Tuesday, June 21, 2022

Tuesday poem #481 : Ellie Sawatzky : CHIHULY’S MILLE FIORI

 

 

 

In the dark gallery we look at the glass.
Grasses, snakes. Bulrushes and flushes of colour.
My sister and I—we’re charcoal-supple, still calm;

it’s a full moon tonight, and later we’ll go dancing.

Grasses and snakes. Bulrushes, flushes of colour,
while Dad’s on a stretcher waiting for a brain scan.
It’s a full moon tonight, and later we’ll go dancing.

We look at the glass. One thousand flowers.

And Dad’s on a stretcher waiting for a brain scan.
Somewhere else, a different city. Everything feels right.
We look at the glass. One thousand flowers

reflected in a black pool, drowsy.

Somewhere else, a different city. Nothing feels right.
In the hospital it’s never dark. Fluorescent moons
reflect in the black windows, manless.

And we don’t know yet what’s happened.

In the hospital it’s never dark. Fluorescent moons
in the windows, flashes of white like fractured bone.
We don’t know yet what’s happened.

Innocent minutes drift between the glass cattails.

The windows, flashes of white like fractured bone.
My sister and I—we’re charcoal-supple, so calm.
Innocent minutes drift between the stalks of cattails.

We sit in the dark garden. Look at the beautiful glass.

 

 

 

 

Ellie Sawatzky (@elliesawatzky) grew up in Kenora, Ontario. A past winner of CV2’s Foster Poetry Prize, runner up for the Thomas Morton Memorial Prize, and a finalist for the 2019 Bronwen Wallace Award, her work has been published widely in literary magazines across North America. None of This Belongs to Me is her debut full-length poetry collection, published by Nightwood Editions in October 2021. She is currently an editor for FriesenPress, a member of the Growing Room Collective, and curator of the Instagram account IMPROMPTU (@impromptuprompts), a hub for prompts and literary inspiration. She lives in Vancouver with her partner and a cat named Camus.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, June 14, 2022

Tuesday poem #480 : James Yeary : 26 from 31 autobiographical statements

 

 

Those feet of yours are all the talk
everything that is already missing
arranged into a word and placed north of the canopy

it attacks the respiratory system
introducing its own layers and lenses
 

Come join us here under the mask of the living
soft red deer scalp
fox bright and dark alternating

           
around the eyes
           
little soul nap
 

            midnights with the rain goddess in Florida
           
reckoning tweets in a loop

            love has broken down our mentation
           
many flavors including chastisement

                        nuance, after all
                       
is not speciation

There just aren't that many types

 

 

James Yeary is a poet and visual artist, who makes works primarily in the serial poem and epistolary collage. He is a laboratory assistant in a pathology department of the medical-industrial complex. Recent chapbooks include S/2004 N1 (The Magnificent Field), Hawai’i (cielocanth), Sonnet for Edith Jarolim (spitch press) and The 66,512 (above/ground).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, June 07, 2022

Tuesday poem #479 : Joey Yearous-Algozin : On Poverty and Joy, or that a space would still hold a trace of our presence

 

 

— i know flowers to be funeral companions
         
Etel Adnan

that we teach ourselves

how to die 

in the shadow of any ordinary thing

say 

a bouquet of white and blue

paper flowers

pinned to the wall

beneath two make-shift

picture frames 

that even as it decays

as the paper browns along its edges

collecting dust as it turns

from eggshell blue to a duller color

still holds

the memory of its occasion and the labor

of its folding

in the same way

the body breaks down

something intangible

that refuses

to be something other

than decay

or rather

that this refusal is simple

our extinction

written in the hand

or glance across a room

in which the memory of movement

itself so transitory

knowing that not only your presence will dissolve

but the room itself

will collapse

first the windows or the walls

leaving the space open

to whatever animals may enter

tentatively

at first

as they move through this space

that still holds a trace of our presence 

 

 

 

Joey Yearous-Algozin is the author of A Feeling Called Heaven (Nightboat Books), Utopia, and the multi-volume The Lazarus Project, among others. With Holly Melgard, he has co-authored a trilogy of books: Holly Melgard’s Friends and Family, White Trash, and Liquidation. He is a founding member of the publishing collective, Troll Thread. He lives in Brooklyn, NY.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan