"mfa" poems
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
a kiss
one day I'll be nothing
the best days of my life have been embarrassing myself on social media
it's constant.
there is no sound in the world
muddy infrared generalizations recognized as awareness
in deep thought means I stare at an object in silence.
since then a spider has become more nothing than usual
I think I might have died too
passion for writing is the chemical decay so carbon dating is calculated through words
the truth has never emptied me so thoroughly
my headache is gone, I wish this was good news
a kiss is worth savoring like the number of days your friend's Netflix account stays active
what did God try to create
a reality where one can receive a MFA in loneliness and still manage to be unemployed
that is a distinguished honor especially since Facebook has been pivotal
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
And leave it to Turturro
To steal the movie again,
A tour-de-force in a single character,
Repeatedly, consistently . . .
Except maybe one time.
"Raging Bull" 1980:
Turturro was "Man at Table,"
Uncredited, of course,
A man of no words,
A role difficult, constraining for any
Would-be Richard Burton,
Some shrew-taming Petruchio,
Over the top & out of a job,
Again.
Ask any director who
Directed in the 1950s and 60s?
"Difficult to handle," says Unanimous,
Auteurs & Schlock Filmmakers,
Alike.
Turturro too, needs special handling,
Or Jesus Quintana will chew up the scenery,
Emilio Lopez will be sneaky-sneaky-sneaky,
Materializing without warning over & over
Again.
Turturro: veteran of 60+ films,
*Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing,
Fading ****** The Color of Money,
Do the Right Thing,
O Brother, Where Art Thou?*
Turturro TV: Frazier, Monk & Miami Vice.
And others.
Turturro: a Brooklyn boy, Italian,
Roman-Catholic, the son of Katherine,
An amateur jazz singer who worked in a
Navy yard during World War II, &
Nicholas Turturro, a carpenter &
Construction worker who fought as a
Navy sailor on D-Day.
Turturro: attended the State University of
New York at New Paltz, completed his
MFA at the Yale School of Drama.
A life most worthy, capped off with
Amedeo & Diego, his two sons.
So, I'd like to thank The Academy,
In advance yet decades overdue:
A Lifetime Achievement Award, Johnny.
Recognition over the long haul.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
I've never been an exhibitionist. Fame and money have never been my goals. If I played music it was for myself, softly so no one could hear. If I made art, it was unassuming doodles on scraps of paper that didn't matter. If I wrote, the final pieces were buried away, whether in journal pages or word documents in neatly organized file folders.
Social media changes everything.
Suddenly, everyone has a voice. Suddenly I'm thinking, why not my voice, what's wrong with my writing? Sure, I didn't get an English degree, I hold no MFA, but plenty of people write online, after all, it's just the Internet.
"It's just the Internet." What a catch 22 - in my head, it's either "Don't air your ***** laundry, no one wants to know," or, "Go ahead, air your ***** laundry, you're a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, who's going to care?"
I've never been an exhibitionist, but social media changes everything. You have a thought? Tweet it. You like a photo? Pin it. You have an opinion? Post it. Facebook, tumblr, ello, Hello Poetry, wordpress, blogspot - there are so many venues, take your pick. The world is your oyster. Express yourself.
Fame and money have never been my goals. And I don't say this in an attempt to be original. I don't say this with the idea that I'm above anyone who'd want either. Because let's be real, would I say no to being paid to write? Of course not.
No, what I'm really after is something else. Connections. If I unleash my thoughts into that strange universe that is the Internet, maybe, just maybe, I'll get something back, a spark, a "message received." Not a "Hi, how are you," but a "Yes, I understand. Let's share stories."
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
meaningful conversation
gestures of compassion
a tribe of cohorts
fades back into the night ~
each on their path
developing projects
as if we all pretend to be
Santa Claus
lists are checked twice ~
a swelling to the point
of burst
fills my breastplate
goodbye
farewell
until we meet
again /
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC
Apr 28
Hi all !
Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy, incoherent and gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the editorial literary-elite. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit MA degrees.
P.S: send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!
Love,
Rita Dove’s Bookshelf*
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
She said “Describe yourself in a sentence,
We want to see what you do with constraints.”
So I thought to be clever and said
“My sentence will extend eternally, bound by infinite commas,
and perhaps, if I’ve very lucky; a semicomma or two;
you see the shackles that you’ve tried to impose are only a barrier if you let them be;
but me, I see opportunities where none should exist,
excuse me ma’am this may be and admittance interview but I see it as an investment opportunity,
my future, your gain… oh and period.”
She looked at her collegues, not betraying any amusements, annoyance, entertainment, nothing. As if I had given the same answer as the last four people who sat where I do.
She rephrases, “How about a sentence with less than 10 words.”
I smile “I am worth more than a ten-word statement of intent.”
Eleven words. She noticed.
Twenty minutes later I am released,
apparently I’m not the right fit for their program.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Speak up
Speak Nigerians,speak for you poses a mouth that heals a nation.
It is in thine voice of thy mouth and thy vibrations on thy body that remedies spring forth.
Speak Nigerians,speak against the calamity that befall your land.
Speak against the hand that hurt thee.
Speak against the innocent blood spilled to please others.
Speak Nigerians in a united tone so your voices can be heard.
Speak to tell your fears.
Speak to make it clear.
Speak to put the nation right.
Speak to put an end to police brutality.
Speak to put an end to misappropriation of funds.
Speak to put an end to intimidation and High-handedness.
Speak to put an end to deteriorating health facilities.
Speak to put an end to weak institutional structures.
Speak to put an end to electoral misconduct.
Speak to put an end to unemployment as a normality
Speak to put an end to poor social amenities
Speak to put an end to injustice
Speak to put an end to oppression
Speak to put an end to sectionalism played by our political elite
We are tired of freedom of speech guaranteed but freedom after speech denied
Arise o compatriot
Arise fellow comrades in the struggle
We clamor vehemently to put and end to bad governance
So our future can be secure
Ojuolape Isaac Mfa
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 4:42 PM UTC
BLACK
I am black coz I walk under the sun all day!
I am black coz my anger dictates my tone!
I am black coz the police is my friend!
I am black coz ave swam in gutters and bath in rains!
I am black coz I rode tires and felt excited!
I am black coz mummy and daddy was my favorite game!
I am black coz of chike and the river!
I am black coz my best haircut was skin punk(molo)!
I am black coz I never wrote 1jamb!
I am black coz unilorin was always my 1st choice!
I am black coz OMO is what we call all detergent!
I am black coz of my village people!
I am black coz I tried making my own Airtime!
I am black coz every Noodles is indomie!
I am black coz I believe in God but juju is a back up!
I am black coz all shoe makers are aboki!
I am black coz ur fada is a big insult!
I am back coz up NEPA is a joy giver!
I am black coz I dnt shout back at my parents!
I am black coz I always go on strike!
I am black coz every Musa is a gateman!
I am black not because the mirror nor my skin tells me that but because I have experienced all this.
Black is not a colour but an identity!!!
Ojuolape Isaac Mfa
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
Don't, for a second,
Believe your familiarity equal
To the obsessed appreciator
Because you studied the author
Or painter, in school
How vague the prefrontal cortex, the memorization of Wikipedia (or generation Encyclopedia Britannica) or MFA syllabus bullet points
Focused on the minute details of joyful
Operatic beauty personification were you?
Or the mark delivered by a professor
The essay, the test?
Or the cute one in the class?
Or the one which your over-achieving spirit must compete?
Brilliance discovered in work you GET outside of such demands is a stark difference indeed
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
The problem you have is you've nothing to say.
These MFA promptings are good for a yawn..
So scribble some **** and then call it a day
Since most of your readers have long since moved on.
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 7:16 AM UTC
Got rejected
Had some poems rejected today
Some 25 year old editor; with an MFA
Suggested getting rid of some chilies
They weren't cliches or common images
When I lived them 40 years ago
Life experience doesn't change much
But at 25 how do you know
That life is a series of cliches
So acclaimed they are repeated again and again
Copyright 2018
Richard L Ratliff
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Fully entrenched in my MFA program. Will start posting again in July. I plan on cleaning up my page and presenting myself slightly more professional.....slightly.
Love you all,
See you soon,
Sam
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.
a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez
Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…
personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings
Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.
my arm breaks off like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli
You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…
carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern
You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:
(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo palais)
Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC
I was accepted into my MFA program!!
Two years from this Fall I will have a Masters in Fine Arts of Creative Writing with my concentration in Poetry from Eastern Oregon University.
I just wanted to share my joy and happiness with my fellow writers and (sort of) my peer group.
:)
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
I have a request for you :)
I am starting my MFA in creative writing this up-coming Fall and would very much like input on ways to improve my writing. I know that for the most part we are a loving group prone to show only care and compassion (at least that is my experience) but I would truly like to have some constructive criticism or even some editing ideas.
Thank you all so much and please, wish me luck!
The thesis for the program is to have a manuscript ready for publication and 4 of the advisors have direct links to publishing companies....I have rarely felt this much excitement!
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC