|
PoemsoftheMontha shifting collection of poems by POG members, POG guest artists, & poets we admire . . .(to find poems that have vanished from this page, see our Poetry Archive) scroll down to read all the poems, or click to jump to work by: Maggie GolstonMia McDonaldDlyn ParraTim PetersonJesse Seldessmore poems coming soon . . . . Maggie GolstonHistory Chanty
(click here for the text of this long poem)
Mia McDonaldFaithfulness Constraint
Each faithfulness constraint expresses one aspect of the requirement that surface forms must be faithful to the underlying form. – Roca and Johnson, A Course in Phonology
I. That death occurs after birth
That spasms of generalities like love and pain will be equal only to themselves
when you burn the water will be hot or cold but only in regards to your skin
the language of prayer must be spoken by the tongue and so changes from beginning to end.
the spasm of the womb, the spasm of the heart pushes you forth or strikes you from behind
II. Faith (PLACE)
You can change your place. You can take those windows, those white paneled brass bound windows that swelled in the humid summers and pack them on your back and carry them through the mud lined highways all the way out to the thorn crossed sun sucked desert where you lay them out in the sand and feel your shoulders begin to break, crack, and
bleed.
And the cry of my condemned soul was great and could not be satisfied, but breathed and thirsted after Christ, to save me freely through His blood or I perished for ever. -William Dewsbury, Faith and Practice
To find comfort in the grain of rosary beads, in the shape of my tongue folding against itself to form the Words of God. Those gilded sounds mingling with my own flawed breath should fill my mouth with some mercurial comfort and spill out into the sky.
Body of Christ… to hold faith just below my thoughts within the soft tissues of my dark mouth, feel it dissolve into my veins. To fill my nostrils with incense, Saturate my body with the holy, with the unquestioned
Blood of Christ… Does it taste like the iron of nails and rust? Can the strength of His shoulders support those high arched beams the cracking paint and worn wooden pews? My muscles should ache with that weight.
Can the reaching space above me contain my doubt Or do I need those buttresses, Stained glass glow, watchful eyes of martyrs, and rooms with lattice
windows to smooth my wrinkled soul, inflate my spirit beyond the tight confines of my fat, muscle and skin into some larger silence, the sacred pause between breaths, before the last breath.
And yet my tongue remains still. My nails are bitten and torn, blood seeping to the surface tastes of salt, loam, and wine.
Dlyn ParraSeason the Disjunctive
Of course the prerequisite gathering of air, of thoughts, of scenes from the bed and the door galvanize into the next utterance. What more could they do?
The slam of space, tongue-tip to lip arch over arm into fingers curled clenched then collapsed slack-jawed thickened like gelatin or stomach ease tea left too long alone in the heat.
The released summation doesn't decide whether the comforter's down will be clung to or the airport's delivery service will misplace the suitcase only the waiting room whisper forming.
Temples hover between newly destructed holes uptight their blackened streaks quiver like snakes side-wise. Foreheads interrupted reposition to eastern pillow and a puzzled goat bleats to follow along.
A radio station tunes in, the current pop hit plays, a windy, kind of breathy song.
Dlynpoet 9.21.03
as this, read you
Re-snuggle. A roll. A side on tipping. Source heat current my
warming, my whirring forced to contrast in soothing. Muse my ease
indrawn. Surprising. A him different. A desired confusion. Distance required.
A rim full very round very touched just glistening just seems...
of her lips drinking. Sense her purpose yes. Asked, I did no him.
Easy forgetful. Should another ask this hour as dream.
Radiance impending.
dlynea 12/10/2003 1/21/2004
as this, read another
Rising for a reason, a there is, itself sidesteps mind. A glance, a swallow, a wrong be as right. Investigate! Or part
the way as such in coalescing. Multitudes. Nodes. Marching steadily. Others, the clasp, the lingering, the waking fond
of lines. Clandestine interludes bring a moistening a force of throat against tongue of turn.
Each wants delineations linear. Activates to drawing veils, shadowy. Gears shift line-drawn minds, irreversibly.
Before form before palm slatted and squared the flame, innocence danced light circles and contrasts as now, tightly held. As this, constricted.
dlynea 12/8/03 1/21/04 Tim Peterson
EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES
The grotesque imbalance of powers fuels my morning walk: azaleas, blue phlox, curbside junk. The careers of several generals winding up in the "cult status" bin, partially on account of the long night and a Lexus SUV. Part the mysterious foliage of a potted plant in the company hallway.
No harbingers, no gusts of atrocious statement. We are a free country, and in that dialysis we derive our nutrients from unfair advantage, not unlike arm-wrestling in gale-force winds. The occult language denied to me by my ancestry will emerge in news photos of the battered and the dead.
Fringe benefits. Cola. I had to try on an appearance I wore in the recesses of a dream. In the dream there was a private anchor, and I sat on top of it and rode it out of the water up onto the boat. The vessel of our sleeping company lurches forward, flank or wing.
The people around you, brain-dead though they find their polls, learn you a thing or two. In practice, the arms of the republic should embrace those who differ in hair color, build, or perception. A sequined dress, barren angle in the new world, apotheosis of corona and self-stink.
Wink. The news carried us into the souped-up sand dunes. Partially, I grow nostalgic for the intimacy of a nape, but this timidity runs fallow under rifles and manpower. I did not side with the victors. I did not lose my change on the wrong bet, rusted machines of the hard-of-hearing government.
Jesse Seldess
HUM WITH
(click here for the text of this long poem)
|
These pages last modified September 2, 2007. |