Lady Poet

 

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to laze in one's garden wearing a sun hat

as a lady may do of a June afternoon.

Poetry is the Boston Marriage of the arts--

termed by some a higher devotion

and by others a harmless quirk.

The lady poet must avoid unpleasantness

and lift her literary skirts

above the puddle in the road.

Upon discovery of my desire to be a lady poet,

my father entombed me with his own manuscripts

mummified by papier-mache and shellac.

My mother tried to can me with her tomatoes

to debut at some later date

in a more malleable and acceptable guise.

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to jump in the blood and guts wearing suspenders

and getting arrested after midnight.

Drunk on gin, turns of phrase, and love of fire

to dwell in the house of the falling crossbeams

for seven years give or take

And then to sleep with men, sleep with women,

sleep with marvels and nightmares

such as no one ever speaks of, and then to scream it.

After all of this, it will be a fine thing

to laze in the garden wearing my scars and hip-hoorahs

as a lady may do of an October afternoon

My father dead in his grave, my mother careful in hers,

and my many selves rolling over in theirs,

all for this higher devotion, this quaint quirk, this thing that I live for.

______________

For Dverse Poetics: Reimagining the Familiar hosted by Dora

and What's Going On--"Morn of Restoration" hosted by Mary

Music: Chantel Chamberland Temptation (written by Tom Waits)

Famous Contemporary Poet

 

I'm trying to finish this famous contemporary poet's

fourth collection, which groans under the weight of

all the glowing blurbs on the back cover.

The famous contemporary poet avoids rhyme as if

it was a downed wire--half grand mal seizure, half

pit bull off the chain and charging.

The famous contemporary poet writes a few poems,

carefully packed in vignettes, snapshots, and musings,

all the excelsior found in any packing crate.

In high school I had an acquaintance, this guy.

He'd toss out something cryptic and then wait

like he'd flipped you a Rubik's Cube.

Everything out of his mouth was a test and he'd give

you this bright smirk, like can you figure it out and

get to where I am, up here?

I would like to meet the famous contemporary poet

and show her one of mine, plain as the flat of my hand

when it breaks her nose and the blood comes.

I am trying to finish the famous contemporary poet's 

fourth collection even though it's like watching a movie 

with muddy sound, in dialect, no captions.

______________

Still Life w/ Cryptids

 

The fox with a layer in its mouth explained:

it is merely a totem,

a representation

or avatar,

but the hen's red throat 

called bullshit

as it died.

The women with stones in their pockets

were made lonely by the waters of the river.

They sang, their heavy diver's helmets ringing

with rare harmonics

hailed by critics

panned by pop fans

and made more difficult to understand

the further from the surface they sank.

Everyone said it would be the moon,

but it was the sun who went mad,

incinerating gardens in an afternoon.

Cosplay Aztecs

held up hearts

in their palms.

Please join us for the afterglow

with refreshments and a swag bag.

Everyone thought that the baby's first word

would be "Mama", but it was "Dada." 

Tristan Tzara's disciple Marcel Duchamp

 presented the child as a readymade

with orange tail

and silver helmet,

an artless objet d'art he named L.H.O.O.Q.

with enigmatic smile + mustache. 

_______

for Word Garden Word List--The Last To Go. 

Music: DJ Dero The Horn (El Tren) Batucada'n Bass Mix

I'll Wipe That Enigmatic Half Smile Right Off Your Face, Chica

 

Mona Lisa and I sit at my kitchen table, sharing croissants.

(I have no kitchen table.)

I'm about sick of her stupid smile.

(Mona Lisa isn't even here.)

My dog wanders up and asks if there'll be anything else.

(My dog can't talk.)

I slip a revolver out from my skirts and lay it on the table.

(I'm wearing sleep pants. I own no guns.)

Sorry, says Mona Lisa. She says that all day long.

(Paintings don't speak.) 

I blow her brains out.

(She has no brains. That's why she's annoying.)

I clean up, then marry my dog.

(You can't marry a dog.) 

I whisper in his ear that the gun was unloaded.

(There was no gun, no Mona Lisa, no table.)

I hope you enjoyed this poem.

(Poem?)

______

for Word Garden Word List--Inspector Pancakes Helps the President of France.

Music: Donovan There Is a Mountain

The Mountains Have Heavy Hearts

 

The mountains have heavy hearts.

The earth, like a fussing grandmother,

feeds them altitude

and early light.

Inside each house

is a beautiful girl, waiting.

Beneath each house

the earth understands what waiting really means.

My hands are like broken hinges

on a door warped from rain.

In my mind, grandmothers and mountains.

In my heart, my love, rushing. 

I have cared for a woman, perhaps.

I have cherished a dog for years.

He drowses to the touch of my big useless hand

on his back like a happy burden.

________

for The Sunday Muse #173, where I am hosting.

the art is "Self Portrait With Accordion" by Guido Vedovato

T-Rex, ed.

The merciless T-Rex takes a cold delight in tearing its victim apart, biting to the bone and seeking out the tasty morsel of the heart, which it cannot chew but devours by tossing its head back and swallowing whole, followed by a satisfied bellow.

Though they write little of note themselves, the T-Rex often finds a position as editor of a poetry journal or publishing house. Seeming to grin, the T-Rex copy-pastes "Thank you for letting us see your manuscript. However...." The T-Rex will never see you as anything more than a plodding plant-eater. Might I suggest a more sensible career, for example dental assistant or elevator repair technician. 

Next week: the pros and cons of asking a three-toed sloth to be your beta reader. 
_______

for Just One Word "apart"