Category: Poems & poem-like things

Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Calculus

“cursor is Latin: not one who curses
…but one who runs” ~ D. Bonta

And after the floodwaters receded, a few steps away
from the fountain of the oldest university on the other
side of the world, a giant catfish was found: its rough-

sleek back the color of slate, its bloodied whiskers
stiffening as the sun returned. There was no
sign of the dove coming back with a flag of green,

no olive branches spreading their arms in the middle
of a field. From windows of makeshift shelters,
the stricken looked out upon the city’s mud-

slicked streets. Like odd-shaped pieces of bread,
roofs of houses float upon the waters. The heads
of the gathered are too many to count.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Cursor.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Shark’s Tooth

This entry is part 5 of 34 in the series Small World

From what tacky tourist trap did it come,
that keepsake, that ocean’s arrowhead?
I think my grandparents brought it back
from their one & only Carribean cruise.
It rode around in my pocket for a while,
a talisman luckier than a rabbit’s foot
or a saint’s ear. It was not much bigger
than a mole’s snout, but sharp, so sharp.
I imagined serried ranks, sierras,
& the circling fin, evil twin of the sail.
It was—I recall—a kind of off-brown,
the color of moldy leather or dried blood,
but shiny enough to serve as a mirror
for something not quite my reflection
but sharper than a shadow.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

New “Hope”

There’s now a larger, HD version of the video I made for Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with feathers…” last year — the one using a Nic S. reading and clips from an old Encyclopedia Brittanica educational film about the American Civil War, which was going on when Dickinson wrote her poem 150 years ago. (Vimeo permits users to swap one file for another, so this will replace the earlier version in all embeds that may be out there. Neat, eh?) The difference in quality may not be all that large, however, due to the limitations of the source file at archive.org. An artists’ collective in Athens requested a projection-quality version for an upcoming festival/exhibition of poetry videos, which intrigues me because of their approach: a number of screens playing videos in different rooms, museum-style, rather than scheduled screenings as in a typical film festival. I find longer videos rather tiresome to watch in a museum gallery, but since most videopoems are quite brief, this approach should work well, I think, and expose any given video to many more viewers. One of the four rooms in this two-day poetry event will be devoted to the work of four master poets: Dickinson, Blake, Plath and Bukowski — some interesting company for the Belle of Amherst! “Void Network thinks that Poetry Nights are a chance to create a vibrant place in the hurt of the Metropolis,” they told me. Well, one can always hope.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Cursor

This entry is part 4 of 34 in the series Small World

This screen where I type is the only light
in my dark house

a fly walks up & down
& over the blinking cursor

last night I watched the sky for half an hour
& only saw two meteors

one text insertion point every 15 minutes
that’s no way to write

cursor is Latin: not one who curses
of course but one who runs

it’s the transparent sliding part
on a slide rule

a door disguised as a window
fooling only flies & stargazers

pick up your grave said Jesus
& follow me

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Vortex

This entry is part 27 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

We were confused by sudden
spring: by warmth that forced
blooms open ahead of their
flowering—

And we were taken
aback by storms
that pelted pavements
with fistfuls of hail—

And in the east, a pall
descended on the city
in the aftermath
of flood—

In some places,
people clung to cross-
beams on telephone
poles—

And even the birds
held deathly still,
merely swiveling
their heads—

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Four-Way Stop

This entry is part 26 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

Pulling away from the parking lot and crossing
the boulevard into 45th, I’m not necessarily
thinking of this morning’s early rain, nor of how
the sidewalks are stained with clumps of fallen
crepe myrtle blossoms. And while I have some vague
awareness of how, despite the way they stipple
the pavement like dots in an impressionist painting,
there are still such generous mounds of them massed
on the trees— I’m not necessarily preoccupied with
the idea that this might almost (if I forced it) work
as some kind of metaphor for the way there never
seems to be any permanent fix for our problems: two
solved, and five more pop out of nowhere like some
many-headed monster resolved to take the prize
for tenacity away from you… For instance,
having just recently figured out how to pay for
a used car, insurance, and sundry other items for
a daughter who wants to move out of state to go
to school, I feel sideswiped by the four hundred
dollar bill that comes in the mail for the stress
test the doctor ordered at my last physical. Out
of the corner of my eye I see the owner
of the corner coffee shop come out with a hand-
lettered sign listing the day’s specials; he ducks
as the boughs overhead spatter his head with leftover
rain, and just as I’m wondering When does it stop?
a cop comes up behind me and is signaling for me
to pull up on the side. Oh crap, I think,
as I roll down my window, and he tells me
I’ve failed to notice the four-way stop.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Listing

On the third floor,
rows of boxes lean against
one wall. I no longer know
what’s in them: cables,
books, picture frames?
It doesn’t seem to matter.

*

But today I unwrapped
presents we were given years
ago: one glass kettle with
a blue marble on its lid, a pair
of hand-painted candlesticks;
one hand-crocheted tablecloth
trellised in tiny daisies.

*

We went for a walk
as the sun scalded
the hulls of ships
vermillion, one last
time before giving
in to the dark.

*

Has anyone ever
given you an Indian
rope burn? Voices
of children darting
through jets of water
at the fountain.

*

Quaint towns along
the coast, houses with
wraparound porches.
Perhaps a clearer
view of summer
skies from there.

 

In response to cold mountain (56): one thing.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Locust leafminer haiku

After posting a new photo on my poor, neglected photohaiku blog, I found for some reason the subject-matter—the depredations of locust leafminers—prompting a whole series of somewhat nerdy haiku, which I posted in the comments there. Let me repost them here. (If you’re familiar with this phenomenon, feel free to add your own haiku below.) I tried to take some additional photos of our brown black locusts this afternoon, but none of the pictures turned out.

locust leafminers
now the leaves get more of the sky
than just sunlight

*

the locusts look as if
they’ve been eaten by locusts:
leafminers

*

one million beetles
hiding under
one million leaves

*

locust leaves
skeletonized by beetles
hiss in the wind

*

already brown
before the storm toppled it
black locust limb

*

a leafminer beetle
lands on my thinning scalp
black locust grove

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Screw

This entry is part 3 of 34 in the series Small World

O screw
with your fine thread
your bugle head
your shank
your sharp tip—
you with your disinclination to slip
have taught me all
I need to recall
about politics:
go left & get loose
go right & tighten
into place
like dutiful screws
but beware the quick fix
the stripped thread
the buggered head
of those who are too
truly screwed.