V. Notorious Nest Raiders
After it happened, I
wanted to write
love letters to everyone
around me. But they ended
up being love letters
of doom. It was
too hot & too much
had happened. We
were silhouetted in the after
burn or afterglow.
IV. A Wild Sweet Rippling
A cautionary miss, cautionary
tale, all dressed up &
smelling of strangers, in the pines, in
the pines. He fondled her
anklebones, mistook her
hair entirely & caught, mid-
swarm, her shuttered face
bloomed.
He crowned her, poppies & pepper-
berry. Taught her to sleep
under trees, skirts spread, to trap
mythical beasts. Waiting
for anything is its own kind
of fever. Or undoing. Your slow
road to ruin.
III. Melodies Were Their Ammunition
In the forest the wolves
were small & there was
small music. If wolves are like
dogs, then. A cloud howling
to the moon, a wolf singing, a singing
wolf. High swing & belly
tickle. Fists full
of fur & we all fall.
II. Sometimes Pleasing, Sometimes Not
In a fairytale, when you
think you’re out of the woods
you’re not. I see a saw. Slide
the hide. Go round
the merry. Path
of needles, path
of pins.
I walked on knives
to get here & now
my feet are maps. In case
I forget. How
I got here.
Series in progress, written after the artwork of SJ Hart.
I. We Changed the Story, We Solved the Problem
These are the fables I reconstruct
as the birds sing
about the murder. Mystery
& then goodnight.
Remember, I too
am a monster. See here
my avatar of chaos.
On Sunday, May 16th, I’ll be reading at Zinc Bar in the East Village with the lovely Pattie McCarthy, whose new book, Table Alphabetical of Hard Words is now available from Apogee Press.
fin de siecle reading at La Tazza in Philadelphia
For nearly fifteen years, we have been mistaken for eachother in several cities, including at a reception following Pattie’s reading at the culmination of her MA at Temple in the late 90s (when someone complimented me on her reading), & at my own reading at Chapterhouse Cafe in Philadelphia this winter (when someone thanked her for my reading). It is entirely possible that reading in the same place at the same time could cause some sort of tear in the space-time continuum. Or maybe a tesseract.
The White Girl (floating poem)
Your undaughter is born during a thunderstorm
a hurricane a nor’easter at the ocean a pop-up
blizzard in late March & April is the cruelest
month & she is born during a full moon a blue
moon a hunter’s moon a harvest
moon & you name her something
mythological or archetypal or Gaelic or after
your favorite doll & she is called Ariadne or
Jane or Fionnoula or Blythe & you take her to
the museum the library the playground Paris
Coney Island the Four Seasons in maryjanes
starched eyelet for high tea & she wears pigtails
wears bangs wears striped tights wears knit
cardigans & she knits or paints or writes plays
or playacts & plays the cello the piano sings
in a choirloft sings around campfires at girl
scout camp sings at bonfires on the beach
at night under fireworks & she loves peanutbutter
pickles olives softshell crabs coffee icecream ice-
skating body-surfing Shakespeare & you sing to her
hush little all the pretty little horse & cart turn over
the ocean beyond the sea & read to her Little Red
Riding Hood Little Women Little House on the
Prairie Bridge to Terabithia Narnia & when you
send her into the deep dark woods you arm her you
armor her she has a knife in her basket a needle in her
basket a bottle of wine a loaf of bread a spool of thread
a silver bullet & still & yet & everafter.
Ruby
One leg laced & one
leg braced & seethingly
fragile, I’ll take the path
of needles
any day.
Stupid children take toys
to the woods, get lost
there all the time, like this
needle, this needle sings, this
needle would send any poor devil
to his fate.
Needles & feathers from
certain unnamed
flightless birds. There are
peacocks on the walls &
all we need
is some thunder
& lightning.
Boom. (Flash),
boom.
Rose
To be in the mist, to
be mist or missed, I
am a cautionary
miss, cautionary tale, red
ribbon in my hair, I feed
on mist as light as air.
Hazy & no-color, as if
only half-there— as if still
in the process of becoming
— abandoned
playground in the heart
of the forest, broken &
lost, like most things
in our forest, like most
things are, mostly broken
toys, & rusty, but some still
work a bit & a bit
of fun to sit on a squeaky
swing in the middle of a silent
forest. Strangely soothing
the squeak singing through
the mist & dark, soft scream
sung squeak escaping
a balloon.
If this balloon
didn’t have a string it would
simply float away, I’ve got no
strings
on me.
Whenever I get to her
house, it’s dark, no matter what
the season or how early I leave
home or how long
it takes me, it’s night
when I arrive & all
mist & strange. Shiver
in my bones.
Aldon Nielsen recently posted video he recorded of the 2009 MLA Off-Site Poetry Reading, in easily-digestible (& downloadable) 3-poet segments.
This year’s reading was remarkably well-managed by Julia Bloch & Michelle Taransky. I may or may not have had a stop watch & hand-held sound effects gadget at the ready. Which remained safely in my bag.
