Tuesday, April 15, 2008

poetry on the mind

Poetry books are collecting on my nightstand & taking the place of my fiction books for the moment.
I'm in a poetry phase.
I recently acquired several additions of
and I'm enjoying them very much.

A few of my favorites from Vol. 10, No. 2, Fall 2004....

She Dreams Her Death
by Alice Pettway

She fills the bathtub with cranberries
They pile up on her belly
then pour over her edges
and slip beneath her,
crushed against the porcelain.
Their rough-tongued juice colors her back
and trickles into her navel.
It rises until she can dip her chin
down into it
and let it into the corners of her mouth.
Her stained hands flit over her face,
leaving little kiss-prints on her skin.

by Melissa Fair
- for Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia

A poor woman climbs the stairs of a strange house
her whole life. Each year is a rented room

where furniture must be rearranged to hide the stains
of ghosts. She examines the worn edges

of everything. The threadbare rug. The door stained
by years of leaving. There are always repairs to be made.

Each night she reconstructs herself. A good black dress
and red lipstick camouflage her empty purse

and the bad teeth behind her tight smile. For the price
of a drink, someone can hold her close enough

to feel her heart beat. Some dark bird caught
in her chest. A certain man might ache to touch

that fluttering. To take an oily feather
as a souvenir. Like anything else fleeting,

sometimes a woman's desperate beauty
is her undoing. When she sees her reflection

the mirror opens its silver mouth
and swallows.

- an empty space or a missing part; a gap, a void.
by Robin E. Sampson
She traces the edges, sees only minus.
Examines the negative space where
she resides, self-defined by lack.
Weathered fragments peel away
from her wall, litter the ground.
She struggles
to stabilize,
then repair
the damage.
Gathers shards,
collects pigments,
attempts reconstruction.
What is missing cannot be
replaced or even reproduced.
Separation forms the patterns, the
constellations are shaped as much from
blackness as from stars. Chaos creates order.
She will learn to value ma*

*ma - negative space, from the Japanese art tradition


Julie @ Belle Maison said...

I love poetry...used to write a ton of it years ago. I haven't been inspired in a long time to pick it up again, but these poems you posted are great reads. Thanks for sharing :)

bloody head of medusa said...

hey! i'm actually the girl that wrote the Hunger poem you read in the bitter oleander. i'm glad you liked it. i can't tell you how nice the editor of that mag is...he sent me a handwritten note! and he gets about 10000 submissions a year - so, nice guy and a great, really great quality journal... i have a blog on here, too but can't figure out how to get the stupid address to work so i can post it on another site... if you want to contact me back.. you can go to my website... http://www.bloodyheadofmedusa.com and you can email me or go to myspace, too... anyway, thank you! what a compliment.