Three plus one: four poems for a birthday

TORCH
I was born the day my mother stopped being pregnant
a full-baked warm wetness taking its first breath
flame flickering, a miniature torch; a moth fluttering
against the pane, the porch. She held: a curved moon-nail,
thistle-like lock, darkened milk; and the clarinetist curled
slow circles around the moon


WISH
the crack of eggs, the weight of flour, chocolate powder

Wardrobe Mistress

My mother is ninety and likes
To wear a nice dress.
But she is tiny.

Size ten, and only five feet tall, she likes
Colour, nothing too clingy.
And needs a collar.

She would also like some nonslip
Ankle boots that are
Size four and a half.

Please help.

Nobody seems to cater for
Small, slim people of a certain age
Who are not terrifically flexible.

Do not want low necklines.
Do not like black and beige.



Taken from the "Wardrobe Mistress" column in the Sunday Times' Style Magazine, 29 September 2013. Submitted by Kirsten Luckens.

Wood Green chopping city

I've shown you how to chip,
I've shown you how to chop,
I've shown you how to dice and slice.

These sad people who spend
all their time chopping stuff up
in the kitchen - all you need's just
three cuts across like this.
You won't find an onion chopper any quicker!

They're not cheap.
If you're looking for cheap stuff getahtofere.
I've been using this same machine
on my demonstrations for fifteen years.

And you get a free spirally cutter, look -
you can use the peel for earrings.
There's a booklet with both words and pictures
so if you can't read the words, just look at the pictures.

They're �24.95 on TV,
so you're saving almost a fiver.
If you can't afford it today,
stick to the knife,
don't bother me,
Not bein' rude,
but I don't have to live in your house.



The patter of a cockney guy demonstrating an elaborate kitchen vegetable cutting machine in Wood Green Shopping City, London, 2004. Submitted by Richard Tyrone Jones.

"Tuatara", by Nola Borrell

Matiu/Somes Island, Wellington




Keep your distance
you�re new here
rough-edged and arrogant

One step closer
and you won�t see me
you won�t see me anywhere

Always lie low, I say
I�ve learnt a thing or two
over 200 million years

Take away your �ecologically
appropriate quarters�
this drainpipe will do

And quit drooling over me
I pounce on skinks and wetas
eat my own kind

If a female

Scientific American

You sink into their brains
a little socket with a screw on it
and the electrode can then
be screwed deeper and deeper
into the brainstem,

and you can test at any moment
according to the depth,
which goes at fractions of the mm,
what you're stimulating,

and these creatures are not
merely stimulated by wire,
they're fitted with a miniature
radio receiver so that they can be
communicated with at a distance.

The technique is very ingenious.
I mean you could press a button
and a sleeping chicken would jump up
and run about, or an active chicken

would suddenly sit down and go to sleep,
or a hen would sit down and act
like she's hatching out an egg,
or a fighting rooster would go into depression.



Taken from Aldous Huxley's speech "The Ultimate Revolution", given on 20th March 1962 at Berkeley Language Center. Submitted by Howie Good.

Buddhist bullseye

The look of
the moment
Infinity scarves



Sign in the Juniors department of Target, 1 March 2014. Submitted by J.R. Solonche.

"Bonsai" by Cecily Barnes

Who needs your stunted style, your tiny jewels

of thwarted art, to snatch a kite flown loose


or bad-thrown ball? Or your unsayable rules

of infinite pleasures unknown, delights abstruse,

to feel soft feathers, their talons' sponsal band?

To splinter a street, plumb galaxy's soil, or hold

a heaving noose? To grasp your child's hand?


To be unbound by any soul, un-bowled

by death, to

Place & Time

The atoms in a fluid can roll and tumble
and cascade around each other.
It's that flowing freedom that gives
fluid motion its hypnotic quality.

Allow yourself to become mesmerized
by the flow of a fast-moving river
around a bridge trestle and you'll know what I mean.

And there is dance in the roiling turbulence.
But, most importantly, the choreography
you're watching doesn't care about place and time.
What you see before your eyes today
is being repeated all across the cosmos.

If you don't believe me, go flush your toilet.



Taken from the NPR article, "How To See A Galaxy In Your Toilet Bowl", 18th February 2014. Submitted by Howie Good.

A Poetry Prompt from Kurt Vonnegut

In this reply to a high school class, Kurt Vonnegut gives a poetry prompt that you might want to try. It's not one that would work well for Poets Online, but it makes a fine point for us as poets.

Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:

I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don't make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.

What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow.

Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you're Count Dracula.

Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?

Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow.

God bless you all!
Kurt Vonnegut

via  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/14/kurt-vonnegut-xavier-letter_n_4964532.html

Weekend Poetry Retreat with Maria Gillan and Laura Boss

Do you need a poetry retreat that will give you the space and time to focus totally on your writing? Does having that time in a serene and beautiful setting away from the pressures and distractions of daily life and in the company of like-minded others sound inspiring?

Join poets Laura Boss and Maria Mazzioti Gillan on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday May 23, 24, and 25, 2014 (Friday dinner through Sunday lunch) at the St. Marguerite's Retreat House in Mendham, NJ for a poetry intensive weekend.

Participants arrive before 6 PM on Friday evening, have dinner, settle into their rooms, and begin to retreat from the distractions of the world.That evening, participants will be led into creating new work. After each workshop, each participant will have the opportunity to read their work in the group.

After Saturday breakfast, participants will move into two groups for morning workshops, followed by free time for socializing and exploring the grounds. After lunch, writing workshops will take place, followed by time to write. Each participant will have a chance to sign up in advance with Maria or Laura for one-on-one help with revision.

After dinner on Saturday evening, participants will be invited to read their poems to the groups, and the faculty will lead another workshop session on how to get published.

After Sunday breakfast, a final writing workshop and concluding reading by participants will serve as the �closing ceremony� to this inspiring and productive weekend and lunch provides a final opportunity for socializing.

The leaders envision this weekend as a retreat from the noise and bustle of daily life and see this retreat as a spiritual and creative break from our usual lives. The setting certainly allows us to take some time to look at life in a new light, to listen for our own voices, and to create in stillness, in quiet, and in community. These are times of contemplation and welcoming the muse.

The workshops will concentrate on "writing your way home" and the way writing can save us, save our stories and our lives. Participants should bring papers, pens, and the willingness to take some risks. Please also bring previously-written work for one-on-one sessions and for the readings.

St. Marguerite's Retreat House in Mendham, New Jersey is an English manor house situated on 93 acres of wooded land with pathways that lend themselves to the serene contemplation of nature and nurturing of your creative spirit. The Retreat House is located at the convent of Saint John the Baptist, 82 West Main Street in Mendham, NJ.

Fee Schedule:  $425 fee includes room, all meals, and all workshops.
Deposit by April 5, 2014 of $300
Balance due by April 19, 2014 $125
Early Bird Discount: Deduct $25 if paid in full by April 5, 2014
Full refund will be given prior to April 29, 2014.

For further information and to register, contact mariagillan@verizon.net or call  973-684-6554.

Selected Books by the Poets


LAURA BOSS: Arms: New and Selected Poems and Flashlight






MARIA GILLAN: What We Pass On: Collected Poems: 1980-2009 and The Place I Call Home

Problems

once i had a boil on my butt
and i went to the doctor. She told me

just to keep it clean and it will go away.
that was about a year ago now.

Now i get boils on my butt and in between my legs.
It is so annoying. It hurts when I sit down

and thats all we do in High School.
I am obese and my mother says

its because my legs are rubbing together.
She is probably right.

I am trying hard to lose weight
but these boils are getting in the way.

it is getting out of hand. Oh yeah, and
for some reason, which i don't know, all these boils

are leaving purple marks and not small ones.
I just need some help with this.

Is this a huge problem?



From a comment left at MedicineNet.com, 25 June 2013. Submitted by Jo Bell.

From the clods

i
Flocks of seagulls are flying with the rooks and starlings
white plumage makes them visible.
The grass has not grown,
would hardly hide a mouse.
The smallest bird injured by
how bitter the weather is.

ii
Sharp against the sky
four oxen draw the ancient wheeled plough
to and fro on that open ridge
like ploughing on the dome of St Paul�s:
nothing for the rooks.
Now and then a lark sings in despite of
the bitter wind shaking to pieces
agriculture generally
while the house is falling.



From Field and Farm by Richard Jefferies (Phoenix House, 1957), chapter V 'On the Farm'. Submitted by Rebecca Gethin.

The Votive Angel by Moira Wairama

Thinking it�s the delivery pizza,


he opens the door

to The Votive Angel,

arrayed in slogan-splattered silks,

carrying her sword-sharp pen.

Silently she strides past him,

her silver boots crunching empty beer cans.

�Apathetics,�
she roars to the house at large,

�Arise and vote.�



The woman in the kitchen stirring soup looks up,

�Who for, dear?� she inquires amiably.

�Think,�

Futurama

As the car
in front of us
stopped,
the lanky German
driving our car
indicated
that he was going
to look away
from the road
and slam
on the accelerator.

And he did.

This is how
the future
creeps into
the present.



Taken from the NPR article, By The Time Your Car Goes Driverless, You Won't Know The Difference, 4th March 2014. Submitted by Howie Good.

Prompt: First Lines with Emily

Vincent Van Gogh

A word is dead

when it is said,

some say,

I say it just

begins to live

that day.

Emily Dickinson

This month's prompt began in reading an article, "Where Shall I Begin?," by Jessica Greenbaum about being inspired by first lines.

"Like poetry itself, a secret channel exists between the first line and the mind. What forces are at play may never show themselves fully, and some resounding openings attach to memory by more mysterious motives. Ever since Howard Moss handed my undergraduate class a copy of Randall Jarrell�s �The Woman at the Washington Zoo� in 1979, the poem�s first line has captained the troops of first lines, reminding me that observation, cadence, rhyme, and lyricism all prime the poem. �The saris go by me from the embassies,� begins the speaker, �Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.� Where are we? What�s happening?

Bread crumbs. Eat, birds. Help me start."

Back in 1999, I wrote a rather crude program that would generate a random line for a poem and used it as a prompt. My first line generator is still online and I did a second generation line generator
because it was popular. Now it seems rather crude and limited (though fun).

But there are plenty of lists of poetry first lines in anthologies and online.

For this month's prompt, I have chosen the first lines of Emily Dickinson as our starting place. That's a lot of first lines to choose from!

I tried it myself. I was struck by her first line "How dare the robins sing."  I think it was the coming spring, lack of robins in my backyard and the audacity I heard in that line that made me choose it.

I wrote my poem WITHOUT looking at the rest of Emily's poem. I suggest you do the same so as not to be influenced by her. When you finish the first draft, take a look at her poem. It might suggest some revision to your own poem. (In my case, I was pleasantly surprised that Emily and I were walking down the same spring path.)

Go to the index of Emily Dickinson's first lines and pick a line or two to start. The only requirements of this prompt are that you use that line as your first line (or start for a first line - you can lengthen it), and that when you title your poem, include the number assigned to Emily's poem (She didn't use titles.) so that others can see your inspiration.

My poem would begin:
AUDACITY   XCIV (or 94)
How dare the robins sing...

Submissions are open until March 31, 2014

vacation

[across]
there is a car
and in that car there is
[down]
a person and a person and a person
and

far in the distance

the
[answers]
timeshare



From the New York Times crossword puzzle, 27 January 2014. Submitted by Peter Valentine.

Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize Open

Manuscripts being accepted for the first Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize.

The winner has his or her chapbook published as both print and eBook and receives twenty copies of the print version, a $250 prize and - rather wonderfully - an amethyst depression-glass trophy cup (circa 1930's).

Electronic submissions only of 17-24 pages of poetry.

The judge is Aimee Nezhukumatathil.

Full details athttp://twosylviaspress.com/chapbook-prize.html

Why We Can't See What's Right in Front of Us

People tend to fixate on the common
use of an object. For example, the people on the Titanic

overlooked the possibility that the iceberg
could have been their lifeboat.

Newspapers from the time estimated the size of the iceberg
to be between 50-100 feet high and 200-400 feet long.

The Titanic was navigable for awhile
and could have pulled aside the iceberg.

Many people could have climbed aboard it to find
flat places to stay out of the water

for the four hours before help arrived.
Fixated on the fact that icebergs sink ships,

people overlooked the size and shape of the iceberg
(plus the fact that it would not sink).



From Why We Can't See What's Right in Front of Us, Tony McCaffrey, Harvard Business Review, 10 May 2012. Submitted by Emma Rae Lierley.

From Bird Murder by Stefanie Lash

Tusk

Tusk was settled by rogue miners.
They went too far up-creek, there was no gold, they were lost.
They found instead the coloured stones.

The women are most industrious in tusk
and the children hop from house to house.
Perhaps because of the minerality of the River tusk

children�s hair will colour as they age.
Purple is the predominant hue; some boys turn green.
The huge prismatic

THIS IS NOT A LOVE THING - The Harlot�s Progress 2014

1. Arrival in London

Boy have you been a lucky girl
new in town and everybody�s
darling: love, desire and a tender
touch always has the boys high
for candy kisses, little miss.

Beware the late night
luxury love, enjoy the
good times - for a day.


2. Quarrel with her protector

Introducing a girl in a million.
A young mistress, tamed and trained
with a luxury new apartment
and a wardrobe full of fun and games.

She�s fresh and lovely, a cherry ripe
English rose. Fresh and green
she must be seen.


3. Apprehended by a Magistrate

Come on gentlemen
report now!
She�s a genuine siren
talented and in control.

Urgent, be warned � your afternoon
fun just got sensored:
it�s playtime with visiting
magistrates now!!


4. Scene in Bridewell

So, a total transformation for
the country girl � complete captivation
caged amd reduced to tears. A taste of
no mercy, a broken sentence.

Bow and show repentance.


5. She expires while doctors quarrel

Great, she�s back!
In town, in pain. Feel
the sensation � it�s agony
she has friends: caring,
friendly and understanding
a lifetime too late. Ouch!


6. The funeral

Demonstrate respect for the
pleasure princess. This is not
a love thing, she�s heaven bound �
it�s judgement day for all.

Relax Venus
and enjoy the rest.



Taken from a series of 'tart cards' found in London phone boxes. The poem is a take on The Harlot's Progress by William Hogarth, using his original titles and featuring the found text to tell the story of each print. Submitted by Victoria Bean.