tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33949392024-03-14T03:41:18.107-04:00this is all your faultPoetry and the literary culture I'm growing in a milk carton <br><br><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5291/5395995154_cefbd471c4_m.jpg">Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.comBlogger1103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-80705161558361645622023-03-31T06:41:00.003-04:002023-03-31T06:47:32.375-04:00Interview on NPRThis throwback Friday.
A long time ago:
I was interviewed on NPR about my first book. I sound so young here... http://www.trashotron.com/agony/audio/2008/2008-news/091008-hamm.mp3
And: I gave my first book to Dorianne Laux. And she wrote me back with a comment:
"Thank you for giving me a copy of your book Christine. I'm loving it. Fabulous. Dark, funny,
strange and beautiful. I'm about Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-27743291520957273182023-02-25T22:52:00.004-05:002023-02-25T22:52:59.101-05:00For updated book and writing infoGo to my new page, here -- Gorilla.Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-77348371930569071842018-03-03T12:24:00.000-05:002018-03-03T12:24:00.998-05:00Sylvia Plath AnthologyAnother great review of Like a Fat Gold Watch: Meditations on Sylvia Plath -- https://djvorreyer.wordpress.com/2018/02/09/first-reads-like-a-fat-gold-watch/
An anthology of work inspired by Sylvia Plath’s work and life. This collection gathers artists and writers who responded to Plath’s vital creativity with poems, essays, fiction and mixed media work — award winning writers and artists from Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-32095525238748038112017-07-17T11:17:00.001-04:002017-07-17T11:18:53.697-04:00Draft, 7/17/17Your Mother, Hiding Behind Her Hand
shining like a fawn
at the subway stop
your palm right
here/on my neck
inside you
white irises
in a plastic vase
talk softly
the numbers shift/flow
like the poison
burning
cursive
on my calves
lucky charms and milk
spill from the gold
of your teeth
Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-43205329643586338152017-07-02T11:41:00.001-04:002017-07-02T11:44:34.723-04:00So the 30/30 challenge is over, but I might be posting drafts of poems here, and then taking them down when I want to submit them for publication. So I have a lot of visitors from Russia, China and the Netherlands! Please introduce yourself in the comments and tell me how you got to this blog. Can you read English? Is it totally random? Let me know.
Here's a new collage to entertain you.
Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-30326691396050790782017-06-14T10:13:00.001-04:002017-06-14T10:13:17.370-04:00New PoemsHey friends,
If you're interested in my poetry, head on over Tupelo's 30/30, where I'll be putting up 1 new poem a day for the whole month of June. In short, stuffed animals, matricide, disturbed graves. Strangers are actually donating! but you don't have to give a large amount. A buck or two is good. Or just comment on the poems! https://www.tupelopress.org/the-3030-project-2/
And if you Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-85378787142398345312015-05-09T21:41:00.000-04:002015-05-09T21:41:07.628-04:00How a Mermaid Becomes a Daughter
The weeds break under your weight – the ants race across the moss on this river bank, saving what they can. Look at your filthy naked feet, how your middle toe breaks the grass root stem. The feral tabby is walking away from you, his asshole a pink period. Your toenails are ragged, shiny and rough, like drops of milky spittle. The mourning doves clutching the maple branches above us, Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-88808493838113511822015-04-27T21:38:00.002-04:002015-04-27T21:38:31.380-04:00Still Life with Archaeology
It was the year we all discovered our conjoined twins. Some were hiding in our hats. Some clung to our ankles. A few had been pretending to be our mothers. We recognized them by the tattoos on their wrists, the word effigy, which is Latin for copy. We took photos, bought them flip-flops. After a week of holding their tiny hands and washing their hairy bulbous feet, we wondered what to doChristine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-5712636762683552015-04-26T19:34:00.001-04:002015-04-26T19:34:11.550-04:00Still Life with Marble Head and Glove
It was the year we lost all our right gloves, so our right hands were chapped and cold. We didn't want to lose our left gloves too, so we wore them all the time, even in our dreams.
At night, our gloves are too big, flapping in the wet breeze. They become damp, covered with frost. We slip them off and suck on them, trying to warm them up.
I tell you not to swallow yours, so you do, Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-79277746437125817012015-04-19T11:33:00.000-04:002015-04-19T11:33:17.459-04:00Dear New Jersey,
With your yellow bird-like people and your people like birds, with your bisected jade skies and your sullen-faced nephews, with your sheets of dark glass replacing lakes, your floating teal dry-cleaners, your saffron clouds clinging to roads that end in staircases,
how you cuddle me as we huddle smoking on the whitewashed porch, while the crows call like broken hinges, as our unborn toddlers Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-8138392934390504782015-04-18T20:25:00.004-04:002015-04-18T20:25:39.286-04:00Under the Rec Room Sofa
Questions about home scrawled all over white looseleaf. A solid black square with a triangle on top, the white word “heart” in all caps in the center. Random pictures of birds: chickadees, nuthatches, a kingfisher tucked into apple blossoms. Ads about women's hair cut out and pasted on – a dozen vintage hairstyles involving curls and wigs. All the women are smiling and wearing lipstick, Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-6394448492915082732015-04-17T21:14:00.001-04:002015-04-19T12:03:00.740-04:00Earthquake Season The mouse bounds along the bottom of the chain link fence: its paws and underside are light tan – its fur darkens along the spine, dark brown with long strands of charcoal gray. The mouse runs with its tail just above the ground – twice as long as its body – long, kinked pale flesh, like a human scar. He runs past the coke bottles and scrap metal, past the plywood and piles of sand and shells.Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-33156761498251754772015-04-14T22:11:00.001-04:002015-04-14T22:13:45.314-04:00How to Make a Woman's Shoe
Your mother is weeping in a corner. She sits so high up, on pillows and bandages, that she is almost invisible, just a shadow on the underside of a cloud. You and your sisters are wrestling on the sparkling granite floor, tearing each other's hair and clothes. Wearing pumpkin and skeleton masks, the nurses swoop in and out, checking the dials on the walls and injecting blue fluid into the Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-76998078281132418932015-04-12T22:04:00.000-04:002015-04-12T22:04:20.128-04:00Light green,
glowing inside with the machinery of blonde seeds. A cool hunk, warts and all. Ground into drinks, into chips, into soda pop. The essence eludes the taster, the holder. Turns bitter and sharp over time, when set in vinegar. Darkens, loosens, softens.
Shrinks. Is sliced often. Is ignored and discarded daily. I don't know why: why don't you ask? In the form of a girl, it is shy, Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-4369185431111961332015-04-12T06:38:00.005-04:002015-04-12T06:39:24.074-04:00A Door into my Starry NightBy the time I was ten, you became
handy at cutting my hair
so I looked like a sunburnt boy.
(but that might have been your unborn ghost)
While you whistled
a song that sounded better
as a whisper underwater.
You argued with a postman
about whose death it was,
while I played my recorder
in the corner, swallowed
the blue glass beads from my lace hem.Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28806648286142424042015-04-11T11:21:00.003-04:002015-04-11T11:21:53.899-04:00Self-Portrait as Portrait
In a rococo gold throne, holding a wine glass
filled with blue house paint,a tiny pink weasel
in my lap. Draped in yellow spangled fabric
until I'm a series of offbeat triangles. My hat
a lace paper boat. My chlorine-green hair pulled
back with duct tape, with shreds of a bloody
shower curtain. Tattoos of closed eyes covering
my cheeks. Men holding blueprints on the wallpaper.
A Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-4090113967857215972015-04-10T23:19:00.001-04:002015-04-10T23:25:04.617-04:00The Long Winter
Frost slick in the tub, on the bathroom floor. Tinsel in our cereal,
pine needles on our pillows. During the mashed potatoes,
she stares at our mouths. We, down-puffy, shuffle alongside her
Country Cruiser past the unplowed road. As she steers, she sings
about preferring poinsettias to us. Snot soaks our red mittens;
we try to breath as we cry. We sweeten our horrid insides
with Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-52741747665453241452015-04-09T20:22:00.001-04:002015-04-10T23:25:32.732-04:00Self-Portrait at FiveA dog's mask, the mask of a leopard;
A woman crying in the attic and bathroom.
Chocolate milkshakes spilled in the shape of a gun.
A baby crowing like a sick bird upstairs.
On Halloween, the girl who melted
into a bag of skin when she went out too late.
Snow for my hair, eyes, mouth and ears:
Frostbite and boiling water
for my feet. The girl stuffed
in the oven by the baby sitterChristine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-16823527664125579542015-04-06T22:37:00.002-04:002015-04-10T23:26:04.265-04:00How to Become a Little Lamb
Fully commit to the gaudy destruction, to the blue earred rabbit, to the gold locket tattooed to your throat. Stroke the double-headed fawn, brush clean its gold incisors, feed it handfuls of little girl braids. Add marshmellows to the pink plastic carriage drawn by white mice. Tie them all high up in the oak tree with your red ribbons, and catch the honeyed rain of their tears in square Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-59596738927914111092015-04-06T04:09:00.000-04:002015-04-10T23:26:26.428-04:00A Change of Address
Here's a wall where a tunnel was before. The tunnel leads to an underground lake. Scent of burning feathers. You skinny-dip with a red-haired white girl; you want to touch, you don't. Your father's face rises to the surface, his eyes closed. He sputters, reaching for you.
You're dressed again, surrounded by candles and chanting. The lake, greenish blue and cloudy, recedes.
You check Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-27752566437729599602015-04-05T18:04:00.001-04:002015-04-05T18:04:48.603-04:00Shaindel Beers is also doing a poem a day.Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-1280007100922218702015-04-05T10:40:00.003-04:002015-04-10T23:26:49.478-04:00Sugar Easter Egg
The pale yellow frosting draped around the entrance to the green world had a faint lemon flavor and tasted of dust. The walls were sweet, but rough on the tongue and impossible to bite. The clear cover between the inner and outer world was plastic. The figures inside did not move, and could never be shook loose. Once there was a small pink carriage. Once a family of mice was having tea. Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-80016543002560153822015-04-04T22:35:00.002-04:002015-04-10T23:27:20.997-04:00National Poetry writing whateverThe Missed Opportunity
A girl and a woman in a boat, the woman's face hidden by a large hat. A large mound of earth sits in the middle of the boat, seperates them. The girl is not sure if the pile is dirt all the way through, or if the dirt is covering something. Sometimes the dirt shudders a bit, but that might be a breeze. The girl asks the woman where they are going, or what her name isChristine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-71638788260960835842015-02-14T01:29:00.001-05:002015-02-14T01:29:26.595-05:00newsMost of my new stuff can be found at christinehamm.com. Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-63652346713470922712015-02-14T01:26:00.003-05:002015-02-14T01:26:22.493-05:00NewsMost of my new stuff can be found at christinehamm.com. Christine E. Hamm, Poet Professor Painterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0