Prelude to nocturne

Salt moon dissolves in stir of afternoon sun.
An east wind surrenders up the tinkling
of shop bells, ice cream bikes.
The backyard is ghosted
by the children who once
lived here. Skipping rope
knotted in branches, plastic
frisbee lost on the shed roof.

Generation

(after hearing "A Prayer to the Dynamo" at the New Music Festival)

The beginning was like this: a deep thrum
to set the earth's foundations,
a heart-hum while laying their cornerstone.
Start of the rotation that would drive the days.
An aurora of sound, the new skies swelling
with almost-light.

There was always a bass line, steady
or pulsating, always the rapid current
of flutes building suspense.
String glissando repeated, repeated:
In a moment life will begin.
They are ready to run.

Then the awakening. One after another
they present themselves, assert
their ostinato signatures: the low strings plodding,
violins skittering, brasses in bullfrog crescendo,
bird-flutes' ear-piercing excitement.
The wide-open day. The promise at evening:
this was only the first.

aftr th afll 5

sum1 iz dustng my braaine
th insid ov my skul
tickl feether dustr tickl
2day i wake wth a smile
no cry, cuz i drmed of u
all nite i drmed of u
tht u allwed u 2 luv me
th waay i kno u do

Song of...

Your armpit is a red squirrel torn

open on the road.

Your forearms are as cars left

at the curb, mid-summer: covered in aphid shit.

Which is to say you’re mottled. But your shoulder

is a high-beam. A bare gleam.

Your ass is two feral cats

in the auto bin.

* * *

Your eyes the lit tip

of a cigarette

coming towards me

in the dark.

* * *

Yes, your armpit is a dead squirrel.

And your ass is two gasoline pigeons

squabbling in the eaves. Two ginger cats

in the auto bin.

* * *

Your face

the sidewalk puddle

I shuffle through.

Your eyes

my last cigarette.

* * *

Your love for me is a raccoon

living under the porch & licking its lips

on garbage day.

No, wait! Your love is a brown vole

drowned in a pool

in a better neighbourhood.

* * *

Your pursed lips

a thunderstorm

I try to sleep through.

* * *

Your love for me is a raccoon

knocking over garbage cans & growling.

But without you, the streetlights won’t

come on. I sputter, hiccup.

A car rattling down the alley

& never coming home.

PDA

 

My love is anchored to the ground

with steel rods;

her skins maintained

rust-free but heavy

with metals;

her tentacles unwrapping themselves invisibly and stretching

out for me. I come to her.

 

She is girders and grids and grates.

She is hard mesh, polished steel, reinforced concrete.

She is all limbs,

from one side of the river

to the other.

 

My love is never empty of people.

When I kiss her I try

to forget the cameras

installed to spy on jumpers;

to show families;

to identify bodies.

She tells me, she cries

her freshwater tears for all those lost.

 

At night I stuff my nose against

the urine-soaked graffiti and beaten dogs,

the shopping cart men, abandoned stashes,

downstream sludge. I come with flimsy

trenchcoat and a blanket against the damp.

I am naked against the water lights.

I am here, my love, I know you

feel me; I feel

your immensity; I am cold;

my tongue senses salt, minerals, on dirty concrete;

palms scraped on rough patches, pelvic bones,

redder than carpet burn; on my knees, filthy;

I am whispering to you: where are the cameras now?

I am not ashamed.

 

Postcard that never got sent

It wasn't a beach. It was rocks and rocks.
I skipped them into the frigid waves
and wondered at this ancient place
that had no sand. Was this why
your ancestors left this land?

13 Things I learned in the last year

1 How long I can go without doing dishes 
2 How to discreetly wipe tears
      from the floor of a bathroom stall 
3 A made bed can feel like comfort at the end of the day
4 Love shouldn't feel like chains
5 How long it takes pain to fade
     and that some of it never will
6 Just what FWB means, and why it's so handy
7 That No Strings Attached can still get tangled
8 How to create a family of right now 
9 Judgment is something we bring on ourselves  
10 You really don't know who your friends are until you're gone
11 Guilt and recovery are incompatible 
12 More than ever, that God equals love
13 How to ask for help
        even when I still don't want to

Little white lie

 After Raffi's "Baby Beluga."

I met him on a two-hour tour

of the ice floes. Surveilled by zodiacs,

we felt the click of shutters on us

and in us

as tourists leaned out over the water,

their devices reassuring them: This moment.

Yes. You’ve got it. We answered

with the silence of our white flanks, how we turned

and turned. How we were

suspended. But his hands were empty

& his eyes moved

so slowly from snout to side. I was the smallest,

the one always on the extreme edge

of the pod. But I crept closer, the water

as blue as his eyes. Later, he told me

his smartphone was in his pocket,

battery drained.

Or he would have been all over me.

That night, confused by meltwater,

I circled the harbor’s plastic junk & beached

myself when I saw him, thin & drunk

& knee-deep in slush. He’d wandered windburnt

out of the bar, his adventure

gear bright foolishness on the scree

but he clasped me so gratefully,

his nipples small hard stones

against my chest, I thought he knew me.

On the way to his room, I adjusted the drape

of my skin – dingy towel –  around my shoulders

& discovered what it was

to shiver. He muttered

& held me tight, as if I was a sperm whale

and my skull made light enough

for two.

Three years later, my skin –

dirty laundry – was in the baby-bag.

But he left it on the front porch,

brought only his credit card to the hospital.

The labour was as long

as that first night

in the tangle of his arms, as slow

as the train back to the city in the morning.

I wanted to give birth in water,

wanted to wash the baby out, my skin the rag

shaping her, but the big-city birthing center

was delayed and badly over-budget.

So I bore down in a bed,

his fingers rubbing my lower back,

his palm
measuring out my spine.

after th fall 4

i ramember now
bill bisstt hd a fall
tho i 4gt xcatly how
he 2 4got 2 spelll
          *
my braiin iz cryng now
it hurtz 2 c th mntains clos
it hurtz 2 c th rver clos
it hurtz it hurtz it


hurtz

Slip

There must be a word for it, that prickle
at the base of the skull, that electric
tingle up the arm
that says you've come this close
to doing something stupid enough
to kill you, or at least
cut off a finger. That half-second loss
of good sense that lets you run
out into traffic, balance too many plates
on one hand, chop a hard-skinned squash
with an old knife— that moment's over,
you're startled into clarity, trembling
with what-ifs.

And there's got to be a word
for that other sensation, the one
that says you've really done it now.
The stack of plates in going to hit the floor,
the dull knife blade has slipped,
that blur and screech is a car,
and your inner signal is accurate,
if a little late.

Cyrk

Assied dans le sombre 

au pied des lumières à l’estrade 

son ombre tombe sur moi. 

Je lui demande, «C’est quoi ton art ?»  

                        «Je me contente à regarder.»

il me dit sans fla-fla. Et quoi donc riposter ? 

En silence nous regardons côte à côte 

la performance de bouffons qui chantent et 

qui dansent dans la maison des artistes. 

«Mais tout le monde a un art !» je bougonne, 

essayant de cacher mon mécontentement. 

                        L’homme sans nom 

revient chaque vendredi soir inspecter 

les artistes qui jouent à l’estrade, qui dansent

parmi les tables où nous y sommes 

assieds côte à côte. 

Il ne bouge presque pas, claque des mains parfois, 

ne parle jamais sans être provoqué. 

Il regarde uniquement il regarde   

et hoche la tête dans ma direction 

avant de partir 

pour son destin clandestin. 

Dans la nuit 

quand le sommeil ne me trouve pas,

c'est pour lui que j'écris, 

l'homme qui s'assied

dans le noir de la nuit.

Annikin

Annikin.

Annikin!

 

Get in here this instant.

