Hello, there. Well, you look a bit ragged. Hard week, I take it.
Looks like you need something with zest to fill you up, tonight, something sharp and tangy or something savory. We’ve got plenty to choose from.
I’d recommend the Friday Night Sunday Roast. Cook’s done a right fine job with the pastys, too. And there’s treacle and bakewell tarts if you’re craving something sweet. The poets are out back, boisterous as usual. They are talking about tone and depth, tonight.
Seems they think you’re one of ‘em. One is calling you over. Hold on! Patience you lot!
Let me know when you’re ready to order.
You are welcome to come in and discuss poetry, life, the news, weather and gardening, almost anything that comes to mind (I believe in open discussion and freedom to discuss what’s on your mind or what COMES to mind as you read.)
Please, keep in mind the new Terms and Conditions as you relax in the pub, sip whatever, but you may get as goofy as you want. Food fights are fine. You know where the broom is and how to clean up after yourself. Horse play is permissable Darts are for the boards. No knife throwing, eye gouging or fisticuffs. Noogies and wedgies allowed under certain conditions.
Arm wrestling: ENCOURAGED. Poetry talk would be good, too. haha!
(All poems are shared for review and study purposes only and will be deleted in the near future.)
Winter 30
by Patrick Lane
The brightness around him in the garden
where he stands with his hands outstretched
to the sparrows. They descend to the rich grain
he holds, quarrelling between his fingers, pecking each
other, especially the crippled one who lifts away
from their beaks and flutters in the air
just above their greed. The cold
climbs into her as they drive her into the trees.
This is what God must have felt
on the eighth day, he thinks, cruelty
everywhere around him, the omnipresence of knowing,
feeding even the least of his creatures, listening
to a bird as it dies
give itself to a song in the garden
he has made out of snow.
The Still River of Horse
By Marlene Grand Maitre
Float in the galvanic pools of his eyes.
Fluent in hurricane, cyclone—in all that uproots.
you are in awe of his stillness, its heart volatile.
Tuned to the currents of your errant life,
his mane and tail speak sirocco, chinook.
Float in the galvanic pools of his eyes,
travel the long river of neck to find
home, his hoofbeats your refuge.
In awe of his stillness, your heart volatile,
rappel the rippled wall of flank, climb
the mountain of shoulder, his legs your roots
as you float in the galvanic pools of his eyes.
In you he finds tornado, typhoon—a dark spiral.
Always ready to bolt, you will be spooked
by your awe of his stillness. His heart volatile,
he will test you, your desire
to be untethered, your need to subdue.
Float in the galvanic pools of his eyes,
in awe of his stillness, its heart volatile.
Little Villain
By Kayla Czaga
Mother said, sickness
is the first indication of children, and the clouds
peeled back like loose skin. Bright enough
to magnify ants, August hung in sticky strips. Air orangish,
sidewalk scented. I put caterpillars in pickle jars and poked
no holes. I drank fruit punch
to excess. Inside, mother reclined on the floral couch,
books alphabetically beside her. She swallowed
vitamins with ice cubes and said, when children visit,
slingshots are forbidden. So, I constructed a catapult
from popsicle sticks and loved
the boy who twisted until birds broke, filled his pockets
with small bodies, filled my body
with bruises, a pleasant swelling. His name
was William. A jump rope looped
around his dog’s neck, blood in the rope and blood
puddling on the back porch under Mother, as she watched us,
a small scream falling from her. The heat
fell with it. Her stomach unrounded. Sirens sliced
the air into little jellos and a set of gloved hands sewed her back
onto the couch where she stayed. After me, she had problems
conceiving. She named him John of the smallest
coffin. After him, she stopped completely.
La Luna Asoma
By Federico Garcia Lorca
Translated By James Deahl
When the moon comes out
the silent bells
and the impentrable paths
appear.
When the moon comes out
seas sweep over the earth
and the heart feels
like an island in the infinite.
No one eats oranges
beneath a full moon.
One must have fruit that’s
green and cold.
When the moon comes out
the hundred identical faces
on one’s silver coins
sobs in deep pockets.
A Fine Line
By Christopher Levenson
Mirrors do not discriminate
show only surface, moonscapes.
It takes clearer eyes
to see how the pangs of experience
dredge ulluvial skin,
whittle us to inscribe
our own fine lines upon
forehead, cheekbones, neck.
Even archaeologists,
whose carbon counters prise
well-deserved jaw-bone fragments
out of the African dust,
resetting the human time scale
half a million years further back,
cannot yet reconstitute
one fugitive glance or smile.
We look in the glass and wonder
where has the taut skin vanished,
what made the vein collapse?
Lots to like, not too esoteric, but some GOOD imagery...