Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Tuesday poem #289 : Jamie Townsend : SLIP



Open day with black lace as

per the morning ritual it seems

second nature that we begin with

shirt over the head

still so much to discard yet

at my barest I believe in

the subliminal why these lines begin

to overlap indistinct bits

and bobs below a stroke

of primary color passing over thin

pastel bleeds of cells wilting rose

after leaves and stand in for rose

illustrating holes in our skin

That’s where seduction ripens, bloom

blush and droplet, hard rubber

pistil, watery strings then sophoric dust

A floral rudder turning in the dark

dress fallen in a heap at the doorstep

concession to the pull of

the sun I guess impatient for

delicious shadow and sound

without locatable origin

I was hoping tomorrow would

never come and it didn’t yet

my nails chipped regardless I felt

a plastic blossom somewhat

delicate and mostly unnecessary

earnest wooden boy girl painted

and dragged towards the source

cotton, lipstick, Vaseline

The aesthetics of disappearance

Baby’s face mistaken for tattoo

Now it’s back to work to sleep

in a slip that hosts

this bouquet of silk forgeries

barest feeling where I curve into

its brace a velvet string

wedged between worlds



Jamie Townsend is a poet, publisher, and editor living in Oakland, California. They are half-responsible for Elderly, a publishing experiment and persistent hub of ebullience and disgust. They are the author of several chapbooks from Portable Press@YoYo Labs, Little Red Leaves Textile Editions, and Ixnay Press, among others, as well as a further chapbook forthcoming with above/ground press. Their first the full-length collection, Shade (Elis Press), was released in 2015. An essay on the history of the New Narrative magazine Soup was published in The Bigness of Things: New Narrative and Visual Culture (Wolfman Books, 2017) They are currently editing a forthcoming volume of Steve Abbott's writings (Nightboat, 2019).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan



Tuesday, October 09, 2018

Tuesday poem #288 : Liz Countryman : I PROMISE TO BE HONEST


about nature and stuff
the breezes blustering bits but
sounds like fun words
elephants of words
bushes blustering elephants

bits in the air hitting us
bees banging the storm doors
give me the feeling of falsehood
just a little like
winning at something fun

winning really kicking ass
bright faces and days kicked between
dark days weekdays winter days
separate faucets busy
with the toothbrush

or reusing my magnetic mirror
in the dark blue locker’s
stickered unclean
its lock stuck never exact
and I got no pictures to hang up

these houses belong
to these blocks where bushes
lean like this in the spring when
the weather leans like this
selling itself to new tenants

I feel a little silly around
these blustering houses
I feel fearless like
feeding you in the wind
with a pit in my pocket



Liz Countryman is the author of A Forest Almost (Subito, 2017) and coeditor of Oversound. She teaches in the MFA program at the University of South Carolina. 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, October 02, 2018

Tuesday poem #287 : Madeleine Stratford : UNDERSTANDING


To  under-
stand is to stand
      under
not below

      Bodies touch

When I stand under
          you
withstanding your weight
I grasp your ankles
and hold on

As you stand on my shoulders
neither of us falls or feels
unsteady

But sometimes I can’t stand
          under
I must         crouch
sit
lie down
          crushed
          under

Then

I need
to gather
my strength and stand
          up
and lift you
          up
over my shoulders
so I can stand
under and under-
stand you

once

more




Madeleine Stratford is a poet, literary translator and professor of Translation at the Université du Québec en Outaouais. Her first poetry book, Des mots dans la neige (éditions anagrammes, 2009) was awarded the 2009 Orpheus Poetry Prize in France. Her poetry has also appeared in various journals, including Corresponding Voices, carte blanche, and Pøst. Her French translation of Ce qu’il faut dire a des fissures by Uruguayan poet Tatiana Oroño (Paris, L’Oreille du Loup, 2012) was awarded the 2013 John Glassco Prize by the Literary Translators’ Association of Canada. Elle nage (La Peuplade, 2016), her French version of the novel Swim, also by Marianne Apostolides, was shortlisted in 2016 for a Governor General award (Translation into French). In 2017, Me Tall You Small, her English translation of Lilli L’Arronge’s Ich groβ, du klein (OwlKids Books, 2017), was shortlisted for the Kirkus Prize.



the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Tuesday poem #286 : Melanie Dennis Unrau : thumbs





Melanie Dennis Unrau is a poet and PhD candidate from Winnipeg. Her first poetry collection, Happiness Threads: The Unborn Poems (The Muses’ Company, 2013) was nominated for two Manitoba Book Awards. Melanie is co-editor of the environmental humanities journal The Goose and poetry editor of Geez magazine.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan