The Gymnasium

[Tzara]

instead of faced, can you work in "facet"?

Why there is always blood
(champagne remix)

Writing poems
is passing diamonds
through your gut.

They're always hard,
but when faceted and brilliant,
they also cut.

 

[Tzara]

Chicago

On this trip, I could read
Seneca's Troades,

but I won't, I know. I will read
John Grisham, or a magazine,

or watch a nothing movie
and sleep a little bit. Not

how I want to be but how I am.
I want to be so better for you,

live the light that's in your eyes,
but it doesn't seem to work that way.

I am just me, just barely boring,
and inarticulate as hell, glowing only

in your close beauty and your smile.
You count to three. My count is two.

 

[Tzara]

Temporary Visa

You are a different country
where I never stay too long.

We speak a common language,
though with uncommon tongue.

 

[clutching_calliope]

The Desert Ocean

cupping my hand to your mouth
i hear no echo, no mermaid scream.

your face is sand.

dunes and vistas
shapeshifting themselves into doppelgangers
of who you were yesterday, what
you may be tomorrow. endless flecks

of dust clouds on polka-dotted
black bandanas calm your eye
of hurricanes in the desert. dry

is what your body says as it lays
tossed upon the land. i wait
and watch the wind wash away
your skin
to relieve your parched bones
of
this ceaseless burden of blood.

 

[annaswirls]

the wind is in my face and
the sun is on my back
but it feels like the right
way to be facing today

gusts force waves over the damn
minnows face upstream
wiggle their tails just enough
to keep their place in the shallows

I wait for you.
Wonder, have you ever been to Texas?
Will you know the way?
There are Black Eyed Susans blooming in
November of all times, but their eyes are yellow.
Surely, their name is not Susan.
Do you remember mine?

 

[annaswirls]

I asked what do you want to talk about
and you answered, Spaghetti Sauce.
At first I laughed but I see now.
You want me to tell you about
how I still wait until morning,
until the noodles have dried into hard orange sticks
pasted onto the vinyl table cloth.

You want me to tell you how the children have grown,
how they havent. How they will not let me wet the napkin
on my tongue, wipe their mouth.

Do you remember the night
the baby woke up crying
for his lost balloon, how no other balloon would do?
In your silence then, I could feel it,
your tears wanting to spill over onto me
to carry you up to bed, hold your aches.
He has forgotten about the ballon.
It is our memory now.
I still watch for you
up, up out of my sunroof.

 

[clutching_calliope]

November Foehn

Latent animal tendencies
grip the walls this marble-veined month
wrapped in the fat of summer
still

and injected brew cider of bare maple
trees. The braying wolves
of Bremen
haunt the mandrake woman
when she’s blood and blood. When
they hunt,
they hunt
her cunt.

Now is the witching hour
come to pass and the tarot
cross erected. The Empress
beheaded, The Fool undead
and the mushrooms all in a circle.

 

[Sara Crewe]

This Prophet Wears Pink

At the bar, I find myself
squeezed between talking book ends
with tightly leashed vocabularies
that stray no further than can I buy you
a drink and a tail-chasing obsession
to know my name. My name matters
infinitely less than the probability
of whether or not I will say yes
which proves that algebra
has many practical applications.

I’m not sure where they went to school
but they seem to suffer from the mistaken
notion that no means ask again. I sigh
and silently lament the loss of the broken
record cliché to the advancement of technology,
wonder if DVDs ever skip and how bad
my knuckles would hurt from punching
someone in the face for calling me baby.

Somewhere from the back room
in my head my mother chides
that violence is never the answer
and asks me what would Jesus do.

Jesus? I’m pretty sure he didn’t swing
that way but it isn’t wise to argue
semantics with a ghost so I try a parable
with the next guy who tells me his place
is just down the road. I ask him to picture
an antelope (yes she’s pretty) who wandered
across the plains looking
for a water hole. She out ran every hyena
who rushed her but the quiet patience
of the jaguar rewarded him with a feast
he savoured all night. When I finish

my story I feel walk-on-water wise
and think about how long it might take to turn
into wine when I hear so you wanna
go back to my place? Jesus Christ
I complain just before I sink.

 

[annaswirls]

..................

 

[clutching_calliope]

Garage Sales in Rich Neighbourhoods

There aren't.

 

[Tzara]

SEA/SNA

I know the travel is too much when
in even the hotel towels I see

them wrapped around your body, held
up by your sloped shelf of breast.

Yes, that makes the shower better,
but still I am not sleeping with them.

........................................................Yet.

 

[annaswirls]

Reason: I'm bored. There's nothing else to do but edit.

um you could always do some R rated towel origami and get crazy with the complimentary lotions

 

[clutching_calliope]

Iginla on Home Ice, Minus 40 with a Wind Chill, You're in California

Nothing drips from this body
in this weather
unless you have a preference

for a little ice play (they call it a hat trick
in hockey, breast, breast, score.).

Too bad you aren’t metal.

I’d gladly have my tongue
stuck
to your pole
until someone comes

(with the hot water kettle, or a channel changer).

 

[Tzara]

The Problem with Floods

That house sat sadly
on the edge of the sands
near but not too near
the broad river. Sank.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Flung

every penned exotic fuck flung
is a wagon load of monkey dung because

its more like bread and butter,
raspberry jam, seedless morning
sex and what’s for supper.

 

[Sara Crewe]

I don't want to post this on the thinned-skin thread 'cause Anna has a poem she wants people to have a look at and two would be confusing so I have decided to abuse Calli's thread 'cause she just doesn't seem scary in any way.

I would like impressions, critique, comments (good/bad/ indifferent) on this poem if people have the time. The reason why is that this poem appears to be the runt of my summer poetic litter. All his siblings have found homes but he is still hanging around. I would turf him but the problem is I like him, probably too much, so I need some extra eyes to give me some perspective. So, I don't totally mess up the thread on Calli and everyone else, maybe pm me your ideas if you have any. Thanks.


Missing the Trevi

I remember a city carved
not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries
touched me and stopped my travels.
I was held by their silent stories
and the charm of finding art
standing on every street corner.

He watched me stare at Medusa
until he wondered
if she had petrified me
and his fingers touched my hair.
I remember being startled.

When he took my hand
I didn’t ask why nor did I mind
that we exchanged no words
between kisses that shared
our melting gelato as we felt
the Spanish steps warm our skin
even after the Roman sun slept.

I see that me in the postcards
I play in my head and she seems foreign.
Today I don’t have time to stop
and stare at statues. I drive in circles
with a five mile radius
and never talk to strangers.

 

[clutching_calliope]

I don't want to post this on the thinned-skin thread 'cause Anna has a poem she wants people to have a look at and two would be confusing so I have decided to abuse Calli's thread 'cause she just doesn't seem scary in any way.

You haven't seen me in the morning...plese refer to your Medusa line below.

I would like impressions, critique, comments (good/bad/ indifferent) on this poem if people have the time. The reason why is that this poem appears to be the runt of my summer poetic litter. All his siblings have found homes but he is still hanging around. I would turf him but the problem is I like him, probably too much, so I need some extra eyes to give me some perspective. So, I don't totally mess up the thread on Calli and everyone else, maybe pm me your ideas if you have any. Thanks.

I'm posting my comments here, because you can't mess up this thread! Please, I want everyone to feel free to do whatever they want. Work it out, it's a gym.

Missing the Trevi

I remember a city carved
not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries
touched me and stopped my travels.
I was held by their silent stories
and the charm of finding art
standing on every street corner.

He watched me stare at Medusa
until he wondered
if she had petrified me
and his fingers touched my hair.
I remember being startled.

When he took my hand
I didn’t ask why nor did I mind
that we exchanged no words
between kisses that shared
our melting gelato as we felt
the Spanish steps warm our skin
even after the Roman sun slept.

I see that me in the postcards
I play in my head and she seems foreign.
Today I don’t have time to stop
and stare at statues. I drive in circles
with a five mile radius
and never talk to strangers.

I liked the story of this poem, but I have to admit that the first stanza didn't pull me in right away. I do like the part about Medusa a lot (special affinity with that particular lady) and I wonder if that is not a metaphor you might be able to exploit a bit further.

As a personal preference, I would have liked the 'remembering' portions to be written in the present tense, and then the last stanza might be more of a revelation to what is happening now with the narrator, because I believe the last sentence beginning "I drive in circles..." is VERY powerful, worth the whole poem.

Minor points: I was confused to the exact geographical location between the Greek Medusa, the Spanish steps, the Roman sun and the melting gelato (Italian, I'll assume). I'm assuming this is a purposeful thing, but it left me feeling a little disoriented.

I remember reading it this summer. Good job!

p.s. What is a Trevi? I've never been anywhere.

 

[Tzara]

<snip>p.s. What is a Trevi? I've never been anywhere.

It's a famous fountain in Rome. There's also a replica of it in front of Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Last time I was there (i.e., in Vegas), there were a lot of Italian tourists taking pictures of it.

Miz Crewe: I'll be back later to comment on your poem. Want to think a bit first.

 

[Sara Crewe]

You haven't seen me in the morning...plese refer to your Medusa line below.



I'm posting my comments here, because you can't mess up this thread! Please, I want everyone to feel free to do whatever they want. Work it out, it's a gym.




I liked the story of this poem, but I have to admit that the first stanza didn't pull me in right away. I do like the part about Medusa a lot (special affinity with that particular lady) and I wonder if that is not a metaphor you might be able to exploit a bit further.

As a personal preference, I would have liked the 'remembering' portions to be written in the present tense, and then the last stanza might be more of a revelation to what is happening now with the narrator, because I believe the last sentence beginning "I drive in circles..." is VERY powerful, worth the whole poem.

Minor points: I was confused to the exact geographical location between the Greek Medusa, the Spanish steps, the Roman sun and the melting gelato (Italian, I'll assume). I'm assuming this is a purposeful thing, but it left me feeling a little disoriented.

I remember reading it this summer. Good job!

p.s. What is a Trevi? I've never been anywhere.

Thanks, Calli for both the venue and the comments. I figured you wouldn't mind but I didn't want to assume.

I figured the poem was lacking 'hook' factor and I wondered if it had a 'so what' impact on readers.

Medusa was poetic cheating on my part. I have no idea if there is a statue of Medusa in Rome or not but I figured they have a statue of everyone else so I decided to use her. I will think about whether that is throwing people off and maybe change it for accuracy.

The poem is set in Rome. The trevi is a famous fountain and the story goes that if you throw a coin in the fountain you will one day return to Rome. No such luck for me so far... Wanna go to Rome with me?

http://www.rome.world-guides.com/attractions.html

The Spanish Steps are also explained in that link. I never thought about how confusing that might be if someone had not been to Rome.

I have not had enough coffee to think about the tenses but I do get what you are trying to say. Sometimes I get very wrapped up in the narrative and don't pay attention to the power of tense. I think Tz has even caught me changing tenses mid poem ( by accident) several times. I will paste your ideas on my copy of the poem and see what I can do.

Thanks again!!

 

[Sara Crewe]

It's a famous fountain in Rome. There's also a replica of it in front of Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Last time I was there (i.e., in Vegas), there were a lot of Italian tourists taking pictures of it.

Miz Crewe: I'll be back later to comment on your poem. Want to think a bit first.

I'll let the fire department know they should ignore the smoke.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Leftovers

If revenge is a dish best served cold
I hope mine is in a tin foil cake pan
with a cardboard top.

Your misdirected anger is as convoluted
as mushroom Foo Yung

and just as tasty the morning after
standing over the sink,
knife in hand.

 

[DeepAsleep]

she's breathing out her half of this
indecently directed telephone conversation -
putting hot lies i'm touching you, here
i am turning your sweat into wine
down the line, turning
in appropos fashion; adhering to the
teasing core of the rhyme pants into flamingly actual
torture.

~D.A.
Wish she'd get back to town, already.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Sleepers

When its done, the ballad blues
and the daily eggshell shakes,

we’re sleepers freed
from the bars of body. The

buildings will rise without
hands like praising the glass

of the silicon sun. Stunned,
we remain in their shadows;

children whose toys rebelled.
Candied yam dreams of fluted roses

are topped up with golden batteries.
Only nightmares run on solar power.

 

[Tzara]

Distilled Spirit

Put the night and put stars
with some ice in a blender.
Pulse. Strain into glass.

Do not add diamonds.
These diamonds shall adorn your body.
Besides, they snap the blades.

 

[Tzara]

Ian Fleming Contemplates His Breakfast
at the Astor Hotel in New York, 1963

This toast is dank, he thinks, lamenting
that shipwreck in the sargasso sea

where those toast racks destined for the colonies
were lost. Tastes change in sudden vacuum.

Right there right British principles were lost.
And then, that pesky revolution. Such is the cost

of shipping precious artifacts abroad.
Bloody hell! He has already left the check?

The friendly journalists segue to nil.