Tuesday poem #533 : Amanda Deutch : Flores, Azores 2007

 

 

 

In the Azores, on Flores, 
we raced snails and 

millipedes on the 
heated floor. There 

was no escape. Everything 
was damp pages curled, 

paper warped, even young 
bodies ached. Barometric 

pressure. The sky was grey 
in Azores, so even the lush 

foliage and mosses 
appeared dull, cast in 

shadows. The coast 
carved out of volcanic 

rock. Grey and
black sharp onyx

like knives. Rocks’ 
edges always wet and 

slippery from the torrential 
rains. One day while walking 

on the rocks, I slipped 
and cut my leg. 

I skirted along the rocks to a 
nearby restaurant, where I drank 

white wine and ate grilled 
lulas with fresh lemon.

Telma drove uphill 
to show us the moss. 

Shoulder high, if you leaned 
on it you could disappear.

 

 

 

 

Born and raised in New York City, Amanda Deutch is a poet and social practice artist. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks, most recently Bodega Night Pigeon Riot (above/ground press, 2020) and Surf Avenue and 29th Street Coney Island (Least Weasel, 2018). A new chapbook is forthcoming soon with above/ground. Her poetry has been published in The New York Times, Oversound, The Rumpus, Cimarron Review, Ping Pong and in many other journals and magazines.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday poem #532 : Russell Carisse : from In The Margins

 

 

[left margin of The Penguin Book of French Poetry 1820-1950. trans W. Rees (Penguin Classics, 1990) pgs 514-5, 522, 552]

 

On the pavement
opaque,
advertisements
Someone invisible
of light
Apathy falls asleep
Uncomprehended
on the move
by the city wall
in the wasteground
and drags
ragged image of the
Inside sheds
Indistinct men
quivering glazed
laterns. Voltaic
staircases. . .The
waterspout. . .The
wound-riddled
twists and arches. . .

* * *

Hands in hands
The bridge of our
gazing

Let night come
remain

Love passes away
How slow life is

Let the night come
remain

Let the days pass
love comes back again
flows on

Let night come

* * *

I found myself under
plants, the clusters of
the secret
      flesh, facing
tomorrow
queyside all wet
sound of the sea.

 

 

 

 

Russell Carisse is currently living on unceded Wolastoqiyik territory in New Brunswick. Here they have resettled from Tkaronto into an off-grid trailer in the woods, with their family of people and animals, to grow food and practice other forms of underconsumption. Russell is the author of chapbooks, BRICKWORKS (Frog Hollow Press 2021), and English Garden Bondage (above/ground press 2022). A further above/ground press chapbook is forthcoming. Their work can be found online and in print.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #531 : Emily Tristan Jones : A Happening

 

 

Francis is reckless in the grass
and then receiving the Eucharist from a crystal chalice. What is happening?

Euphoria talks a lot 
Euphoria is bed of grass
Euphoria is panic
all the way home

He saw a seraph and took from it 
wine

He was afraid of its six wings 
    like the points of a star

embedded all over with eyes
    each independently aware

Under its down are bold red lips
    and an excited face

All its wings like wigs being worn 
    Not one smacking of vanity

Two poignant wings
    Two wings like hands that gesture
    Two wings as a coy bottom half

Jesus in the cross hatch           

and an ofan like a dog 
    along 

Francesco! In your fun burlap 
         Your toes pressed to the ground like worms in the night
         What are you always talking about?
         What is the worry?

 

 

 

Emily Tristan Jones lives in Montreal and edits Columba. Her own poems have been in the Harvard Review, Denver Quarterly, The Puritan, Dalhousie Review, Shearsman, and other journals. She lives in Montreal, where she teaches poetry to at-risk youth.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan