Eva Moe

Tag: notebook

  • Overlaps – what I’m making lately

    Ever since I bought rubber stamps, I’ve been making more of these “overlap” things. They mimic the repetition of stamps with the imperfection of handwriting. I don’t know if they’re poems or a disjointed journaling technique, but I’m working with them to express how words appear in my mind as I say them. It might be the most accurate style of stream-of-consciousness writing for me. Typing it out makes it sound like I’m screaming in my head at all times, which is not the case. Promise. 

    I LOVED KYOTO KYOTO KYOTO I LOVED KYOTO I LOVED KYOTO
    EVEN POWERLINES POWERLINES
    EVEN POWERLINES CAN BE A JEWELRY NECKLACE
    AT THE NECK THROAT OF GREEN GREEN MOUNTAINS MOUNTAINS
    DRINK BY THE KAMO RIVER KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA KAMOGAWA
    I WAS GONNA SAY I WAS JUST GONNA SAY THAT IF YOU GO DOWN BY
    IF YOU GO AND FIRST YOU GOTTA GO AND GET A BEER
    YOU CAN GET SELTZER TOO GET A SELTZER OR A JUICE
    THEY ALSO HAVE HOT DRINKS HOT DRINKS ONCE WE GOT HOT CHOCOLATE HOT CHOCOLATE
    I DON'T LIKE THE WORD THROAT HERE OR ANYWHERE IT'S TOO SHARP IT'S TOO SHARP AND THE GREEN MOUNTAINS ARE SOFT LIKE A POLAROID POLAROID POLAROID POLAROID

  • Stamp Collecting

    It was only a matter of time. The dogs and dragons. The calendars and alphabets. The tiny pictures so easily replicable and all that confident ink. Soon, I thought in March. Soon I will give into my temptations and become a stamp collector. It is inevitable. I caved a few days ago.

    There was a moment as I played with these two, rolling the rubber carefully to avoid the edges, and this must be what people mean by stamp collecting. It’s much cooler than postage stamps.

    It’s not what they mean. People do indeed collect postage stamps, meanwhile I can’t remember which drawer mine are sleeping in [top drawer by the scissors, found ’em]. I’ll need those soon, of course. For ?? my correspondence ?? and for the letterhead, for the passionate red stamping I must do.

    This is for my correspondence.
    the dog faces the dragon.
    it’s just like you to get close, then retreat.
    it’s just like me to chase, then vanish.

    There’s more you can do with stamps than I thought. It’ll be fun to explore this new media and to add something a little extra to my letters.

    Cheers,
    Eva

  • From the Notebook: Emails

  • From the Notebook: Student

  • From the Notebook: I am selfish 

  • From the Notebook: King Arthur was a Tragedy

    “In the age of romance and chivalry, steam seeped through open hearts now it’s a gas leak up the nose and on fire. Love is now combustible. Love is now the library. Love is now the golden gilded spine of ancient text.

    July 1st 2017.”

    like: “love is now the library”
    dislike: “ancient text”

    Here’s the new version. As you can see, I’ve added a title and altered the imagery. This poem did not undergo a heavy edit, and that’s okay. Sometimes, I write a long poem only to keep one or two lines, or images, or ideas. Other times, like in this case, I keep it mostly the same.

    King Arthur was a Tragedy
    In the age of romance and chivalry
    steam seeped through open hearts
    now it’s a gas leak.
    Up the nose.
    On fire.

    Love is now combustible.
    Love is now the library.
    Love is now the golden
    gilded spine of mildew books
    that bury in your head
    songs and hatchets alike.

    Eva

  • A.E. Housman notebook poem

    It’s been a while since I wrote here and I’ll tell you why. JOBS. Two of them.

    This is newly written, and like my earlier stream of consciousness poem, I took a whole page and threw out some words.

    here’s a legible version:

    I to my perils
    came not like A.E. Housman
    clad in armor by stars benign.
    I swam to them in my PJs
    water logged, hair kinked
    and trouble was a bonfire.
    I was the mosquito and the jet was my blood meal.
    Whoever shaved before 8th grade wished too hard for time to pass
    and passing is the great curse and gift of prickly knees.
    I dragged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
    to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
    I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
    or mad money and me, the poet,
    the victim of my own desires.
    If I was a better friend, the last line
    would have been my own design.