Cami Park

Posts Tagged ‘Flowers’

A dollar ninety-nine

In Art, Confessional, Poetry on July 4, 2010 at 10:27 am

http://www.flickr.com/photos/anahasbananas/

Ana Carrete

Ana Carrete has collages! They are freaky and good and weird, uniquely creative and profound. I love the color and composition of the one above, and another, titled kitty-cat-lady has a slight Dargerish vibe (plus genius, minus creepiness) that appeals. Anyway, I just love Ana C. There’s always something with that girl.

For Independence Day, and The Best American Poetry, Reb Livingston presents Rebecca Loudon‘s poem, What I didn’t say when the gasworks shook their iron tails in my direction, and makes my soul feel like a drum.

There are two fans facing each other across this room, each on a pile of books. They are competing, but I like them both the same, and couldn’t do without either. It’s the billowing curtain between that I really love.

Body hack

In Art, Film, How to on March 3, 2010 at 9:16 pm

I’ve never almost almost won anything before

In Art, Confessional, Prose on January 20, 2010 at 7:55 am

Rose Metal Press announced the winner (the excellent Mary Hamilton, for We Know What We Are) and placers of its Fourth Annual Short Short Chapbook Contest this morning, and I was so blown away (LITERALLY!) to discover that I am part of a finalist, for my collection, The Sun Has Packed So Many Suitcases. Other partials are Thisbe Nissen, Tiff Holland, Roxanne Gay, Spencer Dew, and James Tadd Adcox.  Entire finalists are the very fine Mary Miller, Tim Jones-Yelvington, John Jodzio, and Elizabeth Colen. Dinty W. Moore was the judge this year, and judging by the company I’m keeping, this can’t have been easy. Thanks, Rose Metal, for a quality contest and great opportunity.

Simon Schijnvoet Konstboeck

Somewhere graphite grey

In Art, Household, Poetry on December 28, 2009 at 7:53 am

Angela Simione

Hermitting
Angela Simione

I’ll go through all my papers today
Sort through the poems and paintings and make a home
there: between the ink and the page. Delicate
strange,
a forgiveness I can accept, somewhere graphite grey.

Smelling like melted wax and lit cigarettes,
hair shoved back in barrettes,
avoiding the phone and door knocks, slinking
shyly among strangers, admirers, and mothers.
I have a hope.

mending myself with a crochet hook, tangling
up a garden of black and white flowers,
avoiding chores, pajama noon
I am a kid again.

new white,
burritoed in blankets, eyebrows kissed and
notebook in hand.

Not far from where it was found

In Art, Photography, Prose on December 19, 2009 at 9:33 am

Yusuf Sevincli

small white almost faces

A rose is most

In Art, Hobby, How to on October 14, 2009 at 7:34 pm

Toxicity Inspector - Obey Giant

A rose is most fragrant when it is one-quarter to two-thirds open and has been slightly warmed by morning sun.

It’s nothing, nothing at all

In Art, Prose, Science on October 9, 2009 at 1:31 pm

And I always thought that the simplest words
Must be enough. That when I say how things are
Everyone’s heart must be torn to shreds. —Bertolt Brecht

Eye of Science: SARS virus particles

SARS virus particles

So we ask, what’s the point? Who cares? And this is where it’s hard to explain, to justify. Very good haiku, and excellent microfiction, they bloom in the mind, you read them and a rose of apprehension spreads through the head, across the synaptic spaces. Their meaninglessness opens up possibility, a grasp of chance and luck that is nearly impossible to explain. It’s a view of the void that is filled brim-full with nothing, like the spaces left out of a sculpture, the women of Henry Moore. It’s nothing, nothing at all. It’s a chrysanthemum blooming, two people arguing about a dog. —Joseph Young

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Moore

There’s no doubt a deep psychological explanation for the fascination of the hole. —Henry Moore

Alive, but dead

In Art, Music, Prose on August 19, 2009 at 9:35 pm
Peter Callesen "Alive, but Dead" 2006

Peter Callesen "Alive, but Dead" 2006

A few years later, Lisa’s mom took me to where my mom was buried. She’d planted petunias. I could never remember how to get back there after that, but I remember the stone, pressed flat into the earth, read “MOTHER.”

excerpt from Lisa Duncan’s Mom
by Cami Park (me)

originally published in Pindeldyboz