Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Tuesday poem #241 : Ryan Eckes : chase scene

good luck in all your future endeavors, types the middle manager
chewing on a slim jim. back at home we’re rinsing off the isms. it’s
the wknd, and the middle class are out volunteering for the one
percent. we grow free w/out them, though they keep calling. feel
them push monday into sunday, friday into saturday. one percent
of one smidgen of a dead cockroach’s heart casts its vote, finally,
for the middle class. can freedom be a pigeon? if it kicks you the
right way. if it spits on your shoe and laughs in your face. if in your
neighbor’s face you look long enough to lose your mask, and you
feel it fly away, feel it shit on a boss—any boss—then yes.

Ryan Eckes is a poet who lives in South Philadelphia. His books include Valu-Plus and Old News (Furniture Press 2014, 2011). You can read some of his poems in Tripwire, The Brooklyn Rail, Slow Poetry in America Newsletter, Supplement, Public Pool, Whirlwind and on his blog. He is the recipient of a 2016 Pew Fellowship in the Arts.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 07, 2017

Tuesday poem #240 : Rebecca Salazar : A death preceded by three auguries


In your last week, when they say you might stop eating, you eat
twenty seven watermelons whole. The brothers ogle:
pink juice parsing the lines of your face and depositing
carbuncles, sugar gems on your cracked lips and chin,
like the starched stars that web across summer fruit rinds.


The hospice halls heavy and cloying with jasmine and rose.
We are immersed. After lights-out, the sisters sneak
from the guest room, both drunk on perfume more viscous
than honey. Their shoes syrup-stick to the floor before
they reach your bed. They sway, sick with the brilliant scent.


Morning sickness wakes the mother, hot sleep wicking down
the hard sphere of her belly. A blue votive flame
draws her to eyes to the phone at her bedside, the number
unknown, cool voice calling for warmth just as you
signal sounds like her name in your tapering sleep.

Rebecca Salazar is the author of Guzzle (Anstruther), and an editor for The Fiddlehead and icehouse poetry. Her poetry appears in Prism, Minola Review, and Cosmonauts Avenue, and her non-fiction in The Puritan and Partisan Magazine. Originally from Sudbury, Ontario, she is currently a PhD candidate and Vanier scholar in New Brunswick.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Tuesday poem #239 : Biswamit Dwibedy : After Noon

light of recognition
reflected aimlessly                  
his body along
will hover.

As now you will
say: Can I?
Let Me. Be Mine.
And the Many
in the forest turn concrete. Your breath
a staggering plateau. The delicate marriage
of bones.

An oar unraveled
Whatever rippled
roughly shaped like
another orbit

similarities we must reclaim.

An I on the other side
the other hand, awakens               
architecture. like mica
inside the eyes.     

 Wheat, dirt
elongated seasons.

That move, so assured.

Biswamit Dwibedy is the author of Ozalid (1913 Press, 2010), Eirik’s Ocean (Portable Press, 2016) and Ancient Guest (HarperCollins, 2017).  He guest-edited a dossier of Indian poetry for Aufgabe13, published by Litmus Press, and edits Anew Print, a small-press focused on translations from India. He was also a judge for the Best Translated Book Award in 2015. He has an MFA in writing from Bard College and teaches in Bangalore.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Tuesday poem #238 : Kyle Flemmer : Constellations

When I first looked up
at the midnight sky
I saw points not constellations


When I was a child
the stars rained down
on my imagination


When I looked as man
I saw the patterns others
wanted me to see


When I grew old
my milky eyes
beheld no galaxies


And as I die
the stars go out

Kyle Flemmer [photo credit: Dean McLelland] founded The Blasted Tree Publishing Company in 2014 as an outlet for his writing and to build a community of emerging Canadian artists. He graduated from Concordia University in 2016 with a double-major in Western Society & Culture and Creative Writing.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Tuesday poem #237 : Michelle Detorie : PINK DOLPHIN

There is never enough time.
The moon makes a milky
slick upon the sea. We are all
mothers swollen with the hell
of being human, of being
in between. The houses
we make have all
the rooms but the one
where we can meet. That room
floats in the belly of the beast
slushing the whale-road
of alphabets and broken birds.
Still, we can feel it. Bright
fins flashing. Sometimes
pretending is enough.

Michelle Detorie is the author of numerous chapbooks including Fur Birds (Insert Press), How Hate Got Hand (eohippus labs), and Bellum Letters (Dusie). She also makes visual poems, poetry objects, time-based poetry, and curates the public art project, The Poetry Booth. Her first full-length collection, After-Cave, was released with Ahsahta Press in late 2014. In 2015 she completed The Sin in Wilderness, a book-length erasure about love, animals, and affective geography. She is currently at work on a collection of prose pieces called FERAL PLANETS.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan