Poetical

Bombardment

Posted by Jenni B. Baker on Feb 11, 2012 in Poetry | 0 comments

A found poem from the February 10 New York Times article, “Don’t Tell Me, I Don’t Want to Know.“

We seek it out
despite ourselves

this (strangely
alluring) minutiae:

macabre symptoms
of gastrointestinal viruses

how much candy
someone has eaten

his wife’s ability
to Zumba.

Eight million ghosts
(a web of too many faces)

lodge themselves like pieces
of corn in our subconscious:

What is my obsession
with this person from sixth grade?

Why haven’t I walked
the Great Wall of China?

I should be taking
my son to Spain.

Gray Sidewalks, Green Yards

Posted by Jenni B. Baker on Jan 14, 2012 in Poetry | 0 comments

Found poem from the New York Times Jan. 12 article, “No Snow in New York, but a Wintry Mix of Opinion“

The absence has upset
the rhythms of the season:

store managers sit buried
in shovels, sleds and salt;

schoolchildren wonder when
the next snow day will come.

Skimpy winter steals the giddiness
and grace that accompanies snow,

spurs harried residents to long
for the swirling, ineffable lightness,

the stillness that descends,
making New York more magical.

Your Name Is Bobby

Posted by Jenni B. Baker on Jan 8, 2012 in Poetry | 0 comments

A found poem compiled from Craigslist Missed Connections posts

 

Are you alive? Or did you die
in that crash on Martin Luther?

Sundays are quieter now
without all the blues guitar.

I have three cats in my room;
I don’t know any of their names.

I am drinking and can’t remember
the specifics of that last night:

What color were our coats?
What type of shoes did you wear?

Is there possibility in absence?
I miss you, but then I don’t.

Vampire Weekend Is Contra Closed-Mindedness

Posted by Jenni B. Baker on Nov 13, 2011 in Poetry | 0 comments

A found poem from the November 12, New York Times article “Generation Sell” by William Deresiewicz

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For hippies, the emotion was love.
Beatniks aimed at ecstasy,
punks were all about rage and
slackers, apathy and angst,

but where do we the real bohemians—
the hipsters, in other words,
with our skinny pants, retro hats
and wall-to-wall tattoos — fit in?

We’re vicious, anonymously,
on the comment threads of public websites
but when we speak in our own names,
on Facebook and so forth,

you see the bland, inoffensive,
smile-and-a-shoeshine, stay-positive,
I’ll-be-who-you-want-me-to-be-personality.
We’re all in show biz now.

We make, sell or serve what the bobos buy:
See our food carts, urban farming-supply stores,
boutique pickle companies and techie start-ups?
See our wallets made from recycled plastic bags?

We are a post-emotional generation:
no anger, no edge, no ego.
No, we are little businesses always selling ourselves
and relentlessly tending our customer base.

We are the real. Millennial. affect.
bohemia merging imperceptibly with the bourgeoisie,
with dreams of hip social entrepreneurship,
starting companies to make money and give it all away.

Try to picture Allen Ginsberg having a chat
with Don Draper at the local coffeehouse
about the latest Lady Gaga video,
and you’ll realize how far we’ve come.

Science Is Fun; Work Harder

Posted by Jenni B. Baker on Nov 5, 2011 in Poetry | 0 comments

I want to be an astronaut;
it’s just so darn hard

all the Sputnik-like urgency,
the math-science death march

through a blizzard of calculus,
physics and chemistry,

trying to memorize equations
when it’s all about application.

The big question is how to keep
the momentum from dissipating,

hang on to the oasis of aspirations
in the dry and hard-to-get-through,

harvest the kinetic energy of dreams,
break the complex attrition of hope.

———-

Found poem from the New York Times article, “Why Science Majors Change Their Minds (It’s Just So Darn Hard).”