2013 Challenge: One Poem a Week

[GuiltyPleasure]

26 - Flat

It's just that sometimes
he tries a little too hard,
looking foolish in the effort to
impress as he simpers and smiles,
agreeing in his blindness. Keen
to seem deep, intelligent, stepping
on his own toes and tying up his tongue.
Straight-faced we’re careful not to meet
his eye in simulated sincerity in case he sees
the humor. We're not unkind but he does try others,
singing out of tune.

 

[greenmountaineer]

27

Not An Elizabethan Sonnet

She drives maybe thirty-five MPH
while tailgating fifteen feet away
is a red faced mime in a state of rage
on the Move, Bitch! Garden State Parkway.

Elizabeth's lost in thought about men
next to the concrete green meridian
painted to look like grass in Patterson

"like when the Lenape Indian
men had grass on their ass 2 a.m.
and didn't know why when asked by their squaws.
Men! We'd be happier without them!,"

she says to the mirrored Mr. Jaws
whose image is closer than it appears
when Elizabeth downshifts two more gears.

 

[bogusagain]

anxiety

once again, this morning
I woke up in this human zoo
having dreamt or wild savannas
dense rain forests, bare tundra
and green mountain valleys

each day my cage gets smaller
I walk in circles within its confines
ever more manic, more detached
each night my dreams get wilder
more vivid, more other worldly

each day the world gets bigger
more landscapes, more climates
ever more habitats to explore
each night my cage holds me like a vice
I toss and turn and wrestle its grip

faces moon across my world
mouthing placations through glass
their breathe fogging the pane
until they disappear in the mist
in which messages are temporarily scrawled

I finger write replies in the air
as though writing would solidify
give form, make real and permanent
a world I can believe in, a world
where actions can be predicted

each day I draw my observations
a gathering of evidence, proof
a form of cognitive therapy
only to reinforce my anxiety, nothing
can be unlearnt because nothing exists

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

27 - to my shame

Running out of time….and ideas

There once was a poet who wrote
a poem forbidden to quote.
His own copyright
was so watertight
he found that it really could float.

So……
he folded it into a boat
and went sailing right over the moat
To his delight
the wind was just right
and he wrapped himself up in his coat.

H’d been sick with a nasty sore throat.
And now, on this desperate note
I’ll make it my right
To inflict this blight
because I’m an uninspired pote

 

[Tzara]

27

Crash

All I can hear are horns,
or perhaps this is what deafness
sounds like.

I can still see. The sky
is blankly blue, benign
above me.

A car fender, warm from impact,
covers me like a blanket,
red as the the blood

that runs, rich with iron and salt,
over my thickened tongue.
Death smells of roses.



From the Five Senses thread.

 

[Angeline]

24 7/3/13 Sonnet I

The sea is not a question of power,*
neither blue green invitation to death,
holds no sentient dream to devour,
nor will it exile my absence of breath.
Close your eyes and the air is still bluer
then you dive to the wreck where it's colder,
the anemone petals like flowers
submerged in streaming quiet and sadder
though there's nothing for me to endeavor,
nothing there for the sea to disallow
in the half-rotted masts and the treasure;
no voice is calling to me from the prow.
It is a dream nothing wayward to fear
from nameless shadows that wave, disappear.

*line excerpted from Diving Into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich

 

[HarryHill]

.....

 

[Angeline]

25 7/4/13 Sonnet II

Who will speak for me? Who will know my name?
I was. But who will stand where I once stood
on Earth and dance with possibility
and breathe, believe this is my neighborhood?
I tried, returned but nothing was the same.
The blot of time has spread across that place,
and Earth is filled with possibility
at least in theory if not time or space.
No sunken mast, a highway for a prow.
All nowhere. Would you be there if you could,
your future an inevitable then?
I'm suffocating in this breathless now.
Dear Leslie: It's 3 a.m. I am far
too late for once and you a distant star.

 

[bogusagain]

semtex

I graze over the news
like a lumbering bovine beast
unmoved by its revelations
I’m too old and cynical to be surprised
every time I suspected the worst
it was worse than I suspected

ear to glass, glass to the wall
big brother listens, to lovers canoodling
adulterous lovers plotting, self love
and the wickedly perverted
taking notes, he lists subversives
each small enemy is justification

we need protection from ourselves
we need help to believe in shamocracy
to be free through principled dishonesty
like mighty Zeus our great protector
zaps the fools who dare to question
curing society of an infestation

the ministry of truth has spoken
defending us from great dictators
keeping us safe in our delusion
so as we cuddle up in bed
forget who’s listening through the wall
speak clearly, speak honestly, and think...

FUCK OFF!​

 

[Angeline]

26 7/5/13 Sonnet III

Two families no not fair Verona,
but in Florida where we lay our case.
A rainy night, he walks all alone, a
child with candy, a phone, his damp face
a dark beacon to fear, misunderstand.

Such ignorance bred into our disguise;
a plague on both houses! Capricious land
such innocence deferred! Everyone cries
once the deed is done and the child's dead,
another ruined, a tangle of lies,
their families locked in discord and dread.
Cameras zoom, flash, sensationalize
all of us under the lopsided skies,
all of us under the lopsided skies.

 

[greenmountaineer]

28

Angelus

The bells announce it's nine am.
ó Briain prays the trash won't smell
and royal cohort dogs won't bite
an Irishman in Kensington
while scullery maids pretend to pluck
High Anglicans on Cromwell Road.

"Too meager pay," ó Briain says
"for daily bread and dustbinmen"
who bows his head while swatting flies
and thinks about the sacred heart
beneath some burlap bags in bed,
his naked Rosie on whose bum

he could bounce a bob upon
he'll say when bells chime once again
but will not hear at nine pm.

 

[bogusagain]

rising rose

anger! I feel it burn within me
the core of a reactor
burning bright as a sun
fighting against its containment

I listen to the man who has never worked
knowing how he relied on inherited wealth
family contacts and a superior address book

listened to him pontificate
the poor must learn to be self reliant
the state can’t afford their idleness
(even if its not their fault)

I consider the argument
weigh the evidence and compare
the rich who claim they can’t afford to pay
and those who can’t afford to live

Jesus had something to say about this
though they buried him sometime ago
the rich seeing wealth as a form of pension plan
just in case Jesus was a charlatan

not that my anger is based on this
nor does it grow of its own accord
my eyes see and my ears hear
misanthropy grows like a thorny rose

 

[bogusagain]

a choice memory

if this poem
was any good
it would be here
but it was bad
so its gone
and all that is left
is this

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

28 - Death in the Morning

I killed an ant just now
solitary and black
unaware of imminent death
doing no harm on a busy
reconnaissance
for a food to take home
but I know when the word
gets out the trail is set
an army will return

I've done battle with ants before
big skittering black wood ants
under the cabinets
microscopic sugar ants in the larder
I admire them all
their industry and tenacity
but we cannot abide in the same abode

I only kill
to prevent the messenger
returning home
spreading the news of bounty
leading the tribe to the promised land

It is a quick finale
painless I hope
better than a writhing
insecticide death

So sorry little ant
you were only doing your duty
but so was I.

 

[HarryHill]

.....

 

[Desejo]

Alfred E. Neman Economics
What? Me worry?

Automatic payment is my Xanax
sure I receive helpful email reminders
Your bill is now available online
but I can filter those
to a the “IMPORTANT” folder I never open
so the bills get paid and
my bank account declines politely
without unnecessary fanfare

This is how I want it.

 

[bogusagain]

Pygmalion has a rethink

my idle mind muses
with an artist's forensic eye
upon your perfect imperfections
classic beauty is the stuff of gods
icons that sneer at the world
untouchable, obsessive and idolatry
plinths are made for them
soft grass is made for you

I have no need for worship
of such unworldly gifts
cold comfort is no comfort
porcelain skin merely porcelain
cold, hard and odourless
I require flesh that gives
skin that responds to mine
a woman who smells of woman

let classic beauty wilt
under its burden of pomposity
let its sexless tyranny go unloved
for who can approach such perfect art
I adore your imperfections
how witty, how expressive, how worldly
forgive me for pointing out
my delight in your imperfections

 

[HarryHill]

.....

 

[greenmountaineer]

......

 

[Tzara]

28

Diaphanous
(Kind of a triolet. Almost.)

Those ruffles much become you, darling,
They show your hips to great effect
And when you walk, oh my! It’s charming
How ruffles so become you, darling—
In fact, your ruffled walk’s alarming,
And raising issues which unchecked
Might ruffle much about you. Darling,
I love that show, your hips’ effect.

 

[bogusagain]

no reverse view return

Maybe I've been reading too much Updike's poetry here but his Midpoint inspired me to write a sort of autobiographical piece of which this is just a part. I originally started collecting small poems together and realised they were just one poem so maybe some older forum members might recognize a phrase or two. Maybe I'm just being too ambitious.

the present disintegrates into the past
as the future assembles into the present
there is no route back, no map, no reverse gear
memory is an unreliable atlas, a multi-facsimile
image over image over image, into something other
still recognizable, like returning home to a room
where the furniture has shifted, photos rearranged
your shoes gone, your coat no longer by the door
you can briefly visit but you can’t stay

there are no witnesses left to question
only shadows which flicker like dying flames
unable to illuminate the evidence, I return
and return, to the scene of the crime, scene of the crime
convinced I had convinced myself one final time
piecing together the movements, stitching the dialog
words have fallen to the floor and kicked underfoot
the ventriloquists having abandoned their dummies
with mouths open straining for oxygen

framed in the window you could see, the road
leading to the shadow of the appenine heap
the headgear stood solemn as a gallows, dominating the pit yard
where we would sidle across its cobbled expanse
drawing in deeply as we searched for that elusive hit
that final cigarette before grinding the tab into the dirt
then leg propped against the wall, a heave would open the heavy steel doors
through which we would shuffle like the condemned
muttering curses as if to say "There had to be another way”

the following summer we were in France
the simmering heat rose from the road like flames
blue tissues of shade draped like webs from the town's nooks and crannies
yellow fields bobbed with leafy emerald crowns and blue granges
nothing stirred, silence amplified through the towns and countryside
only the whirr of a deux cheveaux would be heard
our mini floated as if a boat along the tarmac streams
through a jig-saw of impressionist paintings
our English skins cooked to red by the harsh summer sun

Dominique and Francois hitched a lift at Avignon
their Gallic cool heated the car like aircon gone wild
hi-jacked, we entered Paris and its fairground of streets
death race dodgems and a mind rush and you know it!
a self induced roller coaster ride, thrill seekers
the safety manual was dumped overboard to lighten the weight
we shot around damage corner and headed for breakneck hill
we were going up while they were going down
for fucks sake! were we on the same damn ride?

a week of being served by a beautiful Algerian maid
televisions hanging from the ceiling like giant baubles
five stories up and a white fur sunken floor, we rolled like yearlings
Dominique upon her belly with shoulders propped
her languid neck, a vulnerable exposure, a strained and delicate isthmus
on which her head was hung as if too weighty
a posture she adopted for my convenience, her swarthy plumage
dressed her delicate morsel, salty as a oyster in brine
bitter lemon, biting tongues and inviting thighs

in a bar in Pigalle, she danced breasts to breasts
with Philip, the most beautiful woman there
his hips ground with hers and hers with his and hers with hers
a cockless wonder drifting through a phallocentric world
the beautiful transvestites ‘they’re so beautiful’ she breathed
outside under the halo of sodium light, the shemen
pouted into wing mirrors and ducked beneath dashboards
the night took a hold of Dominique as it never would again
took me in her mouth to the gathered applause

the kitsch moon ballooned over the Eiffel and popped
my eye returned to the road’s empty zoom, the unwinding of tarmac
cutting through the years of strife, the neglect scarred landscape
the inadequate new, the past is the past is the present
angry young men will always be angry, nothing changes
you are stamped, priced and labelled, owned by government bureaucracy
England, a penal colony waiting for my parole to expire
the grubby vistas of Sheffield’s stark social realism
the smell of Dominique, my only souvenir, my resistance

 

[Desejo]

Remains

The white, Styrofoam box with
uncomfortable compartments
is encased in a thin plastic bag
featuring Uncle Julio himself
mustachioed like a Mexican Santa Claus
Ho ho ho

in it remains of American size
American style
Mexican shrimp quesadillas

We Kamaradas from Peace Corps years
come upon a dreadlocked white dude
making a nest on the damp sidewalk
looking like a bleached out
Baye Fall without the drum

I start to hand him Uncle Julio
as we used to hand things over to
random kids in Africa
but then I think - what if he is allergic
to shrimp?

It feels awkward to ask so I keep walking.

 

[HarryHill]

.....

 

[Angeline]

27 7/11/13

Office Politics As Usual

Are you through?

he sneers looking past his nose
not to me perhaps to the bottle
he hid in her desk.

She titters
from the hallway soft
hand on her mouth, unsure
yet unruffled. She clicks
with impatience,
parades their contempt,
lets it hangs like a film
of grease on the lank afternoon.
I'm an interloper.
They want lunch

or maybe to eat
each other up with ravenous
eyes, avid intent. I pop in a stick
of Juicyfruit, the cheap grape
and sugar bloom,
obliterate their pong.

Nope.
There's a good pizza place
just across the bridge.

They disembark, a huddled mass,
purse snap and door snick.

I shift the pile of work
from chair to arm, crack my gum
for remembrance and leave.
I'm sidewalk strong.

They've a fine walk to cross
that bridge, just full of spiderwebs
and worse.

 

[greenmountaineer]

29

Adventures in Wonderland 1953

Sister Mary Judith said,
"The Commies, Children, count my fingers,
"told one two three Roman Catholics
to curse Our Lord in Commie Russian
snow to where your tummies are.
Two, Children, did; one didn't,
and after all of them froze to death,
two went to hell and one to heaven."

After Commie story time ended
Sister screamed like a fire engine
and told us to kneel under our desks
so that the Blessed Virgin Mary
will pray that pagan babies won't die
until they're baptized with atom bombs
where a good woman shouldn't be seen
on the beach in summer and be keen in.