Tuesday poem #453 : Monica Mody : Connection Poem

 

 

Job of love during a time—unsticks patterns

Ashes hunting the very structures raised from our night fears

Person has to think for herself rounded by once-agains

How easy it is to slip in grooves, build walls to hide behind,

turn other into black hole out of which demons all come out

It is so cold here where I am cold towards you

Turning around a corner I stake out,

carve exits in inscribed cycles

Old spells burn, sound of parchment turns inside out,

light growing in center

Tuft by tuft we sew ourselves back together

Kin networks we know ourselves to be

 

 

 

 

 

Monica Mody, PhD, is a border-crossing poet and transdisciplinary feminist scholar practicing earth-based decolonial spirituality. Her books include Kala Pani (1913 Press), Bright Parallel (Copper Coin, forthcoming), and Ordinary Annals (above/ground press). Visit her at drmonicamody.com. Twitter @monicamody | Instagram @monica.mody.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday poem #452 : Natalie Jane Edson : I HAD A DREAM THAT YOU DIED WHILE I SLEPT NEXT TO YOU

 

in this pearl-sized room
on the soft mattress

in this sand and concrete
this beige blur

i find rest within my resting
in an old friend’s bed

when I wake up to the dim
and grainy morning

his body is still warm
he embraces himself

like a flowerbud
and when I wake up again

i’m small and careless
in my white sheets

wilted as old rose petals
in the unrelenting sun

 

 

Natalie Jane Edson is a queer poet and computer programmer based in Portland, Oregon. She has a B.A. in Applied Mathematics from the University of Oregon and approaches her work with the interdisciplinary in mind. Her artistic practice centers around process—a mix of algorithm, iteration, divination and letting the subconscious mind speak for itself. She published a chapbook, BALACLAVA, in June 2019 and is currently working on her debut full-length manuscript.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #451 : Moira Walsh : Turdus merula

 

 

I put my finger to worry’s lower lip

Listen: the blackbird

 

 

 

Moira Walsh, born in Michigan, makes her home in southern Germany and translates for a living. She has no university degree. Moira’s poems were recently picked up by Bennington Review, Denver Quarterly, Ethel Zine, Poetry Northwest, Stadtgelichter, Tiny Spoon, and Trnsfr. You can find her at linktr.ee/moira_walsh

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan