Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “November, 2012”

Interview: Denise R. Weuve

Someone interviewed me?
And these are the results. . .
Thank you Bop Dead City

Bop Dead City

Today’s interview is with Denise R. Weuve, who wrote the wonderful poem “Lilith” that appears in our first issue.

Describe your poetry in 25 words or less.
Confessional bent with the intent to leave the reader gasping from lines that haunt, go for the throat and won’t let go.
Who has influenced you the most as a writer?
Everything and everyone influences me, a midnight drive to Las Vegas, a grasshopper trapped in my classroom, men in business suits at a bar.  It’s just life, from a friend who ghosts out in few too many poems (to the point he thinks they are all him now), a mother who has laid the ground work for many more poems to come, to whether or not I like the way the sun rose today. Influence for me can be found in the gutter as well as in another poem.  Just doesn’t matter…

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It Can’t Always Be About Me. . .

Or at least it shouldn’t be.
So I have decided to feature other poets, famous, infamous or on the cusp of either. Only requirement: They had to write something that made me stop and catch my breath.

We start with a gentlemen I discovered this morning as one poem lead to another and then another and then another and then to United States Painted on Asphalt.

United States Painted on Asphalt
By Jared Harel

Whoever designed this,
separating states
into pale-yellow, pine-green,
decided to divide us
with a volleyball net, a taut
incision clear across Kansas,
North and South
at it yet again. He (or she)
plastered this metaphor
across an inner-city schoolyard
where a weary boy
weeps over Jersey,
having scraped his elbow
in Pittsburgh, I think.
Yes whoever made this
is in some way responsible
for the troubles of our land,
for the battle breaking
out between Texas
and Louisiana, where both
children yelled Mine!,
crashed into each other,
and the soft white globe
plunged into the Gulf.

Yes that is the poem (I caught on Poetry Daily but I’m sure had birth elsewhere) that brought me to Jared Harel’s website. Here I found links to a few poems that I had not already happened upon and most importantly news of his chapbook The Body Double, which can be purchased here.

Other than that, what do I know about him?
His back of the lit mag bio: Jared Harel’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Tin House, American Poetry Review, The Threepenny Review, The Southern Review, Ecotone, and elsewhere. His poetry chapbook, The Body Double, was recently published by Brooklyn Arts Press. He lives in Astoria, and plays drums for the NYC-based rock band, The Dust Engineers.
He looks like this:
He is my newest FB Friend.
Just In – – – – his wife gave birth to a daughter.
My best to the entire, in not tired, family.

And I was going to start with Robert Lowell. . .Better luck next time Robert.

The Gaza Strip Shrapnel Reaches Southern California

About two years ago I thought I made a new friend. She lived near, in the art district of Long Beach and seemed open-minded and fun to be around. She liked art, music, and even went to a Goth/death rock club with me. I joined her book club, and began to look forward to one Sunday a month to discuss literature in not an English teacher way.

At around the same time I became friends with her I was enamored with a half Persia gentleman. After about three months she made a mention that he should not say hello to her any longer because she did not like his kind. I dismissed this, assuming she was being a friend who perhaps saw something in him I did not. I hoped it was some strange protecting instinct.

This friend and myself were out with others when I mentioned him, and she said to everyone, “I just don’t like him.” I foolishly asked why. Waiting for a joke. Something that we could all giggle about when she said, “What his people have done to mine. He disgusts me.”

She is a California Jew. He was born in California, grew up in Torrance where he watched ducks in a pond near his family’s apartment. Neither of them had anything personally to do with the Gaza Strip. Yet her hate was so palpable. It’s the same hate that gives us children as collateral damage.

I know the photos are meant to be inflammatory. I know that each side has their story. I know I am in no way educated enough to even hazard a guess about who is ultimately right or wrong. But I also know that children are the casuality, and hatred that penetrates through generations to come the only rewards of war.

Don’t Let The Sick Write Poems

Useless Information

I am filled with it-
Copious amounts of nothing.
Eye shadow originated in 4000 BC
when some strange Egyptian
crushed iridescent beetle shells
to a coarse powder
turning it into glitter
covering soot filled eyelids
to bat relentlessly at men
until they saw stars.
In 14th century England they fucked
taken from the old English word fokken
meaning to beat against
the thin line between anger and love
completely erased.
heartburn has been around since 3500 BC.
The Sumerians could not stand
acid turning their souls so
they started with peppermint leaves,
then milk and finally baking soda
gave easement into their dreams
’til morning came.
And then in the early 1900s
S.I. Russell created an electric blanket.
Its intent to keep the sickly warm
when love ones were gone,
when the sick found no comfort
in wrapping themselves in their own arms
or when watching stars in blackened skies
only made them colder.
And the only useless information
that I wish I did not know
I still love you.

