Posts tagged ‘2016’

Monday, 12 August 2019

Elegy for the Bully by Bruce Snider

You have always been nosebleed
and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls
where you harvested us with your tribal
clang. Too long we saw your face
in every shadow, felt the whole forest
await your arrival like a nagging frost.
We hid from you in toilet stalls,
quit band to avoid the music
room where you waited near your
locker. Back then, there was nothing
we could say. In death we greet you
now as brothers, your dark
silence wailing from those glittering
trumpets we never learned to play.

From: https://www.vqronline.org/poetry/2016/07/elegy-bully

Date: 2016

By: Bruce Snider (19??- )

Advertisements
Thursday, 1 August 2019

Intrigue in the Trees by John Brehm

Often I wonder:
Is the earth trying to get
rid of us, shake us off,
drown us, scorch us
to nothingness?
To save itself and all other
creatures slated for extinction?
The trees around here
seem friendly enough —
stoic, philosophically inclined
toward nonjudgmental
awareness and giving
in their branchings
perfect examples
of one thing becoming two
and remaining one —
but who knows
what they really feel?

Just last night I was walking
to my favorite cafe,
the Laughing Goat,
when I saw a flock of crows
circling raincloudy sky,
arguing, speaking strangely,
suddenly alight on
a maple tree, dozens of them
closing down their wings
like arrogant, ill-tempered
magistrates. Some kind
of consultation
was happening there,
some plan unfolding
(animals think we’re crazy
for thinking they can’t think),
and everybody was looking up,
looking up and watching.

From: https://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/484/intrigue-in-the-trees

Date: 2016

By: John Brehm (1960- )

Thursday, 18 July 2019

Black Pan by Joseph Millar

Let the evening spread over the garden
like the broad skirts of a mother
covering the windy potato plants
with their pale blossoms fluttering,
the spuds on their stems
having grown up from their parents’ eyes
clothed in a delicate skin,
then slow-cooked with oil in a black pan,
eaten with salt and white chicken meat
on the night of the equinox.

I stole this round-point shovel from work
with its fine-grained handle
and shiny blade
right after I twisted my back
the last day pouring some concrete stairs
on a job where there wasn’t much shade.

And now the sun shines down just the same
over the equator
so the night will last as long as the day
and Orion will appear with his belt and sword
before dawn, over the front porch
where my wife sits with her iPhone
picking up messages from outer space.
I can hear the straw chair
rock back and forth
I hear her deep sigh at summer’s end.

Will we have music? Will we have rain?
Listening to autumn coming down close
with its rake and scythe
stepping gently between the rows
over the mulch and fallen leaves
the celery, garlic, beets, and chives
unmindful of injury or pain.

From: https://blackbird.vcu.edu/v15n2/poetry/millar-j/black-page.shtml

Date: 2016

By: Joseph Millar (19??- )

Sunday, 23 June 2019

Another Country by James Harrison

I love these raw moist dawns with
a thousand birds you hear but can’t
quite see in the mist.
My old alien body is a foreigner
struggling to get into another country.
The loon call makes me shiver.
Back at the cabin I see a book
and am not quite sure what that is.

From: https://lithub.com/where-is-jim-harrison-seven-poems-from-a-master/

Date: 2016

By: James Harrison (1937-2016)

Wednesday, 24 April 2019

The Press of Other Lives by Panni Palásti (Eva Brown)

Like a leaf of grass
in a dense pasture
I am entwined in the tendrils
of other lives.
My roots tangle
with their roots.
My need for light
shares their need.
My reach for food
meets with their hunger.
I dream their dreams
and taste their tears.
Their faces may fade
on my night screen,
their cries smothered
by my remote,
but they echo,
claim and crowd me,
make me swallow
more than I can hold.

From: https://www.stuff.co.nz/nelson-mail/opinion/79090878/war-poetry-not-just-for-anzac-day

Date: 2016

By: Panni Palásti (Eva Brown) (1932- )

Monday, 28 January 2019

Our Silence by Julian Farmer

Every moment of silence is beautiful.
And then, on the silence, is played
a tune:

something traditional, earthy,
with a lilt, a poise, in the silence,
the simplest tune.

And love is like that…
It plays on the silence, becomes its theme
and conjoins.

Our hearts beat a pulse,
meter the silence, playing the tune
of our years.

From: https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/07/08/julian-farmer-five-poems-translations/

Date: 2016

By: Julian Farmer (19??- )

Friday, 28 December 2018

Sibelius and Marley by Ishion Hutchinson

History is dismantled music; slant,
bleak on gravel. One amasses silence,
another chastises silence with nettles,
stinging ferns. I oscillate in their jaws.

The whole gut listens. The ear winces
white nights in his talons: sinking mire.
He wails and a comet impales the sky
with the duel wink of a wasp’s burning.

Music dismantles history; the flambeaux
inflame in his eyes with a locust plague,
a rough gauze bolting up his mouth unfolds,
so he lashes the air with ropes and roots

that converge on a dreadful zero,
a Golden Age. Somewhere, an old film.
Dusk solders on a cold, barren coast. There
I am a cenotaph of horns and stones.

From: https://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/28380/auto/0/SIBELIUS-AND-MARLEY

Date: 2016

By: Ishion Hutchinson (1983- )

Saturday, 1 December 2018

Advent by Heather Derr-Smith

Birds pulse above the blood-black line of horizon.
I walk out through the sliding glass door into the backyard,

hoarfrost on the fallen leaves like thrush on a baby’s tongue.

Over the chain-link fence, three bald eagles fight for their kill
on the train tracks. My brother writes a postcard

from someplace near Bagram, fog veiling and unveiling
the Hindu Kush. In a dream he lifts his arm to cover his eyes

and I kiss the top-stitch scars along his mended wound.

In the middle of the night, a child screams awake.
But it’s only the engine of the refrigerator, faintly.

The neighbor is a mystery, a stranger to us. He lives alone,
blinds shut at all times. I suspect what we all suspect.

Sometimes I stand in the dark of my window, facing the dark of his.

From: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/advent

Date: 2016

By: Heather Derr-Smith (1971- )

Tuesday, 6 November 2018

Willoughby, Ohio by Burt Beckmann

Hot months hang on the horizon drying.
Old moons in a wastebasket lie like eggs,
Their yolks sucked.

The fence (split phone poles) oozes tar by ten.
By noon the birds are stuck.
Mom keeps the cats in the kitchens for the sake
Of the wrens.

The moving is finished by one.
In the red shed with the rototiller
Are our garden shears. Peanut butter
Is what I like for lunch.

Every day at two the birds get clipped.
You can tell our fence by the legs on it.

From: Hiram Poetry Review, Issue No. 77, Spring 2016, p. 8.
(https://hirampoetryreview.files.wordpress.com/2016/05/hpr2016.pdf)

Date: 2016

By: Burt Beckmann (19??- )

Monday, 5 November 2018

Scarecrow on Fire by Dean Young

Everything is brushed away, off the sleeve,
off the overcoat, huge ensembles of assertions
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
nightmare of straw on fire, you the scarecrow,
the scare, the crow, totems gone, rubies
flawed, flamingo in hyena’s jaws, noble
and lascivious mouth of the gods hovering
then gone, gone the glances, gone moths,
cities of crystal become cities of mud,
centurion and emperor dust, the flower girl,
some of it rises, proof? some of it explodes,
vein in the brain, seed pod poof, maybe
something will grow, another predicament
of bittersweet, dreamfluff milkweed,
declarations of aerosols, vows just sprays
of spit fast evaporate, all of it pulverized
as it hits the seawall, all of it falling snow
on water, flash of flying fish, breach and blow
and sinking, far below creatures of luminous jelly
constellated and darting and baiting each other
like last thoughts before sleep, last neural
sparks coalescing as a face in the dark,
who was she? never enough time to know.

From: http://poetry.auburn.edu/featured-poems/scarecrow-on-fire.html

Date: 2016

By: Dean Young (1955- )