Let’s make sure to treat this year gingerly, take him for slow walks in the cold, a handful of oats and loose harness, not gallop through too fast. Love him a little bit each day, but not so much that his broken leg keeps you from the gun. The year will carry you but is not the only one, there are others waiting beyond the mountains in the unbroken dark. -C.S. Henderson
If I'm lonely, then I'm lonely
If I’m lonely, then I’m lonely. So what if I’m lonely? Wednesday is lonely and careens into my mug. The new year is lonely and keeps calling me to hang out. My basil plant is lonely and thirsty. I am lonely and in need of a shower, which are probably not the least bit related. The trees are lonely and loneliest in the forest. The trees are lonely with a tree house. The...
thestarstoday-deactivated201305 asked: Is there any sort of formal "training" for poets? Or is most of it instinctual and improvised?
claritea-deactivated20120304 asked: Your words really touch me. I love reading your work. What is your process?
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 6
After the fantastic idea mentioned in this post by TheLazyLazarus Better love is still awake, the sun ajumble of flakes of cold yellow. Another multivitamin and yawn drawn into the sleeve, another jagged toe into the shin. I get a little nervous in each obsidian night opened like a maw and cackle. Starry jaunty bat wing moon shines against the granite kitchen and groans in. Into the...
There Were Lulls
I The attic breathed as if it were. About to be kissed, the taste of keyhole burrowed into my tongue. II I worshipped the sun in a mason jar, loved the poem as a plea from stray cats. III The mange of faith clogged my shower, razed the ancient chapel of dust bunnies. IV There were lulls filled with holy Irish coffee until it stumbled with me into the desert winter. ...
My mother proved she was still in charge when she made me take a post-meal shot. My brother proved he was still more clever than me when he told me how he got an illegal to buy him rum in sixth grade. My father proved he could still teach me when he made four shots in a row and beat me in a beer pong game. My family proved that the ones who ferment together, stay together. -C.S....
(christmas was full of doubt)
I. Innumerable women, each in love like a city. Men, who think they are only one, like a flower — we bloom too late. II. There are no dogs allowed in this park but we brought one anyway and forgot to pick up after it. There are no thoughts allowed but we think of it anyway. III. The eternity of birds resolves in the violin of a manakin. We don’t need the opera, just a...
Anonymous asked: I THINK YOU SHOULD POST A GPOY RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW I SAY.
Rejected Consequences: A Chapbook of Failures
thetargetbird: I’ve been playing around with the idea of putting all of my Rejected Consequences together for a while, and I figured why not do it during the season of giving. It even comes complete with a brand new reject! You’ve always wanted Santa to bring you The Target Bird’s Rejected Consequences in a neat little package, right? Thought so. ...
Happy Holidays, Have a Chapbook
comefriendlybomb: I hope you’re all having a good enough holiday that reading a long chapbook about diseases won’t spoil it, because here comes one: This chapbook is an extension of a project I worked on in late October, which I’ve continued to revise and play with a little bit since then. It owes whatever coherence and elegance it might have to the help and inspiration of several tumblr poets...
matespawnkill asked: To your knowledge, are there any books available containing C.S. Henderson's writings?
Rejected Consequences: A Chapbook of Failures
I’ve been playing around with the idea of putting all of my Rejected Consequences together for a while, and I figured why not do it during the season of giving. It even comes complete with a brand new reject! You’ve always wanted Santa to bring you The Target Bird’s Rejected Consequences in a neat little package, right? Thought so. ...
If love moves into coherence as a form of confession, slipping past beauty and any theories we had for negotiating it onto the roof to take home, we’ve overstayed our welcome and must force happiness into hands into pockets. -C.S. Henderson
If love concludes that everything, including falling off the roof or into itself, is deliberate and leaves a space so big that even the pleasantness of a freshly rolled cigarette is a negotiation with vertigo, then we should consider ceasing to believe in progress, which is to say we should cease believing in anything. -C.S. Henderson
Seeing Swansongs In The Clouds
I wandered, wanting to be furious and done with getting older and returning to the relapse of manifestations: the sunset’s direction is still irrelevant; a kiss’s romance is in the zigzag of particles between the hair; harmony can be found in the basement and lost before noon; being fruitful in the face of wasteful days is only OK after a third cup of coffee. Instead I should...
The house feels weak sometimes (I exaggerate, of course, but I feel tired too, filled with light not- quite snow and all sorts of sleep (noon slides in with something like a boom (what is a boomless boom?) and I am cold chasing it) especially in the rain, which looks like a flailing helpless thing) and also full, a bit drunk, and nauseous, trapped in flu season without the fire. -C.S....
What does everyone write in?
I think about this sometimes, insomuch as how it affects how I write. Personally, I’ve been using these guys: small Writersblok Bamboo notebooks, but I think they push me towards writing smaller poems and shorter lines than I would otherwise write if I used a larger notebook. I am also about to run out of space in my last notebook, so there’s that, too. Thoughts?
I Wake With Moments Stretching Their Arms As Wide...
and the sphinx of night cleaving the vectors of entropy to slip between the doors. Their dregs tell me that tomorrow will be misty and morose and unbent in a youness, that the spiders of winter bring a terrible love and leave sheet music for juvenile songs of meanness. How to wake up and pay rent when I hear guns always at a distance and spend time always looking for new ways to pass...
Because I'm Drunk Too Often To Ask Otherwise
Build a flume for hope who walks on carnival feet and avoids straight lines. The digging heavy trees gawk at December blooming in an ache, spit in the coffee, and go to AA at lunch. What great love leads to consistency? What moon will apologize for the undark night? What city will offer more than a lock of feathers when I’m missing the flock? What drink will feel more homely...
If love is what other rooms look like when the furniture is moved without apology, we must remember to send postcards for each forceful negotiation with the world’s nothing and adapt as it touches the shallow space between the thoughts of skin. -C.S. Henderson
I talk without lust, lurching among New York’s bridges in the smacking ginger sobriety. Hurry pesters me, streets liquefying, afraid I will never love as well as the rapid river. Indecision brow beats the sun then wipes the sweat and pierce. Each cut is a rehearsal of halves and fear of the meridian’s extinction. Each cut is a reprise ...
If love carries consciousness around like a cigar stub (the gashing match about the lips, the hollow drone of smoke woven in time’s willow arms), treating it like a falling shingle in the rain is the only way to turn the joke to a laugh. -C.S. Henderson
So, I don’t have time to write a new poem on account of seeing my parents for the first time in a year. Here’s a (not so great) poem I wrote 5 or 6 years ago and edited 5 or 6 minutes ago. Sorry for the cop-out. My nerves felt infant, Little fears born From protection and distance Floating like leaves Under a cool stream, Covering like a sheet. I tasted subtle heat as I tried ...
In the event that poetry does not seem as interesting as tiny things: brunch, the search for ice in a cold New York, football highlights, I promise to write crappy little poems like this. -C.S. Henderson
When I Am Otherwise Unoccupied
Between each poem is a thought of precision, between each comma a sneeze. The tilting clutch of verbs flange into petals unwithered, awash in the joys of action: To be bored all the time with people and books and music; to flush all melodious dreams into the sink; to wag and wag and wag for blue- berries to ripen in January; to be sick from a quickstore tuna sandwich and all nouns,...
And the raging head billows and booms into a half- blooded lisp, the shuffled booze of lavender night thrust into the throat unending. And the split head leaks the fiery pomegranate of soul into the board room, business always handled with a torch and scythe and march to the witch’s tomb. And the soggy head flails in ecstasy, the slow viscous thought of morning abound with...
sonofapritch replied to your post: metempsych replied to your post: unspecializeart… All of my line breaks are Hegelian dialectics All of your line breaks are socialist and have to share equal poetic value. It’s really annoying when...
metempsych replied to your post: unspecializeart replied to your post: Ambition is… i used to get this criticism a lot in workshops too i think it has less to do with grammar than trying to keep people from getting lazy and preserving unity of line. i...
sonofapritch replied to your post: unspecializeart replied to your post: Ambition is… Usually people bitch about ENDING lines with and because “oh you should end on a strong word to give the reader pause.” I hate that too. I love you C.S. Keepin’ it real...
unspecializeart replied to your post: Ambition is no less tangible than the future is… What’s your opinion about starting a line with “and.” In a writing workshop once, I heard someone advise against it. What do you think? Obviously your doing that here...
A Century's Quarter Turn
I black out the earth’s revolutions, believing that if it’s a party no one should spin more than the birthday boy. -C.S. Henderson
Love Poem for a Leaving Girl
It like most art and teeth breaks when we look at it dead on Even considering the subject and its strategies numerous as the glints of sun on the open sea I should have never said it was possible — is the slap then Zen or is that receiving it Life as dumb a form as dumber a content bursts into the clouds my face becoming a rumble of stones. -C.S. Henderson
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 5
After the fantastic idea mentioned in THIS POST by TheLazyLazarus With the instant seduction of coincidence, we estimate each other in halves and doubles, waiting for symmetry to be distributed. Our subjectivity erodes with each new introspection, dreams soaking out from my hair and rubbing against the high dome of noon. We cannot intimidate the architecture of day into dispensing...
175 21st Century Poets Worth Reading
ghostorballoon: My room-mates and I are sitting around being angry at Helen Vendler’s assertion that no century in history has produced “175 poets worth reading.” We all feel pretty strongly that even within the first 11 years of this century there are at least that many talented poets well worth your time, as contemporaries, to look into. However, we’ve drank too much* to tackle this problem...