Dana Levin

My books of poetry are Sky Burial, Wedding Day, In The Surgical Theatre -- Banana Palace, due out 2016.

[poetsorg]

I am not interested in the line as much as where it breaks. I am interested in drama.

Dana Levin on the poetic line (via poetsorg)

[writingbreathes]

[literarymiscellany]

Six monarch butterfly cocoons clinging to the back of your throat— you could feel their gold wings trembling. You were alarmed. You felt infested. In the downstairs bathroom of the family home, gagging to spit them out— and a voice saying Don’t, don’t—

Dana Levin, “Ars Poetica."  (via literarymiscellany)

[orionmagazine]

Location: Among wintering succulents waiting for May, including hens and chicks, stonecrop, golden barrel cactus, and Echevaria “holy gate”

poetry book: Poem-a-Day: 365 Poems for Every Occasion (Academy of American Poets)

recommended by: Dana Levin

[danalevinpoet]

#poetry #npm16

[apoemforyourdash]

—spring wind with its             train of spoons kidney-bean shaped             pools, Floridian humus, cicadas with their             electric appliance hum, cricket pulse of dusk under             the pixilate gold of the trees, fall’s finish, snow’s white             afterlife, death’s breath finishing the monologue Phenomena, The Most Beautiful Girl you             carved the word because you craved the world—

Dana Levin, “My Sentence” (via apoemforyourdash)

[literarymiscellany]

White space is an incredibly dramatic tool.

Dana Levin (via literarymiscellany)

[danalevinpoet]

[dr-acidcute]

The Gods Are in the Valley by Dana Levin

The mind sports god-extensions. It’s the mountain from which         the tributaries spring: self, self, self, self–         rivering up                 on curling plumes         from his elaborate                  head-piece                 of smoke. His head’s on fire. Like a paleolithic shaman         working now in the realm of air, he         folds his hands– No more casting bones         for the consulting seeker, this gesture         seems to mean.                Your business, his flaming head suggests,                is with your thought-machine.         How it churns and churns.         Lord Should and Not-Enough,                Mute the Gigantor, looming dumb                with her stringy hair–                Deadalive Mom-n-Dad (in the sarcophagi                of parentheses                you’ve placed them)– He’s a yogi, your man         with a hat of smoke. Serene, chugging out streams         of constructed air… Mind’s an accident         of bio-wiring, is one line of thinking. We’re animals that shit out         consciousness, is another. The yogi says:         you must understand yourself         as projected vapor.                 Thus achieve your                 superpower.

[mttbll]

To return to the idea of the avant-garde, real avant-garde writing today would frame and reflect our misuse of the world, our destruction of its beauties and wonders. Nobody seems to be taking this on in the literary covens. We are all just messing with ourselves, cherishing ourselves… We live and spawn and want—always there is this ghastly wanting—and we have done irredeemable harm to so much. Perhaps the novel will die and even the short story because we’ll become so damn sick of talking about ourselves.

Joy Williams (via mttbll)

[danalevinpoet]

Murray the Cat

http://www.berfrois.com/2015/06/murray-my-dana-levin/

[dshooker]

'My Sentence' by Dana Levin

—spring wind with its              train of spoons, kidney-bean shaped              pools, Floridian humus, cicadas with their              electric appliance hum, cricket pulse of dusk under              the pixilate gold of the trees, fall’s finish, snow’s white              afterlife, death’s breath finishing the monologue Phenomena, The Most Beautiful Girl you              carved the word because you craved the world—

[poetsorg]

I am not interested in the line as much as where it breaks. I am interested in drama.

Dana Levin on the poetic line (via poetsorg)

[overturnedbicycles]

Ghosts that Need Reminding

Through shattered glass and sheeted furniture, chicken wire and piled dishes, sheared-off doors stacked five to a wall, you’re walking like cripples. Toward a dirty window, obstructed by stacks of chairs. And once you move them, one by one, palm circles through the grime and cup your hands round your faces, finally able to see through— Charged night. Sheet-flashes of green, threaded with sparks, the pale orange pan of the moon— Finally, what turns the wheel: the moon ghosting a hole through a rainbow, the rainbow’s rage to efface the moon, which the moon sails through slow as a ship, in the shape of cross-legged Buddha... Lotus-folded, a figurine. The kind you once found in the Chinatown markets, for a dollar and a dime— Saying you’re dying, you’re dead. You can withdraw from this orbit of mirrors.

–Dana Levin (2011)

[danalevinpoet]

Mothership

[danalevinpoet]

One day, from morning to dream (10 quick snaps) -- http://thevolta.org/heirapparent-mainpage.html

[ingenierie]

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

[danalevinpoet]

'Murray, My' by Dana Levin - Berfrois

FEED ME caterwauler―a meat-sack with another meat-sack for a pet, I