Posts tagged ‘2013’

Monday, 13 July 2020

Inside the Good Idea by Matthea Harvey

From the outside it is singular. One wooden horse. Inside ten men sit cross-
legged, knees touching. No noun has been invented yet to describe this. They
whisper that it would be like sitting in a wine barrel if the curved walls were
painted red. The contents are not content. They would like some wine. They
quarrel about who gets to sit in the head until finally the smallest man
clambers in, promising to send messages back to the belly. He can only look
out of one eye at a time. At first there is nothing to report. Black, Dark, The
Occasional Star. Then Quiet Footsteps mixed with Questions. The children
are clamoring for it to be brought inside the walls. The head sends back
another message which gets caught in the throat: They are bringing their toy
horses to pay their respects to us, brushing their tiny manes, oiling the little
wheels. It must be a welcome change from playing war.

From: https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/weekly-poem-matthea-harvey-reads-two-poems

Date: 2013

By: Matthea Harvey (1973- )

Thursday, 18 June 2020

Five Sonnets for Summer Storage in the High School Book Room: 5 by Jason Guriel

A previous reader’s PC outrage
annotates this edition of Huck Finn.
The word “RACIST,” scrawled across every page
in red pencil, wends its way from margin
to margin, trying to rouse the type—straight
as a company of Confederates—
to lay down weapons and emancipate
the word “nigger,” typeset by bayonets.
It wants, that cry of racism, to spear
marching rows of imperialist text,
to stone, bottle, and rain on riot gear,
exhume and lynch dead white Twains by their necks.
But if we excise all the books that prick
how will Shylock bleed and prove anemic?

From: https://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/five-sonnets-summer-storage-high-school-book-room

Date: 2013

By: Jason Guriel (1978- )

Tuesday, 3 March 2020

Forgetfulness by Karinna Alves Gulias

What a concern

To merge with death from the ear-shape
truth –
Death is like a tree growing inside us slowly
The roots pulsing nearer to our ears

When the ground swallows us from the stomach
all this data will become sand
Sand to the camels and to the horses
Sand to the turtles and to the seas
as if the water was time

The riches will survive the fables
Watering
Time to change moods
truce –
Wet all the turtles will follow the sun
and cannot change it

Wet all the turtles will follow the sun
and cannot change it
Feel the stomach
turning a déjà vu.

Sure of a carapace
System of leaves to cover your heart
Mirror of a tree crown swimming as well

The beauty of a sparkle
and the ugliness of choices – one

Time could carry our weight
if only we could paint dice
to wait on the windowsill
Wait for a guest
Wait for a moment of your pride
or patience
And let it be
Dusty or kept

Choice of an arm
reaching as far as your hands can touch your face

Do you cry or rest.

From: https://www.poetryinternational.org/pi/poem/23344/auto/0/0/Karinna-Alves-Gulias/FORGETFULNESS/en/nocache

Date: 2013

By: Karinna Alves Gulias (1983- )

Sunday, 9 February 2020

At the Office by Nina Cassian (Renée Annie Katz)

I get tired.
Too many haunted, sleepless nights.
Too many thin, brush-painted smiles.
I saw them at the office:
the same unerasable features.
It was them.
Them again.
Ice. Terror. —
Young and ferocious.
Them again, the bosses.
Me again, the underling.
And then they told me:
“Recite a poem for us.”
Which I did.
They went on ordering my sleep, my sleeplessness,
my smile, my grimace.
In the geometry of their features,
I recognized everything I hate:
the perpendicular of the guillotine,
the bisection, the being cut in two,
the obtuse angle,
and the like triangles of the Lie.

They were just some of them…
But who was I?

From: http://www.stosvet.net/12/cassian/index.html

Date: 2013

By: Nina Cassian (Renée Annie Katz) (1924-2014)

Friday, 1 November 2019

Change of Address by Dónall Dempsey

You didn’t die
you just changed shape

became invisible
to the naked eye

became this grief

it’s sharpness
more real

than your presence was

before you were separate to me
entire to yourself

now you are
a part of me

you are inside my self

I call you
by your new name

‘Grief…Grief! ‘

although I still call you
‘Love.’

From: Dempsey, Donall, Being Dragged Across the Carpet by the Cat, 2015, Dempsey & Windle: UK, p. 38.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=v2tlCwAAQBAJ)

Date: 2013

By: Dónall Dempsey (1956- )

Friday, 18 October 2019

When at Last I Join by Amy Fleury

When at last I join the democracy of dirt,
a tussock earthed over and grass healed,
I’ll gladly conspire in my own diminishment.

Let a pink peony bloom from my chest
and may it be visited by a charm of bees,
who will then carry the talcum of pollen

and nectar of clover to the grove where they hive.
Let the honey they make be broken
from comb, and release from its golden hold,

onto some animal tongue, my soul.

From: Fleury, Amy, Sympathetic Magic, 2013, Crab Orchard Review & Southern Illinois University Press: Carbondale and Edwardsville, p. 63.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=YvqgrzRK_goC)

Date: 2013

By: Amy Fleury (1970- )

Saturday, 21 September 2019

Origin by Sarah Lindsay

The first cell felt no call to divide.
Fed on abundant salts and sun,
still thin, it simply spread,
rocking on water, clinging to stone,
a film of obliging strength.
Its endoplasmic reticulum
was a thing of incomparable curvaceous length;
its nucleus, Golgi apparatus, RNA
magnificent. With no incidence
of loneliness, inner conflict, or deceit,
no predator nor prey,
it had little to do but thrive,
draw back from any sharp heat
or bitterness, and change its pastel
colors in a kind of song.
We are descendants of the second cell.

From: https://structureandstyle.org/post/90981266590/origin

Date: 2013

By: Sarah Lindsay (1958- )

Friday, 20 September 2019

Midnight Feed by Daisy Fried

The open shed on the lawn’s far side stinks of gas
from the hateful mower that pulls me where it wants
when I mow, which is seldom. I rip up grass.
Humid night’s moon’s nothing-halo; the lawn pretends
to candy floss. Black-white dud roses dead since June,
alive enough to scratch my bare legs. I’m wearing nothing
but underpants, flipflops. Arms full, I stumble out,
flashlight in my mouth, turn my head to choose
what’s lit. Inside the dirt-floor shed, I fill bowls:
Dry bits, tuna slop. The flashlight hurts my mouth
till I drop it, dwindles into its cone where it falls to blight
a denticular leaf.

“Raphael! Gabriel! Lucifer!” Feral
kittens come running, vicious, filthy. Hum of the road.
Uriel shines his reflector-eyes from among mower parts
in the shed’s darkest corner. Disgust shakes his paw.
He won’t get close since wild La Mamma ran off weeks ago.
My three-month daughter cries on the baby monitor
I wear like a Miss America sash. She’ll wait,
Uriel must eat. Can’t leave them. Coons or coyotes
would get the food and kittens too. My fur rises
on my arms. What a bad mom! Also, I refuse
to look at the stars. There are too many
stars in poems you have to get drunk to write.

From: Fried, Daisy, Women’s Poetry: Poems and Advice, 2013, University of Pittsburgh Press: Pittsburgh, Pa., p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=zTpXAQAAQBAJ)

Date: 2013

By: Daisy Fried (1967- )

Saturday, 24 August 2019

Born, and Then Again by Mihku Paul

You dream of a wild bird
wheeling like a hurricane.
charmed from the warm, bristled sea.

The bird singing,
circling a sea-shell cradle
where you lie waiting for
peace on earth.
A banded sky, brown hawks
diving into mountains of stone.

Beneath you, it is deep as Hell.
Verses rise, ascending fire in
breath of bay, breath of balm.
You wait to be
lured back to life.

You, who boast Montezuma’s blood,
pure as priest and nun.
Pray for sufficient sun.
Sing like a charmed bird.
Do not die with curses
blistering your lips.
Sing.
Take shelter in the warm sea,
luring you back
to life.

From: https://cabildoquarterly.tumblr.com/post/51088591501/born-and-then-again-by-mihku-paul

Date: 2013

By: Mihku Paul (1958- )

Monday, 29 July 2019

God Particles by James Crews

I could almost hear their soft collisions
on the cold air today, but when I came in,

shed my layers and stood alone by the fire,
I felt them float toward me like spores

flung far from their source, having crossed
miles of oceans and fields unknown to most

just to keep my body fixed to its place
on the earth. Call them God if you must,

these messengers that bring hard evidence
of what I once was and where I have been—

filling me with bits of stardust, whaleskin,
goosedown from the pillow where Einstein

once slept, tucked in his cottage in New Jersey,
dreaming of things I know I’ll never see.

From: https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/506

Date: 2013

By: James Crews (19??- )