Poems by Hugh Seidman - NPM13

And the dream poem, which all poems envy and connive to become.
And the naked poem, lacking underwear, thrusting hard abs.
And the great poem, stitched from husks, from high-pitched wings.
And the pure poem—the diamond lyric—that is, the absent text.
And the project poem, booting its laptop, blogging out its heart.
And the prize poem, fleshy with ego, stinking of zoos and sex.
And the prayer poem, hooked addict, still stuttering God.
And the avant poem, bloody samurai, never again so red.
And the failed poem, like many, cursing Mother and Father.
And the love poem, loading its bullet lipstick, detonating its Buddha.
And the famed poem, smug as hope, outrunning skulls.
And the conceptual poem—ideal purge—Mutt's soiled urinal.
And the forgotten poem, set free at last, guffawing at its luck.
Is that all?—but for the rasping, breathless, newborn caterwaul?
And the anonymous poem, signed under torture, blinded like Justice.

http://www.hughseidman.com/

NaPoWriMo - day twelve

trust

so much anger beneath the surface, and not beneath it. so much

subterfuge. you just keep digging in and digging down.

don't keep pretending. don’t. be honest about your fear.

instead, you just keep pushing. so sure. so afraid. so against.

i have something to give you - a charm to protect you.

will you wear it? will it find a home around your neck?

next to your heart? in your pocket?

or will it be hidden away in a box

on the top shelf of your closet or under your bed?

we all need someone we can trust, who will hold us

in prayer, in remembrances, in the palm of their hand.

recognize this thought will elicit laughter. recognize this

will give rise to mocking. perhaps even anger.

there is a king on a mountain.

there are expectations. the failure to be plain

shall incur his wrath. speak to the lies you have gathered up.

declare to those who would enchain you

i will not be chained.

the king would like you to be their son, or their daughter.

there are nations waiting for you. there’s a throne with your name on it.

so be wise. you may yet be a king. so rejoice.

greet those you love with a holy kiss.

keep anger and judgement far from you.

there is so little asked. and so much.

Prayer by Jorie Graham - NPM12

Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
                                                   infolding,
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water's downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers) a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
                                  motion that forces change--
this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.

Graham, Jorie. "Prayer". Essential Pleasures. Pinsky, Robert, Ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2009. 361.

NaPoWriMo - day eleven

filling spaces

this is how you will find me

angry. full of questions,

or maybe answers.

i’m tired of filling my mouth

with mumbling and mysteries,

tired of filling the space

between us with words spilling

onto our chests, clattering

onto the floor

crushed underfoot

as we walk around

in circles, a dance

we practise with edges

sharpened with practiced

intent of parry and thrust,

the hard glint

of steeled resolve.

this is how you refuse

my request, how

bitterness becomes a home.

Night Confession by Anne Carson - NPM11

Priest, I am haunted, it's night in the city
my soul is a box of mortal black sins,
horrible sadness rains onto the sidewalk
and no one comes along.

All is quiet, all is asleep, vast solitude
sickens itself on a gasp of old mansions.
Priest, I am haunted, it's night in the city
my soul is a box of mortal black sins.

In the park in winter in a nasty wind,
comes Lucifer jeering at my broken heart,
mad heart! Look at the suicide grinding his blade,
look there's a good calm hanging tree --

Priest, pray for me, it's night in the city!

Carson, Anne. "Night Confession" Modern Canadian Poets. Jones, Evan and Todd Swift, eds. Manchester: Carcanet Press Limited, 2010. 190.