#Minneapolis poetry

[beetlebeetleblack]

Wishes

I walked miles of Powderhorn

my wishes singlehandedly

sustaining the entire

dandelion population

my chest full of their

clocks ticking in time

to my heart, soft fluttering

beat beat beats

Wouldn't it be sweet

if i could hold myself

as gently as you did

but with what you

could not offer?

i wish for peace without

the touch, love without

the kiss, i wish to miss

the night for the morning

that it brought

and to smell the lilacs

with no thought

but of how beautiful it is

for all that and because

it will also pass.

[hclib]

The Changing Moods of Bde Maka Ska

The Changing Moods of Lake Calhoun I love thy waters edge at morn It is so cool, I feel reborn As draw I breaths deep, full, and free And baptize soul with thoughts of thee. At noon-tide, thou art shining fair The sunbeams caught in glistening lair I joy with thee and dance at will For thou art winsome, coy and still. Then fleecy clouds come into view And waft me on to visions new; But while I feast enchanted here There speeds an [illegible] cloudlet near. The wave beneath begin to frown More darkness gathers; then to crown The day's bewitching hour with glee The lake puts on a cap of majestry. The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar

The author of this poem from our Minneapolis and Hennepin County Vertical Subject Files is lost to time. The poem probably dates from the early 1900s, but it seems its author never finished it. If you would like to explore more of the many moods of Bde Maka Ska (Lake Calhoun at the time this poem was written) to find your own poetic inspiration, there are hundreds of photos of the lake in the Hennepin County Library Digital Collections.

[manwalksintobar]

The Clerk's Tale // Spencer Reece

I am thirty-three and working in an expensive clothier,  selling suits to men I call “Sir.” These men are muscled, groomed and cropped— with wives and families that grow exponentially. Mostly I talk of rep ties and bow ties, of full-Windsor knots and half-Windsor knots, of tattersall, French cuff, and English spread collars, of foulards, neats, and internationals, of pincord, houndstooth, nailhead, and sharkskin. I often wear a blue pin-striped suit. My hair recedes and is going gray at the temples. On my cheeks there are a few pimples. For my terrible eyesight, horn-rimmed spectacles. One of my fellow-workers is an old homosexual who works hard and wears bracelets with jewels. No one can rival his commission checks. On his break he smokes a Benson & Hedges cigarette, puffing expectantly as a Hollywood starlet. He has carefully applied a layer of Clinique bronzer to enhance the tan on his face and neck. His hair is gone except for a few strands which are combed across his scalp. He examines his manicured lacquered nails. I admire his studied attention to details: his tie stuck to his shirt with masking tape, his teeth capped, his breath mint in place. The old homosexual and I laugh in the back over a coarse joke involving an octopus. Our banter is staccato, staged and close like those “Spanish Dances” by Granados. I sometimes feel we are in a musical— gossiping backstage between our numbers. He drags deeply on his cigarette. Most of his life is over. Often he refers to himself as “an old faggot.” He does this bemusedly, yet timidly. I know why he does this. He does this because his acceptance is finally complete— and complete acceptance is always bittersweet. Our hours are long. Our backs bent. We are more gracious than English royalty. We dart amongst the aisles tall as hedgerows. Watch us face into the merchandise. How we set up and take apart mannequins as if we were performing autopsies. A naked body, without pretense, is of no use. It grows late. I hear the front metal gate close down. We begin folding the ties correctly according to color. The shirts—Oxfords, broadcloths, pinpoints— must be sized, stacked, or rehashed. The old homosexual removes his right shoe, allowing his gigantic bunion to swell. There is the sound of cash being counted— coins clinking, bills swishing, numbers whispered— One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. . . We are changed when the transactions are done— older, dirtier, dwarfed. A few late customers gawk in at us. We say nothing. Our silence will not be breached. The lights go off, one by one— the dressing room lights, the mirror lights. Then it is very late. How late? Eleven? We move to the gate. It goes up. The gate’s grating checkers our cheeks. This is the Mall of America. The light is bright and artificial, yet not dissimilar to that found in a Gothic cathedral. You must travel down the long hallways to the exits before you encounter natural light. One final formality: the manager checks out bags. The old homosexual reaches into his over-the-shoulder leather bag— the one he bought on his European travels  with his companion of many years. He finds a stick of lip balm and applies it to his lips liberally, as if shellacking them. Then he inserts one last breath mint and offers one to me. The gesture is fraternal and occurs between us many times. At last, we bid each other good night. I watch him fade into the many-tiered parking lot, where the thousands of cars have come and are now gone. This is how our day ends. This is how our day always ends. Sometimes snow falls like rice. See us take to our dimly lit exits, disappearing into the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul; Minneapolis is sleek and St. Paul, named after the man who had to be shown, is smaller, older, and somewhat withdrawn. Behind us, the moon pauses over the vast egg-like dome of the mall. See us loosening our ties among you. We are alone. There is no longer any need to express ourselves.

