I have
a manual typewriter
under a small tent
outside
in the open air.
You step up
and give me
five bucks.
You say,
“Write me a poem,
monkey;
write one
about
my
dirty socks.”
I say,
“Yeah,
I can
write
a poem
about that:”
his wife is asleep
and he sits
on the edge
of the bed
in the
dark.
he quietly removes
his shoes
and his dirty
socks.
he can still
smell
the other
woman’s
perfume
on his fingers
lingering
in the
heavy darkness.
“Anything at all,”
I say,
folding the five,
as you walk
away
with
your
wife.
----------
[first read on Poem Monkey; available for free online]
3.30.2012
3.29.2012
O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
3.28.2012
Apples by Brittany Good
Where I come from the air reeks of apples.
Against the gnarled trees rest burned-out car frames,
charred balls of boredom.
Milton used to stand, withered and frail,
on the decaying sidewalk in front of the town library,
waving sweetly to the passing cars.
He has faded to a breath of dust by now — a pale apparition.
The roads, speckled with crooked lines, twist and contort
through ragged mountains.
Not in Boston, where the homeless seem like artists
who have lost their way.
Walking through Beacon Hill, I twist my ankles
on the cobblestone streets.
I pass a woman so perfectly contrived —
a Burberry jacket to match
her microscopic dog’s Burberry sweater.
I finger the frosty wrought-iron gates,
warped metal snakes of the wealthy.
As I stand in front of the 7-Eleven,
its wood-carved, gold-accented sign
creaking in the bleak Boston wind,
I spot a man across the street.
He’s donning khaki overalls
splattered in blue, red, and green paint,
dragging viciously on his Marlboro Red,
his eyes like two rotting apples.
I think of home.
----------
Against the gnarled trees rest burned-out car frames,
charred balls of boredom.
Milton used to stand, withered and frail,
on the decaying sidewalk in front of the town library,
waving sweetly to the passing cars.
He has faded to a breath of dust by now — a pale apparition.
The roads, speckled with crooked lines, twist and contort
through ragged mountains.
Not in Boston, where the homeless seem like artists
who have lost their way.
Walking through Beacon Hill, I twist my ankles
on the cobblestone streets.
I pass a woman so perfectly contrived —
a Burberry jacket to match
her microscopic dog’s Burberry sweater.
I finger the frosty wrought-iron gates,
warped metal snakes of the wealthy.
As I stand in front of the 7-Eleven,
its wood-carved, gold-accented sign
creaking in the bleak Boston wind,
I spot a man across the street.
He’s donning khaki overalls
splattered in blue, red, and green paint,
dragging viciously on his Marlboro Red,
his eyes like two rotting apples.
I think of home.
----------
[first read in Mastodon Dentist number five; used with permission of author via Propaganda Press]
3.27.2012
Fog by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
----------
[poem is in multiple collections in print and for free online]
3.26.2012
The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
3.25.2012
Her Name Was Ruth, She Hated Her Name by Jenifer Wills
Photographs haunt me
every October. Souls reaching
through eyes that never
blink, hands frozen in gesture. What
is it your fingers are hiding
in that tiny steeple?
I’ve written a hundred poems
on the subject of my mother’s death,
but have I mentioned
the last thing she ate?
Macaroni and cheese, against
the doctors wishes because, you know,
how morphine slows. Have I ever written
it exactly so?
Did I tell you how she
looked surprised?
How she gave him
a glance from the corner of her eyes, then
vomited the blood on which she would choke
to death?
He tried to catch her
as she fell, but her skull smacked the wood
as she died, still beautiful even in sickness
at age fifty.
She was thrown by my brother’s hands
into the Pacific Ocean.
I’m going
to walk into the photographs
of those troubled enough
to have loved me, strolling a sea
of salt, saline
and ink
into horizon
of good intentions;
into the tiny steeple
of your fingers.
----------
[first read on LiteraryMary; used with permission of the author via Propaganda Press]
every October. Souls reaching
through eyes that never
blink, hands frozen in gesture. What
is it your fingers are hiding
in that tiny steeple?
I’ve written a hundred poems
on the subject of my mother’s death,
but have I mentioned
the last thing she ate?
Macaroni and cheese, against
the doctors wishes because, you know,
how morphine slows. Have I ever written
it exactly so?
Did I tell you how she
looked surprised?
How she gave him
a glance from the corner of her eyes, then
vomited the blood on which she would choke
to death?
He tried to catch her
as she fell, but her skull smacked the wood
as she died, still beautiful even in sickness
at age fifty.
She was thrown by my brother’s hands
into the Pacific Ocean.
I’m going
to walk into the photographs
of those troubled enough
to have loved me, strolling a sea
of salt, saline
and ink
into horizon
of good intentions;
into the tiny steeple
of your fingers.
----------
[first read on LiteraryMary; used with permission of the author via Propaganda Press]
3.24.2012
Estimated Losses by Aleathia Drehmer
On the brink of death
laden with possibility’s
name — life — something
coveted and created,
always chasing after
10 fingers
10 toes
1 smile
at
any cost.
She looks at me,
her face ashen with worry
that only comes on the
coattails of a dying life,
and tells me she doesn’t
feel so well.
I try to hide my knowledge
from her, this knowing that
her belly is rising with blood
and faded dreams of motherhood,
now holding on by threads.
My hand touches hers
understanding the chances
we’ll take for sweet replications
of our love.
----------
[first read in her chapbook You Find Me Everywhere; used with permission of Propaganda Press]
laden with possibility’s
name — life — something
coveted and created,
always chasing after
10 fingers
10 toes
1 smile
at
any cost.
She looks at me,
her face ashen with worry
that only comes on the
coattails of a dying life,
and tells me she doesn’t
feel so well.
I try to hide my knowledge
from her, this knowing that
her belly is rising with blood
and faded dreams of motherhood,
now holding on by threads.
My hand touches hers
understanding the chances
we’ll take for sweet replications
of our love.
----------
[first read in her chapbook You Find Me Everywhere; used with permission of Propaganda Press]
3.23.2012
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
PART ONE
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding— riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching— marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say—
“Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding— riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding— riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding— riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching— marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say—
“Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding— riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding— riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
3.22.2012
Quality Time by Tim Scannell
I use time with obsessive
Care only once during the day:
Getting butter to every corner,
Every goddamned edge of
The toast.
----------
[first read in Poiesis number four; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
Care only once during the day:
Getting butter to every corner,
Every goddamned edge of
The toast.
----------
[first read in Poiesis number four; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
3.21.2012
My Sister’s Miscarriage by Jason Fisk
I stood there as they squirted
the jelly on my sister’s belly
and was reminded of how my wife
giggled every time that had been done to her.
I stood there and began to sob silently
behind my sister as I saw
the baby on the screen,
but saw no movement.
I was used to hearing
the speedy little machine gun
heartbeat of my children,
but immediately knew something
was wrong as the baby
just seemed to float there in her womb.
The doctor walked us through
the ghostly images on the screen –
This is the baby’s head ...
here’s the rib cage …
this is the heart …
As soon as those words left her lips,
my sob could no longer remain silent
and was quickly joined
by my family’s sorrow
and muted chest heaves.
The technician continued
to earnestly search
for the missing heartbeat.
My sister finally said –
Could you please stop?
----------
[first read in his chapbook The Sagging: Spirits & Skin; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
3.19.2012
The Rosebud by Jason Fisk
I hadn’t seen you
since the day you told
me you were pregnant,
in that cafe. It was
a September day,
filled with a cold fall rain.
I remember thinking
that I could smell the rain
on people as they passed our table.
There was an unopened
rosebud in a simple
glass vase on our table.
What am I going to do?
You asked
over and over.
Today we stood in the aisle
between the cards
and the candles
at Target, small talk
our armor. I looked
at your empty belly.
You pulled your jacket closed.
“Well, it sure is good to see you,
we’ll have to get together sometime,”
you lied. I wanted to tell you
that I had learned
in a poem
that the Japanese
prefer the rose bud
to the rose blossom,
but how do you fit
that into conversation?
----------
[first read in his chapbook The Sagging: Spirits & Skin; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
since the day you told
me you were pregnant,
in that cafe. It was
a September day,
filled with a cold fall rain.
I remember thinking
that I could smell the rain
on people as they passed our table.
There was an unopened
rosebud in a simple
glass vase on our table.
What am I going to do?
You asked
over and over.
Today we stood in the aisle
between the cards
and the candles
at Target, small talk
our armor. I looked
at your empty belly.
You pulled your jacket closed.
“Well, it sure is good to see you,
we’ll have to get together sometime,”
you lied. I wanted to tell you
that I had learned
in a poem
that the Japanese
prefer the rose bud
to the rose blossom,
but how do you fit
that into conversation?
----------
[first read in his chapbook The Sagging: Spirits & Skin; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
3.18.2012
I Love You by Sara Teasdale
When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.
When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.
Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.
O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep.
----------
[poem in the public domain]
3.17.2012
Goodwill by Ed Galing
just want to let you
know that the Goodwill called the
other day;
wanted to know if i had any
clothing to give away, that no
one wanted anymore;
i said, well, my wife is no
longer with me, and i have clothes
hanging in her closet ... could you
use them?
the Goodwill people said they
could, if i didn’t mind, so i thought
that since you can’t use them anymore,
i would give them to the Goodwill ...
i hope you don’t mind this, honey ...
i went up to the second floor
and took a plastic bag with me,
and began to put some of your clothes
in there;
i hope you don’t mind that i
gave away your two-piece white suit
that you wore down in atlantic
city with me, when we walked on the
boardwalk, do you remember? i can still
see how lovely you were,
the way you strode up that
boardwalk, so happy, who knew what the
rest would bring?
i also put in there a few sweaters
you used to wear, and some hats and
shoes, and your pretty red dress you once
wore at our son’s wedding, so many years
ago; i was crying as i put them in the
bag, honey, but i know you are looking
down on me and smiling, and saying, it’s
okay, it’s okay ... i took the bag outside
and placed it there for the Goodwill
people
i hope you don’t mind
----------
[first read in his chapbook Sweet & Sour: life poems; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
know that the Goodwill called the
other day;
wanted to know if i had any
clothing to give away, that no
one wanted anymore;
i said, well, my wife is no
longer with me, and i have clothes
hanging in her closet ... could you
use them?
the Goodwill people said they
could, if i didn’t mind, so i thought
that since you can’t use them anymore,
i would give them to the Goodwill ...
i hope you don’t mind this, honey ...
i went up to the second floor
and took a plastic bag with me,
and began to put some of your clothes
in there;
i hope you don’t mind that i
gave away your two-piece white suit
that you wore down in atlantic
city with me, when we walked on the
boardwalk, do you remember? i can still
see how lovely you were,
the way you strode up that
boardwalk, so happy, who knew what the
rest would bring?
i also put in there a few sweaters
you used to wear, and some hats and
shoes, and your pretty red dress you once
wore at our son’s wedding, so many years
ago; i was crying as i put them in the
bag, honey, but i know you are looking
down on me and smiling, and saying, it’s
okay, it’s okay ... i took the bag outside
and placed it there for the Goodwill
people
i hope you don’t mind
----------
[first read in his chapbook Sweet & Sour: life poems; used with permission from Propaganda Press]
3.16.2012
THERE IS NO PHOTOGRAPH OF ALL OF US by John Grey
I am not in the photograph. Pretend I am.
My sisters, three, their brown hair in
barrettes, piled atop their heads. Their
eyes scallop-shell wide, their mouths
wide and grinning, trying to imitate the
camera flash. Make believe that’s me with
them. A shock of baby gold hair. Blue
eyes. The smile of all that’s ignorant of
the true world. My sisters in their school
tunics, green and red. See me there as
the only boy, the little one in baby clothes
before he knows a thing. My father’s shadow
reaches to their dainty shoes. I’m that
shadow. He’s killed on the job six months
later and I’m born into that death. He pats
my head and is gone. You weep and
I’m in tears. Rip up that shadow, toss
away the pieces, sprinkle the spaces
with a collage of my first steps, my first
words, my face, clean and pretty. Three
young girls pose for the last year of
his life. I can feel you out of camera
range willing your pregnancy to end so I
can join them. Your cramps twist up my stomach.
Your morning sickness catches in my throat.
----------
[first read in ZYX number fifty-six]
My sisters, three, their brown hair in
barrettes, piled atop their heads. Their
eyes scallop-shell wide, their mouths
wide and grinning, trying to imitate the
camera flash. Make believe that’s me with
them. A shock of baby gold hair. Blue
eyes. The smile of all that’s ignorant of
the true world. My sisters in their school
tunics, green and red. See me there as
the only boy, the little one in baby clothes
before he knows a thing. My father’s shadow
reaches to their dainty shoes. I’m that
shadow. He’s killed on the job six months
later and I’m born into that death. He pats
my head and is gone. You weep and
I’m in tears. Rip up that shadow, toss
away the pieces, sprinkle the spaces
with a collage of my first steps, my first
words, my face, clean and pretty. Three
young girls pose for the last year of
his life. I can feel you out of camera
range willing your pregnancy to end so I
can join them. Your cramps twist up my stomach.
Your morning sickness catches in my throat.
----------
[first read in ZYX number fifty-six]
3.15.2012
Planting (for Kaya) by Rebecca Schumejda
As your father pushes soil over seeds,
you dig them back up.
“No,” leads to a tantrum
on top of where the summer squash will grow.
Since your father knows how much
of who we are gets planted early;
he wraps explanations
around your trembling body.
In the background, I attack weeds
suffocating roses,
the way I suspect my mother would have
under similar circumstances.
you dig them back up.
“No,” leads to a tantrum
on top of where the summer squash will grow.
Since your father knows how much
of who we are gets planted early;
he wraps explanations
around your trembling body.
In the background, I attack weeds
suffocating roses,
the way I suspect my mother would have
under similar circumstances.
