Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
meaning lovingly, as in
the slow caress of music gathered
by hand, breath that suspends
above the strings— unresolved
quarrel, tension in the phrase:
pause prickling with heat
before capitulation—
If you asked me,
I would not compare it
to the chittering of birds,
their sudden flight from underneath
the canopy, but to the silence
that follows in their wake
as the light decants to sweet,
rich, dark like sherry—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I often wondered what the littermates thought of me, their odd, “runt” sibling. —Terry D. DeBruyn, Walking With Bears
This hairless cub, skinny & slow as he may be, seems determined to learn. Nothing is too small for his quick eyes, big as a squirrel’s: which types of ants have the choicest grubs, where the tastiest wild calla & jack-in-the-pulpit grow, how to walk down a juneberry bush or shell a hazelnut with the teeth & lips. Though he brings his own food, & thinks we don’t notice when he eats a stray pawful of berries. Always in the rear, he stumbles on river stones & flounders loudly through the fens & thickets. He employs his claws not to dig or to climb but to make scent marks on odd objects, & he will not go up a refuge tree or run from hounds, however loudly our mother urges. He cannot be enticed to play; he’s as bland as the rain. Unlike those others whose shape and scent he shares, he is at least quiet — easy to forget about. He leaves in the evening & returns in the morning. If he were here all night, we might forget what keeps us apart.
Boy in the bay, stay
and understand:
letters only attend
the coming of a sail.
Midway, we could see
places very pleasant;
the further we went,
the more we lost sight.
At cards, I come to see
my fruitless precaution,
getting without book
when I can get the book.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 12 May 1660.
“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! / What a task/ to ask// of anything, or anyone,// yet it is ours/ and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.” ~ Mary Oliver
Oh to love the green even before
knowing it will flower green; to love
the sere, knowing that even once before,
its body was supple as its soul— To love
what never really spoke to you except in coils
of brassy silence, itself a kind of speaking. To love,
oh to love the simple conjugations of the verb,
to love its ruses, complications and facades— To love
with hardly a hope of return, yet even so to keep
its image gleaming, garlanded with the name of love—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Homage to Novica Tadić
A great hen, very angry, began
to pull down the dove and the lark,
a pretty dish.
The mouth dropped thirty guns
in a high debate with the sea.
It blew hard. The great fowl’s
mother was put to bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 11 May 1660.
before seen: crackle
of lightning whip, creosote
bloom of rain.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
This morning, a whore; this afternoon, music.
I was sick in the evening.
At night, while my lord was at supper, I went
to bed, to bed, to bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 10 May 1660.
When will you get a job? So happy for you. This
is only the beginning. Make sure you go out
and get a really good job. When I was half your age
I didn’t mind walking half an hour to the next town
to go to school. Sometimes I had no shoes. Now I can see
a big mansion in your future; many kids. A loving wife,
several cars in your garage. Maybe a room for me.
Vacations. Maids. Pah, you have never lived life
until you have been pampered by maids. Your wife
will appreciate this. You will never have to pull weeds
in the garden. Someone will come and do it for you.
What do you mean you don’t want a mansion or several cars?
Did you not major in accounting? What is this thing
Liberal Arts? No matter. The important thing is
you have this piece of paper with gold letters
and a seal. It is like a passport, this. Trust me.
But these days you will also need to make friends
and influence people. Almost like you will need
a letter from the king underneath this guarantee.
Under every story of success is a ladder. Remember
what I tell you now: look at all the helping hands.
But there are also many hands that will try to pull
you down; sadly, I know. That is also part of our story.
In response to Via Negativa: Public Relations.
For RR
The memory of this will stay with her all her life: the tea party with her bears by the light of an enormous moon. She has been sent to bed early so her parents can relax & drink without the endless questions & irritating presence of a five-year-old child. But her best friends are waiting by her pillow. The three confer in thoughts & whispers, soft as moonlight falling on the duvet. The girl gets out the plastic teacups & fills them from the pot with the sweetest of invisible teas. But what to do for biscuits? She grabs a lump of Plasticine from the dresser, flattens it on the windowsill & uses the top of a lip salve tube to cut it into small, round shapes. Since these are moon-biscuits, they bake in an instant. The bears smack their lips & rumble contentment. Downstairs there might be shouting or weeping, but here, under the protective watch of her great bear & her little bear, all is tranquil. They welcome the moon into their circle with open paws.
A letter from the general:
my duty is to kill; my power, to write;
my mission, to proclaim with great praise.
Under the story of the king is the king.
He calls me a very knowing man.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 9 May 1660.