Tuesday, April 13, 2021

Tuesday poem #419 : Endre Farkas : April Means Open

 

April grey urges me to
wash my windows
clear the soot of winter. 

Now the cleanish light shines in
highlights the dust and crumbs.

So, I vacuum
wash the floors

and while so inclined
disinfect the counter tops again.

So, why not
the toilet bowl as well? Again.

I even make my bed
throw laundry in the hamper
and shower to wash off
whatever I might have picked up.

Coffee break and see
the Spiral Lanes of stars
the Balloon of dust
the Horse Head, the Cat’s eye nebula
and the Pillars of Creation. 

Oh my, what clear images of the quotidian
window light can show you.

Oh, what a telescope will make you think of
the multiverse, yourself, April showers

not so alone
so far apart.

 

  

 

Endre Farkas was born in Hungary. He is a child of Holocaust survivors. His family escaped during the 1956 Hungarian uprising, and settled in Montreal. He has published two novels, eleven books of poetry and two plays. His work has been translated into French, Spanish, Italian, and Slovenian. He has read and performed widely in Canada, the United States, Latin America, and Europe, and has created performance pieces that have toured across the country and abroad.

He has also translated the poetry of Bari Karoly.

His book How To was nominated for the AM Klein poetry award in 1983.  He is the two-time winner of the CBC radio Poetry “Face Off” Competition.

His collaborative book and video poem Blood is Blood was the winner of Zebra’s International Poetry Film Festival (Berlin) 2012.

His two novels Never, Again and Home Game were published by Signature Editions in 2016 & 2019 respectively. Home Game was shortlisted for the Mavis Gallant for Fiction.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 06, 2021

Tuesday poem #418 : lukas ray hall : rubber stamp

 

 

My mother asks
if I’m feeling well today

as she sips
on her Diet Coke

& wets a rubber stamp
with ink. I tell her yes,

though I know that
when the words slip out,

the muscles in my mouth
will bristle, sharp &

she’ll see the eye twitch,
the pain rupture across

the skin of my face
& she’ll say that’s good

honey her eyes
not leaving the cut-out

design, thick in blue ink,
I’m glad to hear you

are doing better. Before
pressing flat the rubber

on the card stock
in front of her & taking

another swig
of her soda, 

dark liquid varnishing
her decaying teeth.

 

 

lukas ray hall holds an MFA from Pacific University. They are the author of loudest when startled (YesYes Books, 2020). Their poems have appeared in The Florida Review, Moon City Review, Atlanta Review & Raleigh Review, among others. They live in St. Paul, MN.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan