Tuesday, August 30, 2022

Tuesday poem #491 : Douglas Piccinnini : ARTIFICIAL TEARS




The streets fill up with audible snow until the sonar of love leaves us alone. Until the rust of noon sets us free to tumble these sheets in exhaustion. We pre-dream of peace only to resume living waking feeling the still-wet blackboard of youth on all sides but one, the side of dreaming.

Pink in the first few pages of days as if a name could rightly saddle what there is to be said in correct longing.

To a nearly deleted scene the one on a dusty street, the cul-de-sac of roller skates chomp through stony days. Its always some squinting part of the day summer. The leaves slick with May light and summer almost.

Things a boy can do and keep from you.

Squirming in the muddy ocean this morning I thought of you far away in loveland, the ink still wet in the sky.

Soon the first snowflake fell charting meaning. Hard thick branches frame the sky. It gets worse with the milk of two years feeding the same stream.

The description of hissing hidden in my timeline, the award light dim and again with you.

To stamp out desire then relive each broken foil. The cloud updates. We can breathe into the silence of together peacefully at last.

Steadily paper became twelve hundred punched holes. A golden outline of a triangle fell onto a soft blue tracing of a square.

No more ash smeared in wax. The elastic loose and comfortable. They set out to assemble a softer, gentler hammer.

Blue in the last few notes of years as if inflection could misquote dreams

The empty kitchen part of summer with leftover citrus and salt. The wet around with thunder and summer.

Things an idea can do and keep from you.

Soaked in fog this morning, I thought of you far away in your own life. Id have to stop myself from tripping through these tendencies.

Soon the first snowflake fell charting meaning. Hard thick branches frame the sky. It gets worse with the milk of two years feeding the same stream.

The description these amenities and the freedom therein, without you. These mild peppers. Those bland perfect fruits. These watery tones themselves already, without inflection.

A wave burning. The palm leaves under the overpass. The staggering transformation of morning.  The productive waste of longing.

This mode of fractional beliefs. That mode bereft of joy. This mode of parallel harmonies.

The windows filled with paper. What was the last year the parade of – ambition of ambition. Desire of desire and so forth. This is an interesting idea to swim with.

Pointing, I meant you. No, not you.

Another pinch of snuff? These days the orange busting bursting? and the recurrence of dawn associations with new beginningsleaning into a pitch. Stop how?

Year by year the warped authority of being flattens in the skillet, rises, then collapses. To become normal and invert myself and again bloom.

Clipped the air of worry and let it grow it. Amarillo leaves.

The wolf introduced by three horns, your name
etched in stone, filled in with snow.




Douglas Piccinnini is the author of Blood Oboe (Omnidawn, 2015) and Story Book: a novella (The Cultural Society, 2015), as well as the chapbooks Soft (The Cultural Society, 2010), Victoria (Bloof, 2019), The Grave Itself (Ethel, 2021) and most recently, A Western Sky (Greying Ghost, 2022). Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Afternoon Visitor, Blazing Stadium, Brooklyn Rail, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Fence, Hot Pink Magazine, Lana Turner, MQR, Opt West, Prelude, and Volt – among others.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, August 23, 2022

Tuesday poem #490 : Robbie Chesick : Counting what Comes Before One




Today I bet on beauty
weighting the roulette wheel of attention

to favour the rotor’s deft funnel

with a still of the delrin pill of my inner eye

the win settles into a red pocket numbered

nine terns taking flight from the tundra

as the croupier like a hollering kettle unsnaps the dark

undressing a dawn of
suede petals
dropping pink around six
digging holes to their antipodes

and to you extending two arms towards me, and to the sky

infiltrating my lungs, with its one wish

to know itself

for a breath




Robbie Chesick (she/her) lives in Vancouver, BC, on the unceded territory of the Coast Salish peoples. She works as a clinical counsellor, writing poems in stolen moments for her own delight. Her poetry has been published in Vallum Magazine, Poetry Pause, Event (forthcoming) and Brine, a collaborative chapbook from the HC5 collective (2022). 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan