I Am the Fish (by Lori Williams)

 

I Am the Fish
by Lori Williams

I am tired of being a woman;
tired of the clocks and sons
and cats. Tired of the perfume
and lace and hats that I should wear
in winter. I am tired of the cold.

I remember the fishing pole branch
he made, with bologna as bait,
the sadness of the sunny fish,
it was beautiful, golden, sunshine!
but he never explained.

No men ever explained. They sat
at my table; naked, eating pot roast,
married, with their wives’ chicken soup
in my sinner bowl, some seeing me as
a savior, a port in a storm. Oh
silly men, all of you.

I am tired of being a woman, don’t you see?
He left me before I knew why the fish
struggled so hard to stay. I have waited
for that explanation, smiling. None of you

know why. I am the fish. And I am tired.

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Rome (by Ezra Pound)

Rome
by Ezra Pound
[from Personæ, 1926]

     From the French of Joachim du Bellay
     “Troica Roma resurges.” — Propertius

O thou newcomer who seek’st Rome in Rome
And find’st in Rome no thing thou canst call Roman;
Arches worn old and palaces made common
Rome’s name alone within these walls keeps home.

Behold how pride and ruin can befall
One who hath set the whole world ’neath her laws,
All-conquering, now conquerèd, because
She is Time’s prey, and Time conquereth all.

Rome that art Rome’s one sole last monument,
Rome that alone hast conquered Rome the town,
Tiber alone, transient and seaward bent,
Remains of Rome. O world, thou unconstant mime!
That which stands firm in thee Time batters down,
And that which fleeteth doth outrun swift Time.

 

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Erat Hora (by Ezra Pound)

 

Erat Hora
by Ezra Pound
[from Canzoni, first published in 1911]

“Thank you, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

 

*

Accessible (by Joan Colby)

 

Accessible

Easy as a girl spreading her bright legs,
Smiling and beckoning. Or peeling an orange
With your thumbnail unleashing
A hundred sensory suns. Getting out
Of bed half awake to the autonomy
Of morning ritual. When all else fails
Praying as if you might be special
As God’s sparrow or the bloody heart
That Huitzilpochtli wants.

Easy exists in the contempt of hard.
The woman who won’t take your calls.
The orchard of overabundance.
The bed where you sleep alone.

Take it easy, you say when you don’t
Want to revisit a conversation,
When all you want is to escape
To a difficult book, a poem that jangles
The keys to a series of doors.

* * * * * *

Joan Colby’s books include Selected Poems [FutureCycle Press], Dead Horses [FutureCycle Press], The Lonely Hearts Killers [Spoon River Poetry Press], The Atrocity Book [Lynx House Press], How The Sky Begins to Fall [Spoon River Poetry Press], The Boundary Waters [Damascus Road Press], Blue Woman Dancing in the Nerve [Alembic Press], Dream Tree [Jump River Press], Chagall Poems [Seven Deadly Sins Press], Beheading the Children [Ommation Press], and Eleven Poems [Interim Press]. 

Her work has been widely published in journals including Poetry, Atlanta Review, GSU Review, Portland Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, Mid-American Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Kansas Quarterly, The Hollins Critic, Minnesota Review, Western Humanities Review, College English, Another Chicago Magazine and others. 

Her many awards include an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature, the Illinois Arts Council Literary Award, Stone County Award for Poetry, Rhino Poetry Award, and the new renaissance Award for Poetry. Her chapbook, Bittersweet, is forthcoming in 2014 from Main Street Rag. 

For over 25 years, Joan Colby has been the editor of Illinois Racing News, a monthly publication for the Illinois Thoroughbred Breeders and Owners Foundation, published by Midwest Outdoors LLC.  She lives with her husband and assorted animals on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois.

The Last Doll (by Carol Smallwood)

The Last Doll
by Carol Smallwood

She’s the last doll I got for Christmas, the only one with long hair
and she sits with two other survivors grouped in conversation
in a pink dress with three shiny buttons without compare.

She has puffed sleeves, white shoes and stockings to wear
and a new place within the group in steady rotation;
she’s the last doll I got for Christmas, the only one with long hair.

The doll has no name as she seemed so rare
with braided long hair that deserved much admiration
in a pink dress with three shiny buttons without compare.

Sitting with the others she rules over them with flare,
her arms extended as if receiving ovations;
she’s the last doll I got for Christmas, the only one with long hair.

Still looking new, she has needed no repair
and sits very erect as fitting her station
in a pink dress with three shiny buttons without compare.

But of the survivors, she’s the one I could spare
because she’s not been held as often for validation;
she’s the last doll I got for Christmas, the only one with long hair
in a pink dress with three shiny buttons without compare.



* * * *

“The Last Doll” originally appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review (Autumn 2012 ). 

Carol Smallwood’s books include Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching, foreword by Molly Peacock (McFarland, 2012) on Poets & Writers magazine’s list of Best Books for Writers; Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012); and Compartments: Poems on Nature, Femininity, and Other Realms (Anaphora Literary Press, 2011). Carol has founded, supports humane societies.

Absolution (by Siegfried Sassoon)

 

Absolution
by Siegfried Sassoon
[from The Old Huntsman and Other Poems, 1918]

The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes
Till beauty shines in all that we can see.
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,
And loss of things desired; all these must pass.
We are the happy legion, for we know
Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

There was an hour when we were loth to part
From life we longed to share no less than others.
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart,
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers?

*

circle jerk (by Alicia Young)

circle jerk

i can’t possibly drink enough
to keep up
with the absurdity
of this back lit world

the splendor of soft-serve hypocrisy

we’re broadcasting live from rome as it burns

shut-ins
psychopaths
and dime store prophets
all writing self help books
from their padded cells

hoping to market them online
to other poor bastards
who can’t get off their couches



* * * * *

Alicia Young is a poet, teacher, mother, middling pianist, and above average drunk. She has the tongue of a harpy and is rumored to be a bit of a tramp. She is a modern day Southern belle, born on Kentucky’s bourbon trail, who enjoys black coffee in the morning and a fine cigar at night. Her Electra complex is the stuff of legend.  She makes a hobby of causing sailors to blush.  Ms. Young is the author of Hell on Heels, poems by Alicia Young, released in 2012 by Lady-Lazarus Press.

Taken from men — this morning (by Emily Dickinson)

Emily Dickinson 

[1858]

Taken from men — this morning —
Carried by men today —
Met by the Gods with banners —
Who marshalled her away —

One little maid — from playmates —
One little mind from school —
There must be guests in Eden —
All the rooms are full —

Far — as the East from Even —
Dim — as the border star —
Courtiers quaint, in Kingdoms
Our departed are.
 


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Not Another Metaphor (by Kelley White)

Not Another Metaphor 

My tongue was a leather belt beating my teeth. OK
that one’s not so bad. Can I make the teeth those little
grommets (is that the right word?) that hold the shoe
leather together? Oh, I forgot to say my mouth was a shoe.

It’s not. OK, it’s a bell. Able? Get it. It’s the day
after the fourth of July and they’re talking about the ‘Bell
Tapping’ ceremony on the radio. See, the Li ber ty Bell
is too fragile. I’m not. Come on and tap me.

The sky is glass. The sun’s a lightbulb. I stuck my tongue
on it once. It stuck. Tongue sandwich. Sizzle. Your father
says he can’t eat something that’s tasting him while he’s tasting it.
I say, come on, its all meat Sweet. Spit sauce Bar-B-Q.

It tastes red and yellow. Like a suitcase made of red-hot
steel Molten. You want Genghis Khan on the Silk Road?
Well, Cooter, that ain’t in West Virginia. I’ve got tortoise-shell
teeth. Pretty. See me smiling or did you break your eyes?

Your looking-glass, the Holy Mirror of Know-Nothing Mind.
You tried to get me to hear the echo on the radio. It just
bounced off your teeth. I know you love to be off-balance.
Shine up your skates and wax your skis. I’m your Bombardier

in blue, Babe, I’ll be flapping when you fall. You’ll be sizzling
on an ice cube. I’ll be spitting dry ice at you. Toot sweet. Yup.
Toodle-oo. The stove is waiting for your teeth I’d set
your tongue on fire. But your teeth might spill their gold.



* * * * * *

Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent books are TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

“Blandula, Tenulla, Vagula” (by Ezra Pound)

“Blandula, Tenulla, Vagula”
by Ezra Pound
[from Canzoni, first published in 1911]

What hast thou, my soul, with paradise?
Will we not rather, when our freedom’s won,
Get us to some clear place wherein the sun
Lets drift in on us through the olive leaves
A liquid glory? If at Sirmio,
My soul, I meet thee, when this life’s outrun,
Will we not find some headland consecrated
By aery apostles of terrene delight,
Will not our cult be founded on the waves,
Clear sapphire, cobalt, cyanine,
On triune azures, the impalpable
Mirrors unstill of the eternal change?

Soul, if She meet us there, will any rumour
Of havens more high and courts desirable
Lure us beyond the cloudy peak of Riva? 

 

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