----------
[first read in nibble number eight]
3.14.2012
An Insistent and Eager Harmoniousness to Things by David Keplinger
—David Abram
Like an enormous leech the pancreas lies with its head tucked into the duodenum, upside down, the tail outstretched over it, an animal curled in on itself. In the preserve jar of the belly, it wriggles like a strange, medieval cure. When we sleep, Anicka, the pancreas secretes its juices, reverting tonight’s toutlerre into Germanic syllables again: cake, meat, blood. All of this healing is out of our hands. I turn to you, completely unconscious. Completely unconscious, you turn to me.
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
3.13.2012
The Novel as Manuscript by Norman Dubie
—an ars poetica
I remember the death, in Russia,
of postage stamps
like immense museum masterpieces
patchwork
wrapped in linen, tea stained,
with hemp for strapping ...
these colored stamps designed for foreign places
were even printed during famine—
so when they vanished, so did the whole
Soviet system:
the Berlin Wall, tanks from Afghanistan
and Ceausescu’s bride before a firing squad.
It had begun with the character of Yuri Zhivago
in a frozen wilderness, the summer house
of his dead in-laws, his
pregnant mistress asleep
before the fireplace
with flames dancing around a broken chair, piano keys
and the gardener’s long black underwear.
Lara lying there. A vulgar fat businessman
coming by sleigh to collect her for the dangers
of a near arctic escape ...
But for Yuri, not that long ago, he was
with celebrity,
a young doctor publishing a thin volume
of poems in France, he was writing
now at a cold desk
poems against all experience
and for love of a woman buried
in moth-eaten furs on the floor—
while he wrote
wolves out along the green treeline
howled at him. The author of this novel,
Boris Pasternak arranged it all. Stalin would
have liked to have killed him. But superstition kept him from it.
So, the daughter of Pasternak’s mistress eventually
is walking with a candle
through a prison basement—
she is stepping over acres of twisted corpses
hoping to locate her vanished mother ...
she thinks this reminds her of edging slowly
over the crust on a very deep snow, just a child who believes
she is about to be swallowed by the purity of it all,
like this write your new poems.
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
3.12.2012
Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew by Ross Gay
Today, November 28th, 2005, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father’s departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child’s skull
and not once will he cover the child’s ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother’s face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child’s face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child’s parents.
No bomb will kill this child’s grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child’s uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.
As will yours.
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father’s departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child’s skull
and not once will he cover the child’s ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother’s face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child’s face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child’s parents.
No bomb will kill this child’s grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child’s uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.
As will yours.
—for Mikayla Grace
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
3.11.2012
Self-portrait as Thousandfurs by Stacy Gnall
To have been age enough.
To have been leg enough.
Been enough bold. Said no.
Been a girl grown into that
negative construction. Or said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
celestial, appealed for planetary pleats.
And when you saw the sun a sequin,
the moon a button shaped from glass,
and in the stars a pattern
for a dress, when the commission
proved too minute, and the frocks
hung before me like hosts,
to have stood then at the edge
of the wood, heard a hound’s bark
and my heart hark in return.
To have seen asylum in the scruffs
of neck—mink, lynx, ocelot, fox,
Kodiak, ermine, wolf—felt a claw
curve over my sorrow then. Said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
just short of breathing, my mouth
a-beg for bestial pleats.
And when you saw tails as tassels,
underskins sateen, and in entrails
damasks of flowers and fruit,
when the bet proved not too broad
for you, and before me, the cloak held
open as a boast, to have slipped
into that primitive skin. To have
turned my how how into a howl. To have
picked up my heavy hem and run.
To have been leg enough.
Been enough bold. Said no.
Been a girl grown into that
negative construction. Or said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
celestial, appealed for planetary pleats.
And when you saw the sun a sequin,
the moon a button shaped from glass,
and in the stars a pattern
for a dress, when the commission
proved too minute, and the frocks
hung before me like hosts,
to have stood then at the edge
of the wood, heard a hound’s bark
and my heart hark in return.
To have seen asylum in the scruffs
of neck—mink, lynx, ocelot, fox,
Kodiak, ermine, wolf—felt a claw
curve over my sorrow then. Said yes
on condition of a dress. To be yours
if my skirts skimmed the floors.
To have demanded each seam
just short of breathing, my mouth
a-beg for bestial pleats.
And when you saw tails as tassels,
underskins sateen, and in entrails
damasks of flowers and fruit,
when the bet proved not too broad
for you, and before me, the cloak held
open as a boast, to have slipped
into that primitive skin. To have
turned my how how into a howl. To have
picked up my heavy hem and run.
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
3.10.2012
The Look by Sara Teasdale
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
----------
[first read on the Academy of American Poets; available for free online]