Tuesday, February 22, 2022

Tuesday poem #464 : Matt Robinson : YARDWORK




The low rock wall’s a Sunday’s cobbled, rough analog

for the job of a lyric. Another poor, dirty trick of jagged
edges sat & fit & begat & knit together against

impending weather, its elements; those assumptions

& tectonic shifts. This is all a tenuous gift. Being left

sweaty & strained against the effort of it. But it’ll all go

to shit. Your back grunts with the stoney transit

from there to here & here to there, the air thick

in your lungs as things work themselves into something

akin to a semblance of line, makeshift. Both hands filthy;

knuckles skinned just a bit. There’s a benign spilling

of blood, or whatever muddy suspension of dirt

& leaked sweat oils the slick rift of your skin. Of course,

everything must first start if it’s meant to end. Even

stones, orchestrated; a pointless attempt to rend, to begin

again, to impose an order on unoffending nature & its eventual

upending, or mending, to when it reverts to whatever

it is it intends for itself.





Matt Robinson’s new poetry collection Tangled & Cleft, his sixth, was released by Gaspereau Press in Fall 2021. Other recent publications include Sometimes It’s Entertainment; Some Other Nights Just Work (Gaspereau Press, 2016) and the chapbooks Against (Gaspereau, Press, 2018) and a fist made and then unmade (Gaspereau Press, 2013). He lives in Halifax, NS, with his family, and plays a fair bit of beer league hockey.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, February 15, 2022

Tuesday poem #463 : Jessica Laser : William James




As I enter the station, my first heart stops.
I begin, chopping the foot of a tree.
Its branches are unmoved by my act.

Its leaves murmur. Peacefully as ever,
I do violence to the foot of a man.

I hear the conductor calling “all aboard!”
If I stumble as I run

If a cinder enters my eye

I enter the station.
The conductor calling “all aboard!”
Stops my first heart stopping

My second heart beating
The foot of a tree, the foot

Of a man. I hear violence calling
Its branches unmoved.

They are moved, I insist.




Jessica Laser was born and raised in Chicago. She is the author of Planet Drill (Futurepoem Books, forthcoming), winner of the Other Futures Award, and Sergei Kuzmich from All Sides (Letter Machine Editions, 2019). 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, February 08, 2022

Tuesday poem #462 : Therese Estacion : Iron Body



I am no longer attached to my flesh.   Even so, it is difficult to go out into the world like this. Half other.        A peek into the perpendicular universe full of cyborgs. I am sometimes afraid of the hurtling. Our assigned junkyards filled with medical equipment and assisted living devices.   My body moves in prone mode. Exposing some truth stored in our limbic systems.         Perhaps I am a heroine in the

               iron mud





Therese Estacion is part of the Visayan diaspora community. She is an elementary school teacher and is studying to be a psychotherapist. Therese is also a bilateral below knee and partial hands amputee, and identifies as a disabled person/person with a disability. Therese lives in Tkaronto. Her poems have been published in CV2 and PANK Magazine, and were shortlisted for the 2021 Marina Nemat Award. Her first collection of poems, Phantompains, was published by Book*Hug in Spring 2021.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan