September 2011, Selections 1 & 2

this morning

autumn

spread between the knees

of a mountain.

--Paula Viale

harvest moon
when deer roam
bleed me deep red
with canted antler
a back strap in my freezer

--Judith Armbruster

Third September Selection

full moon over borders


the politician of the moment
overstocked and left behind everywhere
alongside
mushrooms of illinois
and forgotten poets
all shuffled
in with
manga and lost love.

the gee-dubya bio
lurks between
recipes from
puerto rico
and a cover portrait,
dog-eared,
of the daughter of trujillo.

there are
wookies, seashells,
talking heads, border collies,
self-help,
princess diana and
the grateful dead.

and there is
the entire foreign language section
its shelves completely bare now
but for a discarded,
tan, woman's
pantyhose stocking
second aisle, third shelf up
gathered up
like a half-open rose
and placed,
apparently with great care,
on the fake oak
shelving.

--Glen Snyder

Fourth September Selection

I've missed my connection; idling guiltily.

On the radio: gun imagery.

Outside my car window: hot asphalt and cool shade.

Corner Crepe Myrtles scream pink in late summer

by Victorian gingerbread. Pine and palm,

those strange California companions,

mingle urbanely, as they must,

for someone has planted them here,

with the deep dense native Oak

as the afternoon burns and hardens.

No other life than this

and how strange and few our choices really are--

this is exactly it: the sticky car seat,

a burring power edger noise,

this mistake and all my mistakes sitting here with me,

wasting time no one has, together.

A life so fragile a finger flick could destroy it,

caught, like an insect in amber.

--Deanna Hopper

Fifth September Selection

September 1st

Walking up
to your home.
The wet grass
stains my pants.
Smoke rises from
your chimney
and I am already
worn out.
Resting against
a valley oak.
Fall is passing.
The thought
of our friendship
keeps me going.
It's 6 a.m.
Drinking grappa
for breakfast.
Our conversation
bright as crystal.

--TuFu, retranslated by Brian Howlett

August 2011, First Selection

The Stage


Sitting in the middle of quiet timber
the moon- a perfect white peach
spying on us through late summer leaves.
You drank from the bottle
and I from a glass
guzzling the cheap red wine
to ease the twisting knots in our stomachs.

We read poems by Plath,
reciting each line loudly as if we were on stage
with only the stars as our audience.

The fire was never big enough for you
and as you frantically continued to throw in more wood,
snapping large branches over your knee,
I saw all our inhibitions melting away in that pit.
Months of desire and tension fueling a fire nine feet tall.

The words flew out of your mouth
like the orange embers escaping into the sky.

You told me you loved me.

And like a strong chemical reaction to too much wine
and a lifetime of never having heard those words from a man
I felt my body levitate
and saw my blood pumping strongly throughout my veins.

Looking broken down and defeated
you sat down next to me
pulling my chair close to you
and I rested my head on your shoulder.

At that moment I felt as if the curtains would close
and a loud applause would erupt between the trees.
But we weren’t on stage
and it wasn’t an act.
Silence and fumes consumed us,
sending us into a deep, drunken sleep.

When daylight broke
and the piles of wood had turned to soft ash
and the empty wine bottles littered a bed of pine needles
a wave of reality swept over me.

I smoked my last cigarette
while watching a soft pink fog rise up from the lake.
He loves me.
And soon he’ll be leaving.

--Ashley Warren