)
I nearly forgot the best thing about April until today! *g* Have some Bao Phi (trigger warnings apply):

No Question )
glass_icarus: (saving face: viv)
Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai has put up her spoken word albums on Soundcloud, where they are streamable/downloadable for free!

/today's PSA
glass_icarus: (korra: unhand me strange woman)
(because this is what I do when the flail/scream is OVERWHELMING okay)

♣ Via angryasianman: Experiences of Asian-American Women survey. One of the things that caught my eye about this research study blurb is that the sponsor is Derald Wing Sue, who is one of my heroes for his academic publications about racial microaggressions! Not that that means that this study is necessarily related, but still. *geeks*

♣ Via [personal profile] littlebutfierce: Bao Phi, Yellowbrown Babies for the Revolution. There are many punch-in-the-gut lines, but for me what hit hardest was this:
    I will never ask you to change your name
    I will never ask you to change your name
    your name is at home on my tongue

    do you hear me

[personal profile] deepad and amazeface compatriots ♥: Nice White Lady Authors Take a Hike: 'Vacations from Hell' made me laugh and laugh.

♣ Via [personal profile] vi: Taymiya Zaman: Not Talking About Pakistan - another glorious gut-punch. For some reason it made me think of Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai's line about kindness over genius.
glass_icarus: (uraboku: ickle!hotsuma)
My friend reminded me that the Geminid meteor shower peaks this weekend!

And, apropos of stars, have some Amal El-Mohtar: Asteres Planetai
glass_icarus: (bibliophile)
Split, by Cathy Linh Che

Still too tired to talk or think much, but ♥!!
glass_icarus: (zoe blue)
More spoken word! :) Been a while since I listened to some Oveous Maximus, ergo: Response to a Republican )
glass_icarus: (saving face: viv)
Magnetic North & Taiyo Na, ft. Jin. LOOKIT ALL THE AWESOME PEOPLE PACKED INTO ONE VID!! Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai, Far East Movement, Beau Sia, Vienna Teng, Travis Wong, Poreotix, Phil Yu aka the Angry Asian Man, YURI KOCHIYAMA... ♥

I Got My )

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glass_icarus: (Default)
just another fork-tongued dragon lady

August 2017

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