Sarcastic? Moi?

And so it is. When a class of High School Seniors say it, how can you argue?

This is my lot, the facade of funny girl to cover all that crumbles beneath.

What Those I love Fear

a decade in which their fist are forgotten
a year in which yelling is muted by lotus garden meditations
a month in which believing their truths is not an option or a religion i have been baptized into without faith
a week in which loathing lays down to sleep for a van winkle nap
a day in which joy is not manufactured like rivets that turn a gear stretching a dolls smile
an hour in which only my memories can be retold to a riveted audience that crunches on popcorn as they question why I stay
a minute in which I can catch words and throw them to the floor so they shatter-cheap ceramic plates
a second in which I listen to my heart bringing it up to my ear like a ticking watch
The moment I follow it

Amen, Jack

Jack Gilbert I kiss you with previously mirrored lips. Nice to know there are kindred souls. . .And thanks Daniel for original post

Box Scores and Luchadores... and Poetry


How do you explain the fact that poetry has changed so much? It seems to me that a lot of people want to be poets; they want to be poets for a very human reason; they want to get recognition, and if there’s no recognition, I think there would be a few poets. There’d be a few, perhaps, but not many. I hate to say it, but it’s true, at these writing conferences it’s all about fixing up a poem so it will sell. Nobody wants to talk about how a poem works, what its purpose is. They all want to deal with the outside of the poem. Does it look good? Should I take the left line out and put it over here? How should I make the rhythm correct and such. But hardly anybody talks about the strategies of poetry, or how you make poetry live, how…

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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

And so Anne Sexton wrote. Then on a mucky afternoon, after lunch with Maxine Kumin, Anne returned home; she draped herself in her mother’s fur coat, grabbed a glass of vodka entered her garage where she turned on the car and allowed carbon monoxide to silence all the poems that remained within her troubled soul.

As trouble as she was she is the reason I write the way I do. Her confessionalism and the genre that so encompassed many of her peers is the poetry I truly love. I grew up loving the romantics, to this day I perk up when hearing, “She walks in beauty like the night. . .” and begin singing along like it was the #1 hit on the radio the day I was born. But romantics are lofty and rarely tell how the story ends. Rarely look behind the stove where no one ever cleans. Confessionalist live behind the stove, as it were.

When I bought my decrepit condo, so many moons ago (13 years worth of them) I stencilled quotes from my friends on the walls of my “office” and parts of poems from Anne.

And so daily these words stare at me. And daily I hope to write a 10th of this well. And daily I think I would gladly suck on the same carbon monoxide she did, if I had a garage, or any form of bravery. but I’m not fearless, more born of fear then ready to banish it so I’ll just continue to read and write, and hope.

Because of Anne Sexton I no longer know another way to write. Luckily she even explained why I write to me.

Red River Review-Poetry!

Today I received a lovely email from Michelle Hartman, Editor or Red River Review. It was to inform me that the latest issue, in which I have a poem, is out! YAY!
Please take a moment to check it out and the other selections. I particularly like Praying by Jennifer M. Dean and the last line of Barrie Neller’s Notes My Mother Wrote.

my poem is #63 As Good As New

My Campaign is Flawed

It’s Tuesday and the US is voting. Voting for someone to blame for all the ills that befall us for the next four years. We shall see how that plays out, but regardless it’s just another Tuesday for Denise R. Weuve (AKA Inkdamage).

If I was running for anything (which is not something I would ever do) I think I would press forward with the ideal of poetry as healing. Granted you can’t tear a page of Bukowski out of What Matters Most is How You Walk Through The Fire and cover the blood gushing wound in your gut that magically beings to close up with the mere touch of the page as if the words were stitches. If anything, Bukowski would problem make the wound burn with all the alcohol fermenting the page, but still. . . poetry heals the mind, or maybe allows the past to find a home on a piece of paper instead of in your soul digging at your being turning you old and bitter… (Who needs ObamaCare when you can sit in a room with Sharon Olds and Deborah Garrison and watch their lives unfold, rip, and mend in under 100 poems).

Maybe, but on days like these I’m not sure anything will fix the broken pieces

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