[shotzu963]

The Poet Speaks of Relation's Ships

by Never Wm M S Hall (@23)

Relationships?

Oh yes, Relation’s Ships.

Imagine first,

a sound…

the sound of shore and sea on a warm spring day;

how alike it is to the falling rain.

In softest voice,

slow and melodic,

I hear sweetest song…

child like;

“…fee fie fom –

catch me playing in the rain.

Here I come –

all these puddles splash the same…”

Love’s voice blends into breeze and light.

Soon, the reign ends.

But there is a scent which remains –

until the sun has dried my tears.

But there is a memory of a scent –

until time has dried me memory.

But there is a thought which persists –

until the hiss and rumble of new rain.

Then we rush out to play,

like children, again.

Relationships hurt…

Not just at the end, but at the beginning,

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

but you must.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

but you pray.

When you don’t know where or when it will end…

But you hold your breath.

And not just at the beginning, but during

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

yet it happens.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

yet you pray.

When you don’t know where or when it will end…

And you can’t breathe

And not just during, but at the end

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

but you are.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

still, you pray.

When you can not know where or when it will end…

and you can’t breathe.

You see, relationships always hurt.

It all depends on which, where…

and whether the pain is sweet or bitter.

Are you at the beginning, while your love is in the middle?

Are you in the middle, while your love is at the end?

Communication is all…

communication is All.

But I don’t discuss past relationships.

I can’t, because, at times, I still can’t breathe.

And though the pain is no longer bitter,

its bittersweet memory is, most often, too rich for my palate.

Because Relation’s Ships must sail, after all.

Direction is all…

direction is All.

[lightpost]

dear love of my life, whose voice gave me the out of body experience. I miss you. I feel like I'm getting closer to you because I'm finally starting to get to know me alone this time around. I'm taking myself out of my own way. I'm going out and meeting new people that are better for me... gods people. The ones I meant to leave the house for and one day that will bring me closer to you. I have hope for us and that hope has kept me alive for 12 years now. If it wasn't for that hope I wouldn't be here today with that iron will fighting and wanting to hear your voice again that has kept me going all these years.

Tonight was incredible

I got to be around new people who aren't loud or seeking anything other than good company and a couple drinks but nothing to wild and out there calm and relaxed people who know life and are treating it as the gift it is. My people I am starting to get and I am praying to God for. For their hearts and souls to know me too. To feel safe around tonight was all about art, music and laughs.

I know some parts I missed you always do wishing you were next me holding me looking me in the eyes reading me talking to me when we cant verbally say anything but eyes say it all and when we get home all the clothes come off and the other part of our life happens the kids we will make and have the joy they will bring into the world and our lives

The days I'm praying for.

I miss you

Always and forever yours

J.

[earlgaylatte]

Northern Girls Don't Get The Blues-

Baby I spent this morning stretched in

Sunlight and mugwort like a tadpole,

Kissing my palm like it could kiss the sorrow

Off of me.

My mouth still feels slick and sweet with Jeju Oranges.

Tongue still soft like it's carrying soju.

I'm spending this lifetime in bed in the

Korean sunshine, waiting for it to freckle my

Skin and burn the grief out of me. I'm

Twisting these sheets around me like a second skin.

And I'm drinking soju mimosas

On a Tuesday night, making glitter of my

Korean language tests.

In the morning, I'll be back on that plane;

Back to small town Minnesota

Where the despair

Makes sense.

Northern girls don't get the blues, but

When a tree falls in the forrest, it's at the

Hands of a teenage girl with a vengeance.

Northern girls don't get the blues, we just

Carry the sadness like it's an empty bottle

And we're dragging our drunk bodies home.

[skilasophia]

Midwest Sunrise

And I never saw you leave

From Queen Anne to Chicago

Were you alone?

Who was that guy on your story?

What did he mean to you?

You posted your preliminary trip months ago

Trying to figure out the route

Stopping in Montana and Minnesota

Peaking my curiosity about the Mall of America

And your gas station sandwiches

How was the Rainforest Café?

It's was on your wishlist and

You finally made it

Despite looking…

[jcmaplewood]

twin cities (a poem)

twin cities bridge across sat by the deck edges you and i, entanglement. each detail, every smell noise creaks, skirmish waters heat-ciphered in my head, undone - final. masks, skins, all you’s are here watercolor in my mind — disabling detachments i hold, keeping you till my throat decay till i’m tired of your language. faces, movements, i recall everytime kisses, foreheads, printed traces. i continue to bask through the book out the figments and fairytale for all this time you were never here creations, pictures you were never real. (imaginations, daydreams) the writer’s sick - thou pale decomposing, dead seeking cosmic love ‘the unprecedented pain.’

[ through the agony and distress i thought of the good times the could've beens. the should’ve beens. minneapolis on our feet across our skins, the twin cities bright.] -- jan christian MN

[poemmedicine]

Uptown, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Hieu Minh Nguyen

Even though it’s May & the ice cream truck parked outside my apartment is somehow certain, I have a hard time believing winter is somehow, all of a sudden, over — the worst one of my life, the woman at the bank tells me. Though I’d like to be, it’s impossible to be prepared for everything. Even the mundane hum of my phone catches me off guard today. Every voice that says my name is a voice I don’t think I could possibly leave (it’s unfair to not ask for the things you need) even though I think about it often, even though leaving is a train headed somewhere I’d probably hate. Crossing Lyndale to meet a friend for coffee I have to maneuver around a hearse that pulled too far into the crosswalk. It’s empty. Perhaps spring is here. Perhaps it will all be worth it. Even though I knew even then it was worth it, staying, I mean. Even now, there is someone, somehow, waiting for me.

[mcad-library]

Holding Space

A Library Gallery exhibition by Alexis Schramel

New exhibition in the Library Gallery! Please make a detour to the MCAD Library to see Alexis Schramel's installation: Holding Space.

Exhibition: Tuesday, November 29–Friday, December 16, 2022 MCAD Library Gallery

Poetry Reading: Tuesday, December 6 MCAD Library Gallery 6:00 p.m.

Introduction to the installation by Alexis Schramel: Holding Space is a site-specific installation, that shifts and changes with each iteration. The catalyst for this installation was initiated in response to my need for human connection through being physically, mentally, and emotionally there for other humans and non-humans. Reflecting on the patterns of my life, I associate autumn with pain, loss, decay, displacement, and transition. This installation is a way of sitting and moving with these emotions. I imagine how this installation solidifies and complicates how I understand the relationships and spaces I inhabit now and in the future. I believe by holding space for each other we can find a tender and loving space which we all carry. Together.

Artist statement: Alexis Schramel is a queer artist practicing across disciplines for exploration within social practice, bio-wilderness, collaboration, and installation. She grew up rooted in rural farming communities of the Driftless Area along the Mississippi River. Growing up in this region, she explores the whimsy and brutality of nature during her childhood. She attempts to make sense of the unspoken and unseen materialization of the senses related to site-specific installations and human experience. Her work experiments with the thresholds of sensory perception- looking and seeing, hearing and listening, giving attention and awareness to what lies in between. 

Recommended library books:

The Poetics of Space, by Gaston Bachelard and M. Jolas

Uta Barth: to Draw with Light, by Uta Barth

The Art of Light + Space, by Jan Butterfield

Hiding Places: Memory in the Arts, by Amy Chaloupka, Leslie Umberger, and Anne Davis Basting

Christo and Jeanne-Claude: Remembering the Running Fence, by Brian O’Doherty, Christo, Jeanne-Claude, G. Wayne Clough, Edwin C. Anderson, Elizabeth Broun, and George Gurney

Whole Cloth, by Mildred Constantine and Laurel Reuter

Art Therapy for Children: Activities for Individuals and Small Groups, by Jodi Dorson

Ann Hamilton: Habitus, by Ann Hamilton, Patricia C. Phillips, Susan Lubowsky Talbott, Natalie Shapero, and Susan Stewart

Agnes Martin: the Distillation of Color, by Agnes Martin, Durga Chew-Bose, Olivia Laing, and Bruce Hainley

Vitamin T: Threads & Textiles in Contemporary Art, by Jenelle Porter, Louisa Elderton, Rebecca Morrell, and Catalina Imizcoz

Do Ho Suh: Drawings, by Do-Ho Suh, Rochelle Steiner, Clara Kim, and Elizabeth A. T. Smith

Glass, by Judy Tuwaletstiwa, Laura Addison, Ivy Bridgewater, Tina Oldknow, Diana Gaston, and Jean Norelli

*Due to COVID-19 campus access has been modified. Please continue to check the school’s COVID-19 page for updates.

