Submissions by pyrategurrll (Lauren Tivey)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
6th Dec 2010 11:27am
6th Dec 2010 11:27am
My Daughter at Seventeen
I hold the scissors in my shaking hands. I don’t
want to, but I cut her from you, detaching the pearl
from its tongue-pink bed. The throbbing cord
is lumpish and gray—the pulp of raw calamari,
the matter of ocean. Together,
we bring granddaughter into the light.
She rests, squinting and wet, on the cushion
of your chest. And you look so happy,
knowing that the separation of her
body, wracked from your body,
is only a beginning. For this thing
you had created, this parcel of cells
and bones, blood and nerves—I saw ...
want to, but I cut her from you, detaching the pearl
from its tongue-pink bed. The throbbing cord
is lumpish and gray—the pulp of raw calamari,
the matter of ocean. Together,
we bring granddaughter into the light.
She rests, squinting and wet, on the cushion
of your chest. And you look so happy,
knowing that the separation of her
body, wracked from your body,
is only a beginning. For this thing
you had created, this parcel of cells
and bones, blood and nerves—I saw ...
1072 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
22nd Nov 2010 6:55am
22nd Nov 2010 6:55am
Wife-Stealer
In the floods upstream, a husband
slips, lets go of a hand, and a wife
glides away, clinging to garbage.
As bodies pile up against the dam,
the biohazard-cocktail of the Yangtze
drives along in a grave fog, a fish-killer,
crop-flooder, wife-stealer. Three days missing,
and they show her wide eyes on the news, over
and over. The eyes tell us: I am already given
to water. It is worse than any movie—she will
not be found. She stares into the camera, as her
bobbing head disappears, and we are transfixed. ...
slips, lets go of a hand, and a wife
glides away, clinging to garbage.
As bodies pile up against the dam,
the biohazard-cocktail of the Yangtze
drives along in a grave fog, a fish-killer,
crop-flooder, wife-stealer. Three days missing,
and they show her wide eyes on the news, over
and over. The eyes tell us: I am already given
to water. It is worse than any movie—she will
not be found. She stares into the camera, as her
bobbing head disappears, and we are transfixed. ...
1129 reads
8 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
19th Nov 2010 2:19pm
19th Nov 2010 2:19pm
Chinese Prosperity
In the ancient fishing village, all the fish are dead.
A great dam redefines margins: the Yangtze River,
ravenous mother of a new order, has swallowed
temples and fields, her swath of chemicals churning
under defiled skies, a concrete carcinoma swelling
from her banks. Near the celebrated bridge, foul,
monochrome waters slosh up the prows of cargo haulers
as they moan in the miasma. The city keeps on leeching,
working its steel, lading boats, clanging its shipyard ditty.
People, rich with new money, shop in...
A great dam redefines margins: the Yangtze River,
ravenous mother of a new order, has swallowed
temples and fields, her swath of chemicals churning
under defiled skies, a concrete carcinoma swelling
from her banks. Near the celebrated bridge, foul,
monochrome waters slosh up the prows of cargo haulers
as they moan in the miasma. The city keeps on leeching,
working its steel, lading boats, clanging its shipyard ditty.
People, rich with new money, shop in...
982 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
15th Nov 2010 2:42am
15th Nov 2010 2:42am
Harvesting
There is a way to open your body
to the land, like a lover.
There is a way to read the mood
of the soil, like a prophet.
Out here, crows are omens, and clouds
ambassadors of the August sky.
There is a way to synchronize
your pulse, to learn the cadence.
This is the only way
to fill your basket.
*Note: This poem also appears in Vintage Poetry:
http://vintagepoetrypublishing.blogspot.com/2011/10/poetry-by-lauren-tivey.html
to the land, like a lover.
There is a way to read the mood
of the soil, like a prophet.
Out here, crows are omens, and clouds
ambassadors of the August sky.
There is a way to synchronize
your pulse, to learn the cadence.
This is the only way
to fill your basket.
*Note: This poem also appears in Vintage Poetry:
http://vintagepoetrypublishing.blogspot.com/2011/10/poetry-by-lauren-tivey.html
1271 reads
7 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
15th Nov 2010 2:41am
15th Nov 2010 2:41am
Crossing
I let his harsh words drown in the olive density
of harbor waters, as the boat kicks off the pier.
