Posts tagged ‘2011’

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

WalMart Supercenter by Erika Meitner

God Bless America says the bumper sticker on the racer-red
Rascal scooter that accidentally cuts me off in the Walmart parking lot
after a guy in a tricked out jeep with rims like chrome pinwheels tries
to pick me up by honking, all before I make it past the automatic doors
waiting to accept my unwashed hair, my flip-flops, my lounge pants.

The old man on the scooter waves, sports a straw boater banded in blue & white,
and may or may not be the official greeter, but everyone here sure is friendly—
even the faces of plastic bags, which wink yellow and crinkle with kindness,
sound like applause when they brush the legs of shoppers carrying them
to their cars. In Port Charlotte, a woman’s body was found in a Jetta

in a Walmart Parking lot. In a Walmart parking lot in Springfield,
a macaque monkey named Charlie attacked an eight year-old girl.
I am a Walmart shopper, a tract-house dweller—the developments
you can see clearly from every highway in America that’s not jammed up
on farmland or pinned in by mountains. I park my car at a slant in the lot,

hugged tight by my neighbors’ pickups. I drive my enormous cart
through the aisles and fill it with Pampers, tube socks, juice boxes, fruit.
In the parking lot of the McAllen Walmart, a woman tried to sell six
Bengal Tiger cubs to a group of Mexican day laborers. A man carjacked
a woman in the parking lot of the West Mifflin Walmart, then ran

under a bridge and disappeared. Which is to say that the world
we expect to see looks hewn from wood, is maybe two lanes wide,
has readily identifiable produce, and the one we’ve got has jackknifed itself
on the side of the interstate and keeps skidding. The one we’ve got has clouds
traveling so fast across the sky it’s like they’re tied to an electric current.

But electricity is the same for everybody. It comes in the top of your head
and goes out your shoes, which will walk through these automatic doors.
In the Corbin Walmart parking lot a woman with a small amount of cash
was arrested for getting in and out of trucks. A man stepped out of his car
in the Columbus Walmart parking lot, and shot himself. I get in the checkout line

behind a lighted number on a pole. The man in front of me jangles coins
in his pocket, rocks back and forth on his heels. The girl in front of him
carefully peels four moist dimes from her palm to pay for a small container
of honey-mustard dipping sauce. In the parking lot of the LaFayette Walmart,
grandparents left their disabled 2 year-old grandson sitting in a shopping cart

and drove away. Employees in the parking lot at the La Grange Walmart
found a box containing seven abandoned kittens. I am not a Christian or
prone to idioms, but when the cashier says she is grateful for small mercies,
I nod in assent. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. The Latin root of mercy
means price paid, wages, merchandise, though now we use it as

compassion shown to a person in a position of powerlessness,
and sometimes forgiveness towards a person with no right
to claim it. God is merciful and gracious, but not just.
In the Walmart parking lot in Stockton, a man considered armed
and dangerous attacked his wife, beating her unconscious.

A couple tried to sell their 6-month-old for twenty-five bucks
to buy meth in the Salinas Walmart parking lot. We who are in danger,
remember: mercy has a human heart. Mercy with her tender mitigations,
slow to anger and great in lovingkindness, with her blue employee’s smock
emblazoned with How may I help you? Someone in this place have mercy on us.

From: http://therumpus.net/2011/11/walmart-supercenter-a-rumpus-original-poem-by-erika-meitner/

Date: 2011

By: Erika Meitner (1975- )

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Wednesday, 2 August 2017

A Rave in North Norfolk by Tim Cockburn

For Laura

After the rave the steamed-up Peugeots
that, nightlong, blunted the field’s edge
slunk off one by one like a flagging picket,
leaving a stillness of litter-strewn hedges
the waterfowl dared enter back into.
On the lawn tall shadows tucked stickered decks
into retracted back seats, whilst the few
who remained in the lamp-lit mill slept,
not noticing how like kicked up sediment
settling the displaced calm restored
itself around them, or how, beyond the lane,
the shallow-pooled stretches sharpened:
the coloured smudge of ballast and gorse
beside a decelerating train.

From: https://peonymoon.wordpress.com/tag/tim-cockburn-poems/

Date: 2011

By: Tim Cockburn (1985- )

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

Danny by Stephen Emmerson

In your house the doors keep the water in,
Brass knuckles on the side drip with green skin.
The directionless manoeuvres that you make point all ways
Except north, north being reserved completely for your
Indiscretions, your powdered crepuscules, your whisky
Ringed shirt and tie, your resin gunked thumbs
And lungs. Streams of marbled sodium crystallise
And abrogate the drunk compartments that divide stairs.
Alone in your collapse, the living room turned upside down
Magnetic tape hung over your hair, unshaven for three days
Of booze and empty headed grin of aphex twin parked
On your face like a tow truck dragging a ford fiesta
Through the rain. I remembered you walking down
Engine gate, plastic bags from Woolworths full
Of dog food in each hand, headphones in your ears
The jack plug hanging loose as if plugged into the air,
As if plugged into that divine brilliance of sunlight you so
Often screamed about. Now you are ready to be part
Of that noise, a trunk of pastel sketches and some poems
About dogs. You are ether rising into your own eyes, and piss
Sprayed over the holding cell bars, the stench will stay
For days, will ignite wisps of willow in the marshes by
The pond where you wake up one day, thoroughly drenched
In death but still awake, and know for certain that life
Is more a poem than a film.

From: http://www.greatworks.org.uk/poems/se7.html

Date: 2011

By: Stephen Emmerson (19??- )

Saturday, 8 April 2017

Threads of the Purest Gold Cannot Outdo by Luis de Góngora y Argote

Threads of the purest gold cannot outdo
your beautiful hair glowing in the sun;
whilst your white face, in absolute scorn,
stares down at the most beautiful bloom;

your crimson lips are now eagerly chased
by many eyes like a spring carnation;
as your exquisite neck, in elation
overpowers the radiance of your necklace;

relish neck, hair, lips, brow, savour them all
before the pass of time destroys the lot:
gold, lily, carnation, necklace, all shall

become bleak silver, blossom that will rot,
and hereafter you, and your body all,
turn into soil, smoke, a shadow, naught.

From: Salavert, Jorge, “Three Spanish Golden Age Sonnets” in Colloquy: text theory critique, 22 (2011), p. 278.
(http://www.arts.monash.edu.au/ecps/colloquy/journal/issue022/salavert.pdf)

Date: c1582 (original in Spanish); 2011 (translation in English)

By: Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561-1627)

Translated by: Jorge Salavert (19??- )

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Guide to the Liberal Cities by Sam Riviere

tour the museums and charity shops
careful not to purchase anything
in case someone interprets it as art
do not read at the pub speak
of entities in need of authentic substance
be it souls gold or blood
try not to *do* anything
especially like linger
in the butterfly enclosure for a kiss
stay instead inside the reptile house
stinking of skunk
safe in the dry warm dark
don’t compare origins with anyone
but remember thinking
“peeling your jeans off each leg
is like skinning a leek”
ignore the prospective tenants
filing through your sleep
by all means make an intrigue of your partner
but remember the bedroom is a gallery
and you should draft an exit
don’t remain attached to any project
but defer indefinitely the work
towards your own capture
do not stain the toilet bowl
but taste your breath
and skulk across the early park

From: http://etceterart.blogspot.com.au/2011/06/five-poems-sam-riviere-from-81.html

Date: 2011

By: Sam Riviere (1981- )

Friday, 27 January 2017

Please Resist Me by Luke Haralampou (Luka Lesson)

Please resist me
Colonise me, compromise me, conflict me
Please don’t risk me
If you see me at the airport
please come and frisk me

Please resist me
Colonise me, compromise me and conflict me
Please don’t risk me
Please call me stupid
Because your resistance brings our evolution

Please resist me
Call me a ‘wog’
It’s brought us so close together I could call me a squad

Please resist me
Lock me in solitary confinement
I’ll close my eyes and admire the quality of the silence
I’ll write rhymes in my mind honestly and define them
Solidly redefine and memorise them
Until like a diamond
when I come out
I’ll be better than when I arrived in

Please resist me
Keep me under the thumb
Keep me down trodden
Keep me under the gun
Keep me working harder under thunder and sun
Son, haven’t you heard? I’m becoming a gun

Please resist me
Because resistance brings evolution
and you’ve resisted me consistently I thank you for your contribution
I’m a happy man
Your stupidity has made me strong
I’ve developed wings, a thick skin and this here opposable thumb
It holds my pen which loads my explodable tongue
So without loading a gun I’m killing high quotas of unemotional…
punks

Sorry – you also taught me to speak French
I learnt it when you kept keeping me at arms-length
And then I learnt Italian just to expand my head
And Greek to learn from where my ancestors had fled
And then I learnt some Yanyuwa just to show the people of this land some respect
You see it’s been your example that has led me to leave you for dead

So don’t trust me
I’m risky
Insurmountable, unaccountable
I’m an undeniable, unreliable, maniacal liability
I fire soliloquies and my liturgies literally leave a literary litany
You see
When I was little
They told me I was illegitimate, illiterate and limited
Little did they know that in a minute I’d be killing it
I’m vivid like in cinemas so my synonym is vividness
I stick it like I’m cinnamon and kill it like a militant
I live it like a citizen – you live a life like imprisonment
Besides Indigenous
immigrant might be the most legitimate of citizens
So it’s better to live a life like us…
Isn’t it?

From: http://rightnow.org.au/poetry/poem-please-resist-me-by-luka-lesson/

Date: 2011

By: Luke Haralampou (Luka Lesson) (1983- )

Friday, 13 January 2017

Taut Logic by David Rosenthal

Whatever has become, has come to be.
Whatever is to be, will surely come.
I only find such statements troublesome
because I find such statements trouble me:
the more I try to get to where I’ll be,
the more I find I come from where I’m from—
the addends always add up to the sum,
and I can only see just what I see.

And what I see most clearly is most clear:
no matter where I go, I’m always here—
an overused cliché, I know, but true.
No matter how I strive and persevere,
or slack and idle, I can never do
a fraction more or less than what I do.

From: http://www.the-flea.com./Issue15/TautLogic.html

Date: 2011

By: David Rosenthal (19??- )

Saturday, 31 December 2016

On New Year’s Eve by Evie Shockley

we make midnight a maquette of the year:
frostlight glinting off snow to solemnize
the vows we offer to ourselves in near
silence: the competition shimmerwise

of champagne and chandeliers to attract
laughter and cheers: the glow from the fireplace
reflecting the burning intra-red pact
between beloveds: we cosset the space

of a fey hour, anxious gods molding our
hoped-for adams with this temporal clay:
each of us edacious for shining or
rash enough to think sacrifice will stay

this fugacious time: while stillness suspends
vitality in balance, as passions
struggle with passions for sway, the mind wends
towards what’s to come: a callithump of fashions,

ersatz smiles, crowded days: a bloodless cut
that severs soul from bone: a long aching
quiet in which we will hear nothing but
the clean crack of our promises breaking.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/55670

Date: 2011

By: Evie Shockley (1965- )

Saturday, 24 September 2016

Deor’s Lament by Deor

Weland the blade-winder      suffered woe,
That steadfast man      knew misery.
Sorrow and longing      walked beside him,
wintered in him,      kept wearing him down
after Nithad      hampered and restrained him,
lithe sinew-bonds      on the better man.
That passed over,       this can too.

For Beadohilde      her brother’s death
weighed less heavily      than her own heartsoreness
once it was clearly      understood
she was bearing a child.      Her ability
to think and decide      deserted her then.
That passed over,      this can too.

We have heard tell      of Mathilde’s laments,
the grief that afflicted      Geat’s wife.
Her love was her bane,      it banished sleep.
That passed over,      this can too.

For thirty winters—      it was common knowledge—
Theodric held      the Maerings’ fort.
That passed over,      this can too.

Earmonric      had the mind of a wolf,
by all accounts      a cruel king,
lord of the far flung      Gothic outlands.
Everywhere men sat      shackled in sorrow,
expecting the worst,      wishing often
he and his kingdom      would be conquered.
That passed over,      this can too.

A man sits mournful,      his mind in darkness,
so daunted in spirit      he deems himself
ever after      fated to endure.
He may think then      how throughout this world
the Lord in his wisdom      often works change—
meting out honor,      ongoing fame
to many, to others      only their distress.
Of myself, this much      I have to say:
for a time I was poet      of the Heoden people,
dear to my lord.      Deor was my name.
For years I enjoyed      my duties as minstrel
and that lord’s favor,      but now the freehold
and land titles      he bestowed upon me once
he has vested in Heorrenda,      master of verse-craft.
That passed over,      this can too.

From: http://poemsoutloud.net/audio/archive/heaney_reads_deor/

Date: ?10th century (original in Anglo-Saxon); 2011 (translation in English)

By: Deor (?10th century)

Translated by: Seamus Justin Heaney (1939-2013)

Friday, 12 August 2016

Runic Signature for Cynewulf’s “Fates of the Apostles” by Cynewulf

You who please      your keenness with poems,
read closely here:      can you discover
this verse’s framer?
      1
finishes.
Nobles enjoy it on earth,      but not without end,
worldly ones.
      2
must fail
      3
in our strongholds      once our bodies scatter
their loaned treasure,      like
      3
trickling through fingers.
Then
      5
and ear      require
      6
skill
in night’s narrow cell;
      7
drives your craft,
a kingly servitude.      Now can you see
who shrewd words have      shown to men?
Remember my name,      O you who admire
the sound of this song;      help succor me
and pray for my comfort.      Soon I must pass
alone, away      to look for a dwelling,
must travel so far      (no telling where!)
beyond this world      to a yet-unknown
place in the earth.      So must each person,
unless he is granted      God-sent grace.
Let us call to God      again, more eager,
begging his blessing      in this bright creation:
may we be welcomed      to his warm halls,
his home on high.      There is holiest happiness,
there the king of angels      crowns the pure
with a perishless prize.      Now his praise endures
masterful and marvelous,      and his might extends
endless and ageless      over all creation.      finit.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/54752

Date: 9th century (original in Anglian dialect); 2011 (translation in English)

By: Cynewulf (9th century)

Translated by: Robert Hasenfratz (19??- ) and V. Penelope Pelizzon (1967- )