[beetlebeetleblack]

Ophelia of Powderhorn

I walked out to the park, I believed

For a full three minutes

That I could walk out on the water

Of the lake

I stood at the edge, I wavered

Imagining the high of it, the bend under

My feet, I stood

And stared out at the geese

At the island, at the lemon yellow

Trees

I could walk out to the island and

Leave the shores of my body behind

Ophelia of Powderhorn. 

I cradled my head in my hands

like one would

Hold a broken egg

I believe, I believe

That I could step out there

I wish that I could see

The shape of the world moving

Around my fingers

I wish I could be plucked like

A string,

a part of everything

Unbroken in the motion

Of the gray season, blending

With every living thing moving

Through the dying grasses.

But I moved on. Belief must be

More fragile than what could

be termed hope

The inertia of my body on the

Paths of the park

Carried me away.

[wolgraugorimilir]

I met an old man on the Franklin Ave bridge

- he had a stick and an empty keg - he was watching the stars and gently beating his drum - I asked to stay and listen, and he said I could if I would watch the stars with him. so I did - he told me about angels, and ships, and watchers in the sky who keep tabs on life on earth - he told me we’re living in a time of great change - new ways to dress, new ways to eat, new ways to think - I said thank god - that change can’t come soon enough. - he said, “we knew each other in a past life - look, see those ships?” - Two planes crossed paths, blinking red and yellow in the hazy sky

I love us. people. I love what we do, and love how we think. The gentle tapping of the drum, and the hushed reverence for the gods of the night.

What I heard was, “I love you”

[deaverypriest]

Dark Hours

[shotzu963]

The Poet Speaks of Relationships

by Never Wm M S Hall (@23)

Relationships?

Oh yes, Relation’s Ships.

Imagine first,

a sound…

the sound of shore and sea on a warm spring day;

how alike it is to the falling rain.

In softest voice,

slow and melodic,

I hear sweetest song…

child like;

“…fee fie fom –

catch me playing in the rain.

Here I come –

all these puddles splash the same…”

Love’s voice blends into breeze and light.

Soon, the reign ends.

But there is a scent which remains –

until the sun has dried my tears.

But there is a memory of a scent –

until time has dried me memory.

But there is a thought which persists –

until the hiss and rumble of new rain.

Then we rush out to play,

like children, again.

Relationships hurt…

Not just at the end, but at the beginning,

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

but you must.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

but you pray.

When you don’t know where or when it will end…

but you hold your breath.

And not just at the beginning, but during

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

yet it happens.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

yet you pray.

When you don’t know where or when it will end…

and you struggle for breath.

And not just during, but at the end

when you can’t stand to be away from them…

but you are.

When you can’t be certain you’ll ever see them again…

still, you pray.

When you can not know where or when it will end…

and you can’t breathe.

You see, relationships always hurt.

It all depends on which, where…

and whether the pain is sweet or bitter.

Are you at the beginning, while your love is in the middle?

Are you in the middle, while your love is at the end?

Communication is all…

communication is All.

But I don’t discuss past relationships.

I can’t, because, at times, I still can’t breathe.

And though the pain is no longer bitter,

its bittersweet memory is, most often, too rich for my palate.

Because Relation’s Ships must sail, after all.

Direction is all…

direction is All.

[lightpost]

Hi baby! I miss you! I miss you so much! I'm praying for you tonight. I really wish you were here, Your brown eyes looking into my soul reading every inch of me, I miss your brown eyes I miss your voice I miss our kids we haven't had yet. I miss the fact your voice is the reason why I am alive. I miss the fact you are my own true love, the love of my life who has kept me alive all this time. I miss you so much!

Please come back to me.

[omanxl1]

House Sessions June 2023

Digital Crate Digging Continues as we come through with this Friday Night Fever Edition on this Fabulous Friday! Flashback Friday energy is also exhibited, repercussions from previous episodes is dealt with now we’re dropping this good word and letting the music play! We already see how these jokers are trying to play per DOJ investigations into the Louisville and Minneapolis police! Business…