Tag Archives: great images

Valentine

A poem full of wonderful images and surprise.

Valentine                                                        Carol Ann Duffy

 

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

 

Tits

This poem doesn’t go where you think it’s going. Delightful images.

TITS                                                                                                   Carol Gordon

 

After a run or ballgame,

the last whistle, scores

boxed in columns,

the women enter the locker room

At the Y. Unzip, unhook.

The lines on their skin

relate imprinted stories.

A British square of buckle, button regiment,

recurve of wire.

After a shower the women

circle the hot tub

like a sanctuary after a dry trek.

Sister, memory, forgive

the giraffe her superior view,

the lioness’ ferocious kindness,

the elephant,

her perfect hips.

Every thigh, each argument

of elbow eased with water,

the women step from the pool

setting free the soft birds

of their breasts.

Plump gulls, sparrow,

owls of a wise eye.

Puffins, auklets, pipers, dippers,

robins, turnstones, tits.

To Whoever Set My Truck on Fire

This is a great poem for discussion, but you may not like how it progresses. I used it in class during election week when many of us were distraught and did not know how we would continue to dialogue with half of our country. The opening lines are beautiful. And, who hasn’t started off on a good note trying to sort something disturbing out only to dissemble into something less than our best selves?

To Whoever Set My Truck On Fire                                                             Steve Scafidi

But let us be friends awhile and understand our differences

are small and that they float like dust in sunny rooms

and let us settle into the good work of being strangers

simply who have something to say in the middle of the night

for you have said something that interests me—something of flames,

footsteps and the hard heavy charge of an engine gunning away

into the June cool of four in the morning here in West Virginia

where last night I woke to the sound of a door slamming,

five or six fading footsteps, and through the window saw

my impossible truck bright orange like a maverick sun and

ran—I did—panicked in my underwear bobbling the dumb

extinguisher too complex it seemed for putting out fires

and so grabbed a skillet and jumped about like one

needing to piss while the faucet like honey issued its slow

sweet water and you I noticed then were watching

from your idling car far enough away I could not make

your plate number but you could see me—half naked

figuring out the puzzle of a fire thirty seconds from

a dream never to be remembered while the local chaos

of a growing fire crackled through the books and boots

burning in my truck, you bastard, you watched as I sprayed

finally the flames with a gardenhose under the moon

and yes I cut what was surely a ridiculous figure there

and worsened it later that morning after the bored police

drove home lazily and I stalked the road in front of my house

with an ax in my hand and walked into the road after

every car to memorize the plates of who might have done this:

LB 7329, NT 7663, and you may have passed by—

I don’t know—you may have passed by as I committed

the innocent numbers of neighbors to memory and maybe

you were miles away and I, like the woodsman of fairy tales,

threatened all with my bright ax shining with the evil

joy of vengeance and mad hunger to bring harm—heavy

harm—to the coward who did this and if I find you,

my friend, I promise you I will lay the sharp blade deep

into your body until the humid grabbing hands of what must be

death have mercy and take you away from the constant

murderous swinging my mind makes my words make

swinging down on your body and may your children

weep a thousand tears at your small and bewildered grave.

Hate Hotel

This poem is fun unless you hate it! Some people find it disturbing, others funny. I like any poem that is great for discussion and this one is. Make sure you share it. I relate to the emotions in the poem and enjoyed the images. The militaristic view is masculine and very relevant to our current world. I love the last stanza, it awoke my heart.

Hate Hotel                                                                              Tony Hoagland

Sometimes I like to think about the people I hate.

I take my room at the Hate Hotel, and I sit and flip

through the heavy pages of the photographs,

the rogue’s gallery of the faces I loathe.

My lamp of resentment sputters twice, then comes on strong,

filling the room with its red light.

That’s how hate works—it thrills you and kills you

with its deep heat. Sometimes I like to sit and soak

in the Jacuzzi of my hate, hatching my plots

like a general running his hands over a military map—

and my bombers have been sent out

over the dwellings of my foes,

and are releasing their cargo of ill will

on the targets below, the hate bombs falling in silence

into the lives of the hate-

recipients. From the high window of my office

in the Government of Hate,

where I stay up late, working hard,

where I make no bargains, entertain no

scenarios of reconciliation,

I watch the hot flowers flare up all across

the city, the state, the continent—

I sip my soft drink of hate on the rocks

and let the punishment go on unstopped,

—again and again I let hate

get pregnant and give birth

to hate which gets pregnant

and gives birth again—

and only after I feel that hate

has trampled the land, burned it down

to some kingdom come of cautery and ash.

Only after it has waxed and waned and waxed all night

only then can I let hate

creep back in the door. Curl up at my feet

and sleep. Little pussycat hate. Home sweet hate.

Mother Lets Off a Little Steam

This poem is a wild ride well worth a car trip. The life that is embedded in the story through the images and dialogue is wonderful. The mother and daughters are very familiar as well as the conflicts inherit to family and writing dilemmas. Enjoy!

Mother Lets Off a Little Steam                                              J. Allyn Rosser

I don’t know how I’m expected to get anything done

with these two constantly at odds, cranky sisters

in the backseat on a long ride to the wrong place.

Muse wants the Tunnel of Love on a roller coaster,

and to be spirited there on something more elegant

than a carpet. She’d better marry rich, is all I can say.

Truth wants a deserted rest area with a flat rock to sit on.

I’m not kidding. This is what she’d like the most.

A view of flat rock from a seat of flat rock.

There’s a scuffle. “Do I have to stop this car or what?”

But I’m going seventy, we’re late, it’s rush hour,

there’s no berm to stop on and they both know it.

Muse pops up in the rearview, rhinestone ruby shades

bouncing painful darts of light into the corner of my eye.

“I have to go again,” she hiccups. It’s a ruse.

She wants, as always, a new gewgaw, a rainbow slurpee,

or one of those impossible-to-lick seriously huge lollipops.

Her candy breath reaches and nearly sickens me.

Whereas Truth is so stolid, so smugly abstemious,

it makes you want to shake her hard, knock the wiser-than-

you-know gaze askew, disturb the pristine implacability

of those conspicuously ringless hands folded in her lap.

Placid as a cow in the shade on a hot day.

Oh I love them, you know, but on days like this—

Sit down,” Truth says, levelly. “Try and make me!”

In terms of strength you wouldn’t want to put your money

on Muse. Truth has always been a good eater,

fond of climbing outdoors. Built like a moose.

Her sister craves exotic sauces and chocolate,

and some weird combinations of tart and savory,

but try getting her to eat one pea. One grain of plain rice.

She’s slight in form but tricky, reckless, unpredictable,

and in certain situations this defeats Truth,

who simply has to be right about everything.

So in spite of her years and her methodical,

relentless scrutiny, she often misses the point.

Meanwhile her sister will just up and blurt something

that at first makes no sense, but then it turns out

to be astonishingly right, the more you think about it.

That’s what really ticks off Truth, when we say

“the more you think about it.” Her eyes narrow

and her face just sort of shuts down. You pity her then.

She likes her facts neatly stacked on the table.

Muse shrugs a lot, changes sides like a fish,

isn’t fazed by paradox. I think she thrives on it.

“Sit,” Truth says again, “DOWN.” “Why should I,

you’re jealous because I’m taller than you.”

“You are not,” “Am too.” “Are not.” “My head

almost touches when I stand but you have to stoop,

so I’m taller.” “No way,” “My eyes are higher. See?”

There is a muffled thump. “Don’t make me stop this car,”

I say stupidly, but else can I do? Muse snickers,

Truth snorts softly. I can’t help it, I keep going,

“I’m never taking the two of you with me anywhere

ever again!” “Okay,” says Truth. “Fine with me,”

Muse sings out. Now they’re in league I can’t win.

They know perfectly well that without Muse there is no vehicle

without Truth no road.

The Secret life of Barbie and Mr. Potato Head

It’s hard to believe Barbie and Mr. Potato Head would get it on, but it’s not impossible!

The Secret life of Barbie and Mr. Potato Head                  Nin Andrews

 

It began the year Jane received her first Barbie, and Dick was given

Mr. Potato Head for Christmas. Jane loved Barbie. She especially loved

undressing Barbie. So did Mr. Potato Head. Soon Barbie and Mr. Potato

Head were slipping off alone to dark corners. The first time it happened

Jane’s mother was fixing a salad for supper: cottage cheese nestled on

a crisp bed of lettuce with canned pears on top. Barbie was nervously

popping her heard off and on. Jane, her mother called, would you please set

the table? That’s when Jane told her mother that Barbie was engaged to

marry Mr. Potato Head.

 

Of course even Jane knew Mr. Potato head was the perfect match

for Barbie. She was afraid her Barbie might be jealous of all the other

Barbies in her neighborhood who had acquired handsome Kens for

their husbands. But she soon realized her mother was right. Her mother

always said looks aren’t everything. Besides, Mr. Potato Head could make

Barbie laugh. And he could do a lot more things with his detachable nose

and pipe and ears when her mother wasn’t looking. He, unlike Ken, was

the kind of man who could change himself for a woman like Barbie.

No problem, Mr. Potato Head would say whenever Barbie requested yet

another body part.

Onset

Not all the poems  we discuss in class are liked, in fact many are not. Sometimes poems create silence and sometimes they inspire a lot of conversation. The content and structure of this poem is very well built. The information in the poem presses on the reader as it must do the poet. The ideas that can be taken from this poem to write to are massive as well, whether you are drawn to it or not.

 

Onset                                                                                                              Kim Addonizio

 

Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers,

bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of

is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.

Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.

And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately

I can’t stand them, the shelves of canned beans and soups, freezers

of identical dinners; then the snowflake-diamond-snowflake of the rug

beneath my chair, rows of books turning their backs,

even my two feet, how they mirror each other oppresses me,

the way they fit so perfectly together, how I can nestle one big toe into the other

like little continents that have drifted; my God the unity of everything,

my hands and eyes, yours; doesn’t that frighten you sometimes, remembering

the pleasure of nakedness in fresh sheets, all the lovers there before you,

beside you, crowding you out? And the scouring griefs,

don’t look at them all or they’ll kill you, you can barely encompass your own;

I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring

and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.

Eavesdropping

You never know exactly what children are taking away from listening to adult conversations. I remember not wanting to go to bed as a young child in cause I was going to miss something exciting. In this piece we don’t hear the mother’s answer to the solution that is offered.

 

Eavesdropping                                                                      Michelle Boisseau

 

It was Mrs. Garvin, the doctor’s wife,

who told my mother, Well, if you’re that broke,

put the kids up for adoption.

Out under the porch light that summer,

we slapped at mosquitoes and invented

our brave escape-luminous sheets

knotted out the window

were the lines of a highway down the house.

We would know the way,

like ingenious animals, to go

quietly toward the river,

but we could imagine no further

than the shacks on stilts

shivering the water,

the Kentucky hills on the other side.

Denise, the youngest, took to sleepwalking,

wading room to room for the place

one of us-curled up in a bed’s corner-

might have left her. I’d wake

to her face pressed against my back,

her hands reining the edges of my nightgown.

I didn’t tuck her into my shoulder

but loosened her fingers and led her

back to her own bed, her fear

already seeping into me like water

or like the light spilling

from the milk truck

as it backfired down the street.

Salon

This poem is a powerful tribute to ritual and its meaning in our lives. It has a powerful and tender ending.

Salon                                                                                                  Robin Becker

 

Acolyte at the font, my mother

bends before basin and hose

where Jackie soaps her fine head,

adjusting pressure and temperature.

How many times has she

bared her throat, her clavicle,

beside the other old women?

How many times the regular

cleansing and surrender to the cold chair,

the sink, the detergents, the lights,

the slick of water down the nape?

Turbaned and ready,

she forgoes the tray of sliced bagels

and donuts, a small, private dignity.

 

Vivienne, the manicurist, dispels despair,

takes my mother’s old hands into her swift

hands and soaks them to soften

the cuticles before the rounding and shaping.

As they talk my mother attends

to the lifelong business of revealing

and withholding, careful to frame each story

while Vivienne lacquers each nail

and then inspects each slender finger,

rubbing my mother’s hands

with the fragrant, thin lotion,

each summarizing her week, each

condemning that which must be condemned,

each celebrating the manicure and the tip.

 

Sometimes in pain, sometimes broken

with grief in the parking lot,

my mother keeps her Friday appointment

time protected now by ritual and tradition.

 

The fine cotton of Michael’s white shirt

brushes against her cheek as they stare

into the mirror at one another.

Ennobled by his gaze, she accepts

her diminishment, she who knows herself

his favorite. In their cryptic language

they confide and converse, his hands busy

in her hair, her hands quiet in her lap.

Barrel-chested, Italian, a lover of opera,

he husbands his money and his lover, Ethan;

only with him may she discuss my lover and me,

and in this way intimacy takes the shape

of the afternoon she passes in the salon,

in the domain of perfect affection.

Pentecostal Girls

This a delightful poem with a wonderful feast of images using a striking economy of words. Good girls and bad girls make the journey fun. And the tension between what should be kept hidden and what may be exposed provides us with the kinds of secrets we love to think about.

Pentecostal Girls                                                                    Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

 

When it got too hot,

Pentecostal girls

went swimming

at the shore

 

in long white dresses,

sneakers on their feet,

braided hair covered

with bandanas.

 

From root to toenail,

their sins were

bound as tight

as the binding

on a new white Bible.

 

When us bad girls

came bouncing up

cute as hell

in silver hoops

and red bikinis,

 

the boys

 

couldn’t stop looking

at those Pentecostal girls

 

dripping salty sin,

laughing, splashing

 

flashing hints

of bra straps

and panties.

 

Satan herself

didn’t stand

a chance

against the saints

who had been

immersed

in the armor

of wet, hot cotton.