Autobiography – Michael Dumanis

Attempted avoiding abysses, assorted

abrasions and apertures, abscesses.

At adolescence, acted absurd: acid,

amphetamines. Amorously aching

after an arguably arbitrary Abigail,

authored an awful aubade.

Am always arabesquing after Abigails.

Am always afraid: an affliction?

Animals augur an avalanche. Animals

apprehend abattoirs. Am, as an animal,

anxious. Appendages always aflutter,

am an amazing accident: alive.

Attired as an apprentice aerialist,

addressed acrophobic audiences.

Aspiring, as an adult, after applause,

attracted an angelic acolyte.

After an affirming affair, an abortion.

After an asinine affair, Avowed Agnostic

approached, alone, an abbey’s altarpiece,

asking Alleged Almighty about afterlife.

Ambled, adagio, around an arena.

Admired an ancient aqueduct. Ate aspic.

Adored and ate assorted animals.

Ascended an alp. Affected an accent.

Acquired an accountant, an abacus, assets.

Attempted atonal arpeggios.

Fight Song – Deborah Garrison

Sometimes you have to say it:
Fuck them all.

Yes fuck them all-
the artsy posers,
the office blowhards
and brown-nosers;

Fuck the type who gets the job done
and the type who stands on principle;
the down to earth and the understated;

Project director?
Get a bullshit detector.

Client’s mum?
Up your bum.

You can’t be nice to everyone.

When your back is to the wall
When they don’t return your call
When you’re sick of saving face
When you’re screwed in any case

Fuck culture scanners, contest winners,
subtle thinkers and the hacks who offend them,
people who give catered dinners
and (saddest of sinners) the sheep who attend them-

which is to say fuck yourself
and the person you were: polite and mature,
a trooper for good. The beauty is
they’ll soon forget

And if they don’t
they probably should.

you extend a hand – Signe Gjessing

you extend a hand 
tentatively,
like water-resistant light

I wonder, quietly,
if it will hold us both
if, for example, we had to 
escape by sea

What Happens – Erich Fried

It has happened

and it happens now as before

and will continue to happen

if nothing is done against it.

The innocent don’t know a thing about it

because they are too innocent

and the guilty don’t know a thing about it

because they’re too guilty.

The poor don’t take notice

because they’re too poor

and the rich don’t take notice

because they’re too rich.

The stupid shrug their shoulders

because they’re too stupid

and the clever shrug their shoulders

because they’re too clever.

It doesn’t bother the young

because they’re too young

and it doesn’t both the old

because they’re too old.

That’s why nothing is done against it

and that’s why it happened

and happens now as before

and will continue to happen.

Regardless, a Bat Mitzvah’d Woman Cannot Make Minion – Carlie Hoffman

What these girls did I could not: black tights

in June, knowing which spoon for goat's milk,

which for slow-cooked stew, pray from right

to left. Grace: the way they prayed

in long sleeves in sunlight, hair

like wet grass, clean palms warm and pale

as bread. I know now what I meant to ask:

Can I touch your hand, though what I did

was bite. There must be a word for the lack

of words for the things we have felt all

our lives, but couldn't name, a name

for the hymn that moves our blood,

old and dire, like the rain

that once shined each green blade

of that town, not each girl, but the grass

that blooms and blooms and blooms.

I Have No Use For Odic Legions – Anna Akhmatova

I have no use for odic legions,
Or for the charm of elegiac play
For me, all verse should be off kilter
Not the usual way.
If only you knew what trash gives rise
To verse, without a tinge of shame,
Like bright dandelions by a fence,
Like burdock and like cocklebur.
An angry shout, the bracing smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall…
And out comes a poem, light-hearted, tender,
To your delight and mine.

My Last Duchess – ROBERT BROWNING

 

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!