Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Tuesday poem #295 : Kristi Maxwell : Poem Starting with a Misreading of the First Line in “The Glass Essay”

I can hear little chicks inside my dream
They sound painted                  they sound
like a feather’s most profitable idea
They sound off                the sound is off
like something in the fridge                 several days old
beans           in a different world, a newborn bean
cantaloupe   whatever it is that’s our last stage
our vegetable matter                 the world’s last vegetable lamb
This is no Easter candy   not Chik’n or counterfeit beef
to have a beef with  a fist in the feast    A wooly aphid
parades like a cleaning pad over the rough face of a tree
What does the tree care   one must not only ask
but discover a method for asking        must harvest the fiber
to process the text embroider the plant onto the sheet
along with initials            our love so natural
now   reminded of its seed                  that the seed foresees
its own flower likely has nothing to do with the eye
it’s shaped as                   but who knows               what
knows                   what


I can hear little hiccups inside my drain
The disposal needs to be addressed    Dear disposal,
dear waste      somewhere, the carcass of a deer
From the interstate, my love, driving, can find
and count every deer, coyote, fox                 he animates
the field, brings the forest into focus   there,
there   It’s a wonder we say the world     a singular thing
a monocle resting on the galaxy’s plump cheek
the other planets mere moles    no      I can hear
little hiccups inside my brain      everyone has their own
trick to make them stop  to resurface the esophageal road
There’s been a hiccup           like an accident                bone exposed
metal plates stacked in the cupboard of one’s body
not to be taken out         no matter the guest                   We’re asked
to think about what we have, to interrogate need
What’s negated by terror Here is one more torn interior  
to tour                   one more acorn of light to misplace
in the hillside                   that swollen cheek taunted by
each gauzy cloud that does nothing for it      ok it does
something   tossing out beads of ice   of rain
as if the earth had flashed its parts      or at least
outstretched its arms, made hysterical by desire
like the rest of us             with no rest in us


I can earn little checks inside my dream        for my dream job
To knit a rind in which to enclose the wheel of sun
and its gooey light To assign the barnacle to the shipwreck
To oversee the wound as it woos the throb  To edit the house’s
biography of the last rooted tree         To tempt the glacial sadness
to carve       We are our own misinterpreted evidence
our own misdeal or mystic        our own bento box
into which the lunch of our being is divvied out among
the organic compartments        our limbs either rogue noodles or chopsticks
already snapped apart               ready to be used
regardless     or regard more                the zebras dressed up as tall grasses
a meter’s ability to discern the worth of coins                   the coin-fed
the corn-fed and the confession          the Mexican egg filled with confetti
despite having never been cracked                Was it that we wanted
to be amazed or a maze   Was it that we wanted to identify the husk
holding our succulent kernel               a core we can’t give up
that punk     shielded by us                 shielded from us
a two-way mirror   Where is the power: seeing oneself
or seeing another            That the mirror itself limits our conceptions
of empathy  suggesting as it does that we can deposit ourselves elsewhere
cash in, cash out    invest          The terms already decided
Do you agree to the terms

Kristi Maxwell is the author of seven books of poems, including Bright & Hurtless (forthcoming from Ahsahta Press), My My (forthcoming from Saturnalia Books), and PLAN/K (Horse Less Press). She is an assistant professor of English at the University of Louisville.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Tuesday poem #294 : Cath Morris : New World Order

I’ve noticed lately how fast things are changing
the First and Third Worlds merging so that
it’s all becoming more streetish,
busier, more stuff, less quality
dirtier, messier, more exotic,
more carnivale,
less village square
heated up,
not so cool
less elegant,
less fair

yet I suppose this means
more sharing, caring
melding of hearts
and minds

until we all melt
on the sidewalk,
like butter;

the hopeful side of this, though,
and why we all love Korean Psy
is the new sense of each other
the internet has bestowed
‘we the people’ not just North American
but like-minded brothers and sisters
linked across the world

in this sense
the unsettling thing about the merge
is that this new crowded high street
shows even more graphically how
the camps are divided, not just by religion
but by money and motive
and one is either fighting for right
with web-melded hearts and minds
or worshipping material wealth of all kinds
(the dead disease global trade has spread across the world
and threatens to wipe this experiment out altogether)

the Toltec prophecies tell us, however,
that the Sun is pure intelligence
and Virginia Woolfe says “all the world is mind”;
we are all creating this dream of Earth together
and if we don’t stop the destroyers
we’ll keep filling up the streets with human waste

until we all melt together
on the hot sidewalk
like… sizzling bacon rinds….

Ottawa-born long-time Vancouver resident and member of the TADS poets group, Cath Morris has been writing stories and poetry since she was a child. Before her introduction to the Vancouver literary scene, she was a journalist for The Georgia Straight and VAM (Vancouver Area Music) Magazine. Besides her chapbook, Venus & Apollo, from Pookah Press in 2009, Cath’s poetry has been published in TADS, Urban Pie, and The Capilano Review, as well as online poetry journals, Ottawater.com (3rd, 8th, 10th, and 11th Issues), Poethia.com, and Bywords.ca. Her work was later published in Coach House Press’ special edition anthology for Poet Laureate George Bowering’s 70th birthday, 71(+) for GB, and Corporate Watch UK’s 10th Anniversary Anthology (2007) in Oxford, UK. In 1998, director, Irina Trouchenko, staged the experimental one-act play, An Artist’s Dream, based on the eponymous poem and others by Cath Morris and Chris Turnbull for the UBC Summer Stock Festival at UBC’s Chan Centre. Besides Venus & Apollo, Cath has a second chapbook coming out with Pooka Press on September 9th of this year (2018). Cath’s early self-published chapbook, After the Fall, awaits publication. More recently, Cath’s work can be found in the west-coast poetry anthology, Make it True: Poetry from Cascadia, 2015 (Leaf Press, Nanaimo, B.C.). Cath works as a television researcher/writer.

The Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Tuesday poem #293 : Catherine Cafferty : Coupling constellations

The green leafy gaze, a loon on
the lake.

By night mice in a dish, when the torch
is on. And squirrels want fireside.

I cut into the tip of my finger the first
day, need layers when I enter the

A death among reeds, we watch
at nothing for nearly an hour.

The dragonflies multiple by midday,
prism-like water below us.

I dream of the canoe rocking, arms
a tilted windmill, yet word is I’m working

The moon casts over the islands tonight,
black pitch made sun white by tomorrow.

This cedar and soil portage, now useless
with a map of water.

Goggled liked a child, survey the moss-
covered stones, a fish.  I swim.

Catherine Cafferty is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY. She holds a BA in literature from McGill University, an MA in English from San Francisco State University, and an MFA from The Iowa Writers' Workshop. She currently is the co-director of literacy for The Partnership for Inner-City Education in NYC.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan