Looking down I see a salt necklace
on my red cotton tank, proof of
the broccoli-steaming weather
I dripped through gathering edible jewels
from stalls in the old brick market
by the river, swarming swimming
in it’s own humid stew of home cooks
and bag mules, partners willing
to haul whatever they get to eat
all the hungry week. See fruit rest
in my knife empty hand as I test
the weight of ruby and emerald peppers,
press like a surgeon on avocado possibilities,
bribe the big cheese man with an opal smile
for extra havarti, almost ready to melt
once it comes out of the frigid case
where I’d like to climb inside.
Long after supper, still hot as
Cajun eggplant dressing I sit, wispy
pulled-up hair tickling my neck,
creaky fan blowing soupy night air
behind me, while I sip tropical juice
and coconut rum through a straw
from a cobalt glass full of ice
crammed down between my
breasts, cooling my blood.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
night letters #22 U
unformed
despair (there it is again) hiding within the smoke of lilacs, unexpected in late May, when I saw you today, cross the road, enter the store, your dark curls so shiny, your skin so porcelaine (it really is) you've thinned a bit, still, look gorgeous, fit, I followed, ran actually, could not breathe to see you, again, oh my God, it's all been some horrible mistake, these past two years, and it's such a hot, sunny day, your name on my lips, a perfect day to find you, can't wait to phone your father tell him, you're alive, C... I begin, but it's someone else's daughter, who turns around.
The struggle
The weeds have speed on their side,
a network of tough roots, skinny green runners.
They're going for total takeover.
Creeping charlie travels from lawn to garden,
smothers all in its path.
Weeds with arrowhead leaves
insinuate their roots around
strawberries fighting for a share of sun.
Garden fork turns over big clods
and I shake the earth loose, discard weeds,
dig to loosen a chunk of root.
Down on hand and knees now,
gloves off, bare fingers
disentangle leaf from leaf.
Must work slowly
or berry plants would come out
with the weeds. This is why
the farmer in the parable says
don't even try it, wait till harvest,
then we'll sort it all out.
I can't wait. This root-by-root,
stem-by-stem intervention must go on.
The weeds have speed on their side
and I'm not fast enough.
What the tulips say every spring in our nation's capital, because our glorious dead liberated Holland en route to their own graves
two flattened spears
knife up each year
bearing no flower
but in each bulb sown
a switch is thrown
for one neon hour
knife up each year
bearing no flower
but in each bulb sown
a switch is thrown
for one neon hour
Morning, (vi)
31 mots au mois de mai :
dans un tout petit jardin
sur la lune où j’habite
je m'occupe dignement de:
…..trois petits pois
…..deux marguerites jaunes
…..une rose rose
…..mille(!) libellules blues qui dansent sur mes pieds
.
dans un tout petit jardin
sur la lune où j’habite
je m'occupe dignement de:
…..trois petits pois
…..deux marguerites jaunes
…..une rose rose
…..mille(!) libellules blues qui dansent sur mes pieds
.
Friday, May 22, 2009
heavy bags
each a different, blind, opponent:
old prize fighter,
still hard-muscled in the gut
but face caved, duct-taped
barrel-chested canvas heavyweight
on a flabby comeback,
strong but slow, creaking
on its thick spring
spry black leather
moves loose and eager,
won't let you in close,
but nudges, gutsy,
inside your range
can't throw, won't win
but invincible --
never ache, never tire,
don't double over a fist,
just steadily siphon energy,
store it deep, swaying --
trees in the wind --
an hour after the last punch
each a different, blind, opponent:
old prize fighter,
still hard-muscled in the gut
but face caved, duct-taped
barrel-chested canvas heavyweight
on a flabby comeback,
strong but slow, creaking
on its thick spring
spry black leather
moves loose and eager,
won't let you in close,
but nudges, gutsy,
inside your range
can't throw, won't win
but invincible --
never ache, never tire,
don't double over a fist,
just steadily siphon energy,
store it deep, swaying --
trees in the wind --
an hour after the last punch
afternoon, (viii)
31 words in the month of May:
.
.
The artist child took my hand
dipped it into a pot of green plasticine
and asked me to make him a rose.
I did. The artist child likes his green rose.
dipped it into a pot of green plasticine
and asked me to make him a rose.
I did. The artist child likes his green rose.
.
Working for the Man
Long week long hours,
can’t complain when jobs
fall apart like cheap shoes
and there you stand
barefoot and no where to go.
So you take what you can,
smile while you run
the machines, use all
the protective gear you’ve got
with no illusions of safety.
Ear plugs and plastic glasses
can’t deafen the whoosh
of savings, all your bread,
flushing away,
production numbers falling
right before your eyes,
wondering who’ll be next to go
on their own or just worn
down, worn out, confused
about the gnat-sized details,
retirement feels like melting
ice cream as summer starts.
You leave the plant past midnight
find your still-running ride
at the end of overtime,
baloney moon sitting high,
stars like broken potato chips,
the hot night crickets singing
reminds you of camping
when you were a kid,
when everything
was free.
can’t complain when jobs
fall apart like cheap shoes
and there you stand
barefoot and no where to go.
So you take what you can,
smile while you run
the machines, use all
the protective gear you’ve got
with no illusions of safety.
Ear plugs and plastic glasses
can’t deafen the whoosh
of savings, all your bread,
flushing away,
production numbers falling
right before your eyes,
wondering who’ll be next to go
on their own or just worn
down, worn out, confused
about the gnat-sized details,
retirement feels like melting
ice cream as summer starts.
You leave the plant past midnight
find your still-running ride
at the end of overtime,
baloney moon sitting high,
stars like broken potato chips,
the hot night crickets singing
reminds you of camping
when you were a kid,
when everything
was free.
night letters #21 T
tank or terror or tangerine
I pick
tangerine,
orange earring, sweet
fruit, sweet juice
delicious as spring,
late May on the prairie,
far from tanks,
far from terror,
far from everything
that hurts,
I taste,
drink,
eat
you,
piece-by-piece,
tangerine.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Way Station for the Heartsick
It seems planets and stars away now,
those summer of love nights, hot to me,
but not so steaming as the camps
with names I couldn’t remember
like distant rivers and bloody hills
the poured out places spoken softly,
me just hearing without questions,
holding leather tan heads close
so they could hear my heart beat
steady, hushing them asleep
with primal mother’s music
way before my body used the recipe
for baby making, I could rock
other mother’s sons to sleep,
keep watch without weapons
keep incoming rockets outside
the trembling perimeter
make stateside nights bearable
until dawn rose with streetcars
clanging faintly, city pigeons cooing
on the fire escape and no smell
of jungle rot, no days to count
down, already landed, halfway home,
startled to find a round-eyed woman
wrapped like camouflage
around sinewy solider limbs
blending another hot morning
into how it was before.
those summer of love nights, hot to me,
but not so steaming as the camps
with names I couldn’t remember
like distant rivers and bloody hills
the poured out places spoken softly,
me just hearing without questions,
holding leather tan heads close
so they could hear my heart beat
steady, hushing them asleep
with primal mother’s music
way before my body used the recipe
for baby making, I could rock
other mother’s sons to sleep,
keep watch without weapons
keep incoming rockets outside
the trembling perimeter
make stateside nights bearable
until dawn rose with streetcars
clanging faintly, city pigeons cooing
on the fire escape and no smell
of jungle rot, no days to count
down, already landed, halfway home,
startled to find a round-eyed woman
wrapped like camouflage
around sinewy solider limbs
blending another hot morning
into how it was before.
night letters #20 S
sure she's your friend,
she cooks dinner,
plays tennis,
watches movies,
swims,
drinks my best with you,
helps with my kids,
I'm grateful,
all women need wives,
especially when they work
out of town,
but would you mind
asking if next time
she wouldn't leave her hairdresser's card
under my bed,
or her kimono
lying around?
Plum Blossoms
For two weeks, the street fleets
with pink blossoms, clustered petticoats,
a line of chorus girls kicking their skirts
overhead. Branches stacked with marshmallow globes,
leisure suit’s disco balls. Cumulus clouds
that open into thunderheads, the pom-poms
of boutonnieres and cheerleaders letting you know
what you had hoped for has arrived.
How grateful am I to those
who planted these trees sixty years ago,
not knowing who they planted them for.
---
A brand new poem, as in 53 minutes old!
Cherry or plum blossoms. Any ideas how to tell them apart. These trees bloomed late and had huge pink clusters. Thoughts?
with pink blossoms, clustered petticoats,
a line of chorus girls kicking their skirts
overhead. Branches stacked with marshmallow globes,
leisure suit’s disco balls. Cumulus clouds
that open into thunderheads, the pom-poms
of boutonnieres and cheerleaders letting you know
what you had hoped for has arrived.
How grateful am I to those
who planted these trees sixty years ago,
not knowing who they planted them for.
---
A brand new poem, as in 53 minutes old!
Cherry or plum blossoms. Any ideas how to tell them apart. These trees bloomed late and had huge pink clusters. Thoughts?
One night in June
An evening of poetry with Sharon Caseburg & Ariel Gordon
Where: Aqua Books, 274 Garry Street
When: Thursday, June 4, 7:00 pm
Please join Sharon & Ariel and their guests Tim Schouten and Neil Besner as they launch chapbooks from presses in Edmonton, Saskatoon, and Montreal.
In addition to the readings, the event will feature visual art by Tim Schouten [whose artwork "Untitled #117 (In the Absence of Horses)" is the cover of Guidelines] and Debbie Caseburg Tyson.
There will ALSO be one of EAT! Bistro's splendid cakes!
* * *
The Books
Ariel Gordon’s Guidelines: Malaysia & Indonesia, 1999 (Rubicon Press), explores what it means to ground oneself in landscape and family. These prose poems vividly chronicle the journey undertaken by two sisters to reconcile with their family’s past, and, over the course of their travels, with each other. A truly beautiful collection by a talented writer, this chapbook strikes a delicate balance between understanding the past and moving forward with strength into the future.
sleepwalking - poetry by Sharon Caseburg, jacket design and handwork by Debbie Caseburg Tyson - is a long elegy, elegant and other-worldly, wrapped in silk. Published by JackPine Press.
Rutting Season, published by Montreal’s Buffalo Runs Press, is an engaging and accessible mini-anthology that features the poetry of three fresh voices in Canadian poetry and places these poets into a critical conversation with each other. Ariel Gordon, Michael Lithgow, and Linda Besner put their heads together in this unique collection.
* * *
Poet Biographies
Sharon Caseburg is a Winnipeg-based writer, editor and book designer who splits her time between producing other people’s books and writing her own. Her poetry and critical writing have appeared in numerous Canadian publications.
Ariel Gordon is a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Her poetry has recently appeared in fine lit mags such as Carousel, QWERTY, and PRISM International and even circulated on buses in Manitoba and Alberta. After a handmade limited-edition chapbook with Kingsville’s Palimpsest Press sold out in fall 2008, Ariel's first full collection of poetry, Hump, is slated for publication with Palimpsest in spring 2010.
* * *
Artist Biographies
Debbie Caseburg Tyson is an Edmonton-based fibre artist and instructor who indulges her passion for colour and texture in both contemporary quilt art and embroidery disciplines. Her work resides nationally in both private and public collections.
Tim Schouten is a Winnipeg based artist who maintains a studio on his ranch near Petersfield, Manitoba where he lives with his wife, dogs and five horses. He has shown his work in solo and group exhibitions in Canada and the U.S. and his work can be found in private, corporate and public collections.
Where: Aqua Books, 274 Garry Street
When: Thursday, June 4, 7:00 pm
Please join Sharon & Ariel and their guests Tim Schouten and Neil Besner as they launch chapbooks from presses in Edmonton, Saskatoon, and Montreal.In addition to the readings, the event will feature visual art by Tim Schouten [whose artwork "Untitled #117 (In the Absence of Horses)" is the cover of Guidelines] and Debbie Caseburg Tyson.
There will ALSO be one of EAT! Bistro's splendid cakes!
