April is National Poetry Month (it’s also National Stress Awareness Month, but someone else can blog that), and we decided to do something special to recognize and help promote it. National Poetry Month was started in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets (Canada joined in the fun in 1999).

With the help of friends, we will be posting poems old and new, reviews of poetry books and whatever news we can get our hands on – with a goal of at least one post for each day of the month.

We’re also thinking about a couple of giveaways – random drawings to receive a book of poetry (or two). Those will be some of the 30 postings for the month.

And, in the comments section, please feel free to link to your own poems and/or link to a favorite poetry or poet’s site. (FYI, if you haven’t commented before, WordPress will suspect you’re spam and stick your comment in the “to be checked” file for the editor. We’ll be checking several times a day, so don’t get discouraged.)

To get things off on the right ode, here’s a link you can subscribe to receive a poem a day throughout the month of April from the Academy.

These eight poems are the last from Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter. I’m not sure if the last one, “The Poets Recite,” is a poem or not; our jamming poets didn’t know that their causal concluding remarks and comments were being recorded for posterity.

This will bring the total number of poems created to 30.

Poems from the Cupboard – 4

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.

Postmarks on Envelopes

Do I roast the envelope
before I stamp it,
should it smoke
before I send it off to you?
I’ll write your address on
my belly and my own upon
my hands then I’ll stamp my
eager lips and send me home.

If I could find an envelope, or
a stamp, or a pen, and remember
my address; if I cooked your letter in
the oven of my belly and tossed it
up with vomit on the floor, then
your letter would leave left me
sore and all alone.
Stamped maker’s (post) mark
brands me forever.

Stamped maker’s (post) mark
brands forever.
The maker put his (post) mark
on me. Want to see?
It’s tatooed in ink. I flung it down
past my knee. I’ll let you see.
Roasted envelope with a side of
stamps, stuffed with your thoughts,
dreams shared with one so close.

When You Fall

They do not always catch you when
you fall, even if they say they will.
Muse be not amused to be flung so
unless He be near to catch.
He is always near to catch
even when we fling ourselves so
carelessly upon foolish wind.
Poetry isn’t always made of
pretty words; add prayer into
your poetry and you will
be okay.
Prayer bot? Okely dokely.

Flinging Words from the Pantry

I am eating steak and reading, flinging words
from the pantry. Every dollar I spend on health
is one saved for food of the gods, fruits of the
poets, this and that, no dollar spent more well.

Then I would write you the note that makes you
okay, wondering where you be; steaks grilled;
poets left alone to fend among the fruits, full
shelves in heart pantry.

Poets peel the fruits to let you taste in images.
She makes soup and grows hair long all for her
prince charming. Fling words into the soup,
sprinkle with a little pepper; you’ll feel better.

Fairy Tale Romance

Aye, he’s back with more romance words,
good ones he seeks to share. I prefer my
words in a pie. So raise your skirt, love stomp
a dance. You will be better than okay. You will
be good. 3 and 20 poems baked in a pie.
Rapunzel, do up thy golden hair so long;
soups and savory sauces do best without.
The internet hath eaten my quip about the
one growing hair and making soup for her
prince charming. Internet finds delicious
fruit pies for knight bring to woo his
Rapunzel .
Such fairy tales become too mixed in
kitchen lore. Let down your blueberries,
strawberries, plums? And then a giant
ate him.
Poets peel the fruits to let you taste in
images. Poetry is always/edible.

Black Peppercorns

I selected the black peppercorns
because they matched
my eyes.
Do you think they match
my eyes?

I tried to make my heart
tamper resistant;
I never counted on your hand,
stronger than my heart when
both are beating.

Take the peppercorns; grind and
crush; create flavor.
He handpicked me, crushed already;
made me whole.
Sea salt preserves forever.

Poetic Comestibles

This poem book:
eat with word juices
running down;
just have seat at
the table; enjoy the
fruits; leftovers here
as good (if not better)
than firsts. Poems should
be eaten cold like plums
from an old-fashion icebox
or hot and sweet
straight from the oven.
My belly is full
of such comestible
treats.
Late for the feast?
In time for dessert?

The Test of Time

To stand the test of time, more soup,
he demands, and creamy soups be
brought. More sauces, he bellows, and
savory lass does…
Sweet words and savory
heal and hurt, bring laughter and
tears and make hungry.
Eat my words with or without salt and
pepper. I promise…
Sometimes poetry chokes as it goes
down but I force myself to swallow.
Oh, soul, preserve my name; words have
sharp edges, and burn the roof of
my mouth and sometimes I forget to
remove the cardboard first.
Is poetry always edible, even
if it has floated in on Pacific seaweed?
Sea grasses sway, dancing waves, a game of
peek-a-boo all
roll me like sushi into a California girl.
Let us dance near the ocean,
the Pacific tide.

The Poets Recite

Can there be only 5 minutes left in this night?
The hour is over too fast; our baking
only begun; no time for contests: best of the
best fare set all in window for to cool.

Time of year matter not.
So good to see you arrive in time to
partake of weird things we cooked up tonight.

And no dessert; knight be not known to favor
that. But another hour passes, lick lips, pat
belly full of delicious words.

This night slid too fast; would that the
honey had slowed us, slowed time.
Now missing courses two at a time.

Slow food, slow poet too late again!
Enjoyed watching the last few minutes though;
at least cupboard be not emptied and poets go on.

Is there a regular schedule? I’ll mark it down…
Nope, we are highly irregular.
Regular?? If there is anyone here who is
Regular, he/she needs to be beaten with a
wet noodle. Ommagoodness, you guys were so
funny tonight when you weren’t being so romantic.

This was definitely a varied one!
Part of poetry jam. Blushing cut-and-paster
now has to pick up all the peelings and
make something nice of the fruits we ate.

I just enjoyed my evening with my wife;
fun to scan what you’ve been up to!
Sorry I missed the most.
Good luck, blushing cut-and-paster,
returning for finale. Can’t wait to see the
polish on this one.

Here are another group of eight poems from our poetry jam on Twitter last Tuesday. The contributions started getting playful – you could tell it was getting late in the hour.

Poems from the Cupboard – 3

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.

Salt, Healing

How does one harvest salt
by hand? With calloused hands,
skin as leather,
gently sifting, picking, plucking
from the ground
this necessary mineral
to life.

I’d like to go to the
ocean and let the salty sea
wash out my wound.
Grandma’s cold remedy
says slide salt to the back of
your throat; watch you don’t
choke.

Three times a day, so perfect a
Prescription; try it, too, topped
with sea salt. Reach your hands
into the waves and pull out the
salt with all of the pain in your
heart. I like course ground salt on
crusty bread.

Words or Chocolate

No words taste as good to
me as chocolate,
although some may come close.

Oh, words are so much better
than chocolate or sex or
even shopping in my book.

1-800-free trip that is not so free;
no one ever phones offering
chocolate.

Words taste sweeter than
Boston Cream Pie but are never
ever warmer than Mother’s
handmade quilts.

Poetry words make me
want to let the music keep
flowing. Afraid my words
are too many.

So I must leave the perfect
fine-ground words
to help three babes heading for
dark, salt in their tears.

The Baker’s Love

Baking, yes. Turn oven on.
Turn lights off.
Wait ,no. Oh, the phone…
Dost the baker
blush? Powder his
nose with a little flour
and smile,
both of you.
The baker heats the oven.
Beats the batter.
Cooks the cake.
Makes me sweet.
(Honeybees know best, you know.)

I have never met a shy man in
the kitchen, only those who
shy from dishes.
Ah, these shy men; really,
I don’t believe them. Yet
I fell in love with my not-so-shy
man in a kitchen.
He dumped ice on my head
and the rest is history.
Why did man of romance
words duck and run? Pity the one
who can’t stand the heat; won’t
call back, he who can’t touch fire.

Laughing

I laugh, laugh before leaving
the side effects of joy
coming from all of you. I long
to be harvested so carefully,
as one necessary to life.
And yet the harvesting had
occurred by one so gentle,
careful, from beyond the veil.
He came back to life with
that prompt, and so we make
up and go on.
Leila saw the first bee of spring
while we were on the phone today;
her voice is full of peace
and bears the hope of May.

Interesting Cupboards

My, what interesting cupboards
you have, my dear. What
continent comes next?
Nutty flavors there be
plenty of on plates tonight;
signature dish: duck and run.
Jerusalem is far away
and oh my how this heart aches
to place my feet upon her soil
and sing her songs.
I want to serenade Jerusalem
and also shed its tears.
I want to splash along the shore of
the Sea of Galilee and rebaptize my
soul in the Jordan.
My heart knows this but the rest of
me forgets often, I fear.

Jerusalem Artichoke flour
I can’t get at Trader Joe’s
and Whole Foods is beyond my
budget. What might I get in lieu
thereof less…
I am praying for the poet:
artichokes, asparagus,
antioxidants, acorns;
roasted acorns, artichokes in
Jerusalem, asparagus in
Antioch, antioxidants in Alexandria.
We peel the leaves through the
Years, yearning to touch, taste the
heart of the artichoke.
Cupboards, drawers
tap and shudder;
spoons shine.
Swinging and Flinging

Swing partner round the May pole,
sticky texture none to mar
the chance to be. Flinging these
words and dancing these verses is
more fun than I have had in ages.
Dancing in May, that slows the jumble
a bit for a while, a little while.
Dancing in m\May, that shows the bumble
a bee for a smile, a little smile.
May bears the first bee of spring. Come,
let’s swing. I am eating steak and
reading, flinging words.
No, no, no – no flinging, no
catching on the way down; it’s not
always fun.
Dance with me in May. Ten years
together and still pulling back leaves,
discovering new and hidden.

Picking Acorns

Pick acorns from the ground; boil
out the bitterness; grind into flour,
natural bliss. One leaf after another
is work, like marriage; getting to
the heart of it the sweetest pleasure.
A recipe she offers for bliss au
naturel (pardon poor French). Be pure;
concentrate, peel poetry from
the knee down.

Pray for the Poet

Keep praying for the poet;
the poet needs the prayer.
Pray for the poet; fling her to
God, catch her on the way down.
Open the poem slow
and lick the insides of the box to
get out all the juice. Slice pineapple
lengthwise; carve out the flesh; jolt in
the juicer. No concentrate can
match the freshness. Catch the juice
uncontained, too much for
such a little one.
Pray for the poet. He does a right
smart move, collecting bits and pieces,
alliterating. He’s well liked.

Poetic Alliteration

Artichokes,
asparagus,
antioxidants,
acorns,
alkalization,
answers,
Advil
all alliterate.
If only Advil cured broken hearts
and upside down misunderstandings
of friendship.

Some strange things can happen when you start reading labels in on packages in the kitchen, which were our prompts for the poetry jam last Tuesday on Twitter. Here are eight poems that resulted, and more are coming.

Poems from the Cupboard  – 2

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.

I Will Dance

My mind cannot keep
too much in the dark. You
ask much. I will dance but make
no promise.
We can dance. I know you
don’t believe that we can
dance, but we can. We can
dance on our toes and we
can even fly.
Take care along the stair. Climb
Slowly, turn left then pause at
the window; catch moonlight for
my room.
Enter quietly.

Refrigerated Words

Put my words in the fridge;
trace them along the ridge of
the egg tray, slip away if you
slowly create life.
Refrigerate after opening but
you left me to grow warm,
forgotten on the kitchen counter,
unmade.
The asparagus is now off the
grille, tender juicy green sprouts
draining on a paper towel.
If I refrigerate asparagus, will
the spears do battle with
cabbages, piercing their hearts?
You cannot woo me away with
asparagus or cabbages, even cranky
ones with lots of spunk, cabbage
hearts laid open

Let us leave the cabbages and spears,
the lemons, the cheese,
and make another kind of music
in the kitchen.
Holding each curved cold egg,
I think of wombs and women
whose bodies blush and quiver; and
two weeks be not so long to
test the taste of throat’s refreshment.
Keep it cool as a breeze in night
keeps cool the place…
Honey, if I am in Key West, warm
and dark,
I am not thinking about a refrigerator;
I cannot bear both cold and dark.
If we must have winter snow,
send us also sunshine; if I must sleep in
darkness, give me down and warmth.

You Know He is Gone

You know he is gone when you
find her eating cheese with crackers
and slices of pepperoni pepper
everything. Crackers leave my bed
covered in crumbs or antioxidant
activity, and I am not ready for crackers,
crumbs of memory, crumbs of time,
crumbs of all things present
and few things past.

Your steps resound as crackers
crushed, their sea salt topping scattering
little jewels on floor. He sweeps the
crumbs away with one hand and glares
because he knows I left them there.
Did you leave them there
when you were eating and reading
and not thinking at all about me?
Crumbs, salt, are all I have left of you.

Wine, Cheese, Words

Stubbornly, remaining at the beach with
the honey; here I will stay.
Bring wine, a nice Sancerre;
select the cheese with care
as you might your words
to me.

You have come to me, flavoring and
preserving the food of our souls as
the salt crystal does for the food of
the body. I want you to come to me with
your own flavor but also
willingly awaiting the taste of mine.

At last he enters with
words of romance, for I have the
beach, the wine, the pear laced with
honey.
For now a discrete pair but
soon they will merge.

Tonight I think the height of
romance would be sweeping
in to take the kids and
clean the house and
sending me
away to breathe again.

Feverish

Feverish, reduced to this
waiting. Did you ask the
doctor about seeing me,
is he worried about the
side effects of…
Taking pain to hide from me
the serious side effects of
wanting not a kitchen romance.

Feverish because the anger only
Festers when it is stuck beneath the
Blister of gnawing past experience.
The puss is poison and the
scars will bleed again.
Wine? Well, maybe… perhaps.
Tell me more but not too quickly
I come with my own warning label.
I am wearing my yellow caution sign
like a dress and you are ignoring
all these warnings;
you will not look away.

Beware: I may cause your heart to
skip a beat.
Hey, we’re partying. Didn’t you cry last
time you missed us?
I would rather have the burn of
fever reducing what does not belong.
Ask a doctor, I beg him. Romance is
best of all relievers.

A Kitchen Romance

I may cause breath to catch in
your throat and your fingers to
fidget in your lap while you try to
pretend you’re not wanting me.
I would accept a kitchen romance,
dancing with moonlight through
steamed panes, dinner forgotten on
the stove.

And let us not lose through time
our flavor, our taste; let the light
distill and strengthen it,
for the palate of our love reduces the
pain a kitchen has. open the spices,
shake the dust of cinnamon.
Some say chocolate is the best
reliever of pain from love gone wrong.

All natural, sweet, might 16 oz net weight
do for need so…
Cinnamon, chocolate, let me not forget
some side effects are all natural,
sweet ground like cocoa. Oh, no…
Cocoa in its natural state – have you seen it,
tasted it,
this elixir of the gods?

One cocoa bean.
Two cocoa beans.
Three cocoa beans,
spinning on ceramic tile,
waiting.
Chocolate pain reliever;
that’s medicine I could
take 3 times a day.

Side Effects

I am at high tide with side
effects of you. one is not safe
anywhere in this house or
any other.
My bottle top is popped and
you are prepared to swallow, as
word pills fly out,
scatter on linoleum.
You stare at your toes,
trembling hands, thinking that
you almost/took me and I am
not yours to take.
Put the honey on the shelf and
walk away. You almost did but you
didn’t and now you are saved.

Thoughts Falling

Let me not forget sweet and
spice, warm steam, thick honey,
moonlight elixir in this safe
place dancing.
It’s spreadable, too, when melted.
By the time you hear my thoughts,
they have been alkalized, and I
hardly even know, they are my own.

Thoughts falling to the
ground, like coffee spilling, the
effect of the bitter chocolate.
Antioxidant activity,
alkalization, alliteration and the
estrogen floweth with talk of
chocolate. And yet I better duck and
run. I already blushed, ducked and ran.

Cocoa dice, you needn’t ask
me twice. A-lit-ter-ate tastes like
chocolate on my tongue. What process
must the Dutch do to render such
perfect product , bake it,
drink it, melt it,
let it slide to the
back of the throat…

Dead sister woke her in the night
to tell her a poem
that she cannot even
remember.

For our poetry jam on Twitter this past Tuesday, @tspoetry provided a series of prompts taken from packaging found in the cabinet. Our instructions were to pick up words from the prompts and each other, and make poems. Below is the first of several posts, this one containing six poems.

Poems from the Cupboard

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.

Wild Honey, Wild Bees

I’ll have to take your word for it,
and once I take a word I keep it.
I will take your words, golden and
heavy, stir them in and sip them with my
wild honey, cultivated by wild bees,
ruled by a wild queen, her flowing
hair, like lei after lei, a greeting thick
dense with the smell of honey;
hives in motion, rushed by a tropical
breeze;
full moon, coral lying deep, like
the sleep where I dream of you.

Let me sit, sandwiched between
full moon and rich red soil,
breathing in blossoms.
Wild honey tipped, I trace my
finger in its amber, ancient promise
arising from ancient coral deposits,
full like the moon, eyes deep as the
color of rich red soil,
wrapping my hair round the tropical
breeze.
You are like a beautiful pink blossom;
I am attracted to you like the bee.

Orchards Thrive Here

Tropical fruit orchards thrive here, and
in the spring their fragrant blossoms
are abuzz with honeybees.
My mind buzzes like a bee, drawn to a
rare pink blossom,
pink blossom new, untested, not yet
ripe with spring’s gifts, seeking.

Lush are orchards in spring, their
blossoms weighty with fragrance,
honeybees dipping to taste the life
they spread.
Honeybees tease, much like you,
without meaning to (much). Do you tease,
or are these weighty blossoms truth?

Heart abuzz, sticky with amber promises,
a dancer picks what she wants from the
orchard, scents heavy, calling flower to
flower, the gift deposited. Brush the bees
off the dancer’s back; she is arched, stung.
You are like no other, rich, exotic, heavy on
my heart.

Salve the sting with rich, buttery
honey to soothe the tempest below.
Bees gather,
make honey,
pollinate.
Bees.
Sting.

Cut on the Coral

Cut on the coral, the red slip of hurt
teasing a line in the soil, she sits
amidst the bees on a beach of
whiteness, of purity.
She feels the coral, and presses the
bees into its inmost shards.

She sits quietly amid the
coral shards,
observing
the
desolation
left
behind.

Borrowing Words

Can I borrow your words?
I want to eat them. The ones I
do not eat, I will feed to those who
have no words for all their own.
I want to write poems wild.
I want to do it unafraid.

Can you dance naked in the
moonlight with a song? Dripping with
dark honey, I will dance for you.
I will dare to tantalize and
vandalize.
I will vandalize your mind.

The Label by Candlelight

Thick and viscous can surely wait;
higher content, not of sweetness tried
nor wanted.
Easier than darkness
is candlelight.
Easier than sunshine
is moonglow.
What else do I have?
Check in the cabinet for me, honey.

Swimming Through Honey

I try so hard,
like swimming through thick, dark honey,
but see no way to make “antioxidant activity”
sound poetic.
Borrow my words, naked, clothed;
either way they will soothe
smooth your way.
Well, you are right about that,
a good thing to keep in mind, yes.

Once I put my words on you,
spit my words on you,
they will drip from you,
dark and golden
hot and cold
buzzing in your ears
in the dark. Keep in
mind how dark
honey soothes.

You are my anti-oxcide,
dripping down within me.
creating me,
cleaning me,
making me new.
Will you soothe me
with rich dark words?
Can we dance a dance of words
and souls bared naked?

Heather Truett, aka Madame Rubies, aka @mmerubies, has become one of our regular contributors to the TweetSpeak poetry jam on Twitter. I checked out her blog site, Madame Rubies, and I discovered that she has collected and published some of her poetry. So I ordered Pencil Drawn and Paper Grown, to earn more about her and her poetry. (I haven’t read her second volume, entitled Felicities.)

In Pencil Drawn, she includes poems old and young – old in that they were written earlier, when she was in her teens; young for the poems she’s written more recently. And while the “younger” poems are more practiced, more intentional and more mature, she’s right to include the “older” ones, because you understand the newer ones better. The poems are grouped under four headings – Faith, Hope, Love and Other. (That sounds like the title of a poem – Faith, Hope, Love and Other.)

And she includes a warning in her introduction: some of these poems are dark. They reflect considerable pain. Yet she was right to include them, because you can only understand and accept the light by first acknowledging the dark.

Here is pain described in everyday things. From “The Kitchen:”

I have to drain away the ache inside.
I need it to leak out of me –
Flowing through a ballpoint pen
Onto paper that is white and clean.
Now, it is dirtied with my pain.
Metal rusts from all the tears I’ll cry
In just this life.
No one causes all my pain.
They just seem to add a little here or there.
Throw in a dash of agony
And let it set…
Let it stew.
Just a pinch of hurtful words,
Just a tablespoon of torture…

And here is pain, the pain of Someone Else, described through a communion service. From “Red Liquid:”

Staring at the liquid,
Red liquid in a tiny cup,
Blood running down his side.
Scary eyes
Searching
Searching
Searching the crowd for some reassurance
That this was right,
He was The One
And still is The One.
He saved our lives –
Eternal lives are given now…

But there is more than pain in these poems. There is love. Here’s “Hand Over Hand:”

Rough flesh –
Soft skin –
I could touch you forever,
Hands moving over hands,
Devouring the solid shape,
Examining each deep drawn line
With tender fingertips,
And knowing God designed you,
Piece by piece,
Knit you together
And painted you beautiful.
Warm hands touching
Tempting
Teasing
Fulfilling simple moments
And stretching them to something wonderful –
Making them ours.

There are many good things in this collection of Heather’s. True things. Real things. I found myself moved on every page, and finding each poem saying something important.

Links:

Heather’s blog, Madame Rubies
Heather on Twitter
Her page on lulu.com
Pencil Drawn and Paper Grown on Amazon and on lulu.com
Felicities

Last summer, I drove to a high school in a central St. Louis suburb for a writing and publishing fair. Seminars were held inside the school; the parking lot had been cordoned off for booths, demonstration areas and even a children’s playground. I wandered around the large number of booths, and then came to one that looked rather forlorn – a simple set-up of boards and posts, little decoration and one man about my age with a hopeful expression on his face.

I looked at the plain sign, which read “Missouri’s Poet Laureate.” And then I did something I’m not known for doing: I walked right up to Walter Bargen and introduced myself. You see, I had read two books of his poetry, and I wanted to meet the man who wrote them and was the first person named poet laureate for the state (his term just expired; his replacement is David Clewell). He already had a reputation as an unabashed proponent of poetry and new poets, doing countless readings and talks and school visits. And for no pay; the state did, however, cover his travel expenses.

We talked about the two books of his that I had read. He seemed absolutely thrilled with the conversation, likely because I was the sole visitor at the time but also, I think, because I knew some of his work, especially his collection of prose poems entitled Theban Traffic.

I remember my first words after I introduced myself. “Jake and Stella,” I said, referring to the two characters featured in the work. Bargen smiled and nodded. “This is going to sound odd, but reading about them –“ I hesitated while he waited patiently – “well, reading about Jake is like looking in a mirror.”

And so we talked, for a good 30 minutes. As we did, more people walked up and joined the conversation. I looked over the books he had for sale, and bought two I didn’t have. He autographed both, and for one – The Feast – he drew a picture of a fork, spoon and plate. I finally walked away, leaving behind some lively talk.

Now Bargen has published Days Like This Are Necessary: New & Selected Poems. The volume includes many I’ve previously read in Theban Traffic and The Feast, but many more I have not. Reading them all together is to gain a deep appreciation for the poet’s overall body of work.

Bargen writes about relationships – between husbands and wives, within families, and even more broadly, between cultures. I was surprised to see how much of his recent work was shaped by events in the Mideast, especially the war in Iraq and the civil war in Lebanon, and how he merges wars in the Mideast with day-to-day American life:

Beirut

Machine guns inhabit the rooftops
like hungry crows.
bullets peck the library
city hall the cobble streets
Allah’s forehead.

To the east
mountains belch dust
as artillery fires into the city
planting the bloom of brown orchids
on the beach apartments
on the Hilton
in courtyards filled
with the shattered rosary of bricks.

People are opening their bodies
for the world to read
the print still wet and so red
it pours out a stoplight
on Broadway and Ninth
in downtown Columbia, Missouri.

I’ve stood at Broadway and Ninth in downtown Columbia, but I never imagined blood pouring from the stoplight. Bargen does more than that here, of course – he invites us to imagine small-city America as a kind of Beirut.

He also tells stories, stories of death and loss that become stories of life, as he does in “Inventories of Ruin:”

Even the crooked is straight at any one
instant, when there’s no forward
or going back, no sideways to consider,
just as the asphalt beyond making capricious
turns. How it goes on or ends without us,
as it did Friday when night sped past
the overturned Ford that clowned
somersaults over the median, tossing
those drunk on immortality to the pavement
and ditch…

Bargen turns the story of a car accident into a life story, the wreckage of the car coming to symbolize the wreckage of a life.

And then there’s the story of Jake and Stella, told in Theban Traffic and included here. Bargen uses the prose poem form to explain who they are and unfold a story of two people who love each other but always seem to find themselves disconnected. From “New Waves on Old Water:”

Stella travels two thousand miles to sweep up the dust of another
relative. Whole mountain ranges pass below her quicker than
dreams. She perches on the edge of a continent.

Because they cannot see each other, they cannot exchange diseases
though the distant unease is worse. Though they cannot share a
bottle of wine their separate glasses overflow with a blush of light.
there is a smeared stain in the air like a burning city. Over the
phone, he hears her say that’s the sun setting over the Pacific…

There is distance here, and even alienation, but there is also the strong sense of longing and affection. All of the Jake and Stella poems reflect this, almost clutching the contradiction of love and simultaneous separation, even when they’re together.

These are quiet poems, meant to be read in quiet. This collection is impressive, and goes far beyond any need to explain why Bargen was selected to champion poetry in his home state.

(Maureen Doallas has made Walter Bargen a subject of one of her marvelous articles, posting it on her blog, Writing Without Paper. To get an in-depth look at Bargen and his poetry, visit her blog – you’re in for a real treat.)

Finally, at last, we have the remaining poems from our poetry jam on Twitter. There are five, and you’ll see that the jam was winding down. Thanks again to all who participated.

Poems from the House of Memory – 8

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Knitting

Again, knit back into one;
knit one, purl two,
my grandmother knew
what to do
with yarn scarlet, purple, blue,
blood of scarlet, purple royal hue
and true as blue.
So well she knew
to make the thing most needed.

Tell me, what can be knit of tears?
There is a place in my heart, knit of tears,
scarred and strong from the weeping.
The color in the tears,
will it blend, will it knit?
Sing the longer songs, sing of tears and
yarn and butter, of your house and
colors and skies spun of beauty.
Sing and do not stop.

When I Cry

I am ugly when I cry, streaky face and
puffy eyes. My head blows up when
the sobs come on and I spend the
day in pain. Tears stain a feeling heart,
a life, a love, or maybe two; a time,
young, lies not too close to heart .
How can I ever know if I can?
I get lost too easily, forget my compass,
wander off alone, forget that someone
might care where I go.

And yet the sweet melody of
the drawn out song of love, of
pain of joy pulls me closer to
who you are(even when I’m hard to please).
Will it stain my past, our now, the time we seek?
But I love the colours, and the view. Feeling like
butter in the churn. I feel churned. But I do not feel
like butter. Like the churn somehow soured the milk.
Winding back to you, without your compass.
Be it yours? Perhaps we can strike a deal.

Find your breath moist upon the
windows of my heart. Feel your heart
lose its patterned tic. Catch the light in eyes deep.
Have you seen beauty before a breath of spring?
I have been breathless
before beauty of skin brand new or
old and papery, of eyes fresh and
sparkling or dulled with age. I cried
at the sight of what you hold too dear.

Breathless

I have been breathless before beauty
of lips and cheeks, beauty to lose as
morning its light, as night its moon’s shadow.
I have been breathless, too, because
I forgot my inhaler.
I saw the skin-ridges of age and could not breathe.
I already ache. There is nothing left to do.
I ache for the violin, breathlessly thin upon air,
in sweetness. I have memories of you
with the sure hand of touch,
the single sigh of beauty before it faded.
Without the ache I know I have no more to do.
I ache for the promise of advil and bed, my joints
despising life – the weather—themselves.
Make the jest you do and fools be glad.
It would feel like that.

