Posts tagged ‘2007’

Friday, 1 July 2022

The Road from Corpus Christi to Sangre de Christo by Ellen Dudley

Outside Seguin, a billboard says you can hunt year round
— in safety —  and the Army boys love it.
They gather the way the Navy boys gathered in our livingroom
where I brought beer, wore shorts against my husband’s edicts,
stayed across the counter while they watched the movie:
a naked man bent over a blonde woman on her hands and knees,
the veins on his arms and neck standing out
as he held her shoulders, her throat, rammed at her
until she wasn’t pretending, until her eyes widened
with surprise, then fear, and she was thrashing
and the only sound you could hear was his breathing, her choking
until his harsh wail covered everything in my house
and she didn’t move any more. The tail of the eight millimeter reel
slapped the projector and nobody said anything —
just like I don’t say anything now, driving across the Pecos, left
foot up on the dashboard to catch the wind, long tan expanse of
thigh exposed, as a trucker passing hisses his airbrakes
and swerves. I don’t even give him the finger.
But I think about the way those two thumbs on the temples
held my head steady while that tongue traced a line
from ear to clavicle, palms on my carotids.
I remember the Beretta between us, its blue heft warming
on my belly, my hand resting on its grip, as a man
whose name I can’t remember moved in me.
Out here now, the night is coming on, and when the moon rises
full and burning, I’ll kill the lights and ride the shining
white line into the desert dark.


Date: 2007

By: Ellen Dudley (19??- )

Monday, 20 June 2022

In Shadows, They Cry by C.S. Fuqua

Vague apparitions,
she explains,
assemble near the soon-to-die,
faces and features distorted,
darkness shaping, reshaping
all but the eyes which
remain constant,
pleading, accusing,
until she flees
in prayers for strength
to blind herself.
Trembling with knowledge,
she says nothing to those
around whom the darkness gathers,
nor to the darkness itself.
If the shadows clot around me,
I begged her, please tell me.
She cried softly
across the ocean that separates us.

Longing in this room,
I whisper to the silence,
さびしい です、*
and reach for invisible hands.

*sabishii desu:  “I am lonely.”


Date: 2007

By: C. S. Fuqua (19??- )

Sunday, 3 April 2022

[The Midnight Moon] by Yasuhara Teishitsu

the midnight moon—
almost like a big chunk
of coolness.


Date: c1670 (original in Japanese); 2007 (translation in English)

By: Yasuhara Teishitsu (1610-1673)

Translated by: Gabi Greve (1948- )

Tuesday, 22 March 2022

The Backwards Flight of Names by Gretchen Mattox

in dream my mother has planted a yard of sorrel,
yellow flowers folding into themselves like beach umbrellas

taste sour like sorrow and I want that yard of grass—

we know the men can’t be trusted so let them go

but what about the bitterness?—sting like soap in the eye
the time my mother washed my mouth out

for saying shit—hard bar of Dial sudsing, rabid


Date: 2007

By: Gretchen Mattox (19??- )

Tuesday, 30 November 2021

In the Shadow of Turning: Throwing Salt by Carolyn Marie Rodgers

Salt is what
it all becomes.
Salt always did make me crave
sugar. If I could have turned and
looked back, like Lot’s wife,
I never would have.
Turning is for other memories.

Memories are actually seasons
of homeless dreams.
The main event in life is something
we think we can plan, but can’t.
A nest or fishnet of categories. Of hunger.
A need river, running wild in every
imaginable direction.

It would have all been salt, and me,
craving sugar.


Date: 2007

By: Carolyn Marie Rodgers (1940-2010)

Monday, 1 November 2021

All Saints Day by Amy Gerstler

The holiday arrives
quietly like phrases
of faint praise
in Braille. Famous
saints bow at the waist,
then step back, making
room for scores
of unknown saints,
to whom this day
also belongs. Not
a glamorous bunch,
these uncanonized,
unsung ones, shading
their eyes shyly
in the backs of the minds
of the few who knew them.
Hung-over, mute, confused,
hunched, clumsy, blue,
pinched, rigid or fidgety,
unable to look the radioactive,
well-dressed major saints
in the eye, they wonder
terrified: What (the fuck)
Am I Doing Here? Still
drenched, the tobacco
spitting fisherman who dove
after a dog swept downriver
looks in vain for a towel,
too timid to ask. (His dog
now sports a halo, too.)
Robed in volcanic ash,
a brave Pompeii matron
is mistaken by St. Catherine
for a sooty statue. An old
coot who serenaded
his dying wife with her
favorite ukulele tunes
is still trying to find her,
as his map of the afterlife
proved unreliable. What can
we offer these reticent saints
who lacked press agents?
Flowers? Lit candles? Floating
lanterns? The nerdy
fat whistle-blower from
the chemical plant
whose plaid slacks
made his coworkers
laugh behind his back
nervously jokes sotto
voce that he’d give
his soul for a Coke,
but no one can hear him.


Date: 2007

By: Amy Gerstler (1956- )

Thursday, 13 May 2021

Music (from “Antigone”) by Sophocles

By Memory’s daughters,
the Muses,
named Lethe, is hated
And not to be loved.
O for mortals, what
Power there is in songs,
What greatest happiness
That can make bearable this
Short narrow channel of life!

From: Sophocles, “Music” in Poetry, Issue 71437, March 2007, p. 462.

Date: c441 BCE (original in Greek); 2007 (translation in English)

By: Sophocles (c497/6 BCE-406/5 BCE)

Translated by: Reginald Gibbons (1947- )

Wednesday, 28 April 2021

Work by Debbie Lustig

No words only our breathing — two people
in a garage. Workbenched, love-bolted.
Quiet flits like wood dust. Rough surfaces
catch small sounds. My father and me,
constructing memories. He glues,
mixing resins with medical art. I carve
aluminium, butter-soft, young.
My vice holds a Chinese pictogram
with a promise of luck. I urge my fretsaw
carefully through the maze.
The tools are a language
he will teach me to speak:
unused like spices, twinned
to the wall, shadowing themselves.
I coast on a lull, the air sawdust-spattered.
Soon, I will lose the Chinese pendant
and he will finish building a boat.
He will leave me with a brass fob-watch that
has stopped then
turn his attention to a project with no name

From: Lustig, Debbie, “Work” in Eureka Street, Volume 17, Issue 23, 29 November 2007, p. 36.
(09 Oct 2008 – – Trove)

Date: 2007

By: Debbie Lustig (19??- )

Tuesday, 23 February 2021

Lemons by Toh Hsien Min

When life gives me lemons, I make lemonade.
As a boy, I detested the taste of lemons,
that sharp sourness captured in a grimace,
but recently I have had so much citrus fruit
that I’ve adjusted to the attack of the acid.
The other day I found myself biting into
lemon wedges for the juice, as though
they were orange slices.  It made me think
how during our university days we bought
bags of lemons from Sainsbury’s because
they were cheap.  I squeezed yellow halves
till my hands tingled for an hour, while you
turned a heap of sugar into syrup.  No matter
what we felt about that white snowdrift of guilt,
we knew through trying that there was a point
at which a virtuous loss of sweetness
turned to an uncomfortable biting of tongues,
and if we were to let doubt cool all morning
in the fridge we would have the poor choice
of hot syrup or watering down painfully
squeezed lemonade.  We hadn’t learnt, though,
that the same applies to unheaped denials,
that belief sustains the unspoken like a wound,
and that even if the nice thing about lemons
is that unlike blood oranges they don’t stain
no matter how careless you are with them,
their invisible ink shows when you try
suspected surfaces with heat.  I suppose
you can’t compare lemons and oranges,
but if you know the only red nettings to end up
in my fruit compartment hold Valencia oranges,
you’ll understand my surprise, with the wedges,
to have discovered aftertaste, the lingering
in the mouth of a peculiarly silky sweetness
that is inestimable relief after the assault.


Date: 2007

By: Toh Hsien Min (1975- )

Tuesday, 16 February 2021

Snowy Morning by Den Sutejo

snowy morning—
tracks of wooden sandals
two lines, two lines again


Date: 1640 (original in Japanese); 2007 (translation in English)

By: Den Sutejo (1634-1698)

Translated by: Gabi Greve (1948- )