Gathered in the second floor of Pioneer Book (a Provo, Utah staple), four poetry pals gathered to discuss Shakespeare–except, none of us had read the same play. Whoops. We improvised, however, and decided to use our meeting to write four poems–together.
It was interesting, each of us writing a line on our phones, then passing the phone clockwise, for the next person to add a line, and so on. Part of me felt like the result was just funny. But another part of me felt like there were some interesting lines that could be salvaged and repurposed in other poems, maybe the germ of a future sonnet?
Without further ado, here are the resulting four poems, written by four poets–together.
Poem 1)
The fantasy of being complete but not quite has always appealed to me as a thematic foundation.
The haiku is built on vacuity’–half-poems
that parasite off their host.
The fries sizzle thick on griddles eased
slick with butter It’s the only restaurant in town
that doesn’t fry in vegetable oil and dadgum but
I have to be grateful for that, don’t I?
I’m grateful that turkeys have livers
and that those that live might yet go to Turkey.
The word “lovers” always seems like dark green, mottled,
a frenetic strain on the tongue– I didn’t mean that
What I mean is it too dark and thick, and
I can taste it for too long, and I keep wishing
it was strawberry instead of the deep Australian licorice you all seem to love so much.
Truffaluffalopolis the whole lot of you!
Ok, I do like black licorice too.
But not between my lips, only reserved to color my longing
Poem 2)
Poetry is delicious because
it is not a single ingredient,
it is a category of spiritual food.
The clenched fetus fist all gooed
with birth stain Is only the fourth step
Of this ragamagu process we call valley-making, at least
in Romania. Not quite mania,
where our outward energy
enables our worst impulses, our most fun ones too
Slices of ham laid sideways on fat white bread;
yes, I miss my mother.
In water-logged clumps of pomegranate,
in crushing stains you come back to mind
in the earliest hours, long before I can stand the images. J
ust speak without presence.
Peak without peasants.
Stake without hesitation.
Car backed down a driveway powdered, sugared
A postcard picture, something understandable, intelligible—“This is my stock footage moment!
Am I a human at last in the way of other humans?”
Poem 3)
Bamboo grows too fast for this.
It’s something we ought to be grateful for,
though, if we profess to love pandas
as much as any other human.
We must romance them, take them
to dinner, string their bamboo through our fingers, teeth, and hair.
Agonies of a tulip all reddened, a menstrual cup
contained and suctioned in place
the last vestiges of my sanity are held
in the ratty little shower, plastic shelves
held above the stained porcelain and
holding the one luxury I afford myself.
I can afford to put my minutes into sustainable hours
outside of work-assigned breaks.
Lick my coffee. My dartboards always
ooze cartoonishly, dribbles fresh down white walls like whimsy, spat
You should see the darts. The cats
got to them one holiday while we were away,
and we never bothered replacing them.
Now we live with their effigies, in their energies, with the men you please.
Poem 4)
The desecration of a cord cut short
Has no bearing on respectability of the side table lamp
without the cord stretched taut
across the back of the mattress.
Stretch your soul and allow the cleaver of community driven morality and style enact its Procrustean force upon your finger tips.
Muzak ekes blindly through doors doubled wide
Music slides smoothly under the sill
I keep myself from looking toward the source, fighting the grip the ice cream truck still holds over my middle age.
But I do like iron clothing, so there is that, my one mark of maturity
Dean Young made much of modernity, its fickle grievances, refused to grant it the anxious respect of order
Which is a crumpled but understandable excuse for avoidance.
Over/Poetry 