So I'm taking a poetry workshop this semester. Here are some of the things I'm working on. Any comments, criticisms, and preferences are very welcome. (I have to pick one to submit next week).
A Gril Sitting by the Sea
We met in line in Rostock,
In the hopes of finding a bed
On a ferry to Helsinki.
We sat very close in the tall grass
On the coastline
With a carton of warm red wine;
And cursed the steady stream of passengers who bought tickets before us.
Niether of us knew where we would sleep
And I kept thinking,
So this is how affairs begin.
When the sun spilled across the water,
The cars were safely in the hull,
And the passengers all boarded,
A man from the ticket office waved his hands
“A bed is free in one of the male rooms,”
I thought about Tamara afterwards,
And drinking wine;
While I sailed in the company of men
To meet my lover across the Baltic Sea.
The Man in the Repair Shop
The man in the repair shop
Passed away –
The one who spent his days
Restoring manual typewriters
That have since gone out of style.
He knew how to tell a bad part
From the good;
He knew by the sound
And the touch of it.
They all said he was the best
At rebuilding feed rollers
By peeling rubber from the metal core,
And using strips of cut latex
To remove the signs of age.
Champions of Recess
Gabriel and Angela sitting by a tree,
K – I . . .
While on the other side
Of the field out by the tall fence where the dark dog roams
Little limbs collided like pistons,
Surrounded by a pack of onlookers
That grew smaller, intimate,
Spit each other out, and the circle became wider,
Organic arena breathing
Affirmation through desire
Through tempest youth
Through jagged elbow swinging,
Through little leg kicking,
Sweeping its swollen opponent down
Into as much dirt as possible,
Before the bell rang.
S – S – I – N – G.
the tabs are all wrong on this one, but anyway . . .
Still movement, still
Salvation or Technopolis? Absolute Language, either way.
(with little left – for you and I – but we’re still movement,
still – so we can catch our breath,
and the boy in the branches of genealogy – self in community, returning
community – a moonlit compartment – the strangers got off at St. Dizier
“bon soir” well before dawn,
your body held – by the rhythmic cli-click of passing track, and the heat
of steel upon steel,
like thieves in a boxcar – taking back that
which they know is theirs,
into the night – memory in
for you and I, and prklink__ kink
this intimate meandering
– outside, soldiers smoking on a platform – every town has a chapel or a church
while we escaping
Salvation and Technopolis – toward the horizon of endless indefinition,
“tes mains balladeuse” say yes
track beneath our feet, and the names of towns like graffitti on the landscape
upon sticky worn seats of faded green leather a breeze ruffles the drawn curtains racing toward an open draw bridge
our own incomparable