halves

to tell us we have the same hazel eyes as each other should have evaporated after landing.

but your benign comment,
though gentle to the ear, pierced
my consciousness.

already, I have been feeling
only half myself
since I met him.

feeling, since then,
that I have gone a lifetime
with only half of everything.

only half of the joy
and half of the pain of being
separated from someone else -

even when I know
we'll reform, back together
as soon as the day ends.

before, I thought I felt
normal and whole, but
the illusion has melted

like microwaved honey,
it pours out all over
the place while still sticking to me.

your comment about
our same hazel eyes
is the sticky part.

everything else about us
is different, a bit askew.
slightly different form each other.

although some would say
complimentary. they would say
we are like coffee and chocolate -

both bitter but in their own
unique and pleasant ways
and when paired together

they form a satisfaction
that nothing else can match.

tapped

tapping the keys and tapping my feet to the beat

that's playing in my head
that keeps changing

depending on the song
playing on the laptop

of the person working
in the office next to mine.

a laptop-tap-along but
I can't make out the words.

On "2 Poems" by E. Smith Sleigh on paperdarts.org

E. Smith Sleigh on paperdarts.org

it's been a while since i really delved into poetry.  sure, i've been dabbling.  and this might just be a spurt.  a sputter.  but i always like to pretend that i can put my poetess hat on at any given whim.

to help me feel better about poetry, about myself and poetry, i need to read some.

i've been involved with Vera Pavlova in the form of her book "If There Is Something To Desire" over the last week or so.  i may dare to share my thoughts on her work once i've read and reread it all a few times; although, i already have half of the pages earmarked.  i have a certain affinity, it would seem, with female russian poets.

if you know me on facebook, chances are high that you've received a message from asking for suggestions on more poetry books.  perhaps i'll start a regular (maybe monthly) poetry review here to go along with my mashpee chamber themed posts.

getting back to poetry... it's been a long time since i read chapbooks, e-zines, and other poets' blogs.  so a simple google search for online chapbooks lead me to a list of 12 beautiful online magazines.  first on the list... paper darts.  which is exactly where i found the two poems written by E. Smith Sleigh.

 

upon first reading the poems, in the format they appeared on my phone, i approached them wanting very much to like them both.  before i reread, i decide i like the first one much better, but i cannot decide why yet.

 

upon a second reading, i think the cherry pie mention is mostly what swings my bias, but i also realize that by the time i am mid-way through the second poem, i have figured out the alliteration game and find it less interesting than the first poem.

 

not to say i don't like the second one.  the first one, the second one, let's give them names.

 

E's first poem is called "medieval metal music".  in it, E breaks down structure with his own structure and with the content of the poem.  the format of the poem is an appeasing square, but within it the reader must rely on gaps without punctuation or line breaks for breath.  thus, emphasizing the content of the poem, the structure lends itself directly to the poem's purpose.  and leaving the structure of a stream-of-conscious style poem, cherry pie. 

 

where "medieval metal music" is unpredictable, with just enough new turns to keep me interested by not lost, "rising waters" strikes me as somewhat more childish with its "invisible dark matter   dark
matters   madder than a hatter  chic tam" ramblings.

 

however, this somewhat rambling predictability is in cool contrast with "medieval metal music" which relies on the reader's inevitable frustration with current music genre titles.  instead, "rising waters" is nature. 

 

structure vs nature.

 

i get it. i buy it. i read it again.

 

man makes cherry pie out of structures.  nature makes us go back inside where it's warm and dry and we can't be taken by the flood for our tribute to the structures we've created.  these two poems, the more i shift around inside them, become a debate between each other.  the value of human society in contrast with the natural order.

 

November Fourth

two days ago, a young woman named Xu
got on a subway to escaped the rain
where she met a man who needed her help.
today, on the fourth day of the first November,
she leaves his apartment, having done all she can for him,
but feels something inside her rumble
as she closes his door shut and stares out
at the entrance to the city street.
she is paralyzed by a fear of the oncoming,
the oncoming of what, however, she cannot know.
she cannot know that the city in the jungle,
in it's very first year in history,
is about to be destroyed.
she cannot know that she is, right now, leaving
the one person who would keep her safe
when the city falls to its knees.

November Third

you might remember our hero
whom we met yesterday
as he entered the subway with bruises and cuts
but was never given a name.
his name is leonard and today is his birthday.
38 years before the first November in our history,
but well after the invention of the subway,
leonard was born and his epic story began. 
we rejoin him on the morning of November Third -
the first November Third in history -
leonard is in pain from the fight he fought the day before,
but his pain is eased by the smell of coffee
and bacon and something else... maple.
there is someone in the kitchen.  someone we haven't met yet.
someone whom leonard met yesterday
on the train he used to escape the city in the jungle.

November Second

the story starts, "it was a cool day in November"
but what the story doesn't tell you
is that every day in November is cool.
today, rain seeped out of grey clouds
that lay low against the jungle's roof.
and today we meet our protagonist
as he warily exits the bustle of the city -
the city that hides indiscreetly
under the palms of our jungle setting -
and enters the altogether new trappings
of the subterranean transportation system.
his face is battered from being hit and thrown
by a man in an office, as it often happens in stories.
but our hero still looks dashing with cuts across his cheeks and nose.
there is only a slight tear in his silk shirt
and his hair, although messy, still looks fashioned.

November First

the story begins "it was a cool day in November"
but what the story fails to mention
is that "cool" on this side of the planet,
in the belly of the beastly jungle,
is really rather hot.
too hot to walk on sand without shoes
too hot to sit out in the sun's rays
without your face burning to red,
no matter what color you started out as.
alas, it was November.  the very first day of the month.
the very first day of the very first November
as it was recorded in our history.
it was a Thursday.
the best firsts usually are. 

would wife

as a girl she held imaginary tea parties
dressing all her dolls and teddy bears
in their very best attire

she grew long and beautiful and so did her dreams
of hosting parties for princesses
in palaces in far away places

today she offers you tea and a choice
of biscuits or cake from her stash
kept in tins behind the olive oil in the top cupboard

and if you asked her to marry you
she would probably accept
if you promised her a tea party themed wedding

the pagoda forest

red pandas laze in pink-pine trees
among inhabited bird houses

unpainted and weather worn
they were put up in bunches

ripe strawberries hatch from their roots
surrounding a calm, circular pond

where grey dirt turns to mud
and sticks to shoes like paste

you'll see a red and golden pagoda
floating aimlessly over the water

waiting patiently to be mounted
by bold visitors to this sacred place

"Vien pres du feu pour te rechauffer."*

the elder spoke, slow and wise

addressed the braise of general Sherman
green top to bottom with flickers and hopes

to the heart, blue with heat



*“Come by the fire to get warmer.”

"Son café, c'est du jus de chaussette."*

ex-expert wife of tv chef celebrity
her breasts punctual, to a

the might of cameramen at her beck and
her whim is fright for his white collar

and trim

the son and daughter of two, nostalgic
menopausal masterpiece for three

turn and cook on both sides




*"Her coffee tastes like sock juice."

"La peur ne se commande pas."*

recycled, tufts of fiber optic cables
plucked. like unwanted hairs between brows

polished silver to the beat of
linen soaked sun stroke

with tarnish remover

enhancing lens' vision of hope
pronounced at the cover, paternal rebound

she brings future to your front door
hing, between refills and quality control

check points




*"You can't control fear."

meop

there are some things
you simply cannot do

as well as i do

and there are others
you can do so much better

delivery

the mud is thicker in winter here
a triumph over water in every form

bricks hold houses together, against snow
and against mailmen with allergies

and letters that don't fit nicely
inside the box on the side of the street

isle eight

super market romantic

she's there to buy something
an imported good for her imported well being

he's there to look, to think
a browser with an interest in brilliant colors

they stumble upon each other
upon entry and a smile between canned goods

she selects lucozade and udon
she selects cash out teller number ten

he follows, watches, stands too close
to purchase a pike of apples and carton of cream

the teller doesn't know
she's agreed to follow him home

after an uninterrupted suit meets sweater
in the center of isle eight

a hello, hello, and happy valentine's day
a yes and a kiss

as the old woman strode by
she didn't lift her head

and two strangers made arrangements
for other isles on other days

winter sale

i watched the neighbor's dog
run up and down the street

twelve times, then gave up and lost count

everyone is out, shovelling

everyone stopped to watch
a fire engine roll past

not sure what for, it stopped
at the center of the culd-a-sac

then everyone went back to shovelling

before you go

before you go, he said,
could i... tall and quiet

he stood, breathing
but not speaking

a small crowd formed around us
the three people waiting

in the car parked at the curb
and the family at the door

between them he and i
he glanced at both parties

shook his head, never mind, he said.

last round out

a web of metal parts
holding hands and hearts together

fused by the heat
of an innocent habanero

the french quarters
each prick into the corner

a choice between roads
wet and shallow

like graves of sand
at the bottom of a satchel

my boon is forthcoming
in yours and his last fought

winner takes to fall apart
and my bank account to fill

silver will do.

at one thirty in the afternoon

the doors sigh with age
every time someone,
who isn't you,
walks through them.

they, with
no regard for me, sat
waiting for someone.
and no attention paid
to the ache in the hinges.

the doors and i, bored
and lonely. we sit waiting.
my neck craning to see.

you were meant to be here
at eleven fifteen.

so, what are we still waiting for?

brink

half a light flickers
the words "hot" and "cold"
but you can't read what's in between.

the shaking hand on your shoulder
leads you astray, towards the corner
and begs you to decide a new route.

paused there, the light turns yellow
then red in the opposite direction.

you wait, but the light facing you
never turns the perfect shade of green.