Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Tuesday poem #243 : Lissa McLaughlin : Garden (New Jersey)

And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden And there he put the man he had formed Eddie. And Joanie his woman. And kids Frankie and Angela.  And toll-collectors excited by quarter rolls.  And McMansions.  And everywhere mortgages leapt and municipalities rolled in shortfalls.  And lo the smog did foment and the kids had children. And in the Pine Barrens geese took bets.  And barges towed shit to Teaneck.  Then did the shore rejoice with casinos. And Frankie begat The Boss who begat Latifah.   
A few potatoes winked from the dirt.  The kids ran around like deer.  And those syringes in the tide? They chimed like merry bells.

Lissa McLaughlin is less interested in language—verbal or visual—than in what it does to us to discover it. Her short fiction has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The North American Review, and in the Best American Short Story series. Burning Deck Press published four books of her prose poems, the last of which, Quit, appeared in 2015. From 1985-2005 she taught fiction writing at the university level, and continues to work as an itinerant editor of fiction, creative nonfiction, and writing for children. Since 1998 she has worked as a clinical expressive arts facilitator, initially with acute  psychiatric clients, then with children visiting family in Hospice and kids on the autism spectrum. She also volunteers as a tutor of ESL. She has seen language arise spontaneously in people who, pushed to the edge of experience, and with small assistance, make coherent worlds the rest of us can't comprehend.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Tuesday poem #242 : Kate Siklosi : [ fig (iterative)

time holds the wake dearly.

syllables congeal
into smooth stamped clauses
to translate the weather of a face,
bite, nail.

the vagrant and executive
never change
but grammatical lines are traversed
like ions across a circuit maze

between the sun and lately
i fast on roses
to eat the me in meaning is
i n g

must you tie my hands
to your book
bury my river with your sands,
to come up for water.

for language is more difficult
than space
more fluid
than the body
yet transparent against
the ground of

Kate Siklosi lives, writes, and thinks in Toronto. She holds a PhD in English Literature but has defenestrated from the academic ivory tower in search of warmer climes. She is a writer by day and a poet by night. Her first chapbook – a collection of really neat letraset poems – is coming out with above/ground press this spring. She is the cofounding editor of Gap Riot Press and is currently working on a manuscript of experimental petro-poetry, Love Songs for Hibernia.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Tuesday poem #241 : Ryan Eckes : chase scene

good luck in all your future endeavors, types the middle manager
chewing on a slim jim. back at home we’re rinsing off the isms. it’s
the wknd, and the middle class are out volunteering for the one
percent. we grow free w/out them, though they keep calling. feel
them push monday into sunday, friday into saturday. one percent
of one smidgen of a dead cockroach’s heart casts its vote, finally,
for the middle class. can freedom be a pigeon? if it kicks you the
right way. if it spits on your shoe and laughs in your face. if in your
neighbor’s face you look long enough to lose your mask, and you
feel it fly away, feel it shit on a boss—any boss—then yes.

Ryan Eckes is a poet who lives in South Philadelphia. His books include Valu-Plus and Old News (Furniture Press 2014, 2011). You can read some of his poems in Tripwire, The Brooklyn Rail, Slow Poetry in America Newsletter, Supplement, Public Pool, Whirlwind and on his blog. He is the recipient of a 2016 Pew Fellowship in the Arts.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 07, 2017

Tuesday poem #240 : Rebecca Salazar : A death preceded by three auguries


In your last week, when they say you might stop eating, you eat
twenty seven watermelons whole. The brothers ogle:
pink juice parsing the lines of your face and depositing
carbuncles, sugar gems on your cracked lips and chin,
like the starched stars that web across summer fruit rinds.


The hospice halls heavy and cloying with jasmine and rose.
We are immersed. After lights-out, the sisters sneak
from the guest room, both drunk on perfume more viscous
than honey. Their shoes syrup-stick to the floor before
they reach your bed. They sway, sick with the brilliant scent.


Morning sickness wakes the mother, hot sleep wicking down
the hard sphere of her belly. A blue votive flame
draws her to eyes to the phone at her bedside, the number
unknown, cool voice calling for warmth just as you
signal sounds like her name in your tapering sleep.

Rebecca Salazar is the author of Guzzle (Anstruther), and an editor for The Fiddlehead and icehouse poetry. Her poetry appears in Prism, Minola Review, and Cosmonauts Avenue, and her non-fiction in The Puritan and Partisan Magazine. Originally from Sudbury, Ontario, she is currently a PhD candidate and Vanier scholar in New Brunswick.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan