Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Two [Oh! Oh!] Eight (in Formalist Poetry)

While I find lists deliciously erotic (oh sweet, reductionist powers!), I have decided that 2008 will be recapped in poem-chunks. Largely, these were rediscovered in bookbags/purses/wallets that found themselves in my favor over the last twelve months. I love giving people triolets, so there are several :)

A Triolet for James

Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
He lifted one and put it in my hand.
"A gift," he grinned, providing me no reason.
He could tell I knew that figs were out of season.
I tried to pay, but in the end he won
And watched me as he went back to the stand.
Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
I laughed to find one lying in my hand.

10 May

Curtain pull swings like a noose. I start
talking beauty and see the Death's Head. Sweet
taste of your flesh too much, I turn to
the walls and breathe deep. I never.

(One of) Jarek's Triolet(s)
Remember pouring wine with me, offshore?
The sailors passing by became our friends.
Impostor in the fancy clothes I wore,
I remember drinking wine with you, offshore.
The docks grew dark; with only seconds more
until our days in Szczecin aimed to end,
you poured more wine. ("Remember!") Just offshore,
the sailors passed us by, our distant friends.

On Expensive Outbursts

In pieces just an hour before the show,
my violin unwinds itself across
the backstage floor. It’s bridge beneath my boot
becomes like dust – a faint, or mocking, sign
of angry whim. Perhaps, I hiss, my lips
in string-tight lines, you ought to consider
this high-light the end of the band.

Convinced that nothing here is still intact,
I collect my wrath and now-empty bags.
They’ll have to find themselves another girl.

Los Angeles Limmerick

A bird has decomposed beneath the bridge,
An event the cars above have surely missed.
Its beak and wings and bone
Have formed a garden of their own.
By now I'm laughing: Only bums and I know this.

White Elephant Triolet (Regifted to Maxine)

I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
Who else would ever think of such a gift?
In lieu of when you sang to me in bed,
I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
The notes, I hope, will dissipate some dread.
In just the way you made my nightmares lift,
I write these little fugues. For, when you’re dead,
Who else will ever think of such a gift?

Goodbye, '08, goodbye! What a year you have been... I realized today, though, that my bloodstream feels like SPRING is just around the corner. The onset of that season always leaves me feeling electrified, and my current excitement over the beauty of things as they are, and the things to come, is the same. Oh, I am happy in this place! Shocked and different and wiser and happy.

I love you already, 2009!

-The Silliest Receptionist


W. Gray said...

Fun poetry as always :)

Strother said...

I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you.

Let's run away together.