Tuesday, August 11, 2020

Tuesday poem #384 : Jennifer Wortman : How to Hit Bottom




Dive where it says “Don’t!”
Date a basement.
Fellate debasement.
Puke asphalt.
Puke jackboot.
Ride rain with
earthworms. Gyrate
with earthworms. Fall
for an earthworm. Manage
your anger for the love
of the earthworm.
Say “I feel unseen.”
Say “Answer me. Please.”
Say “Fucker, I’ll cut you.”
Puke razor.
Puke sewer.
Roll in it, dog-
like. Claw the ground’s
skin. Open the world
wound. Tumble in
the deep black
sky. Almost
fly.




Jennifer Wortman is the author of the story collection This. This. This. Is. Love. Love. Love. (Split/Lip Press, 2019) and a recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship. She lives with her family in Colorado, where she serves as associate fiction editor for Colorado Review and teaches at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. Find more at jenniferwortman.com.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, August 04, 2020

Tuesday poem #383 : Brandon Krieg : Purplish Seaweed



low tide, walk
            where yesterday teens
cast lines to,
     perch walked

       limp damp purplish seaweed
            baking into scent, flopped
                  the way waves went
                                                 
no renaissance broke through the roof to find
frescoed on the wall
                        of the long-buried
                                                orgy hall





Brandon Krieg's most recent book is Magnifier, winner of the 2019 Colorado Prize for Poetry chosen by Kazim Ali. He teaches at Kutztown University and lives in Kutztown, PA with his spouse, Colleen O'Brien, and their son.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, July 28, 2020

Tuesday poem #382 : Jean Van Loon : Off-Season Sun



A tall steel wall blurs
the roar of transports
sear of sirens hustling
crushed bodies. Here
in shadow, south-sunk sun
spears through rusted holes
in the grey corrugation
blazes miniatures
of itself on tree, fence,
wall. Small suns
flash black
when a vehicle passes.

*

Leaves blind me
with their dying
in the dying light.
Even the hackberry
with its stubborn cling
of shrivelled brown
emits a coppery lustre
in the low sun
of the day’s
and the year’s
afternoon.

*

Drenched in gold, sun
moves south for winter
returns on occasion
for visits begrudged
and brief.




Jean Van Loon’s [photo credit: Pearl Pirie] first poetry collection Building on River (Cormorant Books, 2018) was a finalist for the Ottawa Book Prize. Her stories, poems, and reviews have appeared in literary magazines in the US and Canada and in Journey Prize Stories.  Facebook @Jean Van Loon; Twitter @JeanVanloon.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan