Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Tuesday poem #316 : Erin Bedford : Reed Warbler to Cuckoo

Funny egg
blithe bird
don’t fret

You didn’t mean to
it was just a trick of nature
an old rule of biology


And who pretended more that you were mine?

Your red-raw throat wide for everything I brought
you outgrew the nest
before I thought to peck and run you off

Now look at you on your high branch
grown so fat and fine
some part of that mine
singing songs that sweep me away

Trick me again

Erin Bedford's work is published in William Patterson University's Map Literary, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Temz Review, and Train: a poetry journal. She attended and won a Certificate of Distinction for her novel Fathom Lines from the Humber School for Writers. Currently, she is acting as shill for her second novel, Illumining, and a manuscript of poetry. Follow her to find out more @ErinLBedford

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 16, 2019


Section 3.1.2 47-82

When you are less angry the landscape recedes to a horizon or a moment that clangs

In the soundscape of the Danube there are those who make me want to puke over my shoulder when no news comes

You loved Tishe Amijo Head when she left your body in Oxnard and all that remained was a postcard of the beats with her name on

A book bearing your name may or may not exist moulding a jello map from prominent bumps

That book may contain invectives against the government along with portions of August and forgotten poets from The Penguin Book of 20th Century German Verse

I take hold of the toe of infinite power and loved Tishe Amijo Head she lived in a car with a bank robber called Buck when we made love

The book you may have written you believe makes no mention of this

When a woman leaves her body they leave yours also to listen to the Danube but no longer see it

When you lie flat beneath the wine dark sea and feel the fresh water touching it there are marks on your arms where the secret police promised to twist them

Turning away from metonomy towards the space that the globe opens up things you wish you had never written thinking you had hidden them in the lungs and the liver

& the spaces between letters

When you are less happy you try everything revolutionary

To turn the clock back to a time before the industrial revolution you think

You do not know if there was ever a time when the secret police did not know where you lived

When you are busy initiating and documenting a more sexual mode it is harder to tell if any of the participants work for the filth

To fight with a person you must use cum but not for the weapon for example I fight the monkey with a rose

Cum simia rosa pugno in England thou is commonly used because in that country they have no need for police

Everyone who lives there is dead or asleep

Tim Atkins is the author of books published by Book Thug, The Figures, O Books, Barque, Crater, Boiler House, ifpthenq, and many other presses. Petrarch Collected Atkins was a Times Literary Supplement book of the year in 2014. He is the editor of onedit.net. He can be reached at timatkins1234@googlemail.com

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 09, 2019

Tuesday poem #314 : Timothy Otte : from “Psalms After Jamme”

Timothy Otte is a poet and critic. Poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from Denver Quarterly, Sixth Finch, Reservoir, SAND Journal, Structo, and others. Reviews have appeared in the Poetry Project Newsletter, LitHub, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Otte runs the Poetry Book Club at SubText Books in St. Paul, MN, works at Coffee House Press, and keeps a home on the internet: www.timothyotte.com. Say his last name like body.

The Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 02, 2019

Tuesday poem #313 : Laynie Browne : from Indivisible

Some flowers change color when pollination is complete, signaling freshly dilated rooms. Others open and close to control the timing of the act. Forms of enticement: sugary cadence, nectar parlors, pollen deposited on head. A place to find shelter from ruined blue hems. A single nest scrape. I drank from flawless perfume, your voice.

Transition upends us. No footsteps, therefore no light enters the house. Persistent reliability on the ephemeral: silt arc, lunar names, pouring felt into glass goblets, a liquid pliancy, fabric on which we divine. Dear oracle, I’ve worked endlessly for this tiny corner. Drop-stitch resolve. Indivisible—clotted from shadows. Gaze from fringed skirts.

If you write by illumination of any candle you incline toward an intimate circle of light. Where wolves become less visible shadows moving across a field, tired green spectroscopes. An image of curtained sun becomes the strangest mammal. Byzantium drawing machine. The deported quiet for which one waits and eventually ravishes. Inside thread apothecaries you named my hair. Rope pulled with eyes.

Laynie Browne is a poet, prose writer, teacher and editor. She is author of thirteen collections of poems and three novels. Her most recent collections include a book of poems You Envelop Me (Omnidawn 2017), a novel Periodic Companions (Tinderbox 2018) and short fiction in two editions, one French, and one English in The Book of Moments (Presses universitaires de rouen et du havre, 2018). Her honors include a 2014 Pew Fellowship, the National Poetry Series Award (2007) for her collection The Scented Fox, and the Contemporary Poetry Series Award (2005) for her collection Drawing of a Swan Before Memory.  Her poetry has been translated into French, Spanish, Chinese and Catalan. Her writing has appeared in many anthologies including The Norton Anthology of Post Modern Poetry (second edition 2013), Ecopoetry: A Contemporary American Anthology (Trinity University Press, 2013), Bay Poetics (Faux Press, 2006) and The Reality Street Book of Sonnets(Reality Street, 2008). She teaches at University of Pennsylvania and at Swarthmore College.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan