Tuesday poem #566 : Bruce Whiteman : Little Nameless Unremembered Acts

 

 

The sheep out the open window graze on grass
perilously close to an electric fence.

They lift their gaze at the slightest harsh or
unfamiliar sound: a squawking

squirrel, a girl lolling by at a
snail's pace, children fighting

noisily out of sight. It's afternoon but
the light is faltering, the colours in the

fields changing now to grim--slim
hope, nothing good to come.

A flock of geese invades a
nearby pond and honks like Boanerges.

The sheep, again, look up and stare
in recognition. Ajax realized his mistake

and scurried off to self-slaughter. He'd
killed a hecatomb of sheep in false belief

they were his unearned enemies and
deserved their awful fate, dying by the

sword as he thought they'd lived. Hate's
the root of everything human that

causes us dumb despair. It dares to
keep us out of love and spurns

self-sacrifice. Like spooked sheep we
lurch into our fate, bleat into the air

that will not cease from turning dark.
Love stands by with undesired goods.

 

 

 

 

 

Bruce Whiteman is a poet, essayist, and book reviewer. His most recent collection of poetry is The Invisible World Is in Decline, Book IX (ECW Press, 2022). His essays and reviews have appeared widely over the past forty years in journals and newspapers in both Canada and the United States. He has taught at several universities and was the poet in residence at Scattergood Friends School in Iowa for several years. Currently he teaches part-time in the University of Toronto’s School of Continuing Studies. Bruce Whiteman lives in Peterborough, Ontario, with his cat Virgil, a harpsichord, and a Steinway grand piano. His collection of essays and reviews, Work to Be Done, will be published by Biblioasis in March of 2024.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #565 : Iordanis Papadopoulos : get out is a verb about home

 

 

                               Mommy!!!... I love my New t!!!

I call it home
occas
it does turn round
don’t know for how long
I know what dimension means
call it leave it back
I know what direction means
on my way forth bell calls
causes my sudden growing
reminds me of all directions
this is geometry no this is geography no
on my way back I have a plan
I make sketches of all my forwardings
all my dimensions
on the ground I walk on all is flat; call it all planed
a dark ground flat no sooner do
I get in than it does turn up
occasionally I think of myself in
as dimensional
occasionally I think of myself out
as directional
as occas
trying to call
it ca
home
o here it is
where I am
an abbreviation to be
for open house
for zero for nothing o here it is
if only an answer in the affirmative
not only a continuous present
time (an auxiliary
hmmm) in
a run-away garden
staying still? waiting for? booming out?
(snapping oh here)

 

 

 

Iordanis Papadopoulos (b.1976) is the author of 3 books of poetry in Greek. His poetry can also be read in the poetry anthology Ποίηση με πείσμα (transl. from Dichtung mit Biss: Griechische Lyrik aus dem 21. Jahrhundert, Romiosini ed., 2018 and Antipodes ed., 2020), in the latest issue of –algia #4, in “Spontaneous series” by eohippus labs, in the anthologies “Kleine Tiere zum Schlachten. Neue Gedichte aus Griechenland” (ParasitenPresse, 2017) and Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis (Penned in the Margins ed., 2015). He was shortlisted in the Atlas Review 2016 chapbook series.

He is also a member of the live art group KangarooCourt

He lives in Athens, Greece.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

 

Tuesday poem #564 : Elana Wolff : Impromptu with an Emptying Pen

 

 

 

Let’s celebrate the short days, hours,
glint of hard sharp snow.
Tired bones and jokes, the bed that isn’t
big and firm enough,
the sheets that aren’t so fresh. 
Let’s brook the fear of disappearing, bear
with those who won’t bear back—
           this: the test,
the lesson.
Let’s navigate by plain first lines
that link to closing words
like knell and nugget;
touch the windows filled with night,
tap dark’s deep and radiating hearth.

Let’s celebrate the short days, hours,
tap dark’s deep and radiating hearth.

 

 

 

Elana Wolff lives and works in Thornhill, Ontario—the ancestral land of the Haudenosaunee and Huron-Wendat First Nations. Her poems have recently appeared (or will soon appear) in The Antigonish Review, Arc, Best Canadian Poetry 2024, FreeFall, Pinhole, Prairie Fire, and Yolk. Her cross-genre Kafka-quest work, Faithfully Seeking Franz, is newly released with Guernica Editions.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday poem #563 : William Cirocco : stone shadow

 

 

 

         one
         self

         one
         shadow

         myriad
         cobblestones

         no
         one

 

 

 

in memoriam
Bobby Hogg

 

 

 

William Cirocco: lives in San Francisco with the artist Louise Victor

books include:
The Rain
Narcissus
The Affirmation of Shadows
aerolith

Publisher of hawkhaven press, letterpress books,
authors include:
Robert Lax
David Miller (UK)
Thomas A Clark
Frank Samperi

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan.