Peace
how beautiful the feet of whom publishes peace
allow a pound of peace per couple
peace has a gentleness about it; peace can’t withstand the heat
peace is temperamental
in Palermo, peace, though smothered, is so tender
tender without being mushy. peace reminds us of Spring in Florence Continue reading A POEM by CATHERINE DALY
Category Archives: Poetry
The Third Area Poetry Readings
Part One – May 21st
To a certain extent poetry has become like a tree falling in the forest: usually there is no one around to hear it. This is further evidence of the decline of civilization and – make no mistake – by extension, this area of decline is everyone’s loss, just like the ice sheets falling into the sea in both of our world’s hemispheres. I recently had the great privilege to hear the work of eight superb poets when I serendipitously arrived at the Pharmaka gallery to do research on the Downtown LA Art Walk. These writers are like magicians of language and I am humbled to attempt to express how enriched I am for having heard them read their work.
First, let me tell you, dear reader, when and where you can derive the same benefit as I have done. Continue reading The Third Area Poetry Readings
GOT POETRY
Mexican Light
a poem by Kate Gale
Went to Mexico. Curved sweet tequila light. Lay on blankets on the beach, washed our mouths in the morning. Ate olives with sunshine. Avocados. Street vendors sold popsicles. If someone had a hotel room, we all showered. Our spectacular young bodies curved under water. Our breasts moons. The room was white stone. We would start with beer in the afternoon. Hit the cantinas in the evening. My friend would find weed and Lily would breathlessly come back to my table and say, Katie, I’ve found you a dyke, the cutest one in Mexico. We would begin shots, chased with lime, tomato juice, the whole evening a tremulous tequila bubble. They played our rock music in Spanish. My boy would dance with me while Lily and I kissed the girls one right after another. Mexico was like that. When I arrived blue, I would find a blue world. Time moved the craziest of clocks. Stretched on sand we waited for the end of loneliness. Night flies, gulls and beyond them the sea. The sea spoke low sweet Spanish we could almost understand. That was when I noticed what I liked best about you was that you kissed like a girl, looked at me like a girl, danced like a girl; the mescal was thick and smoky, your thin arms came up around me as the sun rose. You said, I’ll be whatever you want me to be.
Kate Gale is the Managing Editor of Red Hen Press. Author of several books of poetry including Mating Season and Fishers of Men, a novel and librettos, she received her PhD in Literature from Claremont Graduate University and speaks widely on publishing, editing and writing. Her Opera Rio de Sangre with composer Don Davis is being released as a world premiere at the Florentine Opera in Milwaukee in 2010. To contact Kate and to find out more about her writing go to her blog at http://kategale.wordpress.com/
Administering My Dog’s Cancer Therapy I Think About My Sons
a poem by Cati Porter
My thumb and forefinger pinch a pill as I thrust my fist
back into his throat. His teeth, a bracelet of blunt
tines, rake gently over my wrist.
I pull out my hand sticky with his saliva
and hold his mouth closed
and stroke his neck
until I am certain he has swallowed.
At seven years old he is two years older than
my oldest son. He is my oldest son,
I tell myself, but of course, he is not.
He is just the dog, I remind myself daily,
because, if he were my son,
I would okay the endoscopy, biopsy
the lining of his stomach. I would make the drive
into the next county for intravenous chemotherapy.
Once he ate reluctantly from my hand chicken breasts
boiled for him on my stove. If he were
my son, I would not hand-feed him
the breasts of dead chickens. I would slice
off my own, boil them
pink to white in my very best pot.
I would shred them, feed them to him
warm, if only to keep him through the night.
Winner of the 2006 Gravity & Light Poetry Competition, first appearance in the anthology White Ink: Poems on Mothers and Motherhood (Demeter Press/York University, Canada), and reprinted in my book Seven Floors UP.
Cati Porter is the author of Seven Floors Up (Mayapple Press, 2008) and small fruit songs: prose poems (Pudding House, 2008). Her poems appear in the recent anthologies Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel — Second Floor (No Tell Books), White Ink: Poems on Mothers and Motherhood (Demeter Press/York U., Canada), and Letters to the World (Red Hen Press). She is associate editor for Babel Fruit, and founder & editor-in-chief of Poemeleon: A Journal of Poetry. After ten years of childrearing, she has returned to school and is currently pursuing her MFA through Antioch University, Los Angeles. To contact her and find out more about her writing go to her web address at editor@poemeleon.org
poem in LA
in those streets, amid the honking
and blaring, shouts and cries
a butterfly
attracted by the yellow
lane lines
thinks there is sustenance,
it floats
downward
like an autumn leave
ignoring traffic noise
the homeless woman who mutters
and raises a fist
skyward
with it’s sole purpose
it’s singular attraction
the monarch
flutters between zooming cars
oblivious to danger
until it is close enough
to realize
this yellow is no flower
no matter, rising
it looks for a resting
place, lands on the woman’s
shoulder
momentarily.
and she is silenced, though
lips move
a prayer
of gratitude.
GRAND AGAIN
Foreword by Stan Lerner: Last August I found myself at the Northern tip of Michigan on Mackinac Island. Famous for fudge and horse drawn carriages, no cars are allowed to drive on the island, I sat on the porch of the Grand Hotel in suit and tie and wrote a poem. Consider this a downtownster travel post and maybe something a little bit more.
A Poem By Stan Lerner
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about the air, not on the island but out there.
Too often polluted by despair.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about the Rouge Plant asleep, a betrayed soul which was all of ours to keep.
Once a symbol of might, now a symbol of darkness like the night.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about hearing the old tired voice of Robert Frost speak of the road less traveled—an endeavor in which I have also dabbled.
There was indeed a fork in the road, a part of life which we have all been told.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about click, click, klop, click, klop, a horse passed by.
A sound from another time.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I asked myself, “Better off now or better off then? Will civilization need to begin again?”
I talked to myself about this a lot, click, klop, click, klop…
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about dress too casual, the few with vision, the abundance without, the profanity spoken by teenagers, how base we’ve become, and the beauty of an island surrounded by blue water that tolerates it all.
The Grand does make one feel small.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.
A bird flew near, then off toward a lighthouse no longer in use.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.
All of the hopes and a few of the fears.
On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.
And to myself I talked.
I talked to myself about taking time to love and time to think—a slight breeze blew from a direction I did not expect.
I watched as the flags moved by the wind and hoped we could all be Grand again.