ALL RESPONSES |
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sometimes,
he seems lost in silliness,
like an egg in snow
smaller head these days,
his shadow a bit paler
on my last visit we play
cribbage like we once played
he loses every game, laughs
and says, “Nothing’s changed”
here, in his new dining room,
others watch us
like grounded birds:
Rose hums & flaps her hands
in perfect beat to a song in her head,
real words tangled in her throat
and Pearl, from Chicago’s past,
stops rocking long enough to see
a cloud float along the hall
speaking in the voice of her mother
later, i see her in a corner, crying
from another room, someone else
moans, another coughs
in the next instant father shows
me pictures: in one he and mother
have returned from Minneapolis,
both free to go where they please,
taking with them the color of their eyes
in another all my siblings stand together
as if on guard, sidestepping time
for just a moment he is all there,
it is 1988 and he is healthier than anyone
in the entire memory home
i want to tell everyone that my dad’s not sick,
he may not seem great but goddammit
compared to the other dead brains
and blank looks, he is better than
an egg in snow
but in the next second, father asks
me if i know my sister is getting married
to a nice boy and it’s 2008 and i realize
that sometimes eggs do lie in snow
with or without a shell |
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This morning, the car,
the car it smelled like wet bread
from my winter boots, and road
and sand plucked from distant shores
and brought here to keep my feet
from ignoring the ground to the point
where my body ignores the virtues of
verticallity and where the sand
the sand is plucked from distant shores
so the feet of my car, my wet dog of a car,
three months of windows sealed against the cold
and fingers mittened against the cold
so that the feet of my car don’t ignore
the skin of the road to the point
of my car careening into your car
on this road,
on this morning
on this road
on our way
to work
on our way
to wherever,
away from the sun at the peak
of the hill you don’t stop
at the hanging yellow before you
and squinting at the yellow behind you
push off into the intersection
and I slow to a stop and watch
you in your delicate little box
as you recede and recede
and I see the green lights laid out
before you many blocks down and I cheer for you
while I wait and squint against that morning sun
until you catch up to those slower than you,
like me, back here, upon this small rise,
basking in the glow of not caring
when I get there,
basking in the glow of being here,
now.
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A world draped in white, a sky
made of polished tin, roads
that sing the song of spring
in a northern place, and you
in these shy hours
between now and when
fill my body with splendor.
If I could, I would turn
into every word you love; yearn
linger, dusk, and redemption
live on the tip
of your tongue, taste
each syllable, know
how they answer
your hunger, feed
every fevered
prayer. |
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For all these years, this endless chain of years,
I have been waiting for the egg to crack,
Snatch meaning from oblivion, to make my watch
Not worthless. I have been faithful; but shiver nor crack
Breaks the boundless shell, nor any knock
Of any cramped impatient creature stretches
New talons to the unsuspecting light. |
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When you first had me,
I was shielded by humor
and ignorance. My armor
was cool, perfect
beneath the stroke
of your fingertip.
You were curious, hungry.
When you broke me,
the tasty interior
spilled onto your tongue.
Viscous questions
coated the roof of your mouth.
A smile on your lips,
I disappeared, and you
looked for another. |
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My abdomen is imprinted with moist traces of you;
purple and rouge bites mark my legs.
The sky that swelled with gray clouds took us by the hand
and led us into the deep abyss of each other’s sin.
More than love died inside of me.
It was a Tuesday when he called and asked me how long
I had loved someone else. I lied and cast my weary eyes to the cement.
Later I made my way over to where the nice man expected me to pay
and I laughed at all of his uneasy jokes.
My abdomen is engraved with brown comatose cells.
If only you knew the egg, now buried in the cold,
would have shared your name.
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response to photo, 'egg in the snow'
early sun angles down the front door
crawls across the tile floor
a lace of cobwebs
and three dead boxelder bugs
are illumined by the light
seeking its own
housewifery urges a clean sweep
contemplation counters
sees other doors
sides with the sun
hides broom and dustpan till
another day
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I just don’t understand. it’s an
egg--bleached white
to conform to its sisters and brothers, so
round on one end, a little less on
the other--if it was a sign
of progress I would understand, but
it is just a question unanswered (which
came first) that I am sure will be repeated
several million times this week. somewhere
it fills out pancakes and waffles, somewhere
it slides down the gullet
of a lizard; of a pastor; of a soldier who
will one day be a saint; of a house-husband;
of a working class hero--also a mom; of
a child, after being fried (the egg, not the
child, I hope).
is this all it takes for us to be
unified as a country?--no, the vegans
would be petrified. maybe we
can use tofu fried as a substitute.
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put this egg under running water
and watch its transparency spread
about like sunnyside up never
thought possible. Then,
in the nick of time,
grab hold of the water
and drink in its moonshine. |
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Something isn’t right when it snows on Easter,
the plastic eggs in my neighbor’s tree,
hang heavy in jackets of white
while dripping tears for Spring.
A slow, slow season we’ve seen-
the Christmas bells, February chocolate,
baskets and pink dresses
blend into a single memory.
Take my cold hands, this tired heart;
lead me by the lake of beginnings,
through the trusting trees,
melt new life right into me.
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She dreams she is a bear, hungry for fish
and berries, she heads to the river, heads
through the thickest part of the forest
smells moss, loves how stepping on it
feels like someone kissing her toes, she
imagines vines twining her body, working
their way to her waist. She has forgotten
her body, asleep all those years, forgotten
how it feels to be entangled. She sees patches
of yellow in the canopy, then hears the rush
of water, smells rain and dew and mist
opens her mouth in anticipation
feels the air lift her hair off her shoulder, the sun
on her throat, wearing her dress made of vines
now in bud, her shoes of moss, her lips
two petals of a trillium, she spies the princely
river, babbling for her. To his swift current she heads,
to his bank, wants to leap, but step slowly in
instead, lets him caress her ankle, drift to her thighs
and when he encircles her hips, when she
can wait no longer, she sinks into him.
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How I am this morning: chicken egg on snow.
I drive to the pool though, do my laps.
Outside, snow sifts down the wood’s wall
of pines and winterbrown oak leaves.
When I’m done, standing at the pool’s steps,
I turn to glance once more at the snow.
Suddenly you’re embracing me, whispering
promises and renewals, confirmations.
God, how good your arms feel.
I close my eyes to hold your presence
longer, we two, in our own peculiar
shell, inner, invisible, other, your
lover’s vocabulary kissing my ear.
Anyone passing on the way to the lockers
might notice a woman, balancing against
the pool’s rim, alone, smiling, face radiant.
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without you I
am incomplete
stranded
in a snowy field
with trampled crystals
at my feet
with you
I can eat
a simple meal
boiled, salted--cracked
and crumbling yoke
of hunger falling
away finally
as I step forward
and make my mark.
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In response to Alex's "What the Prince Said" and Julie's "Snow White's Dream"
If they tell you it is just
a tale, don’t believe them.
I saw it all, how the death pallor
paled her face, how we knelt
in the snow praying for
forgiveness, for strength
to endure the sudden
taking away of what brought us light.
Our vanity, thinking she belonged to
us when all she wanted was
love’s true kiss to remove the spell.
I saw how he looked at her, the way
his face was shadowed by sorrow
and then the crimson tide of longing,
how we whispered not to fear
the poison’s insidious sap down
in her throat, we knew
it was a set up from the beginning.
The tangled vines around her
legs, the mossy bark of her
feet as they lay pointed toward
paradise, the pure virginal white
of her brier and her dress, more
wedding gown than shroud.
But when he took her in his arms
all the forest began to weep
whether from joy or regret
it was hard to say. We knew it meant
her liberation, we knew
it meant he was taking her away.
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I just wanted to clear up a few things about the image of the egg on snow featured this week. First of all, there are no credits, because I took the photo. It was Sunday morning, we were getting ready to go to Aunt Judy’s for Easter dinner, and I was running out of time to post our creative stimulus. This happens frequently, where events and activities catch up with me, and I’m left with no choice but to dream up something almost spontaneously.
So I’m sitting there, thinking, Easter. Bunnies? Chocolate? Eggs? And there is snow on the ground. I might have glimpsed several “news” stories on TV or in the newspaper about Easter egg hunts in the snow. I’ve also been playing with this idea of the enso, a symbol of Zen Buddhism. The enso is a simple circle drawn with a single, broad brushstroke. It is a symbol of infinity, and represents the infinite void, the 'no-thing,' the perfect meditative state, and enlightenment. I found it challenging to try to paint one using a brush and black paint, much in the same way the Renaissance masters practiced drawing a perfect circle. It is said Raphael was particularly adept at this task. The Pythagoreans also used the circle as a symbol of the monad, representing God, the source or the indivisible One. But I was running out of time, and needed something totally original that would prompt creativity.
It was in a span of a few minutes that these concepts synthesized into egg as symbol. Besides being a pagan symbol of fertility, it also seemed to convey some of what the enso and monad intend, albeit in a rather lopsided way. I grabbed a camera, found one egg in the refrigerator, and placed it on a table. It looked like an egg on a table. No. I wanted to capture the eggness of the egg. I looked around. Outside, the ground was still covered with a thin layer of snow. That’s it. I put a hat on, walked outside with egg and camera, and placed the egg on the ground. I took four shots from different angles, picked it up, and went back inside.
A few minutes later, I had all four photos on the computer. Only one of them was sharp enough to use. It would do. Soon, the image was on the web, waiting for responses. The entire process had taken about 15 minutes, and there was still an hour left before we had to leave. I tried to think of a poem, but my mind was racing, parsing all of the possibilities into coherent data. It would have to wait. I took a deep breath, and looked at the egg, sitting there on the desk in the glow of the monitor. Just a plain, white egg, moving a little.
I looked closer. It rocked again. I back off a little from the desk, thinking I had caused it to move. That’s when the hairline crack appeared, followed by a hole. I watched in astonishment as the entire shell was slowly broken from the inside. Finally, the shell fell apart, and revealed one of the following:
--A white dove. As it flew into the sky, all weapons dissolved into dust, and war ended.
--Another egg, this time even larger.
--An eye. It looked around the room before focusing on me.
--A huge cockroach. As it flew into the sky, all nuclear weapons were launched at once.
--Joel Van Valin, clutching Whistling Shade.
--A laughing jade Buddha.
--Deep fried cheese curds!
--A vitellus, surrounded by a thick layer of albumen.
--A winning Gopher 5 ticket.
--Apollo and the nine Muses.
--A portal into an alternate dimension.
--H5N1 Avian influenza virus, mutated to pass from human to human.
--Green vapors. They enveloped me, and I wrote this story.
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My pagan ancestors
drew meaningful patterns
on hard boiled eggs
to be given as favors
and for gleaning futures
by seeing whose egg was
the hardest
in collision.
While not likely
to put
all of my eggs in one basket,
do I dare
put all my hopes
into one egg. |
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once in tossed leaves of yellow
and orange breath, alongside cold
stones of a blue river, your fingers
touched me like an old guitar
within seconds, the grass turned
as white as an unbroken egg in snow
the space between our bodies
no longer a silhouette
we spent the next few hours looking
for the broken pieces of our shells |
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| Click here: The Last Scene of Annie Hall |
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Stimulus: thirst.
Amplitude: shock and awe.
Maximum sustained load: one million two
hundred thousand
darkened souls.
Achievement standard: in accordance with
Army Field Manual
interrogation guidelines. |
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How much could you write
on that little blank page?
Where do you start?
no upper left hand corner
What direction do you head?
no straight lines
no line breaks
One continuous sentence?
round and round
a loop de loop
(and you have to write uphill or down)
This is interactive poetry
turned in the hand
over easy |
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From top or bottom,
this comfortable capsule
is perfect circle. |
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I didn’t know
That you could mean
Life or death
Without parole
A sweeping black line
Because of your mother’s fear
Made my fear by her
Gorging on me
And your real inception
Means little to nothing
To the government
Who gave up hunting
For your true father
Will you find
That strange
At age eighteen
Or will you
Find it strange
Earlier? |
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Let life that grows small
become an egg exploding
into wild stonecrop
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I don't care whether
it is the egg
or the other
that came first.
But I do love to re-read
most
and more often
the poem
that will not let me stop
to see if I understood that trope
that line
that passage.
My heart goes out
to that poem
whose owner
did not let it write itself. |
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Ever notice how the ovoid shape discourages long distance travel?
Maybe evolution
Intelligent design
We can easily grasp the structural benefits of the form
Turning a shell into a shield
Easily broken by an interior peck
Yet resisting common hazards in its environment
Perhaps when we build our own shell
We are emulating success
But I never wanted to be called
A Chicken
So I try daily
to keep my natural guard:
dynamic
changing
complete with odd vulnerable angles
And never needing
someone to sit their ass on me
to keep me warm
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he said please
take it from
my two hands
it is heavy
and I have
brought it
all the way
here an oval
happiness
for you always.
tearing, she
teared, yes
i always meant
not to be here.
she took it
into her two
hands & smiled
with him always. |
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Listen until she begins to sing:
Moon, she breathes
wisteria
inverted world.
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It glows. Will she crack
its insouciance? Her haiku
is egg on her face. |
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nearly shadowless
depth perception valueless
egg be soon shell-less |
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I never knew why he called himself Egg, but I knew he was a bully. Made me,
a boy, cry at seventeen. Called me “Cunt” like it was my name. Familiar, like:
“Hey, Cunt.” Wore a black leather jacket, which pissed me off, because it was
just so goddamn, I’m-the-asshole-in-this-movie cliché. Cornball, and yet effective.
He had a terrible bowl-cut, the tough-guy brand of costume jewelry—wallet chain,
dog tags—and a pack of boys who followed him around, laughing at each other:
Uh-huh. Uh huh-huh. Back then, I laughed like that with my friends too. Once a guy
from town, mid-twenties at least, a guy named Wayne, staggered up the hill that led
to our school’s outdoor smoking area. He was a known troublemaker, messing with us
fairly regularly. This time though, Wayne was in exceptional form, two sheets to the
wind. He came up on us, a bunch of kids standing around, smoking cigarettes, hacky-
sacking, skateboarding. Started yelling about our school letting whites and n* mix and
how n* shouldn’t be allowed to run around free. I was standing there dumb—frozen,
waiting. Wayne staggered toward one of the black kids hanging out, trying to hit him
or something, but as he lurched forward, Egg picked up a skateboard and smashed
Wayne hard in the back of the head. Wayne fell down. Instantly, a circle of no less
than a dozen kids descended upon him—kicking and punching him. When the dean of
students who was watching all of this go down finally decided it was time to intervene,
he pushed his way into the angry circle of boys, gathered Wayne up, and reprimanded
him for trespassing on private property. The dean had to half-carry him off. When
Wayne opened his bloody mouth to speak—maybe three teeth left in there. A black kid
I didn’t know and I put peaceful arms around each other’s waists and shook our heads. |
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like the chick
inside the egg
i’m frozen
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Porcelain bowl
from her first wedding, now cracked,
a home for basil. |
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a takeoff on Britts latest.
After wrestling with it I wonder how differently would my fellow poets transform the blood and guts of this into a new wondrous animal.
First wedding's relic?
No porcelain egg this bowl--
cracked home for basil. |
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i hear them outside
in lonely evenings,
scratching at my door
always, i open, not really
caring to see who’s there
they file past me, clutching dated news
papers in their blue hands, hair disheveled,
each trailing a mothball scent
my uncle chain smokes, grandmother
turns down her hearing aid before
sitting comfortably in her old pine
rocker in the far corner
no one speaks, not even to answer
my questions or my pathetic offers
of coffee or red sherry
in the twenty minutes it takes
for them to overstay their welcome,
i re-open the door and they shuffle
back out into shadows
grandmother, always the good
egg, stops and whispers
softly into my ear;
i smile but do not understand
her words
i take a few seconds to savor
the lingering smell
of her peppermint breath
before closing the door to wonder
who they will visit when i’m gone
and whether or not i’ll be with them |
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Jenelle sat in quite meditation. Several others sat nearby, absorbed in various states of reverence. This was a time, immediately following mass, of quiet reflection and prayer, when no one spoke, not according to regulation, but as an unwritten rule.
Now concerning the things about which you wrote to me:
it is good for a man not to touch a woman.
But, because of sexual immoralities,
let each man have his own wife,
and let each woman have her own husband.
1 Corinthians, 7:1
As she considered these words, a feeling of great comfort came over her, which she believed to be the manifestation of the Holy Spirit, soft and warm, the seed of God's love entering her soul. The demons of her distant past surfaced and sank in the current of spirituality flowing through her; as always, until the Word took hold, framing her life in a light of forgiveness, for now and for eternity. She was filled with a peace absent of flesh, apart from the world, existing only in spirit.
She breathed deeply, contemplating the gift that was to come. As the Word grew within her, she wept silently, as did the others. They would endure a lifetime of pain to know eternal peace. And it would come, in time. In time. |
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You get funny ideas, come the spring.
When your snowbanked mind is hit by the sun,
begins to melt, run again, notions frozen,
warped by hibernation, come to life. Stretching
mis-shapen limbs. Thoughts emerge, new shoots
inkling forth, sun-starved.
Consider the egg:
stone-like, dead, needing heat of mother
love to hatch into chicken, eagle, ostrich, finch.
Sitting on the snow, lifeless, DNA
coiled, inert.
And your stonelike heart itself,
perhaps lies chilled awaiting sun's rays
to birth a new life's purpose, hoping to fly.
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Britt, I enjoyed reading the essay State of the Art. I want to add my appreciation of the website and the way it enables me to keep writing. I had a two year hiatus of not feeling inspired after my son's death and although some of that was grief, some of it was not being in practice. I find that writing in a group where there is an expectation of writing is like riding a bike. Even while experiencing PTSD, my hand picked up the pen and put words on the paper. In combination with the Mid-town Writer's Group which writes together every Saturday, I have been well-served by Northography.
I think it would be interesting some day to have a reading where we each read what we wrote on a praticular stimulus. Just go around the circle and hear the voices of what we have seen on the page. I do "listen" for the rhythms of the poems I see but I would love to hear them and feel that resonnance that happens in our bodies when poetry is spoken aloud. I also think it would be fun (and a lot of work) to have a combination art exhibition, poems next to the art on the walls, and a reading. But most of all, I think the Northography group is a wonderful group of people to get to know and I would love to commune in person.
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Dear Aspiring Poet: Please send a brief biographical note, perhaps including previous publication.
Submission
I am not published.* My poems lie
in clumps
where they fall.
Townspeople wait
for big wind to blow my pock-marked white papers
into the street
like old oak leaves,
or hard rain to wrap them around telephone poles
like last week’s news
or snowplows to push them, sodden,
toward landfills.
Nature solicits my manuscripts, asks no synopsis, no reading fee.
I write organic poetry,
no SASE included.
Please recycle.
*Once,to celebrate National Poetry Month,
I read with other poets at the library,
where a small group of writers
drank soda, snacked on chips and salsa.
I cannot swear to it,
but I do believe
nobody chewed
during the readings.
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this shell
i
live inside
so thin, so eaten
by soon to be
a past
this egg whole
part of nothing but
all of something but
here
i
live inside
when you met me
with your hair
and your smile
without descriptors
in the park
that time
it was between this
and that
that I was
still
an egg
inside
you and I talked
through the shell
of reason
through cracks so small
that our fingers
laced through them
you and I talked
through with a moment
into a larger
full
eaten
lovers
and now this shell
we
live inside
is so thin, so eaten
by the soon to be
past. |
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I wake
to a hundred different grays
layered in cloud and fog
salted and frosted roads,
the lake, a steely blue--the color
I feel when you are not near.
I want to walk with you
this morning
our hips touching, my arm
around your waist as we
cross the silver bridge, spy
an arc of watered-down red
as it rims the eastern edge.
Car lights, strung together with
invisible thread, lace the shore
in gold. The ice, like us
is moving
eastward, broken puzzle
chunks, tops powdery & white.
No boats, no waves
no movement at all--
save the sun, spilling
pale and orange
separating water
from sky
with a pencil thin
line as soft as the air
that separates your body
from mine.
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Moon full of yourself
help me love myself
and the life I’ve made.
Help me live whole
in the center of things
the way you do, changing
and painting your changes
in the river. Help me to not
be separate but to be empty.
Teach me how to be worthy
of life that isn’t mine,
summer in the leaves and flowers,
winter in the roots and seeds.
Moon bowl, not hollow
You make me think of holding
and being held, of stones
under water in the creek
flickering.
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immature poets imitate, 'mature' (old like me) poets steal
Submission
I told him I put
so much fire in my tanka.
He'd not publish it,
said to me, young man,
put much more tanka in fire. |
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A One Minute Play
Hotel Room. Dallas is making a drink. He wears bathrobe. Landon enters, carrying a few bags.
Dallas: How was shopping?
Landon: Beautiful. It’s almost like a religious experience for me.
Dallas: (Sign of the Cross) Yes...I know.
Landon: Oh, pooh you.
Dallas: Need a drink?
Landon: Do you mean “Would I like a drink?” (beat) Yes, I would.
Dallas: Sorry.
Landon: Honestly, Dallas. Do I look like I need a drink?
Dallas: Honestly?
Landon: You’re a shit.
Dallas: Sorry. (Makes drink during following exchange)
Landon: Dallas...why did we come here?
Dallas: To get away.
Landon: From what?
Dallas: Life. Stress. Christ, we haven’t taken a vacation in three years. (hands her the drink)
Landon: (Sits on bed) Well, for heaven’s sake, what have we left behind? It’s like there’s a big gorilla in the room wherever we go. And it’s been like this for years. We need to break the egg, Dallas. Get out of our goddamn shell. What do you say?
Dallas: Don’t be so melodramatic, dear. We took this trip to relax. So, relax.
Landon: I give up. I’m going to take a shower. If you feel the need, you can join me. (Landon looks at Dallas, invitingly. Exits to bathroom)
(Dallas takes a deep drink. Looks in mirror. Pats stomach, bottom of chin, etc. Opens robe, extends boxer shorts out, looks down. Shakes head. Shower is heard from bathroom)
Dallas: What did you buy?
Landon’s Voice: What?
Dallas: I said, what did you buy?
Landon’s Voice: Bananas. We haven’t been eating enough fruit on the trip. Put them on the window shelf, will you?
Dallas: (More to himself) Bananas? Christ...
(Picks up bag. Looks in. Laughs. Walks like a monkey to the window and places bananas. Dallas turns picks up Landon's coat, goes to closet door and opens the door. A huge gorilla barrels out of the closet and takes him to the floor to the side of the bed away from the audience)
Landon’s Voice: Did you say something, Dallas? Are you coming soon? And I don't mean that as a joke.
(Gorilla rises. Looks in mirror. Pats stomach, bottom of chin, etc. Looks down, smiles broadly. Strolls to bathroom door and pushes it open)
LIGHTS |
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... walls, cracked. Inside, a room
with brown sofa where he used to sit,
his legs stretched out before him.
Oh, the thunder inside a shell
when a wall cracks.
The danger of crumbling.
My feet do so slowly keep
in step to cross the brittle
floor. Every day
his presence moves
a little
farther away.
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I put the quarters back to back
in the machine , the one
that said “Trailer Trash”
and as I turned the knob I scanned
the small plastic figures--
hound dog, mama in an apron,
daddy in a lawn chair, dirty faced kid --
as the capsule fell into my hand
I spotted the one I wanted:
Man in black, black on black
a sweet guitar resting at his foot.
I will not tell you that I thought
of Johny Cash second. You first.
I will not tell you what is in my pocket
(the ace of hearts) nor will I tell you
who I’ve buried there.
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My face is but a shadow
my lips broken noon
my words empty shells, my eyes,
frozen ground. Each second
ticks more slowly
suffocates time until
I can no longer remember
the taste of your mouth, the shape
of your voice, the tug
of your kiss, how
each day you hid words
in my hair. Promised
they would add up
to something. I trace
the route you took
to my heart, look
for shards of love
you’ve left behind.
Find only a stolen kiss,
a passing glance
the ash of desire--
all mine.
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This folly of effort must soon end,
This creation no blessing, but a curse.
Let labor be left to those unfortunate,
Chosen to undertake difficult tasks,
None which remove self from solution.
Do I break to greet another snowfall,
or wait until warmer algorithms dawn?
Things fail to add up in the end. |
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Out my bedroom window
clouds cover the egg-shaped moon
turn the stones
of the interior courtyard
to oyster.
The neighbor across is ironing
a still life with iron, table,
and laundry. I cannot see
his face, only his arm paused
above a cream shirt
can hear his music playing softly
a song I wish I knew
the name of
A floor below
a glimpse into a bedroom
sheets array
underwear on the floor
I look to the moon
& it is true
what they say about heat
how it rises, it builds
and finds release.
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Rain falls, the surface trembles
with each drop. I watch the bowl
it makes, the small hollow
a cupped hand, a tear. We are
heading to the narrows
where the walleye
love to linger.
This lake, the color of steel
swallows everything I throw,
my fishing line curls, arcs
when I cast, and cast again,
a sound I never knew I loved.
Fishing takes silence
and patience my grandfather says,
and luck. Everything I see is gray
clouds, gray water, gray boat,
gray beard my grandfather
strokes with his hand, gray reel
and rod, gray bark and banks--
only the fish seem to crave color
their scales iridescent, their homes
lime weeds, and I crave
a world made of water, a body
sleek and stealth, and for you
to catch me.
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There is no beauty left in these bones,
burned, cracked and gnawed upon,
stripped bare of muscle that once
moved me from warm winter beds
to cars and lifted ale in cozy bars,
dark homes to chlorinated skeletons,
who lost their compasses skating
on urban playgrounds with ghosts. |
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together they lived
across the street
from my brown house
more importantly,
it seemed
than their four boys,
two cats, or
Bill’s job
on the railroad
his drinking consumed
him like dried blood
he brought it home
often late at night
in the stumbling moon
light, I watched him
sometimes crawl
across his lawn
like a man covered
with wet burlap
his wife, Garnett
would end her day
reading her Bible
pages worn at the corners
by stressed fingers
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Please feel free to scrutinize my attempt at translation (Sharon? Ike? Others?) and critique as needed.
Wir leben im Ei.
Die Innenseite der Schale
haben wir mit unanständigen Zeichnungen
und den Vornamen unsere Feinde bekritzelt.
Wir werden gebrütet.
Wenn wir auch nur noch vom Bruten reden,
bleibt doch befürchten, dass jemand,
asserhalb der Schale, Hunger verspürt,
und uns in die Pfanne haut und mit Salz bestreut.
Was machen wir dann, ihr Brüder im Ei?
My Translation:
We live in an egg.
We have scribbled the inside
of the shell with indecent drawings
and the names of our enemies.
We are sat on.
If we also just speak of brooding,
we still suspect that someone,
outside the shell, feels hunger,
and breaks us into the pan and salts us.
Then what do we do, you brothers in the egg? |
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Do not let your yellow show
Do not speak of your brown cousins
They are looking
on the shelves where you have been
White on white might feel safe
but even a little crack . . . |
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I collect poems
I gather them into green binders
I sheath them in plastic
I dispense them to children
like chocolate
to women weeping at the writing table
like communion wafers
I collect poems so I feel
that there is someone who has
looked into my heart
to see his reflection there
has looked at the knots and tried to
untangle them with his teeth
I collect poems like wings to
imitate Icarus, Archangel Gabriel
maybe even the gods
announcing in thunder voices
that we are human, destined
to work and play and breathe
our last upon this globe
of immense beauty and wonder
I collect poems to hope
on beauty, that it will save us
even when prayers do not seem
to be heard
even when we are afraid
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(I thank Sharon and Ike for their assistance. The second stanza is mostly Sharon's.)
We live in an egg.
We have scribbled the inside
of the shell with indecent drawings
and the names of our enemies.
We are sat on.
If we only talk about brooding,
there's still going to be fear
that someone, feeling hungry,
is going to break us into a pan
and salt and pepper us.
Then what do we do,
you brothers in the egg? |
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1. Melvin
When I was still in assisted living, Schatzie,
our favorite nurse, brought my dear from faraway―
skilled nursing down the hall― to sleep
with me in the afternoons. I needed her to lift
Mary into bed for me. She locked the door
behind her and never, with a wink or look,
reminded us that we were old. She didn’t tell
a soul. But then I broke my leg so now
I stay in the room next to Mary’s, farther
away from her than ever― we’re never alone.
The doctor said, “Accept your aging and loss
of privacy.” ―“Easy for you to say,” I said.
“You’re not the one who sleeps in a single bed.”
2. Shatzie
You’d think there was a law against love
for people over seventy! “A younger couple
has a double bed,” I said to my boss, who
said that Melvin and Mary weren’t married.
“So what,” I said, “about their life together?”
Our lawyer agreed, so the boss released the key
to the guest room (used for death vigils),
a condom and a leaflet on safer sex: All seven
children felt ashamed but the youngest: “Let’s
not act like bastards. Common law’s as good
as church!” The oldest said our chapel was better
and invited her parents to a wedding, their own,
but Mary said they wouldn’t ― not until Jack,
next door, could marry Mike. I say Amen!
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