My wedding ring twirls loose on its finger—
I could drop it overboard, like a coin, but I do not.
Bewildered, I roam the island. A gull
hovering on an air current reminds me that
togetherness can be smooth, or it can be
as waves walloping rocky, stalwart shores.
After two solitary days, the mountains,
the little house, and the man wearing the ring,
start to draw over me like a tide, but there is no
crossing back. ...
of harbor waters, as the boat kicks off the pier.
My wedding ring twirls loose on its finger—
I could drop it overboard, like a coin, but I do not.
Bewildered, I roam the island. A gull
hovering on an air current reminds me that
togetherness can be smooth, or it can be
as waves walloping rocky, stalwart shores.
After two solitary days, the mountains,
the little house, and the man wearing the ring,
start to draw over me like a tide, but there is no
crossing back. ...
3556 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Nov 2010 2:28am
10th Nov 2010 2:28am
Poetry
When your hips come down, when
you enter me, I am thinking
of iambic pentameter. This is not
to say I don’t love you, that I am not
in the moment—rather, thrusting
in five beats, one short, one long, one
short, etc., amused to have you
rhythming me. I test you with a switch
to trochaic tetrameter, startle you
with an inexplicable spondee,
leave off with an ellipsis . . .
And when we flip, and my hips
come down, that moment I look at you
before straddling you? That, my love,
is a caesura.
...
you enter me, I am thinking
of iambic pentameter. This is not
to say I don’t love you, that I am not
in the moment—rather, thrusting
in five beats, one short, one long, one
short, etc., amused to have you
rhythming me. I test you with a switch
to trochaic tetrameter, startle you
with an inexplicable spondee,
leave off with an ellipsis . . .
And when we flip, and my hips
come down, that moment I look at you
before straddling you? That, my love,
is a caesura.
...
1769 reads
15 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
10th Nov 2010 2:25am
10th Nov 2010 2:25am
Final Fight
After a night of last-ditch effort,
day breaks like a hammer, the sun
a fast, fat mandala,
rising through the pink mist.
Drained, we lay bare
our private intentions,
too tired to fix anything, everything
broken, terrifying and glittering.
We sit in stunned silence.
Together, at that moment,
dazed by our lavish failure,
we could almost be friends.
*Note: This poem also appears in Red Fez 4/12
http://www.redfez.net/poetry/1568
day breaks like a hammer, the sun
a fast, fat mandala,
rising through the pink mist.
Drained, we lay bare
our private intentions,
too tired to fix anything, everything
broken, terrifying and glittering.
We sit in stunned silence.
Together, at that moment,
dazed by our lavish failure,
we could almost be friends.
*Note: This poem also appears in Red Fez 4/12
http://www.redfez.net/poetry/1568
1189 reads
11 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
3rd Nov 2010 9:28pm
3rd Nov 2010 9:28pm
Phoebes
A nest in the eaves of my new house: one
female and three chicks, desperate pleas
erupting for food. The mother never
sleeps in, is never paralyzed
by sadness. Industrious, she wheels
past, stopping to hover at intervals
like a bee, her gadgetry swirling,
Italianate. This morning on the cement,
I found a crumpled body; a raw, discarded
piece of meat—a fallen chick—maybe
pushed out, weak or diseased. These wounds
don’t ever seem to heal, I thought, and why
is courage always my last trick? I placed
the...
female and three chicks, desperate pleas
erupting for food. The mother never
sleeps in, is never paralyzed
by sadness. Industrious, she wheels
past, stopping to hover at intervals
like a bee, her gadgetry swirling,
Italianate. This morning on the cement,
I found a crumpled body; a raw, discarded
piece of meat—a fallen chick—maybe
pushed out, weak or diseased. These wounds
don’t ever seem to heal, I thought, and why
is courage always my last trick? I placed
the...
3508 reads
9 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
3rd Nov 2010 9:23pm
3rd Nov 2010 9:23pm
Route 10
Flat tire and no spare, fried and alone
in the terra cotta Arizona landscape,
with the buzzards and cacti. The sun
messes with my head. A battered
pickup truck nears out of the floating
highway haze. How many bad horror
movies have started this way? I think,
as a cowboy boot emerges, then another.
There is a shadowed face under a hat. His steps
echo off pavement; crooked desert in a silver belt
buckle, spinning sky, tight fist of my heart--and then
a rich drawl washes over me. A scroungy mutt bobs
...
in the terra cotta Arizona landscape,
with the buzzards and cacti. The sun
messes with my head. A battered
pickup truck nears out of the floating
highway haze. How many bad horror
movies have started this way? I think,
as a cowboy boot emerges, then another.
There is a shadowed face under a hat. His steps
echo off pavement; crooked desert in a silver belt
buckle, spinning sky, tight fist of my heart--and then
a rich drawl washes over me. A scroungy mutt bobs
...
1241 reads
7 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
29th Oct 2010 4:49am
29th Oct 2010 4:49am
Afterglow
Worshippers bring disease and disgrace
to the temple. Behind glass, the golden man
is sitting lotus, safe from the grease of hands.
If only they could rub their bodies over him,
kiss the blessed feet, caress the clear skies
of his enlightenment, if only they could lay
with him. Red candles are lit, promises made.
For a coin, fickle fortunes are studied in the yarrow
stalks. Deflated, losers go back to prayers, clicking
their mala beads, while others, winners of both large
and small battles, endorse icons with...
to the temple. Behind glass, the golden man
is sitting lotus, safe from the grease of hands.
If only they could rub their bodies over him,
kiss the blessed feet, caress the clear skies
of his enlightenment, if only they could lay
with him. Red candles are lit, promises made.
For a coin, fickle fortunes are studied in the yarrow
stalks. Deflated, losers go back to prayers, clicking
their mala beads, while others, winners of both large
and small battles, endorse icons with...
3668 reads
6 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
29th Oct 2010 2:51am
29th Oct 2010 2:51am
Cannabis Psalm
Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it
And whispers, ‘Grow, grow.’
—The Talmud
After the snowmelt, the cracked bucket
by the potting shed, filled with last year’s dirt,
swelled in the spring heat. Two leaves
on a tender stem: after a brutal winter—
in spite of it—reseeding. Later that summer
she grows taller than you, bushes out,
a happy Indica, stalk as thick as a cat’s tail.
The hospital bracelet dangles
from your frail wrist as you reach
to rub her leaves, and I cannot
read the...
And whispers, ‘Grow, grow.’
—The Talmud
After the snowmelt, the cracked bucket
by the potting shed, filled with last year’s dirt,
swelled in the spring heat. Two leaves
on a tender stem: after a brutal winter—
in spite of it—reseeding. Later that summer
she grows taller than you, bushes out,
a happy Indica, stalk as thick as a cat’s tail.
The hospital bracelet dangles
from your frail wrist as you reach
to rub her leaves, and I cannot
read the...
1317 reads
3 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
26th Oct 2010 6:28pm
26th Oct 2010 6:28pm
What the Water Gave Him
Drip of the faucet, steady and hypnotic, surf
of the bathwater creeping over his bloated belly,
rising and ebbing with each breath, his knees
protruding like icebergs, soft dangle
between his legs, safe as in the womb. Paris,
an oscillation, a rolling exhibition, vast
spaceship of a city just outside the walls
of his rented flat. He knows how to be alone,
to get inside the cave of his brain, to shut it all off
like a yogi, water a conduit. He is not well.
Murky screen, a hallucinogenic drive-in: the surface
roils, clouds...
of the bathwater creeping over his bloated belly,
rising and ebbing with each breath, his knees
protruding like icebergs, soft dangle
between his legs, safe as in the womb. Paris,
an oscillation, a rolling exhibition, vast
spaceship of a city just outside the walls
of his rented flat. He knows how to be alone,
to get inside the cave of his brain, to shut it all off
like a yogi, water a conduit. He is not well.
Murky screen, a hallucinogenic drive-in: the surface
roils, clouds...
#death
#drugs
#memorial
3679 reads
8 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by pyrategurrll (Lauren Tivey)
