Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie (NaPoWriMo 13)

St. Dunstan-in-the-East

His chapel fell into flowers long ago;
the city planted them, repaved the ash

dust, scoured pilasters, placed
benches and a picnic table right there

where the matchstick pews marched
headlong into the bombs.

Next to the climbing ivies, the morning
glories yawn blue and pink, a horseshoe

hung over the door below the cross
to catch its falling graces.


NaPoWriMo 13: Dubie.

The Kookaburra Laughs (NaPoWriMo 8)

The Kookaburra laughs
                 your laugh. I wouldn't
                 have thought it possible
                 but here you are, perched
                 on the arm of a tour guide,
                 feathers preened to shine,
                 his hide gloves thick to keep you
                 from drawing blood.


NaPoWriMo 8: unusual love connections.

Questions About a Photograph of Statues (NaPoWriMo 6)

Who or what in this picture could speak?

The statues of headless angels. The heads of long-dead kings.

What would they say?

"we have been stuck in marble halls for too long. Occasionally we are wrapped in plaster, duplicated, copies of ourselves shipped off to other locations, but never outside as we once were, guarding the temple doors. Even missing our wings, there is a reason we are positioned for flight."

Why is this image meaningful to me?

Occasionally I have felt stagnant, trapped, headless. We are both made of something so much heavier than air. We are both looking to use our wings that have been lost to the dirt.

When I look at it, what am I remembering?

Standing in the British Museum marveling at the amount of stolen art and architecture within: The Roman statues staring down the corridor at the head of Rameses. The head of Rameses staring blank at the Greek trireme. The trireme's ram aimed at the remnant walls of a Persian temple.

How does this image make me feel?

I am nostalgic for the feeling of being steeped in stolen history.




NaPoWriMo 6: find a photo.

Boxer (NaPoWriMo 5)

The poem arrives
with a black eye,
a split lip, saying
"Yeah, well you
should see the poet."


NaPoWriMo 5: make it personal.

Burial (NaPoWriMo 3)

In this photograph you were
leaping between boulders, hair
a shock of red in the dun
of the desert. I attempted to
recreate it, leaping over
a cavernous drop between
preserved ruins six miles
outside of Rome. I shudder
when the shutter clicks. This
image is on your headstone.

I am not on your headstone,
though a part of me is underground
with you, rotting beautiful.

But now the both of us, you
and the flower tucked in your
breast pocket, are dust and
your breast pocket is probably
dust, too, or a rag that some
creature has inhabited. I am
home to my grief; you are home
to ours. Some creature
is thriving on the home made
from both of us dissolving away.




Napowrimo 3: Something you are scared of.

Time and I

know that were the bells––
                 ringing hymns at four o'clock
                sharp––not ringing, the still
                 of that afternoon would have

been broken some other way,
                far-off laughter, the birds startled
                into flight, a rattling commotion,
                a grass-snake at my toes,

and the passage of time
                 would not have gone silently. Even
                 the body, with its ticking clock, takes
                 this business of the future seriously:

when discussing it,
                 we lean forward into its passing sounds.

In the Parlor (NaPoWriMo 1)

There is no harmony
between Jefferson Airplane

and a tattoo gun, but both
spring to life from needles

against textured surfaces this
afternoon, "Somebody to Love"

and a bicep tattoo of the word
Mother; "Come Back Baby"

and the covering of an old
flame's name. The skin carries

a weight. Information. Travels.
The world. Looking in, the ink

is a roadmap deposited below
your surface, an anecdote

of self, a slow graffiti
to the tune of whatever

the artist puts the needle to.



Day 1 of NaPoWriMo '10. The prompt was 5 song titles from your library on shuffle.

Come Back Baby-Jefferson Airplane
Information Travels-Death Cab for Cutie
World Looking In-Morcheeba
Anecdote-Ambulance Ltd.
Slow Graffiti-Belle & Sebastian

Galleria Bargello, August 2009

"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks."
-Plutarch

And what of sculpture? I hear the cheers
of the Israelites, the thud of Goliath's
head on the sand echoing in this prison-

turned-museum. David stands as tall as I am
(what giants will I slay?), some supple ideal
of soft flesh in cold bronze, and were it not

for the motionless nature of sculpture,
that forever-fleeting smirk, his young lips
of victory would have whispered,

"No poem is as polished and revered"
or, "Let us see you make something
worthy of a pedestal."

Thin Skinned

Let the body be its own

poem; ink, scars, pock-marked, anything
but decorous. You are indecipherable

enough to keep up with the best
of them. Let the poem be

a cave from which words echo.
Shout and listen to them all

come back like bats, leathery,
blind, hearing their way skyward.

Unwelcome Guest

Melancholy wanders through
your livingroom, a bear

stinking of old things devoured
but not quite digested, her footfalls

heavy on the carpet, a shuffling
gait, snuffling for something you

have strung carefully in the rafters. You,
standing in the kitchen with the dish water

running and the radio on commercial
break, no knives in reach, the diningroom

table still strewn with utensils because
dinner consisted of cold––cold

spaghetti conversation (limp, unpalatable), cold
weather seeping through the uncaulked windows––

you wait for her to stop swatting at that
something, suspended above the sofa, just

out of reach. She is ignoring the din
from the kitchen and the food on dishes

not yet cleared, intent only on what she
can almost reach. She has risen

on two feet, when you decide that
that is close enough, and kill

the radio, turn the tap, her guilt-thick breathing
caught between sudden silences.