Posts tagged ‘2013’

Sunday, 29 May 2022

After the Funeral by Peter Paul Everwine

We opened closets and bureau drawers
and packed away, in boxes, dresses and shoes,
the silk underthings still wrapped in tissue.
We sorted through cedar chests. We gathered
and set aside the keepsakes and the good silver
and brought up from the coal cellar
jars of tomato sauce, peppers, jellied fruit.
We dismantled, we took down from the walls,
we bundled and carted off and swept clean.
Goodbye, goodbye, we said, closing
the door behind us, going our separate ways
from the house we had emptied,
and which, in the coming days, we would fill
again and empty and try to fill again.

From: Everwine, Peter, Listening Long and Late, 2013, University of Pittsburgh Press: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=GUYJAgAAQBAJ)

Date: 2013

By: Peter Paul Everwine (1930-2018)

Monday, 16 May 2022

The Braille of Evening by Judy Kronenfeld

The last coins of sunlight flash while I read…half-read…
And I’m still inside, waiting—

preparing for something that takes infinite preparation,
yet may reveal itself at any moment…if I am waiting.

An impish prof once ambled towards me—surrounded by books and ash at a dank desk—
and said “It’s the cocktail hour! What are you waiting for?”

My ancestors in their black coats and fur hats
were lost in thickets of holy letters, waiting

for Moshiach. Their pages crumbled, their skin
yellowed to parchment while they were waiting.

The quickly-brushed luster of the day is drying,
going flat, but I am still waiting.

I imagine leaf-shadow lacework on the grass,
the dog dozing in the sun—no longer waiting

for me—and seeing these so clearly, lift my head,
but cannot read the darkness-gathering trees.

From: https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2021/05/11/the-braille-of-evening-by-judy-kronenfeld-i-am-still-waiting-series/

Date: 2013

By: Judy Kronenfeld (19??- )

Saturday, 30 April 2022

Translation by Sam Langer

“negativity’s power grows outside
of this repressive

totality, from forces &
movements that are

still untouched by the
so-called ‘luxury

society”’s aggressive & repressive
productivity, or that

have freed themselves from
this development already,

& therefore the historic
chance to go

a truly other industrialisation/
modernisation’s way, a

human progress’s way to
go.” marcuse, 1965.

From: https://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2013/01/sam-langer.html

Date: 2013

By: Sam Langer (1983- )

Tuesday, 19 April 2022

Sexing the Rabbits by Angela Readman

In the years war dragged behind it, my father bred rabbits,
built hutches out of kitchen cabinets, ketchup and batter
on the walls, he nailed a mesh of silent radios to doors.
On the edge
of dinner he hovered by Mother’s knife, and sloped
out to feed his miniature cows scraps.
He took a hook from an eye, cabbage quivering,
twitchy bouquets of green roses in his hands. Rabbits
nosed out, ran circles around minutes,
hop hopped,
cotton tails swabbing his dry boots.
Rabbits, rabbits
nibbled their way towards strokes or stews, or trade
on a kid’s birthday for a sleeve of Lucky Strikes.
When they were born was the best,
in those early weeks, the man hardly moved, hand resting
just inside the hutch to be sniffed, and pick up a kit
on the dot of a first whisker of trust.
He whispered rabbits unscared,
blades of light flickering in his fingertips, ears
held steady as a match.
Later, on one knee,
he sorted the pies from the pets, took a rabbit
to blow on fur by its back legs – something showed itself
then went in. I watched, with a fistful of burdock,
my father pucker-up
as if wishing a year away on a candle, time tolled
by a dandelion, in a breath a rabbit was sexed;
the does left be; and only one or two males kept.

From: https://josephinecorcoran.org/2013/06/09/poetry-in-rabbits/

Date: 2013

By: Angela Readman (1973- )

Monday, 4 April 2022

Ink by Angela Sorby

Samuel Steward, d. 1993

The tattoo artist’s
testicular tumor
came from a teratoma,
a malabsorbed embryonic twin.
The doctor said what mattered
was a cure.
The tattooist demurred:
what mattered to him
was the little sib lodged
in his right teste,
expanding benignly
at first, then deadly.

The teratoma took it slow.
Always the muffled music.
Always the black ink bath.
Always the guest in the guestroom

repeating

its fragments of DNA.
The tattooist covered
his calves with roses.
He wanted to send a single
stem to his twin,
but it couldn’t be delivered
past the blood-brain barrier,
past the wall in the heart
that holds the possible
and the impossible
in adjoining cells,
but apart.

From: https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue11/poetry/angelasorby

Date: 2013

By: Angela Sorby (1965- )

Wednesday, 9 February 2022

Clarity by Moira Egan

for Joachim

The way they do, this storm’s brought clarity
and coolness to the air, and seeming calm.
Hardly a day to muse on one’s mortality,
the sun this bright, the breeze faintly embalmed
with sage, rosemary, jasmine, and pine tar.
I think Monet, half-blind, would’ve loved this lake,
its morning jade, the afternoon sapphire,
night’s wavy onyx catching the moon’s wake.

I know that the alternative is cold
and darkly permanent, and so despite
the minor aches of starting to grow old,
I’m trying to fashion ways to celebrate
the scintillant of silver, each fine line,
the tiny crow’s-feet tracks that mark my time.

From: https://thegloriasirens.com/2014/06/07/clarity-a-poem-by-moira-egan/

Date: 2013

By: Moira Egan (1962- )

Friday, 28 January 2022

Steady Fetters by Emma Lew

Drive one nail out with another, that’s our only hope.
We can’t live any more like birds on a branch,
because the murderous past never stops,
not even at night.
Every day we expect to be accused of unspeakable things and turned adrift.

Do you remember
when Ernesto disappeared
in a puff of smoke
as he was bringing the cows in from the meadows?

And when the girl Rosamina
fell in love with the son of a man
and they faced certain death
because they were incapable of creating anything,
so they withdrew again into images more beautiful than anything?

All of us, at one time or another,
have travelled in the company of smugglers,
or pilfered whole sacks of grain.

Likewise, the lady who had to grit her teeth
and shake the columns of the white hall.

She could smell the fresh lumber
though the door led nowhere.

Can you imagine her singing a love song?
But it’s true! It’s true!

From: https://www-australianbookreview-com-au.rp.nla.gov.au/abr-online/archive/2013/107-october-2013-no-355/1664-steady-fetters

Date: 2013

By: Emma Lew (1962- )

Saturday, 16 October 2021

Hair Treatment by Nia Mendy

Inspired by Grimms’ Snow White and Disney’s Princess and the Frog

For the first few months, Snow White tries
to finger comb. Prince Charming whines
as she straightens strands after each shower,
goading her with his drawer of scissors.
Yet he spends hours cutting and moussing,

his hair so slick that his hands convert to an oil spill.
He peeks at the mirror for enchantment, but it never
speaks and leaves him to consult Snow about his fairness.
Snow wants to reduce the glass to shards. When he calls
his bride’s hands future sledgehammers, she doesn’t flinch
and jerks his tresses till he begs. Sometimes Charming chases
her around the castle, shears buzzing alive in his fist.

Who understands the blink of fainting, how the forest
tapers to swimming green, then spins to black?

Easily Tiana, swooning as her mother weaved perm into her
strands, the chemicals cooking her hair straight. Snow still
remembers the princess’ whimper in the echoing bathroom,
Tiana’s incisors puncturing her own lip as if teething, the exposed

scalp. The mother listened for stops, no pleases. But the cries
never arose, fermented behind lips. At home in the castle bathroom,
Snow observes her own mouth even now. It didn’t choke on pleas,
but clenched while she lapsed under the poison’s appeal.

She and Tiana suffered under their first
crowns, their shoulders nursing tremors.
Snow waits for Charming’s first snip, to catch
his hands tangled in shears. He doesn’t
understand how everything becomes teeth.

From: http://www.freezeraypoetry.com/nia-mendy.html

Date: 2013

By: Nia Mendy (19??- )

Friday, 15 October 2021

Piano Before Breakfast by Priscilla Atkins

He has a piano that he plays before breakfast. Reminds me
of the guy on the other side of the wall in Mike’s apartment

on Wells. When I stayed there alone, every morning, sudden
plink-plink-plonk. Not screaming, but peppy; Bach, Bartok.

Five minutes, less, the wall popped. Then I’d hear the lid
close, the door click open / shut. Mike traveled so much

for his job, he never knew about the next-door maestro
(it was during this period I convinced him, long distance,

that frozen broccoli is better than no broccoli). I wonder
how many people play an instrument

for the last time, knowing, “Okay, this is it-the last time
I will ever hear your voice.” Or is it always shrill. Silence.

From: https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue11/poetry/priscillaatkins

Date: 2013

By: Priscilla Atkins (19??- )

Wednesday, 13 October 2021

Extinction by Rebecca Morgan Frank

We were tied to the weather.
Outside, houses turned their backs to the wind.
The dead sipped what was left from the ground.
The snowcover turned stale, darkened.
There was nothing left to discuss.

We were game heads, stares fixed,
tongues thick and permanent
in my molded gape, your grimace.
We couldn’t taste anything.
The carpet beetles were eating us alive.

From: http://diodepoetry.com/v6n3/content/frank_rm.html

Date: 2013

By: Rebecca Morgan Frank (19??- )