 

Let me introduce

Oedipus and Electra (the twins),

Lolita,

and Annikin. I outlined the kids

when I studied with Robert McKee

one weekend. Children

expensive, but highly motivated

and freckled with plot points.

 

Annikin is the eldest--he has almost reached his

innermost cave, where he'll make out

with a girl and grab

a trophy to bring back to my side.

The ordinary world. I'm his mom so

I make a good archetype.

No, that part's not McKee.

He's all about the climax,

which is after the cave...

anyway, when Annikin pulls out

he'll change,

he'll come with knowledge and power, and hopefully

get a dream job.

 

 

 

 

Retrospective Weather Report

Yesterday's rain: on the roof, a madman played banjo.
Traffic sprayed and spun through liquid glissandos.
Today, elderly neighbours assert seniority over lawns.
Traffic chirrs and wheezes in a brisk wind.
The sky is a bluebird.
Suntrampled clouds molting like feathers.
Everything tastes of dust and sunshine.

aftr th fall 3

concush i weeep, i sleeep no
sleeep bt all i wan
t 2 do iz sleeeep

rown 5 am th pane th kniffe
withn my brokn breast
it caanot sleeep my brokn hed

bt i 4get bt i f4gt
insted i weep
my ded my ded

The Dream of the Hybrid Electric Woman

I hang tired;


there is no real place for me.

Low ROI in my recharging.

I am stuck in a loop of two ways once--

a workhorse and a thwarted feat

of engineered beauty.

 

And beautiful engineering.

Just imagine what my guts must resemble

when spilled on the sofa:

steamy and silicone as a sterile sex toy.

I put out more accurate predictive outputs

than the guts of goats. Cut me

open and I will calculate

the probabilities folded in your palms.

Sitting still and unzipped

I am admirable, obedient, necessary, and foreboding.

Sew my eyes closed

and I will rapid dream you

some hybrid sheep,

as beautiful as they are sheepish;

as hungry as they are delicious.

 

 

 

 

How to Tell if Someone is Dead

“Warning #2: Do not hesitate to call police/EMS if you think someone is dying or is in fact dead.” – How to Tell if Someone is Dead, wikiHow.

1)

You will be told she is dead, given some cursory explanation. Heart stoppage. Her comfortable old car t-boned on a dirt road. Her body sprawls in the imagination, undone, but there is no proof. And how you will really know she is dead is that you will never see her again.

You will be her Facebook friend forever. It is cruel to unfriend the dead.

2)

A phone that falls between couch cushions & loses its charge.

The scab of feet & fur you find between boxes in the basement, come moving day.

A flashlight that comes out of the drawer chalky with battery acid.

White-white fish bellies floating at the surface.

A spent match, reeking of sulfur.

A butcher’s case full of distended cow tongues.

Her body, going stiff on the floor.

3)

Her reluctant bellyaching is in no way absorbed by the beige walls of the waiting room. Immediate but pointless surgery, her body a tank full of bleached coral & deep sea creatures, blinking. Her body as automaton, as relentless machine, except made of sponge cake & gory jam. Her shrunken, sheeted death, tubes everywhere. And you holding her hand, tight & useless.

4)

A discreet cough.

A powdery compact mirror.

A tentative poke.

A cut onion.

A vicious pinch.

5)

She sleeps in. You leave her undisturbed through the morning, thinking, “She needs her sleep.” You try to make as little sound as possible at first, but then get bolder, your kettle whistling jauntily mid-afternoon. But still, it is her right to sleep as long as she likes. And then you remember you need something in her room. You turn the knob hesitantly, like a thief in your own home. Your irritation shot through with something that tastes like fourteen hours of sleep, like a waking dream. 

Hammock in the Rain

Gravity freefalls the light downwards
with the slanting rain. Sunlight diffused
beneath a gauzed shade by a dimming bulb. Vertical
objects side-dampened like badly iced cake. Swaying, swaying
in this canvas cradle. Branches rock like seafronds in a coral reef.
It makes you float away. In the hammock, acid rain rinses saline tears.
Rinses residue you didn't know was there. Grey leafless trees like broken umbrellas
propped against charcoal-washed skies. Bough ends lace-tipped with budding promise.

May Day Moon

there should be a moon tonight

but the rain has washed it away,

leaked its golden streaks

deep into the earth crust;

the only sound now, the crunch of

footfalls on moonbeams, mine.

..just a note..this poet is experiencing serious computer issues, so i May signal in and out..

aftr th fall 2

der mom, i 4gt 4gt did i tell u
bout th fall, th smck agnst my skul?
ystrdaey i slept & slept dreemd
of thos hoove left, 1 pon1,
my dad, r dead,
& whle i slept they crpt
in2 my studeeo in th treez
my Vlentine cathdrl wuds
they mde me tee, they tlked 2 me
we tlked gossup, my dad tld jokes,
& whn i woke i watchd thm bord
th fishng boat th Elsie K
th 1 tht floats amung th trreez
th 1 tht sumhow frghtns me
til i peekd in saw dad & chriss
& beutiful 1 r own court en ee
& saw thm laff & saw thm smok
slam vdka shootrs on tht boat
they delt 4 hands they bekond me
bt my hed culdn't let me see how
2 swim a wuden sea, my brokn hed
i wnt 2 sleep, i 4gt mom
do u rmembr me?

Hello/Poem 1

Hooray, hooray, the First of May! Has it really been 8 years? Happy to be here, hoping to post a few poems a week, and looking so much forward to reading everyone else's posts! Transitioning between jobs, and still, ever, transitioning in general, so will be good to have this creative magnet calling to me...

-------------------------

Misterious

Even in the city

there are mysteries

Fog over the lake this morning

makes it seem more than ever

like there is no other side,

that this is all there is:

my building,

the one next door,

a row of trees,

green branches

that blur at the edges,

then infinite pale blue space

cut with vague shapes

of what is yet to be revealed.

Fisheye

Avian Flew

It's the birds I notice.

Dawn-filled chirps at 4 am
emptyhanded grasp at sleep replaced
instead with hungover wonder: whose idea
to plant trees around the house?

Daytime, and glossbacked crows wing singly overhead,
bad times karaoke from the pine trees.
Many a murder we've watched
from the front window.

Spring and fall, geese sew and hem
the seasons, stitching grey skies.
Hoarse gabbling of week-long pubcrawlers
Hardscrabbling the fields.

Winter, old nests
ghost the tree.
It's the lack of birds
I notice.

Thumbing it

[Thanks!]

aftr th fall 1

der mom, jst want u 2 kno
I undrstnd hw u feel gtting old. 86.
yr hed, yr mrvelous brain, mnd,
lik my brain shak concussn.
peach fuzzy thgts, not qte thr,
peach flesh bruisd
drpped too many tmes—
but th pit,  th core of u
th seed life u gav me,
stll whol, stll thr.

Octet

Hey all,

This will be my eighth May Day. And after eight years of shouting for help ("M'aidez!"), I decided to whisper a bit and leave the halloo-ing to Joanne.

Though I haven't been horribly productive the last few years, I happen to be writing a fair bit these days and so am looking forward to sharing poems. Probably not one a day, mind you...but a few a week is possible.

So, to sum: I'm glad to be back and I'm glad not to be in charge.

Welcome back to May Day

It's good to see some of you back again this year. I was happy to take on the coordination of the site, since I've come to rely on it as a spring ritual and a yearly discipline. I am going to try to average three or four poems per week, as I want to build up some additional material for a manuscript.

Introduction

Hi there! I think this is my third May Day -- I try to post five very, very rough drafts per week, and I attempt to comment twice each time I post. I never QUITE live up to my goals -- well, so far I've been pretty good for the first half of May, not so good in the second half. Looking forward to it! I need deadlines!

Another May, Another Day

I am working on a thesis, but since it's in poetry, we'll see what can be done! Looking forward to MayDay2012, amidst the chaos. ~ Andie