* * *
The Books
Ariel Gordon’s Guidelines: Malaysia & Indonesia, 1999 (Rubicon Press), explores what it means to ground oneself in landscape and family. These prose poems vividly chronicle the journey undertaken by two sisters to reconcile with their family’s past, and, over the course of their travels, with each other. A truly beautiful collection by a talented writer, this chapbook strikes a delicate balance between understanding the past and moving forward with strength into the future.
sleepwalking - poetry by Sharon Caseburg, jacket design and handwork by Debbie Caseburg Tyson - is a long elegy, elegant and other-worldly, wrapped in silk. Published by JackPine Press.
Rutting Season, published by Montreal’s Buffalo Runs Press, is an engaging and accessible mini-anthology that features the poetry of three fresh voices in Canadian poetry and places these poets into a critical conversation with each other. Ariel Gordon, Michael Lithgow, and Linda Besner put their heads together in this unique collection.
* * *
Poet Biographies
Sharon Caseburg is a Winnipeg-based writer, editor and book designer who splits her time between producing other people’s books and writing her own. Her poetry and critical writing have appeared in numerous Canadian publications.
Ariel Gordon is a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Her poetry has recently appeared in fine lit mags such as Carousel, QWERTY, and PRISM International and even circulated on buses in Manitoba and Alberta. After a handmade limited-edition chapbook with Kingsville’s Palimpsest Press sold out in fall 2008, Ariel's first full collection of poetry, Hump, is slated for publication with Palimpsest in spring 2010.
* * *
Artist Biographies
Debbie Caseburg Tyson is an Edmonton-based fibre artist and instructor who indulges her passion for colour and texture in both contemporary quilt art and embroidery disciplines. Her work resides nationally in both private and public collections.
Tim Schouten is a Winnipeg based artist who maintains a studio on his ranch near Petersfield, Manitoba where he lives with his wife, dogs and five horses. He has shown his work in solo and group exhibitions in Canada and the U.S. and his work can be found in private, corporate and public collections.
Leg up: an inadequate elegy
What words? Good ones:
He gently boosted the established, or nouveau
up and comers
a gentle critic to build, and warm;
clean or correct.
A sculptor: pulled out merits,
assessed flaws. Of good judgement.
Trusted. For his talent, lived
from cheque to cheque.
When he went missing they didn't talk about
his book of poetry. Instead they
dragged the river. And should it be needed,
this item saved for the obituary.
But he would emerge, as a poet,
when he chose to emerge.
Three weeks later. Floating to the shore.
Dead stars in his eyes. Thumbs up.
He gently boosted the established, or nouveau
up and comers
a gentle critic to build, and warm;
clean or correct.
A sculptor: pulled out merits,
assessed flaws. Of good judgement.
Trusted. For his talent, lived
from cheque to cheque.
When he went missing they didn't talk about
his book of poetry. Instead they
dragged the river. And should it be needed,
this item saved for the obituary.
But he would emerge, as a poet,
when he chose to emerge.
Three weeks later. Floating to the shore.
Dead stars in his eyes. Thumbs up.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Charlie Brown's Teacher
Even those who don’t know the reference
imitate the algebra drone,
the wah wah wah wah,
as they plunger mute their ears.
Stoppered slide of a trombone
that blots out dates and chalk,
my mother’s voice on the phone.
Failing to hear the variables
of her day, then wanting her to share more.
But how can she, if I can’t remember
her insomnia, new haircut, the surface offerings
that might have opened into something
and didn’t when I was wah wah wah wah,
not listening.
imitate the algebra drone,
the wah wah wah wah,
as they plunger mute their ears.
Stoppered slide of a trombone
that blots out dates and chalk,
my mother’s voice on the phone.
Failing to hear the variables
of her day, then wanting her to share more.
But how can she, if I can’t remember
her insomnia, new haircut, the surface offerings
that might have opened into something
and didn’t when I was wah wah wah wah,
not listening.
Sacrament of Me - first draft
Late summer in ‘69 was just as groovy
as they say it was, flowers in the hair,
free love down in Union Square,
cheap strawberry-tasting wine everywhere,
waves of patchouli streaming like crepe paper
off longhaired Midwestern girls migrating
west see the ocean and smell sourdough.
All you who came after, all you hearing me
will just have to believe I’m too laid back
even now to lie about a funky hilly city
full of dreamers and wounded warriors
passing by the Presidio on their return,
where some of us found each other,
found ways to heal what had been hit,
feed what was starving, reach inside
to the wet place of connection –
the ancient joining, bodies remember
over wars over doubts about our names,
what piece of land spit us out,
how any of us came away whole.
Found the miracle of altars below our guts,
where we entered with no ID no check points
entered again and again, hard then harder
until we polished the halo of life
around our blown open soul-holes,
reaching deep into another live body,
the gentle way humans can touch,
should touch, fearless skin too tan,
without fundamental sin – those lies –
simply reaching into sweet living folds
around healthy blood right under skin,
blood that stays inside like it should, no
nightmare ambushing your sleep—
no bamboo spikes poisoned with shit
will pierce you or your buddies as you fall
into pits no one sees in the damp dark
jungle maze, where approaching women
will not wrap grenades in baby blankets
next to a real live not-a-doll baby
shoot, Tommy, shoot!
I can only hold tighter—
before the memory takes another son, a father
nowhere near home but further into that hell
we all knew was DC’s dirty trick on everyone.
The ones who came back, made it back at all,
hands tainted by jungle mold,
hungry for who they lost
usually themselves most of all,
needed every kind morsel I could muster
to feed them back their own souls, kiss them
sweet and deep, fuck the death off of them
until they moaned past the tears, lost in wet nights
spent surrounded hiding in rice paddies
dead bodies night-bumping, floating like ducks
in yellow dawn, waiting for Charlie to move
on, yeah those boys would sit right up and holler
at night, sweat soaking flowered sheets in my bed,
the only temple I could give them for divining
the path home, offer up the sacrament of me
as often as it took to get them straight, sleep pure
and believe it was OK to sit at their mama’s table,
head back to a horse ranch, go back to the pretty girl
they had in their wallet, cleaner now,
dipped beneath their own river Jordan,
and returned to the fold, it was OK.
They needed me to be who they needed me to be,
and it was my gift to give, holding their stories
in my body once they passed through the city
calling me to do my sacred duty.
as they say it was, flowers in the hair,
free love down in Union Square,
cheap strawberry-tasting wine everywhere,
waves of patchouli streaming like crepe paper
off longhaired Midwestern girls migrating
west see the ocean and smell sourdough.
All you who came after, all you hearing me
will just have to believe I’m too laid back
even now to lie about a funky hilly city
full of dreamers and wounded warriors
passing by the Presidio on their return,
where some of us found each other,
found ways to heal what had been hit,
feed what was starving, reach inside
to the wet place of connection –
the ancient joining, bodies remember
over wars over doubts about our names,
what piece of land spit us out,
how any of us came away whole.
Found the miracle of altars below our guts,
where we entered with no ID no check points
entered again and again, hard then harder
until we polished the halo of life
around our blown open soul-holes,
reaching deep into another live body,
the gentle way humans can touch,
should touch, fearless skin too tan,
without fundamental sin – those lies –
simply reaching into sweet living folds
around healthy blood right under skin,
blood that stays inside like it should, no
nightmare ambushing your sleep—
no bamboo spikes poisoned with shit
will pierce you or your buddies as you fall
into pits no one sees in the damp dark
jungle maze, where approaching women
will not wrap grenades in baby blankets
next to a real live not-a-doll baby
shoot, Tommy, shoot!
I can only hold tighter—
before the memory takes another son, a father
nowhere near home but further into that hell
we all knew was DC’s dirty trick on everyone.
The ones who came back, made it back at all,
hands tainted by jungle mold,
hungry for who they lost
usually themselves most of all,
needed every kind morsel I could muster
to feed them back their own souls, kiss them
sweet and deep, fuck the death off of them
until they moaned past the tears, lost in wet nights
spent surrounded hiding in rice paddies
dead bodies night-bumping, floating like ducks
in yellow dawn, waiting for Charlie to move
on, yeah those boys would sit right up and holler
at night, sweat soaking flowered sheets in my bed,
the only temple I could give them for divining
the path home, offer up the sacrament of me
as often as it took to get them straight, sleep pure
and believe it was OK to sit at their mama’s table,
head back to a horse ranch, go back to the pretty girl
they had in their wallet, cleaner now,
dipped beneath their own river Jordan,
and returned to the fold, it was OK.
They needed me to be who they needed me to be,
and it was my gift to give, holding their stories
in my body once they passed through the city
calling me to do my sacred duty.
Morning, (v)
.
he left his morning coffee
on the table where i sip
staring at his cup
unstirred
sun pours through
the kitchen window
left open by him
before he disappeared
into his life
again
there were no warnings
no signs that he might
slip away
.......i try to remember
what I told myself
I wouldn't forget
next time
the sun
moves on and
the steam on his
morning coffee
clears
..
he left his morning coffee
on the table where i sip
staring at his cup
unstirred
sun pours through
the kitchen window
left open by him
before he disappeared
into his life
again
there were no warnings
no signs that he might
slip away
.......i try to remember
what I told myself
I wouldn't forget
next time
the sun
moves on and
the steam on his
morning coffee
clears
..
Pressing Deadlines
shouldbemorelikepressingflowersinacatalogue.
pickybutenjoyable orlikecreasesinpolyester
slacks canyoustillget
those theymaybe
onethingevenrarerthanan
unpressingdeadline
:)
pickybutenjoyable orlikecreasesinpolyester
slacks canyoustillget
those theymaybe
onethingevenrarerthanan
unpressingdeadline
:)
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Madigan General 1970
In the spidery one-story hospital with wings
laid out to avoid total destruction
if bombed by planes from the Rising Sun ,
war wounded and dependents shared
a splayed structure left over from WWII
smack between Army and Air Force bases
beneath the distant peak of Mt. Rainer
close enough to the Pacific so boys
could be flown straight from Vietnam –
that’s where my sweet boy was born
first dancing his tiny feet on the planet,
hands waving like a mad conductor,
sugar voice already singing candy.
Outside I held him in my milky arms
held him up to the lights-out night sky
and promised that this one
would be a warrior for peace,
this one would question orders,
this one would be in the battalion
of creation, be the lead singer screaming
come together and never know shrapnel
beneath his skin, never see bodies fly
through rice paddies or pick up pieces
of his buddies for Nixon’s sake.
It was all I knew then, all the vow I prayed
after fucking the life back into his teenage father
when he came back all caked in death
three Purple Hearts in velvet cases
while his own kept bleeding tears
when he picked at his crying guitar.
laid out to avoid total destruction
if bombed by planes from the Rising Sun ,
war wounded and dependents shared
a splayed structure left over from WWII
smack between Army and Air Force bases
beneath the distant peak of Mt. Rainer
close enough to the Pacific so boys
could be flown straight from Vietnam –
that’s where my sweet boy was born
first dancing his tiny feet on the planet,
hands waving like a mad conductor,
sugar voice already singing candy.
Outside I held him in my milky arms
held him up to the lights-out night sky
and promised that this one
would be a warrior for peace,
this one would question orders,
this one would be in the battalion
of creation, be the lead singer screaming
come together and never know shrapnel
beneath his skin, never see bodies fly
through rice paddies or pick up pieces
of his buddies for Nixon’s sake.
It was all I knew then, all the vow I prayed
after fucking the life back into his teenage father
when he came back all caked in death
three Purple Hearts in velvet cases
while his own kept bleeding tears
when he picked at his crying guitar.
night Letters #18 Q
ق
qaf
the beginning of pen;
write a letter,
write a letter to her,
write a letter to him;
write rings of mountains,
write lapus,
write poppies in bloom;
write the four chambers,
your aorta,
write veins, write blood;
write rose petals,
pomegranate,
write black storks’ return;
write all of it,
write sand, worry,
celebration;
write despair.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Album
And this is the pantry shelf:
twelve quarts of peaches,
seven pints of plums,
six pints of salsa.
Half-pints of jam, jelly:
strawberry, apricot, chokecherry.
A good shot, I think—
the contrasting colors,
the shine of the jars.
Most of it's gone now.
Last jar of peaches just emptied;
only apricot jam left (nobody's favorite).
Berries will come first. Then apricots,
peaches, plums, tomatoes.
Ritual of filling the canner, bathing the jars
with boiling water. Lids hot, syrup bubbling.
All the precautions against a faulty seal
letting in deadly spores.
Steam jostling the canner lid.
Kitchen sticky with fruit.
Bright sweetness preserved,
made to disappear.
Last Call
Between the chorus of hurried humming cars
slinging themselves around the curve
and lullabies of goodnight birds
with bellies full of my tossed bread,
I know the lavender sky is bluing into
the navy curtain that passes for black.
Stage lights will fade out faster.
Sequined stars will appear
and only the tweets from trees,
droning tires and aerobic footsteps
will carry on the story of evening.
slinging themselves around the curve
and lullabies of goodnight birds
with bellies full of my tossed bread,
I know the lavender sky is bluing into
the navy curtain that passes for black.
Stage lights will fade out faster.
Sequined stars will appear
and only the tweets from trees,
droning tires and aerobic footsteps
will carry on the story of evening.
night Letters #17 P
phosphorus
white phosphorus
flashing night sky,
in the desert wild dogs'
pupils wide,
burnt brilliance of metal,
of chemical,
while children lie
a thousand years sleeping
for roses, for pomegranates,
for black storks to arrive.
How to Write a Poem
“Step #12: Get opinions. It can be hard to critique your own work, so after you've done an initial edit, try to get some friends or a poetry group (there are plenty online) to look at your poem for you.” – wikiHow, How to Write a Poem.
1.
Write about what terrifies you but, um, wait until mum or dad is dead to do it. For the family’s sake…
2.
Take all the punctuation out of your poem.
3.
Your lover should be your first reader and your subject, but know this: having good sex is hard. Writing good sex is harder. Believing someone who just had their head between your legs – even if they’re a hardcore critic – impossible.
4.
No one needs your next poem.
(Everyone needs your next goddamn poem.)
5.
If writing rhyming poetry about God from jail, realize you’ve hit the trifecta. Celebrate by centering everything on the hard drive that's not porn.
6.
capital letters are for suckers. seersuckers. sapsuckers.
7.
Also: use the page. Engage the ear. Allude to classical texts, sneak in a few impeccable pop culture references. Break the line. Break a leg. Consider and re-consider sex, love, death. Have a firm grasp of grammar and syntax but also have something on the side with the fragment. Form should follow content but, hopefully, not stalker-close. Cause, you know, that's not write.
8.
Put the punctuation back in.
9.
Don’t write poems about writing poems.
Oh. Shit.
She was no Victoria
this faded sepia woman
in full regalia. Sunlight-stained photo
a gravemarker
anyone can see
you existed in
two worlds. You loved well
in both, but lived well
in neither.
The only thing you would never stop wanting:
his arms at night. His snore.
What you would remember:
the times you feigned sleep.
He loved to watch you
brush your hair.
This picture says you lived to see your children and grand-children
walk down a hundred paths paved with bad intentions.
You faced down the fear of lighting your fire at night,
because every scenario brought a wolf. It says you grew
wider, wilder, wiser, wished
for death.
The first winter after the soldiers left for their home, yours still smoking -
that winter your youngest child named for the father
he never saw
froze to death in his sister's arms. That night you had snared
a winter-thin jackrabbit. You didn't
cry.
Skinning the rabbit was
like undressing an unruly child in too-tight clothes.
You have a scar still on your hand. Just there.
You were the rabbit and the snare.
Beneath wolfwillow you dug a hole
buried your own tongue, mermaid of
the plains.
When the bush was cut down, an entire world in the roots.
Sweep the sky clean.
in full regalia. Sunlight-stained photo
a gravemarker
anyone can see
you existed in
two worlds. You loved well
in both, but lived well
in neither.
The only thing you would never stop wanting:
his arms at night. His snore.
What you would remember:
the times you feigned sleep.
He loved to watch you
brush your hair.
This picture says you lived to see your children and grand-children
walk down a hundred paths paved with bad intentions.
You faced down the fear of lighting your fire at night,
because every scenario brought a wolf. It says you grew
wider, wilder, wiser, wished
for death.
The first winter after the soldiers left for their home, yours still smoking -
that winter your youngest child named for the father
he never saw
froze to death in his sister's arms. That night you had snared
a winter-thin jackrabbit. You didn't
cry.
Skinning the rabbit was
like undressing an unruly child in too-tight clothes.
You have a scar still on your hand. Just there.
You were the rabbit and the snare.
Beneath wolfwillow you dug a hole
buried your own tongue, mermaid of
the plains.
When the bush was cut down, an entire world in the roots.
Sweep the sky clean.
afternoon, (vii)
.
Mémère would have called it ominous,
the dead sapsucker I found
on your doorstep that day.
.....Yet, how beautiful it was,
.....cloaked in its orange and black
.....and white feathers, its tiny
.....bird feet turned toward
.....the sun-filled sky.
.
Mémère would have called it ominous,
the dead sapsucker I found
on your doorstep that day.
.....Yet, how beautiful it was,
.....cloaked in its orange and black
.....and white feathers, its tiny
.....bird feet turned toward
.....the sun-filled sky.
.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Relocation
The determined jade plant grows
past its tiny pot.
Thick waxy leaves
reach downward –
arching stems droop
like a weeping willow’s
silk strung silhouette, yet
with so much flesh from
so little moisture in its form.
Leaning on a plain white wall
beneath a southern window,
dance-like long-limbed shadows
double its true mass,
hint at fluid movement.
The shiny green top-heavy succulent
defies thinning laws of gravity,
daring the round terracotta limits
to hold still whatever passes
for jade feet, all ready to step out
and find more suitable
accommodations.
past its tiny pot.
Thick waxy leaves
reach downward –
arching stems droop
like a weeping willow’s
silk strung silhouette, yet
with so much flesh from
so little moisture in its form.
Leaning on a plain white wall
beneath a southern window,
dance-like long-limbed shadows
double its true mass,
hint at fluid movement.
The shiny green top-heavy succulent
defies thinning laws of gravity,
daring the round terracotta limits
to hold still whatever passes
for jade feet, all ready to step out
and find more suitable
accommodations.
throat
focus on throat –
twinned ridges flicker
with every strained breath
read your range,
her next punch,
in the shadow of clavicle
can’t look at her fists,
can’t follow one
without seeing the other
too late, only when
leather dries cornea
can’t let gaze stray
near her eyes without losing
point of view – remote, objective –
your strength, drive,
pulled under, sunk, by her own
lock sight on throat, throw
six inches north or south,
see nose, ribs, only through your gloves,
watch neck thicken
to swallow, collar heave
focus on throat –
twinned ridges flicker
with every strained breath
read your range,
her next punch,
in the shadow of clavicle
can’t look at her fists,
can’t follow one
without seeing the other
too late, only when
leather dries cornea
can’t let gaze stray
near her eyes without losing
point of view – remote, objective –
your strength, drive,
pulled under, sunk, by her own
lock sight on throat, throw
six inches north or south,
see nose, ribs, only through your gloves,
watch neck thicken
to swallow, collar heave
night Letters #16 O
oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no...
I read your words this morning,
two years have almost passed;
could you not have foreseen?
it was all there in every word you wrote:
the foundering; the hurricane;
the broken ship;
you, slipped from our harbour.
I read your words,
this endless mourning.
afternoon, (vi)
.l’homme orange - 3ième partie
je dessine mon cœur sur
un bout de papier,
c’est pour toi, je murmure en coulant
égratigné en forme de lettres
il est là en rouge saignant
c’est trop pesant, tu me dis.
je reprends mon papier
je corrige mon échec et maintenant
tu souris, en voyant mon cœur violet.
.
je dessine mon cœur sur
un bout de papier,
c’est pour toi, je murmure en coulant
égratigné en forme de lettres
il est là en rouge saignant
c’est trop pesant, tu me dis.
je reprends mon papier
je corrige mon échec et maintenant
tu souris, en voyant mon cœur violet.
.
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