Poems
of
the
Month
a shifting collection of poems by POG members, POG guest artists, & poets we admire . . .
(to find poems that have vanished from this page, see our Poetry Archive)
scroll down to read all the poems, or click to jump to work by:
Maggie Golston
Mia McDonald
Dlyn Parra
Tim Peterson
Jesse Seldess
more poems coming soon . . . .
Maggie Golston
History Chanty
(click here for the text of this long poem)
Mia McDonald
Faithfulness Constraint
Each faithfulness constraint expresses one aspect of the requirement that surface forms must be faithful to the underlying form. – Roca and Johnson, A Course in Phonology
I.
That death occurs
after birth
That spasms
of generalities
like love and pain
will be equal
only to themselves
when you burn
the water will be hot
or cold but only
in regards to your skin
the language of prayer
must be spoken by the tongue
and so changes from
beginning to
end.
the spasm of the womb,
the spasm of the heart
pushes you forth or
strikes you from behind
II. Faith (PLACE)
You can change your place.
You can take those windows, those white paneled brass bound windows that swelled in the humid summers and pack them on your back and carry them through the mud lined highways all the way out to the thorn crossed sun sucked desert where you lay them out in the sand and feel your shoulders begin to
break, crack, and
bleed.
Faith (ARTICULATION)
And the cry of my condemned soul was great
and could not be satisfied,
but breathed and thirsted after Christ,
to save me freely through His blood
or I perished for ever.
-William Dewsbury, Faith and Practice
To find comfort
in the grain of rosary beads,
in the shape of my tongue
folding against itself
to form the Words of God.
Those gilded sounds
mingling with my own
flawed breath
should fill my mouth
with some mercurial comfort
and spill out into the sky.
Body of Christ…
to hold faith just below my thoughts
within the soft tissues of my
dark mouth,
feel it dissolve into my veins.
To fill my nostrils with incense,
Saturate my body with the holy,
with the unquestioned
Blood of Christ…
Does it taste like the iron
of nails and rust?
Can the strength of His shoulders
support those high arched beams
the cracking paint and worn
wooden pews? My muscles should
ache with that weight.
Can the reaching space above me
contain my doubt
Or do I need those buttresses,
Stained glass glow,
watchful eyes of martyrs,
and rooms with lattice
windows to smooth
my wrinkled soul, inflate my spirit
beyond the tight confines
of my fat, muscle and skin
into some larger silence,
the sacred pause between breaths,
before the last breath.
And yet
my tongue remains still.
My nails are bitten and torn,
blood seeping to the surface
tastes of salt, loam,
and wine.
Dlyn Parra
Season the Disjunctive
Of course the prerequisite gathering
of air, of thoughts, of scenes
from the bed and the door
galvanize into the next utterance.
What more could they do?
The slam of space, tongue-tip
to lip arch over arm into
fingers curled clenched then
collapsed slack-jawed thickened
like gelatin or stomach ease
tea left too long alone in the heat.
The released summation
doesn't decide whether
the comforter's down will be clung
to or the airport's
delivery service will misplace
the suitcase only the
waiting room whisper forming.
Temples hover between newly
destructed holes uptight their
blackened streaks quiver like
snakes side-wise. Foreheads
interrupted reposition
to eastern pillow and a puzzled
goat bleats to follow along.
A radio station tunes in, the
current pop hit plays, a windy,
kind of breathy song.
Dlynpoet
9.21.03
as this, read you
Re-snuggle. A roll.
A side on tipping.
Source heat current my
warming, my whirring
forced to contrast in
soothing. Muse my ease
indrawn. Surprising. A him
different. A desired
confusion. Distance required.
A rim full very
round very touched just
glistening just seems...
of her lips drinking.
Sense her purpose yes.
Asked, I did no him.
Easy forgetful.
Should another ask
this hour as dream.
Radiance impending.
dlynea
12/10/2003
1/21/2004
as this, read another
Rising for a reason, a there
is, itself sidesteps mind. A glance,
a swallow, a wrong
be as right. Investigate! Or part
the way as such in coalescing.
Multitudes. Nodes. Marching
steadily. Others, the clasp, the
lingering, the waking fond
of lines. Clandestine
interludes bring a moistening
a force of throat against
tongue of turn.
Each wants delineations linear.
Activates to drawing veils,
shadowy. Gears shift
line-drawn minds, irreversibly.
Before form before palm slatted
and squared the flame, innocence danced
light circles and contrasts
as now, tightly held. As this, constricted.
dlynea
12/8/03
1/21/04
Tim Peterson
EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES
The grotesque imbalance of powers fuels my morning walk: azaleas, blue phlox, curbside junk. The careers of several generals winding up in the "cult status" bin, partially on account of the long night and a Lexus SUV. Part the mysterious foliage of a potted plant in the company hallway.
No harbingers, no gusts of atrocious statement. We are a free country, and in that dialysis we derive our nutrients from unfair advantage, not unlike arm-wrestling in gale-force winds. The occult language denied to me by my ancestry will emerge in news photos of the battered and the dead.
Fringe benefits. Cola. I had to try on an appearance I wore in the recesses of a dream. In the dream there was a private anchor, and I sat on top of it and rode it out of the water up onto the boat. The vessel of our sleeping company lurches forward, flank or wing.
The people around you, brain-dead though they find their polls, learn you a thing or two. In practice, the arms of the republic should embrace those who differ in hair color, build, or perception. A sequined dress, barren angle in the new world, apotheosis of corona and self-stink.
Wink. The news carried us into the souped-up sand dunes. Partially, I grow nostalgic for the intimacy of a nape, but this timidity runs fallow under rifles and manpower. I did not side with the victors. I did not lose my change on the wrong bet, rusted machines of the hard-of-hearing government.
Jesse Seldess
HUM WITH
(click here for the text of this long poem)