the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
DUSIE
: e-chap : chapchap : & bookbook : reviews :
Tuesday, May 23, 2023
Tuesday poem #529 : Michael Betancourt : Graphism Panorama in Grey
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
Tuesday, May 16, 2023
Tuesday poem #528 : Kyla Houbolt : How to Live in a Cartoon
You're three dogs
in a trench coat;
I'm seventeen
cats in a pair of
skinny jeans.
When we walk down
the avenue it
becomes a boulevard.
The street lamps
all bow as we pass
and some of them
even get loose
and follow us.
You pick up a piece
of litter from
the street and it turns
out to be a
hundred dollar bill.
I am unimpressed,
because yesterday
I found three
large gold nuggets
in the storm
grate. We walk into
our favorite cafe
and all the candles
light themselves.
I lean over and
light my
cigarette from the flame.
You pull out your
tiny notebook
in which we are
plotting our revenge.
Our whispers
appear above our heads
as tiny dots
inside thought bubbles.
I reach up and
puncture the bubbles
as an extra
precaution. Then
we turn the page.
Kyla Houbolt, relocated to an island in the PNW, is still writing weird stuff. You can find some of it on her linktree, here: https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet where you can also find ordering info for her two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool at Ice Floe Press, and Tuned at CCCP Chapbooks. The chapbooks, Surviving Death and But Then I Thought, are forthcoming from Broken Spine Arts and above/ground Press, respectively. She also has a full length manuscript currently seeking a publisher. Kyla is on Twitter @luaz_poet.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
Tuesday, May 09, 2023
Tuesday poem #527 : Jessica Gigot : Joy
after Ross Gay
For
me it’s the bouquet
of
over-the top, dinner plate
dahlias
versus tulips,
a
flakey bite of thick apple pie,
not
the canned sauce. The old plum
finally
bears fruit again after
years
of hack. Lovage
overwhelms
the herb bed,
new
strawberry plantlets
creep
over the edge,
cling
to the weed cloth,
find
fresh terrain for their tiny roots.
The
brazen rhubarb always
takes
up more space than she
is
allotted and I love,
in
the early spring, how she
unfurls
her grand green body
and
simply does not care.
Jessica Gigot is a poet, farmer, and coach. She lives on a little sheep farm in the Skagit Valley. Her second book of poems, Feeding Hour (Wandering Aengus Press, 2020), won a Nautilus Award and was a finalist for the 2021 Washington State Book Award. Jessica’s writing and reviews appear in several publications, such as Orion, The New York Times, The Seattle Times, Ecotone, Terrain.org, Gastronomica, Crab Creek Review, and Poetry Northwest. She is currently a poetry editor for The Hopper. Her memoir, A Little Bit of Land, was published by Oregon State University Press in September 2022.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
Tuesday, May 02, 2023
Tuesday poem #526 : Adam Katz : À charge de revanche
for Michel Simard
predisp. to soothe
in a state of potent.
needless course correction
. . . . . .
a significant transformation
that, maybe just because it’s
a transformation, also affects
a stricture that has its own,
independent
likes and dislikes.
. . . . . .
exhausting also exhausts rejuvenation
like that I can still hardly believe
predictably reenvisioning balance
. . . . . .
your instructions are to cultivate
an easy and familiar competence
in hunting for information in
recognition
the values of a place
come
to characterize
points of interest
that
are happening nearby
Adam Katz is a poet-scholar, fiction writer, English instructor, and editor living on Gitxsan territory in northwest BC. He recently edited an issue of G U E S T [a journal of guest editors].
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
Tuesday, April 25, 2023
Tuesday poem #525 : Peter Myers : Coverage
found a seat at the memory gate weaving sounds together I mean fingers (mine) sometimes doing sounds though at times just gestures or gloss ice on the idea of snow plucking out samples one by one during Sherwin-Williams visitation hours a document of the body’s weakness an archive of the body’s frequency if you’re here to lose your music don’t worry it was gone before dusk or its likeness made a misprision of certainty sure I remember those guys overtly rude amidst the willows perhaps weeping or was that a projection of the beauty I see in others that I claim I’ll never possess though granted an eternity no less limited than the one I have already so are you happy mom are you happier dad aster rover beaches doodads rivermouth bird of information a wing can bend but can never break a dog can bark a sun can give its light to those who will betray it (me) when the night (you) crushes the mind’s template with its boots teeth headcrown forces external to those visions proper to the temple that burns up the back of your head’s inverted idea of Earth thwarting ribbons floaties & other portraits of mirth left out in the rain for like twelve years so that when you say “fire” in twelve seconds all that’s left is what I was too late to say to only show weakness when it’s too late to do so
Peter Myers is a poet living in New York. His recent poems have appeared in Fence,
Hot Pink Mag, jubilat, and Nomaterialism. He has written essays and reviews for
Annulet, Full Stop, and Chicago Review. A chapbook is forthcoming from above/ground press.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan