Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Tuesday poem #195 : Suzanne Zelazo : Diviner

Deciduous trees leave cracks in crystal canopies
Splash pool lucid
Semiotic darkroom

Kettle lake amnesia
Wake the Emperor not his empress

Rice paper quiver
A rhyme

retinal dream dislodged in the escarpment
Neural letterpress seduction
Proper bound

Headwater pearls

With angel rod and brushstroke
Coded cataract occlusion
ripple blow
the bogs a glass harmonica
sing invisible mime

Unfold the apple blossoms
Origami touch sound
Amplified kiss

Suzanne Zelazo is a poet, editor and educator. She is the author of Parlance (poetry) from Coach House Books and is the co-editor of Body Sweats: The Uncensored Writings of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven  (MIT Press). She is also the co-editor of Crystal Flowers: Poems and a Libretto by Florine Stettheimer (BookThug).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Tuesday poem #194 : Barbara Langhorst : Dark Matter

So shy, immaterial, you lit out at night for a climate
that knows no change, peeping to the call of winter
in Jamaica, first-primed paradise. Now, Swainson’s
warbler, spread your wings wide, a better treat
than an eagle in the hands of the migrating
naturalist, your
in the forest
by song interrupted
by glass. More elusive
than two in the bush, you lay
splayed on the chiller for twenty
empty hours. Stroked now, how
your peppered yellow
throat thrills to the fall
heard only in the mind
of the unknown,

Barbara Langhorst’s collection of experimental poetry, restless white fields (NeWest 2012), won the Saskatchewan Arts Board Poetry Book Award and the Robert Kroetsch Poetry Book of the Year in Alberta. Langhorst teaches at St. Peter’s College in Muenster, SK, and shares her acreage with five moose, thousands of geese, an assortment of other tame-ish animals, and her wild family. Her first novel is forthcoming with Palimpsest Press in 2018.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Tuesday poem #193 : Melissa Bull : Props

My father rolled his scabbed head
to the side that hurt less
and tried to hurry time by shouting to it,
Now! Now! Now!

I traded his stiff Sally Ann tweeds
and brogues for all-new discount duds.
Pyjama-soft but decent.
Sweats and zip-up cardigans.
Bags of socks and underpants.
Knockoff crocs. 

He pulled at his clothes the way a baby picks
off their socks. At ease
only with the feeling of air on his body.
And then slept
one motionless arm curled
against the metal ramp of his bed.

I laid out rows of Ensures along the windowsill
propped his bed just enough 
so he wouldn’t be straight-up horizontal.
I opened my own mouth to encourage him to swallow
plastic spoonfuls of vanilla pudding.
The delight at the taste lit up his face
in a singular fashion. The only delight left.
I wondered if it was the taste alone or the taste
together with the memory of the taste.

Melissa Bull is a writer, editor, and translator originally from Montreal. She has published, fiction, non-fiction, translation, and poetry in a number of publications, and is the editor of Maisonneuve magazine's "Writing from Quebec" column. Melissa is the author of Rue, a poetry collection, and the translator of Nelly Arcan's posthumous collection, Burqa of Skin. She lives in England.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 06, 2016



Sometimes in our lives we are given access to the equivalency
of a Hyatt Regency, you know, just for a night or two. And that is that.

A decorative pastel melon ball bestowed upon our pillow one morning
to be followed only by the crushed orbital residues of its mushy pith
on all those thereafter.

And still, etiquette prescribes that the bulk of our transactions be carried out
as if born strictly from complex personal indiscretions, pursued via means
of a long series of courtesy removal forms, generally accompanied
by disingenuous requests for feedback on services rendered.

Every ninety days, our status is reviewed. And the results of this review
are always the same. Postponed release. Prolonged confinement.
Another three-month statutory hit.

The arm of justice is long. We grant you that. It may not be just,
but its length is exemplary. A grandiose show of extension and dexterity.

The eyes of the security apparatus and staff are open. We grant you that.
They may be neither reliable nor discerning, but they are open, and firmly so.
Oh brother, are they firm! As if lenses could box and bloody, as well as box in.

In turn, every measure of our health and welfare has been registered,
we grant you that. It has not been cared for, but it has been counted.
Tallied over and over and over again, even if never rallied for.


She’s only the one idea in her head these days, but she sticks to it.
“I want to become more dangerous to the state,” she relays,
“and less dangerous to myself, my friends, my lovers, and my community.”

Within every plutocratic landscape of capitalist repression there are those people
who manage to escape by outright leaving and those who manage to do so
by going deeper in, laying hold to its innermost “useless” “unleveraged” “zones”
the swamp, the dump, the desert, the alley, the abandoned factory,
the half-constructed tract home, the iridescent tailing ponds.

There’s something beyond the overwhelming pressure of offgassing that can conjure
forth strange hatchings, producing something rangier than the usual mop-up
operations, reaching past regimentation into sponginess.

When Michel de Montaigne notes, in the 16th century, how “our modern seamen
have already all but discovered that it is not an island,” the all but in his construction
is not a peripheral gesture. It is a qualification of consequence. In other words,
the seamen, in their majority, still do believe themselves to be surrounded by water,
lapped at on all sides.

I.e. We had all but won that round. We had all but come to our senses,
all but defensively capitulating to a state of permanent negation.
You had all but risen to the occasion. The two of them
had all but seen eye to eye. They had all but tried.

Meanwhile, there he stood before you, all but smiling.
Trying to, dying to, but all but smiling.


They see in this system their death and so there simply has to be something beyond it.
They’re alive after all. They’re stressed out and messed up perhaps, but they’re definitely
breathing. “Remember,” someone offers, “that veritable chorus of countless things
which you were repeatedly told were marginal, deserving little note.”

“And now recall how often those selfsame elements were your very life, a symbolic cypher
of overpowering meaning and importance – how there was nothing negligible there,
nothing to be narrowly dismissed or treated carelessly.

In other words, it’s not marginal to those women.
It’s not marginal to those who were planning to eat that.
It’s not marginal to those that are caged inside, or to those now wholly
defined by hundreds of pending and enterprise-driven legal entanglements.
It’s not marginal to you or to me or to any three of our nearest neighbors.

Sound travels best, we are told, through thick materials. A person hears better
underwater than they do in air. And better still when swept under the scalding
runnels of molten lava. And yet, are there not potentially legitimate reasons
as to why we do not tend to meet and listen and love whilst trapped below
the hard, fiery volcanic drubbing of an active eruption?

Distortion is a versatile creature. It exists in any influence relationship,
in any total institution. It doesn’t require a whip or even a lick of intuition
to pick up that Stop & Frisk can act as a dispersal agent, not unlike tear gas,
producing its own asthmatic conditions and crippling toxicities.

We grew up just up the street.
We grew up doubled up in our clamor to move up the ladder.
We grew up upchucking in overdosed patterns.
We grew up up up and then we splattered.

*This section title is drawn from an essay on poetics by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Hopkins writes: “No doubt my poetry errs on the side of oddness… Now it is the virtue of design, pattern, or inscape to be distinctive and it is the vice of distinctiveness to become queer. This vice I cannot have escaped.”
**A phrase uttered by activist Malik Rahim (of the Louisiana-based community organization Common Ground) as he describes the first organized refusal on the part of his New Orleans neighborhood to yield to police violence in the 1970s.

Emily Abendroth is a poet, teacher and anti-prison activist living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her works are often published in limited edition, handcrafted chapbooks by small and micropresses such as Albion Press, Belladonna, Horse Less Press, Little Red Leaves, and Zumbar. She is the author of ]Exclosures[ from Ahsahta Press and The Instead (a collaboration with fiction writer Miranda Mellis) from Carville Annex Press. She is an active organizer with Decarcerate PA (a grassroots campaign working to end mass incarceration in Pennsylvania) and is co-founder of Address This! (an education and empowerment project that provides innovative, social justice correspondence courses to individuals incarcerated in Pennsylvania). She has been awarded residencies at the MacDowell Colony, the Millay Colony and the Headlands Center for the Arts, and was named a 2013 Pew Fellow in Poetry.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan