Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Tuesday poem #272 : Christian Schlegel : When the Springtime Comes Again

after Jennifer Moxley


At last I saw the center of my way—
I-5 in Orland, solo to Bellingham,
thin sundown rays re-routed by the visor.
“The count’s 3-1. It’s Alvarez the closer,
Scott warming up, the stretch, foul ball, Brigham
almost had that ... motions for time ... and why
Little’s going with Alvarez, right-hander
here in the eighth, facing the fat of the order ...
Martinez—broken bat—hoofs it to first,
Hunt stays at third, we’re at three all, two out,
Fletcher on deck ...” Guava striplings, blue clods
and two-by-fours between the rows, soy past
the ridge. “First-pitch blooper to the left-field corner—
error by the cut-off man—throw’s late—Hunt’s under—”


I loved your room, and you when you were there.
Light through the buckthorns, your furnishings “Eugene”:
day-bed, door-curtains, quilt with embroidered bees.
Its smell you called “the spirit of the place”
and a mouse came in and out, just as it pleased.
Ought I divide my life into its phases?
Generic boy—corduroy overalls—
a lazy eye—the Quartier Latin—
it blends together. Lying about cocaine.
May and September snow in the Corvair,
static, then utter white between the bands.
A year or so of gumption (20), gall
and TV (21), and others’ faces ....
My soul, such that it was, could not be pleased.


My Schwinn banana-seat cruiser, fire-truck-
red, with a broken bell and dragging fender,
a basket for two six-packs and my keys—
party at Jake’s to celebrate ... the end.
A cigarette reduced to pin-prick ember,
the punk in a bolo tie, about whose band
I’d heard it said—“they fuck you forty ways,
they’re loud. They smell.” I slid off the pedals
and walked through the dandelions. Inside was Jake
laughing with Tim (back from his “stay” in Boulder)
who gave Sally his smooth soft palm, on the shoulder.
Bill G., a solid cube of musk cologne,
switched off “When the Levee Breaks” and put on Beck.
“With your front teeth? Surely it isn’t done—”


“Hel called on acid, she was up in Maine,
crawling among the lichens ... so she said.”
Sally, who’d cut her hair, flicked back her head
and nearly spilled what Schlitz of mine remained ...
11:30, 2, and Vertigo,
summer way back in a warehouse in the Mission,
the suede couch on the porch lost in the snow,
“a broadside misprint—look at the bottom—‘connexion,’
she never knew.” Two chords seduce the creek,
a G and a D, the first a soft enclosure
like a nylon tent, the latter the couple inside.
Shannon lies down in her robe and stays awake,
having seen the brook through which the boy will wade,
asleep. And a pick-up stalls in the windless pasture.

Christian Schlegel is writing a dissertation on the poet Donald Justice. His first book, Honest James, was published by The Song Cave in 2015. Born and raised in Berks County, Pennsylvania, he lives in Providence.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Tuesday poem #271 : Eléna Rivera : ANATOMIES

“Every book imposes its own method.
Every book may finally be only the
reflection of its method.”  —Edmond Jabès

Absorb the materials
along this day’s
obstructions of composition

Open a word, a sentence ascends,

Temple of textures
harbinger of the recollected
Every shadow its book

Being a honeycomb process
of catching
ore     wind     words

Eléna Rivera's third full-length collection of poetry Scaffolding (2017) is available from Princeton University Press. Recent chapbooks include LE SOUCI FORMEL/​ the formal concern from Belladonna* (2016) and her bilingual artist book Disturbances in an Ocean of Air (Estepa Editions, France, 2016). She lives in New York City.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, June 05, 2018

Tuesday poem #270 : Felicia Zamora : Heliocentric

Consider the number of atoms in the human
body; now say seven billion billion billion, think
27 zeros as round & contracting as your pupil
in stare at the mid-day sky; most hydrogen,
oxygen, carbon; oh elements of you; consider
Archimedes’ The Sand Reckoner; what powers
of myriad myriad system; think M, think all the
mathematical symbols & what each represents; to
count the grains of sand fitted into a universe;
scour your flesh, cells; what do you represent;
think astrology; & you, in early winter sun think
yourself: just a simple grain in tilt, grain in orbit.

Felicia Zamora is the author of the books Of Form & Gather, winner of the 2016 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize (University of Notre Dame Press 2017), & in Open, Marvel (Parlor Press 2017), and Instrument of Gaps (Slope Editions, forthcoming). Of Form & Gather was listed as one of the “9 Outstanding Latino Books Recently Published by Independent and University Presses” by NBC News. She won the 2015 Tomaž Šalamun Prize from Verse, and authored two chapbooks. Her published works may be found or forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Crazyhorse, Hotel Amerika, Indiana Review, jubilat, North American Review, OmniVerse, Pleiades, Poetry Daily, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, The Cincinnati Review, The Georgia Review, TriQuarterly ReviewTupelo Quarterly, Verse Daily, Witness Magazine, West Branch,and others. She is an associate poetry editor for the Colorado Review and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Colorado State University. She is the 2017 Poet Laureate for Fort Collins, CO and the education programs coordinator for the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing at Arizona State University. She lives in Phoenix, AZ with her partner Chris and their two dogs. 

 the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Tuesday poem #269 : Laura Theobald : Dear Birds,

You complain that I throw rocks but they’re only baby little ones. Back home we would call them pea rocks. The ones spray painted orange we would call “from the moon.” There’s a silver one with flakes I have not yet attempted to identify. There’s an unfinished house. Nature seems more brutal against its columns. I shared my cape with you and we rode the car up on two wheels.

Laura Theobald is from the Florida Keys and has lived in various places in the South. Her first full-length book of poetry is What My Hair Says About You from the Montreal-based small press publisher Metatron (2016). Her chapbooks are Edna Poems (Lame House, 2016), The Best Thing Ever (Boost House, 2015), and Eraser Poems (H_NGM_N, 2014). She completed her MFA in Poetry from LSU in 2016, and has served as an editor and book designer for a number of small press publishers. She is currently a book designer for BOAAT and OOMPH!, and a freelance editor and book designer. Her recent poems have appeared in The WandererSinkHobartPinwheelWitch Craft MagazineThe Atlas ReviewEveryday GeniusBlack Warrior Review, and other places. @lidleida // lauratheobald.tumblr.com 
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan