Poem of the Week selected by David Lawton:
The current situation we are in, and the boundaries it has imposed on us, have challenged us in many ways. And it is only natural that poets would begin searching for language to express a state of being that they have never experienced before (whether through brand new work, or a past work revealing new resonance). And based on the submissions I had the honor of reading this week, this process is well under way. Without my fellow great weather editors, I found myself squarely in the cross hairs. I hated how many old friends submitted work that was highly worthy, but was not the right pick for what I needed to express in my role. I particularly need to acknowledge my great friend Rick Mullin, who always creates engaging, well thought out and witty metrical poems, and did again for this occasion. And Irene Zimmerman, a regular contributor from the JujoMukti Tea Lounge days who we haven't seen in a while. Under the circumstances, I was so happy to discover that she was still writing, and that her writing has become more beautiful. It was hard not to include you both, and that of so many others.
The pieces I've chosen all seem to stretch themselves to become their own particular worlds that express this moment for their writers. Any one of the three could have been the "winner". Maybe, in the end, I chose Joe Roarty's piece because Joe so effectively symbolizes our Parkside Lounge series that we miss so much, and that this Poem of the Week feature is meant to help make up for. You can hear his frame drum beating on incessantly throughout. And we want that beat to continue. To see us through this hellhole we are all in, until we reach the other side.
Poem of the Week
Joe Roarty
i was n my hellhole
one time
i was n my hellhole
i thot i saw a lite
i thot is this a dream
it was th future
evrybody gts borscht
evrybody gts a red flag
evrybody gts a nu shirt
that they nevr wear
cos nobody wears clothes
thr r no abortions
nobody evr gts n troubl
its all mowing th lawn
& bringing up baby
i was n my hellhole
th stars wr n th sky
i see thm up above me
i hear th dark bells
tolling
nconsolabl
untl they trnd 2 wrds
some names
some just wrds
u carry n yr pokkt
u put nto machines
or put upon a countr
or put n somones hand
or names
u can’t evn touch
or barely evn look @
untl yr eyes start shining
burning n yr hd
th only lite around
n my dark hellhole
peopl think thr stars
leo
scorpio
venus
thrs my 1 true venus
watt wrds lead 2 beauty
watt wrds lead 2 war|
doors
that shut & opn
leading wher they lead
god nos i no that i don’t
down here n my hellhole
n my cul de sac
rattling n th hours
between th chairs & tabls
***
Joe Roarty: born n '53 ohio-grew up n pgh,pa-livd n boston,cgo,currntly philly-like 2 perform,read,& rite poetry
Honorable Mention
Miranda Beeson
Crown of Thorns
A solo blast of hip hop: a sunday morning skid into unexpected song. NYC listens for the click of an impatient light.
Red Yellow Green. Bronze statues proclaim their ancient triumphs, mustache/ing on & on the way they always have.
While we think only in the future tense of who what when where & why & try on unfamiliar words like hope & please.
The scrape of a trowel in a slice of garden across the way where clusters of daffodils take their last bow towards endless April.
The piano next door 2/4's a thank you for more than a few occasional notes: I've been waiting for you for years.
The #5 bus sputters itself into yet another endless, destination/less monologue, longing for its depot & its driver's Juliet.
A woman lets her Yorkie loose in a patch of park where toddlers used to squeal everyday day right by No Dogs Allowed.
I open my view-filled window and holler We're talking tiny kids. She scoops up her piece of fur. He yips. They scram.
Up above one lone jet sighs a bad John Denver song, its lyrics lost to time, except don't know when I'll be back again.
The incessant mosquito/ing of tourist helicopters has been swatted into heavenly virus-infected silence.
Trees fuzz the thought of future leaves, exchanging long, lanky pheromones. Drizzle replies. Mud thrives.
Sirens wail. Joggers look up. Mothers look down. There's still & will always be the parking spot fox-trot.
Two teens in grey hoodies swerve by arm in righteous arm in the knowledge six feet apart was never meant for them.
A homeless man saxophones For The Love Of God & The Almighty Dollar. I hand it over & make it a fiver.
Everyone's living their untrue immunity: I've had it, can't get it, won't get it, don't want it, can't give it, will outlive it.
There’s something to be said for being brought to one's knees & btw the sparrows have taken over.
***
Miranda Beeson is the recipient of Palette Poetry's 2019 Spotlight Award, and a Jody Donohue Poetry Prize. Her poems appear all over. She teaches creative writing at Stony Brook University.
Honorable Mention
Olivia Galvez
It Will Be a Tuesday
I want fire on every street corner
and ice on the rooftops
so that all the air in between is lukewarm vapor.
This is the world ending.
An endless mist for the neon nail salon signs to haze through.
I will walk slowly among the smoke and fog in my longest coat
and flinch not at all as dark shadows hurry out of the grey,
manifest into the scorched faces of the dying.
The world will be all white noise crackle of fire and icicles snapping,
shattering as glass on the uneven concrete.
Somewhere in the distance, the orange glow of factories across the harbor will be a
sunset to end all sunsets.
It will be a Tuesday
and I will walk into the water, bubbling and boiling as a brew,
to be swallowed whole by whatever deep sea creature has not yet heard the news.
***
Olivia Galvez is a writer living and working in New York. She has a penchant for miniatures and space heaters and knows a thing or two about the law.
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