Fire Belly Earth Feet: synaptic mud poetry, by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen
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Fire Belly Earth Feet: synaptic mud poetry, by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen
Free Ebook Fire Belly Earth Feet: synaptic mud poetry, by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen
Delivered in a forceful tone, this restless collection of poems charges head first into the conflicts between peace and anxiety, revenge and empathy, light and despair. Written by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen, a Chicago native who got her start on poetry slam stages, Fire Belly Earth Feet serves up poems that are muddy, fiery, and brave.
Siren Call
Siren of Freedom, come to me this time.
I've followed your call through hours of corn fields. I flew friendless to a speck of land on this water planet. I've spent thousands in smoky gas driving away from four walls. Then every time I settle, I lose your vibrato trail and develop a fever.
So I've disposed of every man to cool myself down. I've packed and disappeared in ritual. I fed only on options.
But I'm tired of starving for you, lonely tease. I have too much I want to keep now. So come to me this time. Get off your rock and swim to my head to wash this panic off my brain.
New American Century
Along the river bankwhere molten lava flowsfar enough to coolto a steady stream of oil,I pan for thermite.
Saturated to the thighs in Pearlized mud,we collect the sharp red chips they left behind.
Among the brave,a person can calculate the piecesas they coagulate in barrels,building towards masses,heating to a flash in time -when we catch our fresh regret,holding it so close and focusedwe smell its pink mist breath - the droplets resting on our palatesuntil a new need fuels us to let it dropand we wait to teach ourselves again.
Counting Electric Sheep
Within iambic bone the hamsters runWithin their greased conundrum lightning comes
Along a nerve to old projector wheelsWhich turn as ranting critics ravish reels
And rush eight feet of prey nocturnal beastsWho wish for distance but will only reach
The speed of sick sour lips who spit from prideAnd hate inside the night where pictures hide
From common time and pleasant reason sleepsTo wake all breeds of beasts who will repeatOn screen the worst of movies worst of scenesWithin the carbon darkness far from sleepSynaptic noise relentlessly repeats
Sibling Comfort For The Push Up Toy
When the spring gets stuckfrom way too muchyou laugh at my head on the floor.You're not worried when you see my string.But I worry about EVERYTHINGbut trusting you.
I guess it could look scary to a sane brain;the cackling of a chick going coo-coo -her wooden parts collapsed and in the wrong place.How can we glue her back together?
Only you know I'm already stuck.So you just keep sitting next to me -twirling the strings, spinning my pieces, laughingbeside the crackling yielding.
Fire Belly Earth Feet: synaptic mud poetry, by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen
- Amazon Sales Rank: #3645377 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-25
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x .11" w x 6.00" l, .18 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 48 pages
About the Author Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen got her start on Chicago poetry slam stages at 16. While her voice has matured over time with age and formal education, she retains the fiery heart of a slam poet. She tolerates Chicago winters to be with her close family and fabulous menagerie of animals.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Poetry of Transition and Restless Searching... By Spunk Monkey "Sun crystal eyes / sink below black hollows / as clear lenses crinkle to an opaque crust" (6).At the centerless center of these poems are contradictions. Even in the title we can see this: "synaptic mud poetry." On the one hand, matter, on the other, mind. The author gives us words which testify to the eternal, quasi-Manichean, struggle of opposites. And yet these opposites are interlocked, forever unable to explode out of each other's orbits. They repell and they attract. What's a women to do?This sorta Maoist Hegelian rejection of the negation of the negation means there can be no synthesis, no respite from the unity of opposites, but that doesn't mean the search will ever stop, that there can ever be a full rejection of the siren of Freedom; meaning, freedom from the unfreedom of the eternal search for freedom. Occasionally we catch glimpses: The Dharma. A soft-eyed man. The dedication to Aiden. Perhaps there is something beyond matter and mind: "If we can find each other / despite new races, old generations, switched genders and time / we'll find each other again / when I come how to you" (12). This is but a brief hope, however.More often than not we find ourselves between cold and fire, steel and skin, nature and civilization, the quest and settling, the animal and the human. There is no interpenetration of opposites here. This is not a Taoist vision of balanced imbalance. This is a cosmic Zipper ride of elements threatening to spin out of control.And yet, are we more steel or skin? More nature or civilization? One switches, back and forth. And this causes scabs, crust, and scars. One is torn in this process. And yet scabs, crust, and scars are indicative of healing, of growth. These poems strike me as testament to survival. To live is to become battle scarred.But if the eternal Struggle wasn't enough, there are guys out there. Weak, petty, but seductive, these “boys with thick black hair.” They tend to draw you in as if by force of their negative space, their empty voidness which sucks one in like air into a vacuum. And yet, "It's the nature of the beast / to excite and confuse, / to spear through vital parts / when we waved the stained scarves / of those who shook us worst" (10). These men are more beast than human, and yet this does a sad disservice to the real animals of the world, also caught between opposites, and yet somehow unattainably transcendent, such as the coyotes or stags. These creatures perhaps represent a true combination of mud and synapse, and yet it cannot be our path. We aren't that lucky.But the world isn't itself the only threat. Such poems as "CABOOM!!!" reveal the spikes beneath the surface of the viewpoint character [the author? maybe...]. To live in this world means attempting to subsume the "fire belly" that always threatens: "You're lucky I buried myself before I met you / You're lucky I went underground. / I know the pilot light has blown out / and the room is filling with gas" (17). And yet the beat goes on. The beast within must be contained: "Fire belly, earth feet: / the tiger attacks my throat / from the inside; I grind her out in a cooled smirk" (18).But if one had to pick...well, of course it would be mud. Like the animals, we are forged of mud, but unlike animals, we are haunted by higher aspirations. But the tiger inside wants to roll in the high grass, after having torn this world apart once and for all: "For all the scientifically divine nothingness of this world, / I'd take your elements any day. / For all the intangibly perfected spirits, / for the truth, / for beloved words, / you are the matter my brain craves. / You remind me I am tangible. / You body knows I matter" (18).The poems are presented in reverse order of the dates they were written. The poems at the beginning are the newest, those at the end the oldest. As one progresses, there is a regression. Or does progress lie in the past? Again, a duality between present and past, backward-forwardness, or forward-backwardness.Maybe, Maybe not, Maybe, Maybe not, Maybe, not. [Say these words over and over in your mind. Make it your mantra. As you look into the eyes of your locate deadite, make sure to smile but repeat these words to yourself, silently. At the end of your mediation, end with Maybe. Not.But if you fail to hide from the sound of the mind, it can sterilize that which is feral in you. Yes, the mind has that power: "Within the carbon darkness far from sleep / Synaptic noise relentlessly sleeps" (32).Bottom line: Buy this book. Bite "the pale dick of hard Economics" (33) and read words.And yet, and yet, it ends with a mid-life crisis at 17. One sees in this earlier version of the self a fear of the fall of the Flesh, of decaying, or sagging, of graying. And yet, and yet at the beginning of the book [the newest poem] we do not see this fear manifested. The flesh has been accepted. It is now the mind which has become of center of attention: "Siren of freedom / come to me" (1).What will the next book of poems reveal? A middle path, a negation of the negation, or a synthesis? Is the baby mentioned in the dedication the true climax of the text? Mud and mind producing life.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Fire belly - it's the perfect phrase for the passion that bubbles out in her ... By Tiffany M Breyne I'm admittedly not a bit poetry reader, but some of the lines in these poems have stuck with me for days, and some of the poems I found myself relating to more than I expected. Fire belly - it's the perfect phrase for the passion that bubbles out in her writing.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. This collection is vivid in its imagery and provocative in ... By Travis Stern This collection is vivid in its imagery and provocative in its emotional tone, but what makes the work really remarkable is the sequencing of poems. Going chronologically backwards lets us as readers move into the past from the poet’s present as a worthwhile fulfillment of the volume’s dedication. We see the poet’s development and earned maturity transition back to the youthful firebrand whose promise to herself in the volume’s final poem serves as both the commencement and completion of the ebbs and flows of passion in a creator’s life.
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