Arlo Paints
—Poetry by B. Lynne Zika, Burbank, CA
—Visuals Courtesy of B. Lynne Zika
WINGÈD
Ah, but the poem of the air—
the one that lifts itself from the broken curb,
the one hoisted from the gutter,
plowed from exhausted dirt,
the one which caught the shirttail
of a moan
and lifted the shriek to a celebration,
the one that unbuttons your heart
and crawls into your chambers
to do its damage and repair,
and never touches a pen,
never proclaims itself in the trades
or is gilded in sweet academia
but tiptoes to your lips,
brushes them with its own
in a honey fire that burns you
until you’re weeping,
and once gone is silent
so that only air and memory remain—
that is the poem I will bring you,
and if the day is not too loud
and if your murmur tells you
Answer,
well, then, yes, of course,
I’ll be listening.
Ah, but the poem of the air—
the one that lifts itself from the broken curb,
the one hoisted from the gutter,
plowed from exhausted dirt,
the one which caught the shirttail
of a moan
and lifted the shriek to a celebration,
the one that unbuttons your heart
and crawls into your chambers
to do its damage and repair,
and never touches a pen,
never proclaims itself in the trades
or is gilded in sweet academia
but tiptoes to your lips,
brushes them with its own
in a honey fire that burns you
until you’re weeping,
and once gone is silent
so that only air and memory remain—
that is the poem I will bring you,
and if the day is not too loud
and if your murmur tells you
Answer,
well, then, yes, of course,
I’ll be listening.
WHY I LOVE POETS
Pound gave Zukofsky’s poetic career an important
boost by urging Poetry editor Harriet Monroe to
appoint the young New Yorker as guest editor of a
special issue devoted to new English and American
poets.
—Poetry Foundation
The poet sat on my couch for hours, reading
poem after poem and not
saying a word.
Finally:
Why aren’t you published yet?
He gave me a name.
He wrote her himself.
Telephone publishes my first three poems in print.
Lacey Thomson’s mother worries.
Her daughter prefers books to people.
I know this because her second cousin cleans my
house
now that I’m a geezer.
Ten poets I know
send Lacey a list of poets to read,
and Emily and Mary and Maureen
join to teach a solitary young girl in Alabama
the power of the written word.
Pound gave Zukofsky’s poetic career an important
boost by urging Poetry editor Harriet Monroe to
appoint the young New Yorker as guest editor of a
special issue devoted to new English and American
poets.
—Poetry Foundation
The poet sat on my couch for hours, reading
poem after poem and not
saying a word.
Finally:
Why aren’t you published yet?
He gave me a name.
He wrote her himself.
Telephone publishes my first three poems in print.
Lacey Thomson’s mother worries.
Her daughter prefers books to people.
I know this because her second cousin cleans my
house
now that I’m a geezer.
Ten poets I know
send Lacey a list of poets to read,
and Emily and Mary and Maureen
join to teach a solitary young girl in Alabama
the power of the written word.
WHY ARE YOU CRYING NOW
Because my friend’s new book is out
and it’s one woven from
the same threads I wear,
and I don’t think I can afford it, and
I don’t want to tell him because
he might do something silly like
offer to send me a copy,
and then I’d feel bad about telling him.
Sigh. So we’re back to that.
And because, really,
I don’t want to be here anymore.
It’s not that the hummingbirds
glitter less brightly in morning sun
or that his morning words
are any less sweet
or that the white arms I see
stretched across oceans
are sunburned now.
It isn’t even so much
the loss of majesty
because even the microscopic
can hold splendor,
but I am tired of being small,
of folding my wings,
of not hearing giggling children or,
once grown, not having strength
to sit below their balconies
and listen to them singing
to their own wives.
I am tired of my father
being too long dead,
and I’m tired that still
there are hungry children
and men arguing for cameras.
And I cry because there is no one
to tell these things to, that
maybe they don’t even matter,
and even if they do, what then?
Will they stay a hand?
Will the backhills boy
or the city girl know I’m listening?
Do you think there’s any damned satisfaction
if my words are remembered when I’m gone?
I don’t want to ensure my memory.
I want water.
I want these fires to be quenched.
I want to be silent.
I want peace.
Today’s LittleNip:
THE OCCASIONAL PLEASURE
OF MARRIAGE
THE OCCASIONAL PLEASURE
OF MARRIAGE
—B. Lunne Zika
I called to him from my room,
“The crows are conversing!”
and settled back to listen to their chatter.
He wandered in and studied the window,
then, for ten minutes, translated
The Conversation of Crows.
I keep telling him he should write, but so far,
he leaves it to me. So, courtesy of
the occasional pleasure of marriage,
I do.
_______________________
B. Lynne Zika is back with us today, bringing her Burbank sass and swagger and some fine poems and pix! B. Lynne first appeared in the Kitchen last May 17 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=b.+lynne+zika/).
Today is the last meeting of the First Church of Poetry at McKinley Park in Sacramento; this week features Stockton Poet Laureate Tama L. Brisbane. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_______________________
—Medusa
I called to him from my room,
“The crows are conversing!”
and settled back to listen to their chatter.
He wandered in and studied the window,
then, for ten minutes, translated
The Conversation of Crows.
I keep telling him he should write, but so far,
he leaves it to me. So, courtesy of
the occasional pleasure of marriage,
I do.
_______________________
B. Lynne Zika is back with us today, bringing her Burbank sass and swagger and some fine poems and pix! B. Lynne first appeared in the Kitchen last May 17 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=b.+lynne+zika/).
Today is the last meeting of the First Church of Poetry at McKinley Park in Sacramento; this week features Stockton Poet Laureate Tama L. Brisbane. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_______________________
—Medusa
—Artwork by B. Lynne Zika
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
