Day 20 brings us D.C.-area poet, John “J.D.” Smith, with a poem entitled “Questions on Recruitment.” The poem originally appeared in Against Agamemnon: War Poetry 2009.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

In a very simple, straightforward approach, J.D. takes the idea of an all-too-common occurrence — young men weaponizing their bodies — and flips it around, points toward our elders and wonders aloud what truth do they know that prevents the same.

Questions on Recruitment


Where are the old men
who would dress in explosives
and detonate in a crowd?

Why don’t they, instead of smoking,
fingering worry beads, drinking coffee,
offer what’s left of their flesh
to a greater cause?

What do they know
from their abject decades—
mainly spent in filling
and emptying their lungs,
watching the weather without ceasing—
that they would wish the same
on a stranger, even an enemy
of the true faith?

**
A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 19 brings us Seattle poet Mimi Allin, with a poem entitled “here now white.”

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

Whether or not you’ve read Mimi’s work before, chances are, for those in the Seattle area, you’ve seen her work in action, whether curating an event or serving as the unofficial poet-in-residence at Green Lake. I mention this because Mimi’s work is as much about performance and movement as it is about the words on the page. In “here now white,” we have a poem that dances its way through a wash of colors and images, and leaves us delighted to be part of the ocean’s foam.

here now white

somewhere in the middle of the sea
stands a strange village
made of broken pilings and piers
in a tower there
waits a princess
most dreadfully alone
her suitors come
by boat
but most are too big
their sails too wide
their hulls too fat
to fit through
the labyrinth
of pilings
to get to her
she is a tower at sea
she imagines them
on the horizon
the color of a wave
blue waves white
in the air the moon
over the sea
she sleeps from morning til night
and wakes every evening
to find a magic boot
filled with ink
outside her window
knocking against the wall
perhaps he sent it
she thinks
through the pilings
it came
and so she writes
the color of a wave
using the lace of his boot
she writes
on a dark page—
tie your sails in tight
use the passage of
the shortest pilings
follow the terns’ nests
to the last wall
when it looks like you can go no further
sail in very close
you will see an overlapping passage
take this channel
until you see my tower
i will use a white kerchief
to guide you in
if i hold a blue cloth
you must go back
if red you are in danger
tie to the nearest piling and wait

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 18 brings us Nancy Flynn, a fellow product of Pennsylvania’s Wyoming Valley. Nancy was kind enough to share her poem, “Them Apples,” which first appeared in the collection, The Hours of Us (© 2007, Finishing Line Press).

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

In very tight and thoughtful language, Nancy brings us back around to some of the emotions Alison Apotheker shared on Day 7 — a mother’s love, worry, musings and memories. Nancy lulls us through a peaceful remembrance until the end of the fourth stanza, then jackknifes us into an intense moment of flesh and blood.

Them Apples

Before the rain, yellow and green leaves
teetered on the branch like nightingales and crows
balancing opposite ends of a clothesline.
All those years, you hated field trips;
I lied, promising you a ride in a car.

There were dozens of bushels and ladders,
obstacles in the Cornell Orchard where you,
an undeniably growing boy-child,
careened between other race-around kids.

Maybe I need to re-christen those days
Sunset rather than Gala, the defining cultivar
for my years of mothering alone.

It seems like no time
since the child-rearing manuals failed
even when I revisit that slow
shuffle-dance through triage, after the car hit you,
drunk on your bike, in the moment

you somersaulted over the windshield,
the down from your jacket liberated,
your back a drag strip road rash, and me,
in my white linen dress
bloodied where I gathered you up.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 17 brings us a new poem entitled “Strong,” from New York City artist and educator, Benjamin Tellie.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

Ben’s work oscillates between hard images, strong narrative, and inventive language that can be lucid and playful while still remaining on the ground. In “Strong,” Ben moves us through the physical interaction of two men practicing Kung Fu while also delving into the psychological bond and friendship that forms as they reflect on lives outside of the moment.

Strong


Akila meets me behind a restaurant.
We joke about the way our parents raised us.
How friends die.
Why people leave so soon,

long, till oceans unveil
faces, spitting salt water, touching
cheeks, sunk with waves.

Akila lost his father the first day we met.
He was pale.
Said he didn’t like the bastard,
reminded him of a ship boat
captin he once knew.

We practice Kung Fu since
life without his Dad.
Heal holes
in New York City parks
until rain soaks our jeans.

We travel low in horse stance,
feet wet in the ground.
Toes feel the worms inside

like nerves crawling
in and out of skin.

Words in empty spaces,
filling them with punches, kicks,

knuckles touch,
fingers rise,
chests bend towards sky,
whisper to the old around us.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 16 brings us two poems from Paulann Petersen, “Traveler,” and “Basin,” both from her collection Kindle (© 2008, Mountains and Rivers Press).

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

Paulann’s work can absolutely envelop a reader, and set them floating in whatever jet stream a particular poem provides. In both “Traveler” and “Basin,” we find ourselves in a place of new beginnings, not yet certain of our footing, and still coming to terms with the terrain. Yet we go forward with a sense of safety and familiarity, as if remembering a previous pass through.

Traveler


Cast ashore
like some fleck of wood
brought here from afar
by the sea,

you reel — stunned
to breathe this reek of
strange urine, strange perfume
thick in saffron heat.

Here you are, foreign one,
familiar with only
the moon and stars,
a cloud-scraped sky,

the lidless eye of sun.
Take heart: only what floats
could be carried
as far as you’ve come.

**

Basin

On a walk, your face catches
some of the rain — a bit
of river, mill pond, lake
coming around, slanted down.
Caught on your tongue,
raindrops taste sweet,
an ocean in its mild disguise.

What you gather into yourself
comes from as far away
as the whole world’s girth,
from as close as what you
can reach. Your upturned hands
could cup to hold part of it—
carried with you: this earth’s
steady recompense.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Nothing says taxes like long lines and drinking. With tax day in mind, it’s my pleasure to feature two poems from Carlos Reyes, “In the Line at the Post Office,” and “Shot Glass.” Both poems appear The Book of Shadows (© 2009, Lost Horse Press), his recent collection of new and selected poems.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

The poems exemplify what Carlos does best — drill down to revelation through clean, thoughtful, and well-crafted language, while letting images carry and drive them forward. They remind me of Whitman’s adage that sometimes the power of a work has as much to do with what’s not being said as it does with what rests on the page.

In the Line at the Post Office


The man near
the head of the line

turns to face us
licks stamps

his tongue out
like someone

taking communion.
Up on the wall

Christ on the clock
arms outstretched

says quarter to three.
That his right hand tries

to raise itself, that
his left hand slumps

is an illusion.
The waterclock

has stopped, the
last seconds dry

on his pale wrists.

**

Shot Glass

With the bottom
of the thick glass

he works chancres
into the mahogany

the heel of his hand
rests on what

germs reside there
though the bar

is wiped clean
and shines in the

light of the afternoon
sun stabbing through

the smoky glass
The bar is filthy

half the lives
who come here

are lost in the
dirty wiping rag

the other half
in the porous wood

plank where they
have left

—scratched there
with coins’ serrated edges—

their scars

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 14 brings us Oregon poet Mary Hope, and her poem, “Equinox.”

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

This poem feels like an abstract still-life — a series of tactile images covered in an extra layer of color and drip. Do we linger with the snow, follow the finch, or stay with the blind cat as he gazes into a world “which is now shadow”?

Equinox

And it is done. Snow this morning, Doak Mountain a promise.
A yellow finch topping the cup of snow on the monk pine
and the blind cat Kiki, making his way across the lawn
as slow as a diver. The great bell of his head lifted,
he guides by sound and temperature, his body forever
taking him east, he crosses into the aspen grove, pauses to pat
a rock, walks across three more and then finds the large volcanic
slab, snowless, out of the wind. There he sits, gazing
at the world which is now shadow; how much depth or light
I can only guess. Face into the sun, eyes slits, birds
slowly forgetting he is not statue.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 13 brings us two poems from Oregon poet, John Morrison. The first, “Black Bead,” comes from his first full-length collection, Heaven of the Moment (© 2007, Fairweather Books); the second, “Your Dark,” is a new piece he graciously shared with us.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

“Black Bead,” like Bruce Weigl’s poem, “Eddy,” takes us through the unspoken tenderness that exists between men. Here the narrator recaps an instance where his father relies on the tools he knows in order to relieve his son’s pain. “Your Dark,” meanwhile, harkens back to Peter Sears’ poem from Day 1, “We Can Help Each Other.” John addresses the questions posed in the other poem, and pushes readers forward into new considerations.

Black Bead


Hunched like a grey bear over
my ten-year-old hand, my father spun
in his knobby fingers a drill bit
thin as a toothpick on my bruised thumbnail.

In the solitary game where I slammed
grey rock against grey rock, the rock
all our dry acre had in abundance,
I missed on my way to open the color

inside: sunrise, ochre, rust, willow green.
Under my thumb’s clear, fine shell
a thundercloud appeared in the pink sky,
a cloud that brooded, brooded but wouldn’t

rain, only throbbed darker. He never
offered what he knew, not the science
of winds, not constellations, not the curve
of the earth, but he would go quiet, lean in,

and try to fix anything. Clumsy about gentleness,
silver flashed in his hand. He whispered,
How brave you are, as he churned, then coaxed
out the pinhole a first bead of black blood.

**

Your Dark

     with a nod to Peter Sears

Is your dark never silky

like old port or soft as the underside

of a calendula petal with your eyes

closed, but is your dark more like a knobby

patch of summer tar mounded in

a pothole, the same tar the dumb

kid would twist off in a wad

to chew like Black Jack gum? I mean,

without any of the warm light

in that memory, just the oily,

shiny, black and sticky, a syrup

down your throat and nose, in ears

and eyes until you’re full

or swallowed or is your dark

more like mine, a black gravel

with a few, flickering grey

pebbles sifted in, all in

motion like a slow storm, a fine

emery cloth on your skin, a grim

spa, rejuvenating, yes, but no doubt

grinding me down.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 12 brings us Pamela Steele, and her poem, “To the Woman Single Again,” from the collection Paper Bird.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

Pamela leads us into the poem with a touch of dry, “Why me?” humor that punctuates a seemingly exhausting period of inquiry, bewilderment and self-doubt. From there, the poem takes us through a moment of reprieve and nighttime contemplation, then guides us into a morning filled with images, colors, and a sense of moving on.

To the Woman Single Again

Yesterday in the public library, a man stopped by the table
where you were reading Carolyn Forche, leaned down
and mumbled something with rubber band lips that you
asked him to repeat. A ribbon of drool fell from his mouth
as he said, Are you a boy or a girl? In your best library voice,
you whispered Girl, and he sidled away, leaving you distracted
and remembering how you complained to a friend about lesbians
in Kroger who stare at you and your butch hair
until she finally said, For God’s sake, put on some makeup
and earrings! Later, when you took off your coat in the diner,
a car salesman at the counter stared at your wild
breasts and you thought, I just can’t win.

Likely, there are nights when you fear you will always be alone,
wondering how you will manage the back stairs when you are old.
Tonight, put on some Dylan, maybe “Blood on the Tracks,” and pace
from the couch to the window and back again. Feel rough wood
beneath your feet. Forget about your hair and your father
who joked he’d need a whole wall in the family room
just for pictures of your husbands. Resist applying the Buddhist
principle of only so many breaths in a lifetime
to say, orgasms or the number of photos in which you are smiling.

In the morning, put on your coat, walk through the back door
and down the stairs. Follow the alley to the street where
a row of Victorians stand in scoured yards.
See past the littered hedges and ruined Christmas wreaths.
Find the purple crocuses floating on the dry grass.
Breathe. Wait. Breathe.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

Day 11 brings us “Knowledge,” a poem by David Horowitz, poet and publisher of Rose Alley Press.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

One of David’s gifts as a poet is shedding light on the subtleties and unspoken dramas that pepper and punctuate our lives. His tact and ear are on display in “Knowledge,” a poem that brings us in for a close-up examination, but, instead of making assumptions, allows us to paint the picture of the face and life into which we’re peering.

Knowledge

On elevators he won’t chat. Who knows
Who’s listening. In restaurants, at dinner,
It’s golf and basketball, films, who’s a winner
And why. It’s never business, though. Who knows

Who’s listening. His cowl of courtesy
And cross-armed grin hint caution, for who knows
Who’s listening. And e-mail, too: who knows
Who watches, reads. He guards each word he’ll say

And fences off his trust. That’s years away
For best friends. Wife alone he’ll kiss, embrace,
But never tell. Who knows? Her trusting face
Could mask. Talk sports, lawns, food? He’s social grace,

But business locks his mouth. For wife, a rose
And kiss tonight. And talk of her job, clothes.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**