Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Tuesday poem #508 : Chris Banks : Sagas




When the day is without surprises, when poetry
leaves town without even a word of goodbye, when
the only thing you can bear to read is the recipe

on the back of the can, when the butcher paper
stinks of blood, when you no longer have any

stomach for reality’s game of solitaire because
your poker face is wearing thin, suddenly it all

changes with your child’s smile, your lover’s hug,
a parcel arrives with a first edition, or a new

pair of slippers caresses your feet, and the tiniest
mirrors of delight all turn toward you, at once,

so you are a beautiful creature in the midst of
remembering Paris streets, walking along the Seine,

the first time you ate a blood orange, old sagas
accruing interest in memory’s off-shore accounts,

and you think, what are these riches? How did I
become this wealthy? It is enough to make you smile,

to forget the lingering smell of old coffee wafting
from the kitchen, the dailiness of fifty plus years,

so you may enjoy a moment’s mirage, a feeling of
awe, unbridled wonder, what you might imagine

an explorer felt a long time ago when first entering
a cave, lighting a torch and seeing antelope, or perhaps

a herd of bison, migrating across cavern walls.




Chris Banks is a Canadian poet and author of six collections of poems, most recently Deepfake Serenade out with Nightwood Editions (Fall 2021). His first full-length collection, Bonfires, was awarded the Jack Chalmers Award for poetry by the Canadian Authors’ Association in 2004. Bonfires was also a finalist for the Gerald Lampert Award for best first book of poetry in Canada.  His poetry has appeared in The New Quarterly, Arc Magazine, The Antigonish Review, Event, The Malahat Review, GRIFFEL, American Poetry Journal, Prism International, among other publications. He lives and writes in Kitchener, Ontario.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 20, 2022

Tuesday poem #507 : Margo LaPierre : Hysteresis



Hysteresis is the name
for a system of stress
in an organism        or an object

when effects of
the stressor

lag behind its origin action.

Soil remembers the constriction of glaciers
and pushes up bitter white strawberries.
The band of your new Calvin Klein shelf bra

loosens and ripples until it barely
touches your ribc   






Margo LaPierre is a freelance editor and author of Washing Off the Raccoon Eyes (Guernica Editions, 2017). She serves as newsletter editor of Arc Magazine and is a member of poetry collective VII. She is the winner of the 2021 Room Poetry Contest and the 2020 subTerrain Lush Triumphant Award for Fiction. Her work has appeared in Arc, filling Station, CAROUSEL, PRISM, carte blanche and elsewhere. She is a Creative Writing MFA candidate at UBC. Find her on Twitter @margolapierre.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 13, 2022

Tuesday poem #506 : Nathan Anderson : Eastern Desert Run





line...dance over //////tilled *heap*



there was a name for _i_t_




was the...
was the...
was the...

                     the was...
the was...
the was...













Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe Australia. He is the author of Mexico HoneyThe Mountain + The Cave and Deconstruction of a Symptom. His work has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVox, Beir Bua and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan