Challenge: Five Poems in Five Days.

[manipulatrix]

2-4

.....

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-3

Sapphic for Cynthia
Part 1

That late summer, Cynthia came out to Boston,
where I lived with my father for the season
after my freshman year at the Christian college,
before my transfer
to the University where I'd discover
that neither sex nor the study of English
were what they appeared to be on the surface.

Nothing was clear then,
except that maddening way she'd move toward me
except the heady juice of her lips and tongue.

The first time that we actually lay together
was in that August,
when we took my father's small sloop out from Boston
and sailed up the coast a few hours to Salem
to tour the antique shops and cheesy museums
of the witch trials.

Sailing home, she said she was suddenly tired
and I followed her down to the forward cabin
where we curled together under a blanket.
The skylight was open,
and we slept with the sea air around us
and the sound of the bow bouncing over the chop.

In that rhythm our hands moved unconsciously over
each other's bodies;
hers were languid and passive, as if she were dozing.

I remember trying to be just as casual,
scared that she'd be able to tell I was trembling,
tight as a bowstring.
Eyes closed, she kissed me and shifted her hips,
slid one hand over the curve of my waistline.
Then she sighed, and turned over to back up against me.

I lay there, breathless
for ages, but finally sleep took me over
and the sea wind grew colder over those hours
as we dreamed with the rocking Atlantic
till we reached Boston.

 

[manipulatrix]

2-5

....,

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-4

Cynthia Part 2

Something started to be wrong as soon as we
reached home. She was feverish, tired, and I
felt the scratch of an oncoming virus; we'd gotten
chilled by the sea air
and instead of a night where we might have continued
that pure innocent pleasure our hands had found,
we lay, dark on the twin beds, sickening
throughout that evening,
waking wrong, in the haze of a fierce virus.

Trouble was, we had to drive back to the midwest
school was starting within a few days and
we had to be there.

If they'd known the extent of our sickness,
how we trembled as we packed the car that morning,
they'd have kept us there to recover carefully,
but we didn't tell them.

We each took turns on the drive through Canada
and across to Detroit and then westward.
I'd drive till the fever became too crazy
while she slept next to me,
then she'd take the wheel and drive till her exhaustion
would make her hallucinate, and then she would pull over
and I'd take my turn again. We switched off like that
all the way home.

Life with Cynthia was a fever dream:
always this hint of a future ecstasy,
her plum-ripe mouth opening onto mine,
tasting like promise.

In our fevers we had nothing in common after all,
each in our own separate hallucination,
and after two years of pretending to love me,
she recovered, and left me. I
remain
in a fever.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

1-5

Chant for Divine Guidance

I need a pillar of fire by day
and a tall column of smoke by night
be for me now the thorn in my side
bring to me a single chafing burr
I will follow the trail of breadcrumbs
I will listen to that still small voice
and the many voices of St. Joan
a lapwing, a dove, a burning bush
a voice crying from a mountaintop

The light in the belly of the whale
the cat who guides me in out of the storm
and to the wide monastery doors
let it be a bright bolt from heaven
a hand which writes gold script in a dream
an old woman with a golden bough
an old man living long in a cave
an animal who speaks like a man
three women singing songs at a fire

Let a bird cry, "Follow me quickly
and I'll show you the easiest path,"
Let the book fall open to the page
that contains a message meant for me
Let a voice ring out from the heavens
Let me drink from the correct chalice
Let me know the deepest mind of god
Let me set my foot upon the path
I will walk without stopping until.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

Saturday Morning

do I have to pick a subject?
can't I just write all the shit in my head
questions
questions....fucking questions
lists of things to do
little snips here and there
list upon list
pile upon pile
days into nights
over and over
full moon, no moon
it changes very little
we just get older every day

saturday midmorning

but sometimes it stops
quiet now,
just breathe...

saturday noon


No more voices.


Saturday afternoon


just the waves on the side of the boat...

 

[hmmnmm]

I

If you fall, make sure your pusher is murdered, and
you know a lawyer. Call! Dial me please. And dry
out on your own time and dry not out on company
tables. For you know everyone deserves a fair shake
on a level playing field, a boring unmarked
sanitary playing field. A lackluster
level playing field. So everyone wins the same
exact prize which you may or may not really prefer
left as your legacy. And by the way folks,
our domestics come individually wrapped
for easy use in the home; nine out of ten
perverts prefer carp to pork. So please support your
local masturbator chapter through national
volunteer nurses servicing centers

 

[hmmnmm]

II

now they wait, then we tap our feet, tip pints
owned by no one certain, highstrung stagehands
bottom men, multitudes tattooed, numbered
maybe they never read, why would they care
that an ounce is not always measurement
it’s also a cat, a raw meat eater
a drinker of blood? Sleeper, a hunter?
I should look it up. Always be aware
of the corners up above, for devils
scratch off lottery tickets in corners
they already paid, believe they may win
but in the meantime, the dictionary
it should say, though not in the first entry
I know an ounce is a cat, forget where
snow leopard? Lynx? Please don’t say it’s extinct

 

[hmmnmm]

III

wish inside wail outside impure
chalk line sideline role player
watches and whistles perfect
position to see bent limbed
candy, bandied angles
angelic figurine fit tug
absent rearrangement present
text pretense, edit lines red
marker sin-free consequence, just
wash. Scrub it all away watch through
sidelight windows; strum solo strings,
whistle dixie; and do no harm

 

[hmmnmm]

IV

virgin fright
blood
needless
needles
flee for comfort’s arms
his dressing is year round
bound to serve, please, beyond Halloween
wigs and webs, lanterns and wax fangs
how you cower there
your come is eventual, here
everyone gets hungry
your corner appears lonely
crawl
crawl to me
I do understand
your virginal fright

 

[hmmnmm]

V


a reason to slip on this old sweater,
frayed sleeves, seams parted, an elbow hole
black plastic hard buttons, the sleeves fit
loose, yet, cause no clumsiness. The sleeves
hide these skinny arms, they always were
skinny, even if I went into
a disciplined workout, exerted
effort, applied it: walks along
the river. This old frayed sweater gives
inconspicuous comfort dark dark
green, blends in the quiet corners
where I may observe the season.
the sweater, the stew; inhale exhale.
Wife once threatened to burn it, but
I’ll burn with it. Is this how the idea
Of God Began?

 

[Minervous]

.

.....

 

[Minervous]

.

.....

 

[Minervous]

.

.....

 

[PandoraGlitters]

1-1

* * * * *

 

[Minervous]

.

.....

 

[Minervous]

.

.....

 

[PandoraGlitters]

1-2

* * * * *

 

[PandoraGlitters]

1-3

* * * * *

 

[PandoraGlitters]

1-4

* * * * *

 

[PandoraGlitters]

1-5

* * * * *

 

[Eluard]

4-1.

. . . .

 

[Eluard]

4-2

. . . .

 

[Eluard]

4-3

. . . .

 

[Eluard]

4-4

. . . .