Poetry issues #22, 3/5: Erupting – Home

The past two weeks, Part 1 and Part 2 of poetry issues #22 were published. This week, Part 3, containing the poem "Erupting" and the visual piece "Family," appears here. The following two Fridays the last two parts of the issue will be published.

You can find out more about the poetry issues project here.

Poetry issues #22, 2/5: Hibernation Advice – Family

Last week Part 1 of poetry issues #22, containing "A Balcony" and "The View" was published. This week's poem is "Hibernation Advice," and "Family" is its accompanying visual piece. Every Friday for the next three weeks, a new poem will be published along with its unique artwork. Together, they will comprise poetry issues #22.

 You can find out more about the poetry issues project here.

Poetry issues #22, 1/5: A Balcony – The View

Every Friday for the next four weeks, a new poem will be published, along with its unique artwork. Together, they will comprise poetry issues #22.

You can find out more about the poetry issues project here.

A very special labor, the January-February issue. I hope you enjoy stories of identity and struggle:

Scales

Better watch people

from afar, like big cities.

Admire their beauty

from a distance and avoid

touching their fences.

On Saturn I'd be

five kilos less and that's what

matters more in this

floating universe where not

a thing weighs more than I.

Family Gatherings

All children wanted to be men

and no one cared to pick

homegrown rosemary and dill

for the women in the kitchen.

The boys came in pairs to steal

little cheese pies, then went on

with their precious outdoor life

of playing football and riding bikes.

The girls feared nothing more

than becoming their mothers

with lives spent over lemons

and eggs in hot fish soups.

We didn’t know then that kitchens

held so many secrets, far more

steaming than backyard politics.

Women have been always winning.

Breathe

The crashing density  the stuffy thoughts

Of asthmatic lungs      gulping

The fake air               with greed

Everyone is trying

To grasp                   what they can

An old woman's         out of luck

Girlish games

Tired pigtails             unwashed

Nicotine and coffee    but

Without infatuation

The earth is flat         just

Give me oxygen

I'll Play it Cool

Every time

you want to hurt me

you twist your tongue

to warm it up

before it hits me

with whip-like speed.

I was never fast

with words and now

your gun of a finger

is pointing at me.

I will remain silent.

You cannot win.

The Duck Painting

It’s hard to tell if it is monochrome

or just faded into a pale delft blue

and why it's hanging in the living room

in this furnished simulation of some

home. I’ll change it – a lasting addition

in the long list of intentions. I start

counting the ducks but get distracted

by the frame. Gold and metallic and

more eighties than my mother. She

had one that looked the same. So,

there’s a faint reminder of who I am.

You find strange ways to connect

when life is condensed to a trolley bag.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Enjoy the November-December issue!

Psychographics

Some days felt like prose

in a sloppy, ambitious mind,

striving to be written but

unable to attain

comprehensive form.

Trudging through the quagmire

of censorship the days dreamt

of the day they’d flow like verse

unconcerned with technique,

never intended to be performed.

But language and reason stood

as one immovable rock, blocking

intuition and broader definitions.

Those days became ink dissolved

in stale waters drunk by mosquitos.

The Feather

Not from a chaste, white dove

but factory born, with no potential

to reach the sky. Promiscuous and orange

descended from a flamboyant boa, full

of silky plastic charm. Forever reeking

of cigarillos and patchouli, imperfect

and only fit for falling, first right

then left and back in a slow diagonal

dance of false aerodynamics rectified

by gravity’s unfaltering axis.

Coming Home

Everything has to end

where it started from.

That’s why I always return

to the scene of our calm crimes

tracing back long lines of sin

filling out logs with updates

on the metastases and spread

of guilt. Everything has to end

where it started from and I’d sworn

there wouldn’t be a doorstep

I would stand on twice

when knocking would be dropping

my arms in unwise surrender.

But how tempting it feels to unburden!

Fake Fighters

We thought it would be the last fine day.

We stayed outside and took it all in.

The sun, the breeze, the smell of green.

When more gleaming mornings came

we stayed in, restricted by circumstance

or obligation. We let out sighs of relief  

when the land finally gave in to the cold.

Even happiness had gotten tiring.

Icarus in the Atlantic

                      *for Ger Lataster

The reverent viewers debated in whispers

whether light could be mastered

in dark times, obscenely reflected as it were

on a pearl earring, forcing them to admit

the relevance of beauty in the ugly,

cranky world. They went on from wall to wall

undeterred by the overload of masters

of the Golden Age, all of them demanding

a bow. A boy of five, with no taste for detail

and no appreciation at all for human effort

pointed at the ceiling and chose

the abstraction of the working man

and the strawberry jam before he ran

straight to the windows past the Rembrandts

and their servants, unabashedly showing

preference for the frames of moving life.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

The September-October issue should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Enjoy.

Cooking

Over a boiling pot

we wait for small epiphanies

bemused by the stillness

of the branches outside.

Do our black cats make us

witches? Shall we burn?

The Inquisition says we shall.

The Weather

Sure, let’s talk about the weather

like our lives depend upon it

like our crops will fail

and famine will hit

our fatty brains.

Relieved that it won’t rain

we’ll go for a walk

step on our horseshit

and still come home miserable.

Better stay inside, watch a movie.

110/116

Between birthday parties

and treasure hunts

I have to explain

why I made him and

affirm I’ll still love him

after I die.

I’d never thought

I'd give myself up

but here we are

swearing by Jedi honor,

shovelling sand in ecstasy.

Nothing much in it

but abundant poetry.

Seaside Resort

Don’t scorn the floral patterns

and the doughnut-shaped waists

nor the high-pitched laughter

and the fuzzy stares.

Footsteps echo louder

at the end of August

and pining mixes with the smell

of fresher fish and ice-cream cones.

Grandpa

Old bones assembled by magic.

Nothing else seems to hold.

We all scolded him for lying

but he was the conqueror

of the seven seas

in my five-year-old mind.

He instilled in me two shipwrecks

an abstract love for Argentina

and going rogue under fake names

in the US in the 50’s.

The giant is folding in his seat:

An overripe camellia flower

that forgot to fall apart.

[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

The May - June issue is out! Here you go:

American Football

Back and forth.

Circles disguised

in straight go routes.

Until you get things

right

things get you.

Until routes go straight

in disguised circles,

forth and back.

In Red

Those toes in the shower

I’m looking down to

belong to a Lynchian heroine.

They say depersonalization

results from violence

and I ponder over the form.

Do not knock, just enter.

Privacy is a luxury

only spoiling a good plot.

Alekaki

My friend likes the number eight.

It completes her broken parts

and promises the unity of one.

You will find her crouching

among quitting and lighting it up

on a white pile of unironed roles.

She’s the colour blue, as found

in nature: A wondrous reflection

of elusive light. A life of words.

Ode to Nothing

As a child I thought

I controlled the wind. Perhaps

the wind controls me.

Before great sorrow

the air stands still. I know then

something is coming.

Dry petals falling

like snow. Who’d have thought death would

be so beautiful.

Unhealthy are

Your stress relief habits

and the junk you eat.

How the world treats you

and what you think of it.

The screens you watch

and the dust you breathe.

But tomatoes won’t

save you from cancer.

Treating the symptom is

not the answer.
Wars will not be prevented

by treaties. And nobody likes kiwis.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

The 17th issue is out, comprising a mix of formal and free verse. Read it here, and/or request a hardcopy, if you can't find one near you (which is most probably the case, except if you're in one of the common distribution areas or extremely lucky).

Impossible Grammar

I strive to tear down

the importance of the object

to the subject.

To breach meaning

I need the connectors to quit

their chatter.

The gerund at the end

forces me to think of action

as consequence.

Go, went, gone.

Paper skin, I will write on you

your conjugation.

Undecided

I was so fond of leaving

but then the crocuses bloomed

so I decided upon staying.

We just keep on astraying

when our conditions are poor

and I was so fond of leaving.

Then I thought that trying

was the grown-up thing to do

so I decided upon staying.

Seduced by the bird-singing

I had no choice but to stay put.

And I was so fond of leaving.

But the seasons are turning

and winter has a point to prove

to the one so fond of leaving

who decided upon staying.

Maturity Reversed

You’ve seen it in old westerns

how men in pain grind their teeth

in urgent operations in the desert.

That’s what it takes to beat the need.

Like a magpie desiring what shines

I habitually take dives in greed.

Indulging in you, who make me smile

I forget what it takes to beat the need.

Although I’ve dealt with most temptation

and have dared to declare myself free

in your presence I lose my persuasion

and don’t know how to beat this need.

Parents

Logs drifting down the

river, pretending to be

rooted, green-leafed trees.

And I

confused

by the false paradigm

I’m swimming

against the current

of my own disposition

hoping that

one day it will turn.

Can the fish ever change

the course of the sea?

Can the log ever grow

new rhizome or fresh leaves?

Birth

It's remarkable how life keeps on

creating life with irrational optimism

feeding on the throw-up of emotion.

Even as mere victims of darwinism

we still bridge what we aspired to be

and reality. Survival lies in surrealism.

The cat is licking her newborn lightly.

Her tongue a cloud flirting with the surface

of a velvet mountain of oblivious joy.

At times a long caress will suffice.

First you feel. Then you open your eyes.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Poetry Issues #1-21 is a compilation of the issues #1-21 of the Poetry Issues project. You will find all available information about the project as well as current issues here and you can download the e-book here.