ShortJohnSilver
30th January 2011, 07:35 PM
Here it is in a nutshell, the intersection of the waste of taxpayer dollars and evil feminism...
Diane Lockward is a NJ poet, often paid by the state of NJ and related orgs such as NJ Teacher conferences, etc.
About her:
http://dianelockward.com/gpage1.html
"The recipient of a Poetry Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Diane has also received awards from North American Review, Louisiana Literature, the Newburyport Art Association, and the St. Louis Poetry Center."
"A workshop presenter at the 2003 and 2006 New Jersey State Council of Teachers of English Conferences, a keynote speaker at the 2007 Language Arts Leadership Association Conference, and a panelist at the 2009 New Jersey College English Association."
A typical poem:
My Husband Discovers Poetry
by Diane Lockward
Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.
Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder,
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband's coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for versimilitude.
In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.
You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.
But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.
Diane Lockward is a NJ poet, often paid by the state of NJ and related orgs such as NJ Teacher conferences, etc.
About her:
http://dianelockward.com/gpage1.html
"The recipient of a Poetry Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Diane has also received awards from North American Review, Louisiana Literature, the Newburyport Art Association, and the St. Louis Poetry Center."
"A workshop presenter at the 2003 and 2006 New Jersey State Council of Teachers of English Conferences, a keynote speaker at the 2007 Language Arts Leadership Association Conference, and a panelist at the 2009 New Jersey College English Association."
A typical poem:
My Husband Discovers Poetry
by Diane Lockward
Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.
Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder,
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband's coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for versimilitude.
In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.
You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.
But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.