Punk Poetry/Music/Food/Fashion/Travels with Maria

  • * Punk Poetry * Music * Food * Travel * Fashion *Novels *Poets I Love, Ones I Don't *Poetry Workshops * Gender Issues

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Tuesday Poem

Check out this cool website out of New Zealand that just posted my "After Tomato Picking" poem. Just across this other pond.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Night Noise and Rabbit Twitch

Night Noise and Rabbit Twitch

He comes at 3 am.
Bamboo rattles, clicks, no cricket sound.
Wears a suit of night noise and rabbit twitch--
his foot falls are a flute full of roaches.

strings her
between trees.

Shadows of wings trace
books on the nightstand,
no knife glint,
no gun to start a fire.

She coils against spiders
who’ve stopped their spinning--
who suck beetle fat and watch.

Night of terror
don’t you know a song cannot prevent
the wasp’s repeated sting?

The door frames nothing
but the strangle-knot
you pull
into a snare.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

When the Wind Ceases

Ophelia knows what it feels like, but you don't do you?
Fathers die when love blooms--
intensity like the insanity
of a bird of paradise all orange crowned and pointing.

She escapes to her herb garden
the only place isolation is allowed away from
the Panopticon                                the male gaze.

Her engagement apparent as she holds pruning shears in one hand,
rosemary for remembrance in the other. Snips and tends pansy faces,
listens and hears his voice                          {or is it from her chorus of voices?}
        "is that you?" she asks,
and hears him in drops of rain on a thousand leaves.

Ophelia stands in headwaters                      her hips buoy left and right
as though being bumped by exiting train passengers.
Rubber gaiters slick and seal-like, trout swim beneath
her reflected face                                 a dark shape above.
Prisms slick on silver skin swimming in thought-streams                      disappear
before the brain registers the image, an imprint here: 

not reality
this seeing and not seeing. 

Many wonders are beyond our philosophy.
Fish beyond reach.

Rapids bubble gray tracers               shadows of bears
stare at her back; she can feel them watching her,
       "he cannot save me,"
       she thinks in the gloam.

The water lifts her and she floats 
and says:
                                          "he still loves me,"
to no one at all;
except the cedars
who give many their ear
but no one their voice.