Knickers

Goodnight; put your knickers on
the side table. I will hold them to
my face, fold them near my heart,
inhaler of her scent, of knickers in a knot.
The days are getting longer as
my life grows short with
a goodnight jest, no promise of song.
My grandmother wore knickers; her soul
flew some time ago.
And her courting was all chaperones and
lanterns.

Goodnight Poems

Enough said; song done.
Pull up the covers, turn off the light.
Goodnight poems in a box,
goodnight poems with a fox,
goodnight poems here and there,
goodnight poems everywhere!
A shorter blanket this night?
Can you gather it into one chair?
How much nonsense can one get with
one gold coin?
How much nonsense can one get with
one gold poem?

We have three more poems from our Twitter poetry jam in this group. I expect to have one more post, and that will complete the series.

Poems from the House of Memory – 7

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

I Want to Get a Hotel Room

I want to get a hotel room
with white sheets
and big pillows
and have no one know
that i am there
so I can sleep the days away.

I am tired of bending, tired of
folding, tired of being the blanket.
If I were a blanket and you
an old man, would you still wrap
me around your shoulders, put
my soft edge to your hand?
I am a terrible seamstress, but I still try to piece together this quilt you made of me.

The Spinning

She said if I reach,
arms wide, I will feel the
spinning. I used to swing
high, fling head back,
see world upside down
flying, spinning too fast!
Spin, spin, spin. Wheels on
hot pavement,
pigtails fly behind,
tears dry in streaks on
red cheeks. I remember
spinning perfectly still; it
only seems fast.
I don’t understand it either.

Gold and Nonsense

I traded my gold
for the tin echo
of your love.
I traded my gold
for nonsense.

And I do believe
the laughter may well
have been worth it.
Tricked by glitter, by shine.
Know me not by wealth alone.

Do you say I am a fool?
You would not be wrong.
I traded my gold
for nonsense and was
happy with my choice.

Was it gold? I thought
diamonds, or just a
single perfect stone.
What’s life without a
little nonsense now and then?

I cry knowing it was a
bad trade.
Find your way to
my secrets. What lies deep
is never mined on the surface.

We have five poems in this group from our recent poetry jam on Twitter. There are still a few to come.

By the way, Erin at Together For Good has reshaped some of her contributions to the poetry jam and published them as a poem, “Of Nonsense and Butter.” Check it out.

Poems from the House of Memory – 6

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Decisions

Decisions can be final in
ways you never did anticipate.
Decisions can change tomorrow in
ways that make your soul deflate.
I put my face in the bucket of
your heart; licked it like a beggar.
When things are not right
between he and I
things are simply not right
in the world.
I can weave my words into
a mask and hide behind it.
I can weave my words into
a bucket and catch you when
you fall.

Tin Cup, Walls, Roof

Tin cup, walls, roof. A hundred
years old,
still bearing the pattern
but bent, this way and that, and in
pieces, scattered.
I stole him
with my body and then I stole
my body back
like a tease, and now I cannot
somehow please anyone at all.

Seeking What I Could Not Find

Seeking what I could not find
in words knit of love,
with long crochet hook, I catch
the strands of your thoughts about
me, and I make them exactly what
I want them to be.
But mostly the skies spin me, a
weaving in reverse, whip clouds,
fold mountains in twos ,
stand high. We can change the
pattern into peaches on cream
with a ceiling of blue.
I can do things—
fold, whip, stand
break strands and mend,
unraveling what was done
to help me see
where I am.
Is there truth there
in the unweaving?
I fall apart.
Will you catch my
raveled pieces?

On a Good Day

On a good day, I can do anything I like.
And I like to make love to the rain clouds
and whisper my secrets to willow trees.
On a good day, I am more beautiful than
Eve and more tempting that Delilah holding
scissors and wearing sheath.

Where Is My Friend?

Where is my friend? What wheel does
he spin at, what sky?
He’s here, somewhere.
I was looking for him, too.
He is here
raveling, unraveling,
churning, turning
holding words
like butter to his lips.
He sits quietly,
back against the far wall,
observing,
calculating,
ruminating
on words well spoken.