Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Tuesday poem #349 : Tom Snarsky : STARLAKE

Liking tweets like finding a path through birdsong
Letting the algorithm tell me what music

To listen to, feeding it “Silver Dagger”
By Joan Baez and even though she says “Sing

No songs”* they come anyway, forever, the
Knife in the song’s mother’s palm notwithstanding

I boarded a raft bound for the edge of the
World but never made it, only found water

Roiling until even the gulls flew inland
To get away from it, its simple rhythm

Too calm and lasting too long for us to keep
Up with, despite counting beats on the riptide

Being sometimes our only way to survive
*Sorry it’s “Don’t sing love songs” with “don’t” and “love”

Almost unstressed, the music the crucial part
Of the line, over against the omitted

Command (“Don’t [..] love”) that “Silver Dagger”’s speaker

Ends up following by the song’s envoi, a
Pushing away of the moon and stars of love

Back into the dark lake of the heart from which
They arose in her lover’s chest, not yet song

But getting close enough to earn a warning
Who among us isn’t terrified to think

Of one person we love killing another
The blood on the knife dripping predictably

Another metronome of salt in this poem
Already so heavily disfavoring


Tom Snarsky is a special education math teacher at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA. He is the author of Threshold, a chapbook of poems from Another New Calligraphy, and Recent Starred Trash, which is forthcoming from marlskarx. He lives in Chelsea, MA with his wife Kristi and their two cats, Niles and Daphne.

The Tuesday poem is curated
by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 03, 2019

Tuesday poem #348 : Shannon Quinn : Walking Home at Dawn

This day is for the architecture of hands, batches of sores, computational
exploitation & the low vowels of weather—for musical theatre, death
by kitchen sink & everything I needed you to be—for learning to settle
for what wasn’t your best. This day is for bringing my copper-pyrite body
in from the wind—for elementary science that speed maps cellular structures
& calls my mixed pathologies beautiful.

Shannon Quinn is the author of two poetry collections, Nightlight for Children of Insomniacs (Mansfield Press) and Questions for Wolf (Thistledown Press). She lives in Toronto and works as a peer support worker for the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Tuesday poem #347 : Lucy Dawkins : FALLING STAR

A falling star is a raging, fatal assailant.

It is a flailing griffin,
tilting its nails.
Its gallant snarl is lifting air.
Its tail is rattling rain.

A falling star is astral graffiti
in glaring satins.
Its altar is in transit.
I sit in its glinting flint.

(‘Falling Star’ is a beau présent lipogram that uses only the
letters of its title.)

Lucy Dawkins is a British-American model and poetess. Her first collection, Stars Are Falling is forthcoming from Penteract Press in March 2020. She occasionally tweets poetry @lucykdawkins.

The Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Tuesday poem #346 : Dale Tracy : Epithalamion

Name what would speak for you
before you, hanging left by your side.
Lists of swords’ names split fiction
from myth. No one knows them
in person, only in story so old
it’s evergreen.

I call my ring Ovoid. O oval void.
A solid surface curves at the cut
infinity prism of conflict-free rock.
My foil swerves from gold to sword
to word.

I’m the finger puppet; this token makes
its point with no help of mine.
Remember, I’m the leather scabbard
and it’s always drawn, its true edge
raised, long throated. The only way
to bear it is to wear it.

Dale Tracy is the author of the chapbook Celebration Machine (Proper Tales Press, 2018), the four-poem chapoem What It Satisfies (Puddles of Sky Press, 2016), and the monograph With the Witnesses: Poetry, Compassion, and Claimed Experience (McGill-Queen’s, 2017). A further chapbook, The Mystery of Ornament, is imminently-forthcoming with above/ground press. She teaches in the Department of English, Culture, and Communication and is currently the associate chair of the Writing Centre at the Royal Military College of Canada.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Tuesday poem #345 : Franco Cortese : måkëššéncē

Self: What elsse. A tourist truth. Essence’s excuse. Every being really a becoming and every thee secretly a three in disguise like dikes undone and water unwalled yet skyborne and salted besides, and what’s more becoming before my verity eyes in an unseemly light awash in night behind every blink and witless inner wink and hints of skyfire flints fine enough to seem and sign besides. A gape a ghasp a gash begutted anyou into n’ aplueu to stitch the carnvas of self, chaste with stain and taint of tinted time left unchecked to rot anew and duly undo while Zeus says refuse, Promethean chaingangs notwithstanding, deliberating the shape of our shoreless shadows in the wings while Icarus is already in flight, suddenly ablush at crimson beginnings just beyond the rim and ashamed that he can’t remember the start, so fuck the state of prior art, the blessed prime blunder and fatherless falter, the initial initials no numbers to follow, a tribute to overturned overtured ovaries overeasy around the ashes of firebirds that failed to fly at last, aghast but for a second, as though that makes a differance. Self an else an orbit round itself like bits or mits or cyclic hips, a weirdly wired weary sphere mirrored inside and sumhow alight at night in sightmareish sun and sign sublime. A slick usurpant spillinter of itself. A thing so ghast as to think. A thing of dawns in the dark and liquilight fire within its vairy hone hinner retire. A makeshift echo and righteous deluge of beautiful clash upon the watery night inside and out, for form is font two, meaning a matter of letters as well. Redsalt cleave of dawn, the sun, a fothers ghost offcenter, offenter, offender, themother, who sent her, wherehamhigh, meatcrest crux deluxe, esse luxus relictus. We are each our own fathers from the second second on, tinkled pink through time, forned intwo form from dark heartless drums and the forking of our mums, from roads and handled tools, the foregotten fools of our faltered fathers, like godless good or some old dogs tricks and sacred stolen sticks. Essence cursed again, and in cursive too.

Franco Cortese is an experimental poet living in Thorold, Ontario with his son, Maverick, and wife, Brittany May. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Canadian LiteratureThe Capilano Reviewfilling Stationditch, and others. His recent chapbooks include aeiou (No Press, 2018), uoiea (above/ground press, 2019) and teksker (Simulacrum Press, forthcoming). He also has leaflets, booklets and nanopamphlets published or forthcoming through The Blasted Tree, Penteract Press, and Spacecraft Press. His work has been published both within Canada and internationally, most recently in the anthology Concrete and Constraint (Penteract Press 2018).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan