Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Tuesday poem #343 : Guy Birchard : My Tom "Roadkill" Bridwell

               (1945 - 2017)

The past is a spit-bucket.

In that Way of hers,
Anne dreamed
about Tom Bridwell
the night before
we got the mail

Howard wrote

telling Tom died.

Imprudent as may be
to relate one's dreams
at large, still to whom
she favors is confided
the nightvision

of having sent Tom

that trio of drawings actualized

quite awake:
the conical party hat 
run over in the street,
rescued, transported,
drawn thrice, dubbed in his name,

"The Roadkill Drawings."

Tom wrote,

It's passing strange... reading
Birchard... stranger still actually
understanding. He said,
I take a very long time to eat,
rereading Birchard. Said,

Hecatomb requires

ten or twelve

at the pub, at the laundromat.
Qualified praise thus:
My favorite Canadian
poet. The Canadian
Basho, said Tom. Elsewhere:

This rabbit, especially the gravy,

with lots of fresh-ground pepper,

and rice as transport,
preternaturally rich and earthy,
makes me feel so good
that I am almost guilty.
In the end we need a

Roadkill Concordance

to locate among his reams

of dense paragraphs the one
from the cemetery up his Ridge
citing (sans attribution) ... neglected

Guy Birchard : Cigarette Cards (Vermont: Longhouse, 2009), Further than the Blood (Boston: Pressed Wafer, 2010), Hecatomb (Brooklyn: Pressed Wafer, 2017), Aggregate: retrospective (Bristol: Shearsman Books, 2018), Only Seemly (St. John's: Pedlar Press, 2019).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

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