Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Tuesday poem #407 : Michael Edwards : Process

 

 

Frontier of the notebook is the leading
            
edge. A prime location to push
forward with disembodied heads
 

of poems. Line sharks, Leviathans
            
undiscovered consonants to obliterate
and alliterate. Concentrate now.
 

Ars Poetica. Ours is the poetics of paint
            
on canvas. Under-paint, stand back
look askance head cocked finger
 

on the trigger. Pick off words
            
with a pea shooter. Put and eye
out. Rubbish removal for
 

pungent phrases, rotten cliches
            
polluting the page. Clutter be gone.
Marie Kondo do these words
 

bring you joy? Have I used them lately?
            
Only failure here. Doom Here. Purge
and ascend. Purgatorio to Paradiso.
 

 

 

 

Michael Edwards is a poet, writer and busy dad living in Vancouver, BC on traditional, unceded Musqueam territories. A graduate of The Writer’s Studio at SFU (2020), he has been published in various online journals including Talking Strawberries, Cypress, Cabinet of Heed and Headline Poetry. Michael is also the founding editor of Red Alder Review, an online publication focused on building connections between writers and the wider community. // Twitter: @michaelwrites1

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, January 12, 2021

Tuesday poem #406 : Cecilia Stuart : Gigi

 

I took an intersection as a lover. A strung-out longing as a guide. Instead of armour, I had lust without a place to set it down. I turned it into sibilance: by my bed I kept a printout of her lips. Side by side, we made a vicious chop. 

Everywhere I went I carried many scarves. Why, because I heard about a gorgeous woman come undone. I went to the arena, devoured lists of verbs. Why, because I always made my way to abscess – two hands around a yellow light.

Now I want everything in one neat grid, or wild. Yes, then I want a hook to hang my coat. If anything comes back to me, I embellish it in thin gold leaf. Of course I can’t remember why I put this space between her eyes.

I call myself a daughter.  I knew I could go further so I did. My arms, my legs, my fragrant pleas now flattened and mad. Please stay with me, a shadow. By my bed I keep a printout of your lips.

 

 

 

Cecilia Stuart’s work has appeared in Plenitude, Bad Dog, PRISM international and elsewhere. She is the author of HOUNDS (above/ground press 2020) and Mudroom (Anchorage Press 2018, with Adrian Kiva). She lives in Toronto.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan