I'm not sure if I used the word praxis correctly. I remember reading it on another blog and thought it might work for this post about an idea/desire I have to use all of this technology that permeates my day to somehow help me imbibe in poetry on a daily basis.
My idea. Nothing too far fetched really. I just want a database of poems that sends one out a few times a week via email. Maybe via a listserv, that's the important part, sharing poems with other people. I think of all the email we get on a daily basis: admin reminders, pleas for coding help, posts from various listservs and of course the spam, a poem every now and then would be welcomed. A little poetry each day is an important thing. I keep thinking of that piece of software I saw years ago. In My Own Voice by Sunburst. Great way of extending the poems via music, video clips of famous people reading the poems. I wonder if the Favorite Poems project is on-line and if the movie clips are easily viewed on-line. And then this could be expanded to be a story database that sends out a story a week. That's something that I'd like to build or have someone build for me. I wonder what program is best suited for developing it.
I bet there's a way for blogs to help people display poems in an interesting way on their sites. I noticed that Flash components haven't been included in anyone's sites. Audio blogs is obviously a great way to share poetry. That would be a cool way to add your voice to cyberspace.
I just thought of a cool project for the kids at the Computer Clubhouse. As a way to introduce blogging to them. Ask them to find a poem, or even a rap, that they like. Record them reciting the poem. Have them add a short post about why they like it, maybe an illustration or their photo to go alongside it. Having a blog would be an empowering thing for kids because it gives them virtual space, and space for self-expression for teens is always at a premium.
Here's the Billy Collins poems I found this afternoon that I liked. He's coming to GA Tech this April to speak.
The Waitress
She brings a drink to the table
pivots, and turns away
with a smile
and soon she brings me
a menu, smiles,
and takes the empy glass away.
She brings me a fillet of sole
on a plate with parsley
and thin wheels of lemon,
then more bread in a basket,
smiling as she walks away,
then comes back
to see if everything is OK
to fill my glass with wine,
turning away
then circling back to my table
until she is every waitress
who has ever served me,
and every waiter, too,
young and old,
the eager and the sleepy ones alike.
I hold my fork in the air–
the blades of the fans
turn slowly on the ceiling–
and I begin to picture them all,
living and dead,
gathered together for one night
in an amphitheater, or armory
or some vast silvery ballroom
where they have come
to remove their bow ties,
to hang up their red jackets and aprons,
and now they are having a cigarette
or dancing with each other,
turning slowly in one another's arms
to a five-piece, rented band.
And that is all I can think about
after I pay the bill,
leave a large, sentimental tip,
then walk into the fluorescent streets,
collar up against the chill–
all the waitresses and waiters of my life,
until the night makes me realize
that this place where they pace and dance
under colored lights,
is made of nothing but autumn leaves,
red, yellow, gold,
waiting for a sudden gust of wind
to scatter it all
into the dark spaces
beyond these late-night, practically empty streets.
...Billy Collins, The Waitress from Sailing Alone Around the Room
