the louderARTS Project

Corie Herman

...there was anguish and doubt here, certainly, but not melodrama. What could have been sentimental was not, thanks to Ms. Herman's plain-spoken poetry and delivery and the simplicity of the dancing and choreography.
• New York Times, April 25th, 2002

...and in the evening's finest work, the premiere of "Scratchy Ropes," Von Ussar captivated us by setting aggressive choreographic statements against an absorbing poem by Corie Herman about coming to terms with the intensity of one's will.
• BackStage, May 17-23, 2002

Corie Herman originally founded The Poet's Open in 1996 at Club 13. She passed it on to Guy Le Charles Gonzalez after receiving word that she was accepted to NYU's Graduate Creative Writing Program. She is one of three MFAs at the louderARTS Project and is proud.

Her poetry can be found in journals such as: Calyx, Kalliope, So to Speak, Phoebe, and 5 AM. She is currently working on her second collection of poetry, You'll Get It When I'm Dead.

She has performed (not slammed) at a number of venues, and is currently working on a collaboration with Von Ussar Danceworks (and has received great reviews in the New York Times and Backstage Magazine ).

On Land
In memory of Howie, tent city, and the Tompkins Square Park riot

I heard that neighbors spread their backs
against trees, threw broken balls of cement, and hard

lumps of dirt into metal shields and police blockades.
I heard they made their arms into chains and rang them

above their heads. I heard there were bulldozers.



I look for Howie--blue baseball cap, curly
gray beard, gaunt blue jeans. I look for the spot

where his shanty once stood--the flattened
cardboard boxes, the thin legs of plywood,

the used cords of cloth. Inside it smelled of boiled
hot dog water and beer sifting into a drain. Howie

swept floors, collected cans and slipped
his fingers into coin return slots. Still,
he told me, I can't afford rent. Can you?



I pass a garbage can that is shaped like an elderly
lady bending to a bird. Surrounding it: burnt

clothes, blackened boxes and lung-shaped bottles.
I look for the spot of Howie's fire where I huddled

like a bird, tucking my beak into my chest.
I listen for the snap of batteries, wet wood

and nails; look for where Howie squatted
when he said, If you ever in trouble, you yell

Howie, his hands cupped in a circle
around his mouth. He would have cracked

a bottle against the ground and run, turning
his voice into a siren to defend me.



Imagine a short barreled shotgun
pressing a circle above his ear, a thick

boot holding his shoulder to the ground,
a nightstick coming down

onto his knees. The hard crack.
The tear gas, erupting. Howie --



There is a park here now: gingko leaves
like shy yellow fans, sectioned off dirt

where dogs can piss and run, a playground with a tire
chained to a wooden beam, and rows of red flowers

surrounding the center square crowded
with pigeons pulling at thrown crusts of bread.

previously published in Phoebe

© Corie Herman

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