HOSPICE

Three new poems for you from Travis Turner. He’s so gosh derned prolific! What a champ.

Here is a new poem about Halloween.

What is fear?

Quasi-frightening,
this feeding frenzy of
clamorous lightening purses.
Little gremlins groveling
with greater daemons cursing.
How False!
So cheap yet
So expensive.
All of us selfish little monsters.
That mask!
Those teeth!
This wig!
Free to sell grotesqueries,
that sullen a true lens.
Afraid of later,
Layer less days
when our costumes won’t fit.
I’ve already bought my face,
begged my parents.
Why aren’t we scared of it?

Now here is a poem partially composed by a robot controlled by people.

Most Common

How pregnant am I.
How popular is my name.
How people learn.
How people change.
How proper love’s done.
How pennies spin like tops.
How faded we’re worn.
How matriculation works.
How coffee favorite grinds.
How stifle guarded minds.


One I wrote today (perhaps you could suggest a title?)

Will we ever be happy again?
Only if the price is right.
Jealous sequestered jars,
where bubbling envy waits,
and Cools
under a breezy facade.
Life pays for vacant lots,
in what he says,
or what she jots.
Others ponder for fun,
and Money is a perk.
Downed horses get the gun.
Long live grinning, confident jerks
who’d run ten thousand marathons
just for a ribbon they didn’t want.
Only if the endorsements were good.
Better to be
Beautiful and hard-working
or ugly and talented?
You will be misunderstood.

A note from the author: “Any input would be greatly appreciated. I also finished my newest notebook. It only took me three months. The words come easy in the environment Hospice creates.”

This is Travis Turner’s most recent poem. What’s special about this one is that it’s interactive. Travis intentionally wrote it with an open ending, hoping that you would fill it in. Be inspired and let the words flow (in the comments).

[updated 11.17.10]


Proposal for Drills

Our audience is too grand
for the stage.
How many demi-Dylans
can dance holding pens?
Unless that is our fallacy.
My fellow poets say:
‘Would you pay to be born?”
“Consumption of Literature
is Cannibalism.”
Counterpoint:
We’ll only get better,
We’re from a natural cycle torn.
Newton triumphed upon giants,
his words a lovetap to Hooke.
Our finest wool woven,
from a swath of sheep shorn?
Rebuttal:
Of course, choice shines
as ultimate luxury,
but the crude had to be refined
before it was named a king.
Finite profiles of soil
that grew cities that died.
Full of desperate dreamers
unmercifully tied
to a lifecraft upon
a blustery, cloistered sea.
Their only ears the sky.
Conclusion:
Why me?
You write.

Travis wrote and recorded this poem at the House of Hospice. Another video installment from Sweatshop Sunday.


Mentors and teachers have this great responsibility. They feel every success, and every failure, neither to blame nor to praise, they anchor their hopes to a student’s successful future. Even if it all works out, they’re returned nothing but a nod and wave. The bittersweet memory of that which never was.. That’s what this poem is about.

Video by Alexander Jaramillo – http://skydsn.tumblr.com
Audio and video edited by Ryan Terrell – http://eskimospy.net

When I think of poetry I think of Emerson, T.S. Eliot, William Blake, Whitman, and all the greats. I also think of Turner.

Travis has written prolifically since as early as he could hold a pencil, never resting on his laurels, never content with average. His poems have never before been published or shown to all but his closest friends.

We’re honored to present to you his debut on the world stage. For your aural pleasure Hospice will be recording a collection of his poetry, read aloud. Look forward to more updates.

The world, meet Travis Turner. Travis, meet the world.

September 9th, 2010

Figurehead

Told what to taste,
quiet blinking vision;
I was made for prison.

Speechless and braying
always: “I don’t know,”
always: “You know best,”
ceaseless obeying.

On my stepping orders,
it’s known where to go,
unbroken borders,
a uniform should glow.

I know I choose my garb.
I think I choose my style.
My certainty’s just a shard,
a splinter misplaced
in my warden’s haypile.

My food is always the best,
(or so I’m told)
prepared by the greatest chefs,
each calorie accounted,
every savory flavor bold

My time – always mine to burn
yet advised upon,
by advertisement.
Cyclically, suggestions churn,
skydiving with no horizon.

My freedom: never questioned;
but friends through fences beckon
in ultimate luxury
I’m happily jailed.
A fortunate catastrophe.

And love?

Oh, I’m far too smart to heed,
its song, sirening from the trees.
Just doves
departed from silly heaven
missing opal eaves.