Tuesday, May 11, 2021

Tuesday poem #423 : Helen Robertson : Amphibian

 

I lack the vestigial hips                                     to claim

            I belong

                                         only                                                 to the sea.

 

I spend too much time parched                       astride the shoreline

looking to land                                                 believing

                         it could love me back.

 

And every time I venture                                 I find my skin ruptured

by the heat of this assumption,

 

that I am built for that environment.

 

But I’m terrified of drowning;

                                                                        find myself

                                                                                          overwhelmed

by the apparent peace                                      of water —

                                                                                           aware

that its depth

                       can be as dangerous.

 

                   Yet —                                           the whales knew this too

          so,

   at least for now                                             I’ll turn my back to the earth.

 

 

 

Possible witch, definite bitch, and full time disaster Helen Robertson is a genderqueer trans woman moving through the lifelong process of accepting how lucky they've been; using poetry to excise their ire and sorrow — hopefully turning it into something worthwhile.

Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in The New Quarterly, The Fiddlehead, The Puritan, The /tƐmz/ Review, and others.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday, May 04, 2021

Tuesday poem #422 : Ren Pike : In the leaves of change Alberta

 

 

Normal, this nervous riff. This ruinous rancour.
Sitting and pecking. My bird heart waits.

For him and them. The set of three. Just

down the way. Bargaining. Imprinted

with kicks and schemes. This territory
they've crossed so fast. Short of breath, out of

means. Ready to bloody the next. Fore-

boding swooping in. Weary. Pleading

for swift return to sorrows wrested.
From a thousand metres, these dark pools

seem sweet waters. Oil slick. Easy to

get caught up in their mephitic waves.

I'm not indifferent. Out on this
limb. Stripping bark and feigning patience.

 

 

 

Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her poetry has appeared in Train, NDQ, IceFloe Press, and Juniper. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 27, 2021

Tuesday poem #421 : Kate Angus : Mornings I

 

 

scroll the pictures
on the screen

unrolling like playing
cards sewn

together end-by-end
into a kind of scarf

that unfolds forever.
I cannot reach

the end
the way my friend

swiped through
every man in Manhattan.

These are such strange
days. I keep an orange

candle on my windowsill
For Good Luck

and I believe
the plants are listening

to me; God (and gods)
and ancestors also. I refuse

to open up
to emptiness

except when breathing
the dark starry air

inside me:
these lungs a galaxy.

I am my own space
station and astronaut.

Drifting, drifting.
So slight the tether

yet how pliable. 

 

 

Kate Angus is a founding editor of Augury Books and the author of So Late to the Party (Negative Capability Books, 2016). Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in various places including The Atlantic’s “Object Lessons” series, The Academy of American Poets’ “Poem-A-Day,” Indiana Review, Gulf Coast, Barrow Street, North American Review and Poet Lore. 

The Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan