Tuesday poem #312 : Conyer Clayton : Irrigation Techniques

I thought

earth was tainted
with lead

and the plot
was sad.

I shovelled
countless worms

for years,
heavy with doubt.

No — it wasn't
the soil but how

it was used.
How it was

treated; the chemical
nature of upbringing.

Lead is a choice
sometimes

or at least
if you let yourself

be poisoned by it.

Conyer Clayton is an Ottawa based artist who aims to live with compassion, gratitude, and awe. Her most recent chapbooks are: Trust Only the Beasts in the Water (forthcoming with above/ground press, 2019), Undergrowth (bird, buried press), Mitosis (In/Words Magazine and Press), and For the Birds. For the Humans. (battleaxe press). She released a collaborative album with Nathanael Larochette, If the river stood still, in August 2018. Her work appears in ARC, Prairie Fire, The Fiddlehead, The Maynard, Puddles of Sky Press, TRAIN, post ghost press, and others. She won Arc's 2017 Diana Brebner Prize, 3rd place in Prairie Fire's 2017 Poetry Contest, honourable mention in The Fiddlehead's 2018 poetry prize, and was long-listed for Vallum's 2018 Poem of the Year. She is a member of the sound poetry ensemble Quatuor Gualuor, and writes reviews for Canthius. Her debut full length collection of poetry is forthcoming in Spring 2020. Check out conyerclayton.com for updates on her endeavours.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #311 : Evan Gray : from WRETCH POETICS

beneath fence wire

some investigators. some broken

.22 magnum scope some

murder weapon. some

 pieces found inside the victim’s

door. some local hardware

store that sold it to him.

[VICTIM], 25; Christmas-tree farm

on Jan. 24, 2008 & killed

[VICTIM], 73;

his son, [VICTIM], 44;

& a farm employee.

mr. firewood salesmen

shot all three. how deadly could you be

I would leave my kids

with you. I trust your

eyes. your frail hair is 12 lb.

test & you are old

your age is a blacksnake

& I thought I knew

you. so  

how could you on the bridge

the bridge I go fishing

near. fuck you for killing

those boys. you bastard. I think

 of you all the time. not

because of your duty & plea

barging but because of this

bridge. my bridge & those boys.

how selfish of you to do this

to me. how selfish of me

to think you ruined

my place. my river. the head

of two others. the firearms

used in the crimes missing

disposed of. I wish

                       

that man would’ve just

killed himself or drowned

+++

just a mile

down

a thorn bush

behind hog pins

strung in

the starkness of new

telephone wire

the holler

a blister

might as well be

my flannel shirt

coated in briars

the beehives again

a half-dollar

Dad gave me

buy gas

take a mouthful of snuff

hide in the house

J comes over drunk

pick

scabs on

the porch

light

find something

to hold

on to in the perch

window

stains

you leave

the doors locked

you remember

the mountains

ridges

BBQ chip bags

that night on the bridge

the mountain

the car

almost drove off

origins

like a shoebox

hand-me-down

sweaters 

a murky

pond

hayfields

hissing

in wind

cattails

tall people

the cold

alter

now fenced-in

field my self-

portrait

backdrops

blackberries

along

the parkway

rough

work

words

taxidermy

plastered

deer hide

mason jars

filled with

kerosene

postcards

furnaces

black smoke

the road

silver

pine

riddles

fast food joints

maybe

a blacksnake

six goats

four hens

diabetes toes

in unison

dancing

seven nails

my cerebral cortex

his liver

failures

tractor bucket

here is

a sacrifice

now God

a stuck hog

or lamb or

another

blacksnake

keep

we

ours

yours truly

the mice

out of the barn

most of all

bottom

feeders

bent glass

shards flat

picking

breaks

a melody

a birth

a cesspool

no

new

eyes

here

rain

clouded

ecosystems

white

chalky

connections

or dust

my dashboard

readiness

certain

eyes

call

things

specific

before

the corn

comes

Evan Gray is from Jefferson, North Carolina and is the author of the chapbooks Blindspot (the Rest (Garden-Door Press, 2018), BODY BIRTH (above/ground press, 2019) and Dusk Melody (Shirt Pocket Press, 2019). His essays and poems have been featured in DIAGRAM, Tarpaulin Sky, Yalobusha Review, Word For / Word, and others. He currently lives and teaches in Pittsburgh, PA.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #310 : Tanis MacDonald : Hawks and Handlers

At the Medieval Faire we watch

two women in leather jerkins

cinched with wide brown belts and 

tethered to their wrists a peregrine

hawk with its dark head and slate wings

and a barn owl with a face like

a Venn diagram and the hawk handler says

They don’t like being with us so we can’t

pet them and they won’t fly to glove

for food because the hawk will ball

its claws up and punch its prey to break

its neck before eating it

but we keep these big birds fed and

protected so they are getting all their

needs met and aren’t looking for another

relationship and all the couples and maybe

some singles in the crowd laugh and

the hawk handler blushes. She didn’t

mean it that way not at all and I look

at you with your camera to your eye

twisting the lens for a close-up of the owl’s

white face floating in the dim tent and know

the cat will spring at our ankles when

we walk in the door she will bare

her teeth and pounce preparing for the day she’ll

take us down with matching thuds and eat us

beginning with our eyes

and know we were getting all our needs met

Tanis MacDonald is the author of five books of poetry and essays, including Out of Line: Daring to Be an Artist Outside the Big City, and the editor of two collections. Her next poetry book, Mobile, will be out with Book*hug in Fall 2019. Recent work has appeared in Atlantis, Understorey, Prairie Fire, and Lemon Hound. She lives in Waterloo, Ontario.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan