Tag Archives: national poetry month

fly·ing boat

 

 

fly·ing boat, an airplane with a hull that permits it to land on and take off from water: see TYPES OF AIRPLANE, p. 32

 

For the second time in two weeks and in the history of  the dictionary project, when I closed my eyes and ran my finger through the pages of the dictionary, I landed on an image. This time, the image was of a flying boat, a vessel made for both air and water, from a page covered in illustrations of airplanes. Enjoy Kristen Nelson’s text & image poem for the next installment of na·po·mo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kristen E. Nelson is the author of Write, Dad (Unthinkable Creatures Press, 2012). Her recent work can be found in Tarpaulin Sky, Trickhouse, Cranky Literary Journal, In Posse Review, Dinosaur Bees, Everyday Genius, GlitterTongue, and Spiral Orb. She is a founder and the Executive Director of Casa Libre en la Solana; an editor/curator for Trickhouse; a production editor for Tarpaulin Sky Press; and a writing teacher. She earned her MFA in creative writing from Goddard College.

Photo credit: Sarah Dalby


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drows·i·ly

 

drows·i·ly  (drou’z’l-i)  adv.  in a drowsy manner, sleepily

Samuel Ace joins us with his rendition of drows·i·ly for na·po·mo at the dictionary project. Enjoy the dreamscape, the space in between.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Samuel Ace is the author of three collections of poetry: Normal Sex (Firebrand Books), Home in three days. Don’t wash., a hybrid project of poetry, video and photography (Hard Press), and most recently Stealth, co-authored with Maureen Seaton (Chax Press). He is a recipient of a New York Foundation for the Arts grant, two-time finalist for a Lambda Literary Award in Poetry, winner of the Astraea Lesbian Writer’s Fund Prize in Poetry, The Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction and the Firecracker Alternative Book Award in Poetry. His work has been widely anthologized and has appeared in or is forthcoming from, Ploughshares, Eoagh, Spiral Orb, Nimrod, The Prose Poem: an International Journal, Kenyon Review, van Gogh’s Ear, 3:am, and others. He lives in Tucson, AZ and Truth or Consequences, NM.

 

In their jammies (clockwise from top left): Trudy, Pete, and Don from Mad Men; Lana Turner; The Von Trapp Family; and Models from 1957 (photo by Nina Leen)

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con·stel·la·tion

 

 

con·stel·la·tion  (känstəˈlāSHən),  n.  [ME. & OFr.  constellacion;  LL.  constellatio < constellatus, set with stars < L. com-, with + pp. of stellare, to shine < stella, a star; see STELLAR]  1.  a number of fixed stars arbitrarily considered as a group, usually named after some mythological being that they supposedly resemble in outline: see charts on following pages.  2.  the part of the heavens occupied by such a group.  3.  any brilliant cluster or gathering: as, a constellation of beautiful women.  4.  in astrology, a) the grouping of the planets at any particular time, especially at a person’s birth. b) one’s disposition or fate as supposedly influenced by such a grouping.  5.  in psychology, a group of related thoughts regarded as clustered about one central idea.

Editor’s note: For the first time in the dictionary project history, when closing my eyes and flipping through the dictionary, I landed on an image instead of a word. An image of the constellations in the sky. Closest to Libra, in case you are curious. The word for this post is con·stel·la·tion as a result.

For the third word of na·po·mo at the dictionary project, Lauren Eggert-Crowe joins us, contemplating the cosmos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lauren Eggert-Crowe was born and raised in rural Pensylvania. After a four year stint in the magical fairyland of Santa Cruz, where she lived so close to the ocean she could hear sea lions from her bedroom window, she relocated to Los Angeles to work as a freelance writer. She has written for The Rumpus, L.A. Review of Books, The Murky Fringe, and Blue Jean Gourmet. Her poetry has been published in several journals, including Puerto Del Sol, So To Speak, DIAGRAM, Terrain.org, Water-Stone Review, Eleven Eleven, and We Are So Happy To Know Something. Her first chapbook, The Exhibit, is forthcoming from Hyacinth Girl Press in January 2013. She is also the author of the literary feminist ‘zine, Galatea’s Pants. She holds an English degree from the Robert E. Cook Honors College at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Arizona.

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as·ta·tine

as·ta·tine  (ˈastəˌtēn),  n.  [ < Gr. Astatos, ustable; + ine], an unstable chemical element formed from bismuth when it is bombarded by alpha particles; symbol. At; at. wt., 211 (?); at. no., .85 (formerly designated as alabamine).
 
It’s the second word of na·po·mo at the dictionary project. Enjoy the writing of poet Meagan Lehr!

 
AS·TA·TINE
 


 


 
 

Meagan Lehr’s work can be found at Arch Literary Journal, and Mary: A Journal of New Writing. She currently teaches writing at The University of Arizona, and is managing editor for The Destroyer, an online publication of art, text, and the public rant. Her book Men in Correspondence is forthcoming from Jackleg Press.

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stag·ing

by Clay Connally

 
 
 
stag·ing (ˈstājiNG),  n.   1.   a temporary structure used for support; scaffolding.   2.   the business of operating stagecoaches.   3.   travel by stagecoach.   4.   the act or process of presenting a play on the stage.
 
 
The first word for napomo! at the dictionary project is stag·ing. And our first poet is the wonderful Deborah Poe. Enjoy:

 


 

 

Notes: Cornell Ornithology Lab’s Bird Migration Teacher’s Resource Guide, prepared by Carolyn Sedgewick; Mark Twain for “a cradle on wheels;” Kerry Scanlan, Vicki Piaskowski, Michelle Jacobi and Steve Mahler, Zoological Society of Milwaukee for “Bird Migration Facts;” Mečislovas Žalakevičius for “Global Environmental Change and Vulnerability of Ecosystems: From Local to Regional to Global Scales;” Selah Saterstrom for “Beautiful women are haunted houses,The Pink Institution (Coffee House Press 2004); Zen Evening Gata for the last line.

 

 

Deborah Poe is author of the poetry collections Elements (Stockport Flats Press 2010), Our Parenthetical Ontology (CustomWords 2008), and “the last will be stone, too,” as well as a novella in verse, “Hélène” (Furniture Press 2012). Her poetry is forthcoming or has recently appeared in Shampoo, Denver Quarterly, Yew Journal, Mantis, Horse Less Review, Bone Bouquet, PEEP/SHOW, and Open Letters Monthly. Please visit deborahpoe.com for more information. (Photo by Elizabeth Bryant)

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na·po·mo

 

 

April is National Poetry Month, and to celebrate, the dictionary project is hosting its first na·po·mo! Each Tuesday and Friday during the month of April, we will feature poems inspired by dictionary project words authored by visiting poets. Stay tuned!

 

And to whet your appetite, I leave you with “Diving into the Wreck” by Adrienne Rich:

 

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

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