writing poetry

September 30, 2019

I started writing poetry as a child. Just a few lines at first (with some funny rhymes, or at least I thought they were funny back then). I never really stopped for very long, but kept writing as a teenager, and on into what people think of as the adult years. I’m now old! and still writing. In my twenties the question of when one could call oneself a poet seemed important, and kind of anxiety-producing. But later I realized that the point is that anyone who is writing poetry is, by definition, a poet. If you keep writing, you get better at it…

I think of poetry more as what they used to call a “vocation” rather than as a job. That is, something you really want to do, and hope to have a talent for, and time. And something you can learn a lot about from others who also write.

Roo Borson
Interview with Poetry in Voice

the Fairy of Dreams

September 30, 2019

The wall is silence, the grass is sleep,
Tall trees of peace their vigil keep,
And the Fairy of Dreams with moth-wings furled
Plays soft on her flute to the drowsy world.

Ida Rentoul Outhwaite

Lilith

September 30, 2019

Lilith Queen of Darkness,
Black Womb that still feeds life,
Mother of Demons,
Breeder of the Dark Soul,
Mother of the barren womb,
Weaver of the Mysteries,
You create life through Darkness,
Extinguish the light through desire,
Seducer of the chaste,
Slayer of the pious,
The one who steals that yet unborn
Yet creates the Children of the Night,
Face of the Dark Moon,
Consort of Satan . .. the Devil,
Crimson river of gestations
Spinner of nightmares,
Lilith I revere you
As my Spiritual Mother
And the Queen of the Infernal!

Kaltharn

Forget the images you’ve learned to attach
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.

Get rid of the old words altogether.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.

When you peel layers of clothing from his skin
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.

If she offers you breastbone
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
Diabetes,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.

If he offers you a thumb-sized sprout of muscle
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can –
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.

Realize that bodies are only a fraction of who we are
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this

Gabe Moses

Strip Poker

September 29, 2019

Every hand I get
you seem to be beating
I’m starting to wonder
if perhaps you’re cheating

Knickers come off
I start to blush
Never realized pair of twos’
beat a royal flush

Poeta De Cabra

Escape was quite impossible.

September 29, 2019

There was a platform in the centre of the square of each village, and when the Queen went inside the house of the Lord of the village to drink a cup of wine with him, I was left on display.

But I was not to stand gracefully as I might have hoped. And the villagers knew this, though I didn’t. When we reached the first village, the Queen went away, and as soon as my feet hit the platform, a great roar went up from the crowd who knew they were to see something amusing.

I had my head down when Princess Lynette removed the phallus from my anus. Of course the crowd cheered at this. I was then made to kneel up, hands behind my neck on a turntable.

Princess Lynette operated it with her foot. And telling me to spread my legs wide, she turned the turntable. I was perhaps more afraid in these first few moments than ever before, but never once did the fear of rising and trying to escape come to me. I was helpless. Naked, a slave of the Queen, I was in the midst of hundreds of common people who would have overpowered me at once, and cheerfully for all the sport it would have given them. It was then that I realized escape was quite impossible. Any naked Prince or Princess fleeing the castle would have been apprehended by these villagers. They would have given no shelter.

Now Princess Lynette commanded me to show to the crowd all my private parts that were in the service of the Queen, and that I was her slave, and her animal. I did not understand these words, which were spoken ceremoniously. So she told me politely enough that I must part the cheeks of my buttocks as I bent over and display for them my open anus. Of course this was a symbolic gesture. It meant I was ever to be violated. And nothing more than that which could be violated.

But my face aflame, my hands trembling, I obeyed. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Tears slipped down my face. With a long cane, Princess Lynette lifted my balls for them to see, and pushed my penis this way and that to display its defenselessness, and all the while I had to hold my buttocks apart and display my anus. Whenever I relaxed my hand she commanded me sharply to pull the flesh wider apart and threatened me with chastisement. “That will infuriate her Highness,” she said, “and amuse the crowd immensely.” Then to a loud approving cry, the phallus was shoved securely back into my anus. I was made to press my lips to the wood of the turntable. And I was led back to my position beside the Queen’s coach, Princess Lynette pulling my bridle over her shoulder as I trotted with my head lifted behind her.

A. N. Roquelaure [Anne Rice]
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

Irish Viagra

September 29, 2019

An Irish woman of advanced age visited her physician to ask his advice on reviving her husband’s libido.

“What about trying Viagra?” asked the doctor.

“Not a chance” she replied. “He won’t even take an aspirin”.

“Not a problem,” said the doctor. “Give him an Irish Viagra.”

“What on Earth is Irish Viagra?” she asked.

“It’s Viagra dissolved in his morning cup of coffee. He won’t even taste it. Let me know how it goes,” he said.

She called the doctor the very next afternoon. “How did it go?” he asked.

“Oh faith, bejaysus and begorrah, doctor, it was terrible. Just horid, I tell ya! I’m beside meself!”

“Oh, no! What in the world happened?”

“Well, I did the deed, Doctor, just as you advised. I put the Viagra in his morning coffee, and he drank it. Well, you know, it took effect almost immediately, and he jumped straight up out of his chair with a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye and his pants a-bulging. Then, with one fierce swoop of his arm, he sent the cups, saucers, and everything else that was on the table flying across the room, ripped me clothes to tatters and passionately took me then and there, right on top of the table. T’was a nightmare, I tell ya, an absolute nightmare!”

“Why so terrible?” asked the doctor. “Wasn’t the sex good?”

“Freakin jaysus, it was the best sex I’ve had in me last 25 years, but sure as I’m sittin here, Doctor, I’ll never be able to show me face in Starbucks again!”

All sorted!

After Kim Addonizio

When our breasts arrived
as a kind of currency, we’d tug
our camisoles low, use
our newfangled bodies to haggle
with the ice cream man. The winner
was the girl who received her chocolate cone
for free, who sucked on candy cigarettes
the same way she wore a training bra.
That summer my pockets grew forests
of hand-tied maraschino cherry stems:
tampered evidence that I might one day be worthy
of kissing. In exchange for rides
on the handlebars of their bikes,
we’d let the boys bite
the beads off our candy
necklaces until the chokers
resembled punched out teeth.
From their slobber, blue and violet
stained my throat where the sweetness
had once been, so I suppose,
Your Honour, I was preparing
for him.

Megan Falley

You want to know what it was like?
It was like my whole life had a fever.
Whole acres of me were on fire.
The sun talked dirty in my ear all night.
I couldn’t drive past a wheatfield without doing it violence.
I couldn’t even look at a bridge.
I used to go out in the brush sometimes,
So far out there no one could hear me,
And just burn.
I felt all right then.
I couldn’t hurt anyone else.
I was just a pillar of fire.
It wasn’t the burning so much as the loneliness.
It wasn’t the loneliness so much as the fear of being alone.
Christ look at you pouring from the rocks.
You’re so cold you’re boiling over.
You’ve got stars in your hair.
I don’t want to be around you.
I don’t want to drink you in.
I want to walk into the heart of you
And never walk back out.

Nico Alvarado