Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Tuesday poem #285 : Sommer Browning : I Thought it was Sunday

I smoke so rarely now
That when I light one
I feel like I’m letting Paul
Put his hand down my pants
On the train tracks.

The long corridor my house
Makes when I come home
A word
That rhymes with known.

The hammered man
Holding the trashed woman
Inarticulating love.

        Walking through a gas leak—

Cumming
Into on coming traffic

I wake up sobbing
As if I were married

So fat I was skinny I was fat.

Your dick friend
Calling your other dick friend
A dick:

a Beat poem
if the Beats were men.



Sommer Browning writes poems, draws comics, and says jokes in Denver. She is the author of Everything But Sex (Low Frequency Press, 2017), You’re On My Period (Counterpath, 2016), Backup Singers (Birds, LLC; 2014), and other things. With Elisa Gabbert and Brian Foley, she curates Death Horse, a monthly reading series. In 2017 she opened GEORGIA, a popup art space in her garage. She is a librarian.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Tuesday poem #284 : M H Vanstone : [untitled]


doubt a lack
or presence

full of

without

regardless

comes
morning

none in
the open field

the paths
of air

sure

was its
own answer

and that truly

said something

M H Vanstone is a Toronto writer with a background in film. His work has been published prior in The Puritan and (parenthetical). His debut chapbook, That Pass Between, was published by words(on)pages press in 2016.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, September 04, 2018

Tuesday poem #283 : Anthony Etherin : SUNDIAL


Laid,
an onus set,
a gnomon gates sun, on a dial….

Sky rhythms fly by, wryly,
by my crypt—
by syzygy.

Sulphur sun succumbs:
Dusk dulls us, murmurs,
blunts us up.

Soft glows of hollow moon
grow gnomon forms on
ponds of rock.

This night is finishing.
Its vigil lifting, nitid shifting
gilts this dish in twilight’s stirrings.

Restless edges represent:
The steeple’s lengths lessen when
the flexed degrees descend.

A raw and rampant
dawn attracts a waltz.
A vacant patch draws back:

Laid,
an onus set,
a gnomon gates sun, on a dial….


Anthony Etherin is a UK-based writer of constrained, formal and experimental poetry. He has been published online numerous times—including by The Account Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review and Nagari Magazine—and in the print magazines Timglaset and Touch the Donkey. Leaflets and chapbooks of his poetry have been published by No Press, Spacecraft Press, The Blasted Tree, and Timglaset Editions, as well as by his own press, Penteract Press, through which his collection of palindromic and anagrammatic micropoems, Cellar, was published in March 2018. Find him on Twitter @Anthony_Etherin and via his website, anthonyetherin.wordpress.com.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Tuesday poem #282 : Di Brandt : O Sylvia


You could never have known
the air sucked out of the glass jar
of your desperate youth
your desperate life
your desperate death
would spread like wildfire
all over the world
and reverb reverb reverb
in the minds of millions
of ordinary and extraordinary
helpless and powerful
girls and women and men
who all understood
what you meant what you felt
what you were
you were not so alone after all
dear Sylvia in that blue tinged glass jar
take a look here we all are
from near and far crowding in
for a party with you
who taught us how to dance
with the dark side
of ourselves
 the nightmares lurking
in the basement
the attic the bedroom
the innocent looking corner store



Di Brandt is Winnipeg's first Poet Laureate (2018-2019). Her new book of poetry is Glitter & Fall: Poetic Meditations after Laozi's Dao De Jing, with ink drawings by Lin Xu (Turnstone Press forthcoming Fall 2018).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Tuesday poem #281 : MC Hyland : Thank You for Typing


Who said in this room
a printer is a person, not
a machine. Typographic
deixis: a finger points.
While your eyes watched
the screen what happened
behind the wall. What
behind the camera.
A lover’s smile, perhaps.
Some police barriers
remain, certain laws
and possibilities of the breath.                              
I place my hand upon
the object bearing
my body into day.

In history the eye contains
a world in miniature
or attaches each item
through sensate chords.
As the technology
[typewriter] might require
the technology [wife],
the breathing of the man
who writes as well as his
listenings. Meanwhile                                       
the screen manufactured
new desires, each trailing
temporalities and a set of
erotic positions. Such heaving
at the seam of capital.
As the skyline narrates
bedrock, night places
each worker gently
in a velvet-lined box.

I turned to poetry as
a technology of vision
and was in this way
deceived. Wanting to see
where this light came
& wanting to see it
extinguished. In The Battle
of Algiers, I imagine I see
my grandmother in
a Pied-Noir café.
The café resembles
her preferred wedding
photo: gray background,
good light. Who stepped
from the crowd to gain
some human face. Who
threw the first grenade.
Come smoothly from the
typist’s hand to pierce
each delicate organ.

 All my Muse’s poetry
has been harmless: / American
and diplomatic: a learned
helplessness. In a flash                                      
a summer dress
blinds its wearer and
three men nearby. We
call this beauty. A street
or maybe a garden
to direct the eye from
each abjection. Held in
the onscreen glance,
warmth spreads through
the viewing body; language
craves and expels. How
the mechanical is sexual
or the other way around:
lips pout and drop, or
maybe this is a piston
pumping. What pulled away
from the strings
we called necessity.

Fossilized acts of some
dead mouth arriving
through every orifice.
Each night the eye climbs
to impossible heights to
behold these golden
globes of lamplight:
Every girl who reads
is already a lost girl                                            
in the market’s vast
periphery. We nodded off
as the plot unlaced,
a little moisture rising
to join the room’s
atmospheric dim. And thus
mine eye is made the gate                         
& each complacency
passes through making
no kind of speech.

Or rather, lying down
into language, I find
willpower and the ability
to concentrate are not
[our] strong points. Each            
body in the snow-hushed                                
city a complex of labor
& dust. Again your
face deserts into
some proximate
touch; ô toi que j’eusse
aimée in the chanting                                       
crowd. Ô toi in the
message boards, where
many deskilled hands
practice set repertoires
of intimate maneuvers.
I lift each one gently
into a cave of breath.

This motion a marker
of both separation &
proximity, as in: we longed
to be some radiant bridge
slung between texts. As you
place your cheek against
the cool window, leaving
a smudge of moisturizer
on the glass. Just so we
dwelled in the site, These
lines, this page—perhaps/
A blank to other men. To                                   
materialize the sounds
of production: here
typewriter keys jam
while the baby sleeps
in the next room. I place
your bedrest inside
the poem, another body’s
economic & contingent
chemistries. Before sleep
I tidy away the life
of the mind, placing
these papers in a
neat white stack.



MC Hyland is the founding editor of DoubleCross Press, a poetry micropress, as well as the author of several poetry chapbooks (most recently THE END PART ONE, Magic Helicopter Press 2017) and the poetry collections Neveragainland (Lowbrow Press 2010) and THE END (Sidebrow 2019). She is currently finishing a PhD in English Literature at New York University, and holds MFAs in Poetry and Book Arts from the University of Alabama. From her research, she produces scholarly and poetic texts, artists’ books, and public art projects.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan