Ouija Circle South

He hadn't been there to see, and so didn't believe
in the empty, loss-scented envelopes
that arrived each day by post.

Each pastel,
each precious
as a past nursery rhyme.

He said, "you are excitable,
hysterical,
to believe we have a ghost."

and my mind saw my womb
wandering waste
in the night.
_____

for Real Toads Open Link Monday

This form is called a Shayzen poem. Combining the undisciplined, scattershot doubletalk of Fireblossom with the stingy taciturn snotty monosyllables of Mama Zen, this form has been hailed by the avant garde even as it has been panned by the literary establishment. The Shayzen can be used to get stains out of carpets, it can rid your dog of bothersome fleas and ticks, and can even be worn as a fragrance. Do not read Shayzens near an open flame. Talk to your doctor about Shayzens. It's our form. Eat your hearts out. You may now touch the hem of our garments.
 


 

Wiccan Love Poem

Look, baby--
we have no reflection in the mirror,
it lowers its eyes
discreetly.

Honey,
there are times when I grow so homesick
for your hair,
your eyes,
your skin,
that my fingertips go still and sleep,
so that they can find, by touch, their dreams of you.

You are the only one I love,
but this is not the only poem that carries my love--
I will fold them,
and lay them,
in Wiccan patterns on my wooden floor to guide you.

Find them in the silver slant of moonlight.
Follow the night-bloom scent of jasmine.
Look for my room, softly lit and waiting.
_____ 

Field Ration

there is a loaf
made from blood-yeast and wheat-bone--
it is a poison loaf.

when the cramp comes, keep your face sweet.
keep the grave ready and the candle lit--
to starve is for others; for you, to eat
such spoils, such plunder, such unwholesome shit.

there is a loaf
made from boot heels and royal red--
it is a poison loaf.
_______

for marian's challenge at real toads--sinead o'connor

photograph: burial cairns at isandlwana
 

Pantry Chef

When I was younger,
I washed lettuce heads in cold water.
I would set them on my cutting board, gently,
As if my hands hummed with lullabies.

I lifted tomatoes from their cardboard carton beds.
I lined them in a row like nursery babies,
And my starched jacket was always white and clean.

I knew romaine and bibb,
Beefsteak and cherry.
I kept my hair tied back, my nails short,
The right knife sharp and at the ready.

I didn't know, then
That lovers remember the wine, not the greens;
The sugar, not the side plate.

I wish you were here to kiss my hands
With their swollen knuckles and cut-scars.
What was I doing with my tenderness
When I had someone who wanted it?

When I was younger,
I had a paying job, a small talent,
And a driver with a dolly at the back door
Coming every day to keep my walk-in cooler stocked.

I thought that was bounty.
I thought there was no harm in staying on through another fall.
I never considered that what I made was not mine,
Or that someone else was paying for it all.
_______ 

After Falling Asleep In The Bath

Let me touch your broad sweet head, dear.
I promise there will be no gaudy head dress,
No gondola of fools upon your back--
Just me,
With a humble sponge to wash your simple face.
I'd like to ask you of your sisters, your mother,
The hot afternoons,
The water wallows and the long,
Familiar,
Oft-trod road back home.
_____

for Kerry's challenge at Real Toads

Review of "Mother"

Mother by Linda Ann Rentschler

My rating: 1 of 5 stars


Here it is, The Worst Novel Ever Written. I only read it all the way through as a sort of exercise in endurance, and to see how laughably awful the writing could become. Here's the answer: really, really awful.

Rentschler is the Queen of hyperbolic, cheaply emotional scenes populated by cardboard characters from central casting, described in utterly talentless prose, as they act out plotlines that are so unlikely and/or boring that to read them is to experience a massive die-off of brain cells. You know that completely talentless housewife at the local adult ed writing group? It's Rentschler. No, strike that. That's unfair to the housewife.

I don't know what weird time warp Rentschler lives in, but while her story is supposedly set in the present (the book came out in 2007), her college students listen to their music on "albums" and cassettes (!) with nary a cd or a mp3 to be found. Her two main characters meet at a luncheonette, over cherry Cokes. Wait, it gets better. The grief wall in the student union has pictures of deceased celebrities, but they are all old, like John Lennon, JFK, and Marilyn Monroe. The only "new" name she mentions is River Phoenix! No Kurt Cobain in Rentschler's world.

The whole book seems more like 1957 than 2007. Even while on her big adventure of taking time away from her family to (gasp!) smoke cigarettes and (shock, horror!) stay up past midnight and (facepalm!) have a tarot reading, her main character keeps lapsing into musings about housecleaning and casseroles.

All through this novel, everyone is always bursting into tears, falling down, having conniption fits of wild emotion at the drop of a hat. This includes women, men, everybody. Also, the main character, Mary, relentlessly treats everyone as if they were eight years old. For her son's eighteenth birthday, she and her young friend brainstorm and hit on party hats, noisemakers and cowboy napkins. Then Mary runs out and buys him a puppy! Lord above.

Like I said...Worst. Novel. Ever.



View all my reviews

The Method of Madame K.

If I were a princess, a grand duchess like the rest,
Plucking rounds and diamonds from the lining of my dress,

Would you say to me in Russian, "Little faker, fair of face,
Prove to me you're royal," with your hands beneath the lace?

If I had a little derringer tucked within my clutch,
If my ribboned wrists hid poison pills, cyanide and such,

Would you take them from me, one by one, a sweet preserving djinn,
Then trail the feathers from my hat along my lamp-warmed skin?

Raven-haired Inquisitress, who takes the truth by kiss,
Can you believe confessions you have won from me like this?

Sweetheart, I surrender; adoring you I fall,
And any other claims I made, matter not at all.

______

A princess poem for Real Toads mini-challenge.

The vintage photo is of Maria Doro, silent era actress, 1909.

A little bit of background: In 1920, a woman was hospitalized in Berlin following a suicide attempt. She claimed to be the Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia, who was presumed executed with her entire family by the Communists in 1918. Her claim gained attention, and even some Romanov relatives believed she was indeed Anastasia, despite the fact that she did not speak Russian! The case remained a mystery for decades until modern DNA tests proved that the woman, Anna Anderson, could not have been the late Grand Duchess.