Yeah, Write.

"That's not writing; that's just typing." –Truman Capote



Charles Bukowski


I could gush about poetry, gush, I say. But I won’t, for your sake. I will, however, say how excited I am about this class. I can feel some great discussions coming on. Hooray for that!

Check out my previous post on the Loft Literary Center because they have GREAT poetry stuff going on this month.

Taylor Mali

Warning: Uncensored material (spoken word poetry)


I’m borrowing this piece from Inward Bound Poetry


The voice you hear when you read silently
is not silent, it is a speaking-
out-loud voice in your head; it is spoken,
a voice is saying it
as you read. It’s the writer’s words,
of course, in a literary sense
his or her “voice” but the sound
of that voice is the sound of your voice.
Not the sound your friends know
or the sound of a tape played back
but your voice
caught in the dark cathedral
of your skull, your voice heard
by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts
and what you know by feeling,
having felt. It is your voice
saying, for example, the word “barn”
that the writer wrote
but the “barn” you say
is a barn you know or knew. The voice
in your head, speaking as you read,
never says anything neutrally–some people
hated the barn they knew,
some people love the barn they know
so you hear the word loaded
and a sensory constellation
is lit: horse-gnawed stalls,
hayloft, black heat tape wrapping
a water pipe, a slippery
spilled chirr of oats from a split sack,
the bony, filthy haunches of cows…
And “barn” is only a noun–no verb
or subject has entered into the sentence yet!
The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you.

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