tisdag 5 april 2016

In the light of beauty

  Fjärde veckan med inspiration från de utvalda webbplatsernas "Poem of the week". Från och med nästa tisdag börjar jag presentera de sex sajterna, en åt gången. I kväll blir det puppa, fosfor och pudrad näsa.


Chrysalis, by Stanley Moss
(from It's about time : poems. Rhinebeck, NY : Hopewell Press, 2015.)

I wonder how my life might twine and untwine
if, like the brontosaurus, I had a second brain
to work my tail from the base of my spine.
Two egos at odds in one bed, two ids
might cause two dreams at once, hybrids,
one sweet, one nightmare: my bottom half in the mouth
of a brontosaurus, long as a railroad train.
She and I do what most would find uncouth.
Same time, I am in bed, young me with a beauty,
dreaming I'm having a birthday party -
I'm spinning, a butterfly breaks free
out of my ear that is a chrysalis,

circles the room, finds an open window, flies south
to join the millions it needs for company.
I wake, it's morning, I read, a good guess,
what I never knew I thought before: poetry -
poets who simply honor the language.
I'm a psalmist with a Miss-directed penis.
Cupid plays at cards with me for kisses.
Venus, who never spanks, spanks me,
whispers to Mars in bed, "It's time you turned the page
on Stanley being Stanley.
I thought he went out of style in the Ice Age."


Phosphorus, by Benjamin Landry
(from Particle and wave. Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2014.)

The evening beyond each chain-lit match

seemed to crunch in the shapes of houses,
then rose to play havoc in a veil of dogwoods.

In among the lapses, deer stooped
on their stilts to eat the tulips

which, under these circumstances,
turned away from the source

like moths losing themselves in folded wood.


Powder Puff, by Vicky Arthurs
(from Limehaven : poems. Cullercoats, North Shields : IRON Press, 2015.)

Her dressing table is a magic realm:
A fairy-tale hairbrush, a terrible comb,
A delicate web of lace and ice;
Snowflakes and flowers and strands of silver,
A downy duckling in a looking glass.

I follow her face through halls of mirrors,
A kiss, a kiss on her paper skin.
She dabs my nose with a powder puff:
Soft. Soft. Soft as a cygnet.
Scented dust: its sunlit beauty.

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