Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry (a literary equivalent of a collage) by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning.
This found poem was distilled (and collaged) from an article in the New York Times, Sunday, December 31, 2017 titled: “A Watering Hole for the Bus Station of Life” by Alex Vadukul
No words were added—only omitted and all words appear in the order they were originally written in the article.
The Bus Station of Life
On the second floor
a lone Irish bar has no bathroom
and its regulars
drink in 1945.
Bartenders stash beer
into brown paper bags.
Known for its steamtable lunch
and corned beef
it appears briefly in “Taxi Driver.”
It has cracked black and white
and green vinyl couches
bandaged with tape.
Its regulars include
crumpled shirts and loose ties.
A wedding once happened
near the dartboard
and a tryst between two commuters.
“I met my wife at this seat…
we’re still together.”
84 year-old Manny Muniz
rests his cane and ordered
Johnnie Walker Red with soda.
As evening approached
A trio of women—
The Ladies of McAnn’s
took their seats.
Teresa Brewer, 50
ordered a vodka soda.
“We’re all going through
life while we wait
for our bus.”
© ag ~ 2018
This week marks the 50th anniversary of a very sad time – the Newark riots. I remember them well. There was a curfew, and when I looked out our apartment window – National Guardsmen rode by in a jeep with rifles leaning against their chests. I was nowhere near the terror-stricken interior but inhaled the tension. This was my home city, and I was 14 years old. I wrote these tanka poems in hindsight and they were published by Modern English Tanka Press in 2009, 40 years after the fact. Newark still suffers:
again, this blistering heat
all the songs all the poems
coming in on
a soft summer breeze
tickling my necking
and dropping down low —
this sadness for what
I undress by an open
what is freely given
© Andrea Grillo
The New Fancy
after an article by Joyce Cohen in The New York Times: March 26, 2017
The Hunt — Self-Employed Artists Find A Home Without Wheels
She a drummer
he plays guitar and acts.
They both sing
“misfit pop” tracks.
The couple rolled into NYC
in an ’82 Volkswagon camper
landing in Bedford-Stuy, Brooklyn,
rough around the edge but not cramper.
As self-employed artists they filmed
“Consumer Comments On Vegan Mayonnaise”
(cannot make this stuff up)
neither a critical success or a campy craze.
Always looking on the bright side,
they searched for an affordable rental:
750 sq. ft. in central Harlem — its windows covered
with paper, certainly to these two, nothing detrimental.
On a clear day
it’s off with the paper for plenty of light,
while the bathroom faucet growls on and off
frightening away critters throughout the night.
The water pressure is so low —
one neighboring wifi network is aptly named,
“NoWaterPressureHere,” thus insuring
urban wit and creativity, above all, take aim.
“It’s better than the wheels,” so they say
and certainly not permanent.
As artists seeking gritty New York,
now all they have to do — is pay the rent.
ag ~ 2017
So much waiting to be born.
Blackberries not yet on the
bramble path, much less so
sweetening tarts and tongues.
Spring peepers chippering
moonlight — oh what a wonder to
be the pond that enjoys such a
buxom chorus. Sap waiting to
rise in rabbits and wolves —
their winter stains bled and shed
for the next generation’s fur and
teeth. Wood violets and dandelion
laboring earth and leaf debris
— no less faithful the insects and
breezes that scatter their seeds
and gaiety. Wide vees of geese
to unzipper sky of cloud and fog,
percussing wings and wills of
summer grazing across fields,
streams and highways. Green,
pink and yellow ready to stir
northern gardens into tulips,
roses and corn. Yeast with water
and wheat rebirthing warm and
wrinkled hands — rises and yields.
Rises and yields. The soft dough
braiding Spring into Easter Bread,
Babka and Challah.
so much waiting to be born.
AG ~ 2017
I ~ Stella
The storm becomes her name.
Or should it be Blanche?
Charm is 50% illusion.
I don’t want realism. I want magic!
Haven’t you ever ridden on that streetcar?
that bangs through the Quarter
Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire.
II ~ Nuances At Midnight
Yesterday a Spring walk.
Waking to a chiseled morning rides a wild mustang.
A dame that knows she’s good looking.
What kind of a queen do you think you are?
The real cork.
Marie Antoinette meets Blanche DuBois.
They eat cake. Where’s Stella?
She’s out there on the porch.
almost forsythia a little rain a little snow
imagine simmering pots of fragrant words
cabbage and beans
a garden celebration
of rustic stars
letting go letting g letting lettin lett let
February 28th — last day of the shortest month. Always an analomy — the ending a little too soon. What to write? Why write? Who reads this stuff anyway?
I do. The more I write — the more I flow. Making the commitment and taking up self-imposed challenges helps. And this is the first year that I am able to juggle my poetic and visual art output in tandem. Yay! Before this, it was one or the other. Also before this, I was not as seriously tuned into the work involved in growing my artistry. I have made a serious commitment to explore, express and enjoy the artist’s journey — the whole journey including the failures as well as the successes. After all is said and done, it is the failures that lead to real growth and riches.
With that in mind, I am including here in my last formal #NaHaiWriMo post for 2017, some of my failed haiku. Failed for one reason or another of no great consequence — mostly that they did not take me where I needed to go at the time. I hope to continue my poetry writing posts, however probably somewhat more randomly after this. I do believe that sustained poetry writing infuses my visual art, and my visual art helps poet my words. The painting here is also a work in progress started on top of a failed canvas and may or may not make it into the canons of my saved artwork. To be continued.
clouds on my way to the moon the sea’s lullaby
the jazz solo
just a little off
high wind and hail last night in and out of strange dreams
now we paint our nails