Day 25 brings us Dana Guthrie Martin, with a poem entitled “Robot Passage.” Copies of Dana’s chapbook, The Spare Room, are available through Blood Pudding Press.


THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

What I love about Dana’s work is her ability to infuse empathy into the inanimate. The middle of the poem, for me, is the first gut punch — taking the life of one robot’s “favorite companion bot,” then setting the two down for burial. She could have stopped there, but instead she goes further, joining the robot couple while water fills around them.

Robot Passage

— after Linda Gregg


My robot has empty lamps instead
of eye sockets. And there are no
upgrades. I put him in this hole
because I began pawing the loam
and could not stop. And draped
on him my husband’s finest suit,
the black one with pinstripes.
I slit it up the back to fit it
over his wedge of a body.
Removed the photovoltaics
from his favorite companion bot —
watched it slowly slump away
its existence, flour going heavy
in a sack. Then tucked the bot
under my robot’s left arm,
the way he carried it each day.
To make happiness for him.
He is not dead automatically.
The hole is filling with water,
from beneath. The water is turning
rust brown. I see my robot
looking, though he has no eyes.
I trip into the hole, lie
on top of him, and sing.

**
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.

**

Dana Guthrie Martin and Nathan Moore have just wrapped up Untelling Stories, the first issue of Mutating the Signature, a curated platform for collaboration and mind melding. Working with four hemispheres instead of usual two, the duo’s collaborative efforts are quite amazing (as are their solo efforts).

A personal favorite, from the poem “success factor self-evaluation”:

“Because I didn’t know the cameras were on. 
Because I ran out of pills. 
Nobody would give me more, so I made my own. 
I swallowed erasers.”

You can download the issue as PDF here. It’s a great read and recap of a fantastic undertaking. W.F. Roby and Emily Van Duyne will be curating the next issue.

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The following poem comes from Read Write Poem’s prompt #81 – a picture of some sort of donkey-man looking quite glum sitting under a spindly umbrella. Dana Guthrie Martin, RWP’s resident maven, shared the image, which is brought to us by nwolc.

DONKEY BOY

This is how it feels to be kicked in the heart.

Worst is the hole left behind, and the bubble where ribs bulge back.

Last night, after a long round of such talk,
Sally said I should do a fire walk. I’d feel great,

better than all the therapy that hadn’t cured a thing.

If hot coals didn’t work then nothing would.

Just me and a few smoldered thoughts
with which to cross the threshold.

I’d know everything I needed to know
as soon as I tasted burn at the back of my throat.

Half way I’d see the beauty in the end of things.

How like cures like, what bows wrap shut.

None of which means much atop flame,
oxtail smoking nearby

for later when we’ll eat and tell stories of our lives made of flesh.

The following entry comes courtesy of Alice, a fifth-grade student in SE Portland. I’ve been working with Alice for two years – she’s a heck of a writer and has a great mind.

Below I’ve pasted the original skeletons, followed by Alice’s replies.

It’s ________ __________ “___________ ___________” and it’s ___________ __________ __________ “___________”. This is, __________ it’s _________ ___________ the __________! The _________ ___________ _________ the _________ __________ for __________, which _______, “_______ __________.” This is __________ _________ it is to _____________.

Alice writes:

It’s tomorrow buddy “seven days” and it’s today dear that’s “here”. This is, look it’s Safe Chap the hero! The weird dork from the planet Zuok for $4, which says “Yo dude”. This is how fun it is to dream.

When ______ _________ at ______ _________ of ________ ___________ in the ________ _________. ____________ ___________. I _________, “what are __________ ___________ ___________ ___________ ___________?” I _________ I’ll __________ a ____________ of _________ ____________. Then I __________ ___________ _____________ to ____________ ___________, I ___________ in ____________.

Alice writes:

When I cry at night love of life springs in the dark well. I’m desperate. I scream “what are you on these bleak lands?” I swear I’ll cry a river of salty tears. Then I sink down slowly to my knees, I struggle in vain.