I’m sorry, dear words,
for promising you place
then being fidgety.
Tossing you out.
I’m sorry, dear poem,
for failing to write you
down. You see,
I thought you’d stay
awhile but then you
ran away with whatever
else was in my shopping
list, never to be reclaimed.
Sorry at last for being
fickle with art, instead
of tender, reassuring, true.
Instead of a space
I offered a vacuum.
No amends can be made
now except a new draft.
I don’t know what I did (or didn’t do)
To fall out of her favor. And I know
I’m not the only one, to be mystified
By her behavior. Our time together
Was pleasant—unmarred by argument.
But she packed her bags completely
Leaving discreetly in the night—the scent
Of her perfume a bare hint in the empty air.
Hard to hear at present—but once she murmured
Sweet somethings in my ear all evening.
Now, behold the horror that I’ve become:
The pages so blank—the fingers so numb.
More at https://about.me/dklawitter.
It begins at the base, a series
of background questions.
Then the story is spread out
Leaf to branch to leaf, a face
of a protagonist, a villain,
a few strange quotations.
One way, the story branches to
a satisfying locus of foliage.
The other way, the way is broken,
splintered, falls breathless to the ground.
We visited the graveyard often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a hill
As if to place the dead skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I would
Snap photos of the markers, hoping
And simultaneously not hoping
That in one of them there would be
The wisp or specter of a ghost
When the products popped out
There was always that moment
Of ethereal mystery as the image
Faded into firm being.
I miss the words
doing their job
filling pages
Designs falling
into place
syllable to stanza
The silence
this silence
pushed back
Away for
another moment
or two
That’s what
I miss most
The words
folding me
into themselves
This woman,
collar locked high
against old wind
in the half hall
of her youth,
but clean words collect
in her head
as she steps
away
from lost windows
and rooms
to lean towards
the narrow lane,
where she sculpts
a path through briars
to the gate.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
I’m writing less these days.
Figuring out the reason
I lose the frame of mind
That has till now
Heated my coffee,
Whose depth you compared
With my navel.
The times you gifted me with
Awaits at my threshold
Not to enter into my domicile
But to resurrect in me
The ancient tradition
Of coating love with courtly songs
Where I’m Petrarch
And you my Laurel,
Coronating the chase with
A second’s glance of the Human-god.
Woe seems me.
My graphic poems used to embarrass me
Yet I couldn’t stop writing them
Did I want attention ?
Praise?
Or a gentle rebuke?
No matter
Studying Bukowski
He probably never deleted anything
He has freed me
The writing stands
Sometimes the poem lives,
pouring out of its own accord.
Sometimes it lays sleeping,
it loses shape when resting
and cannot be awoken
until it lays flat on the page.
So, you have to pull it out slowly,
It’s extremely flexible
like imaginary plasticine.
You give back to it shape,
stare at it briefly,
a wonderful polished pebble of thought.
Then close the book,
open up the mind
and set off in search
of the next tiny treasure.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I had to invent
a voice, a new face
last night
Judge me if you please
There was no more
interest in full old
me, old friends
Leaving me by myself
to compose in empty rooms.