Featured Work Archive
I hate the way the media uses quotes from well known people as if they are news. I respect the right for every American to express their opinions. I don't care how famous you are, your opinions are not news, and do not belong on the headline page.
Maybe I'm in the minority here at PC, I definitely have some conservative views. What do you all think?
Except for the chance to talk to Julia
F*%king bullsh%# party except
for the chance to talk to Julia
but they passed me the fu*%ing wine
and asked me if I was on acid when I wrote it
and just when I was saying
yeah, do you have any macaroons?
I saw that Julia had left.
365 feet or seed, if we start from the ending.
Most days I can't even begin and this ivy
chokes everything: the bricks in the yard,
the white azaleas. Now, even the chain-link
fence around your wrist begins to collapse
beneath its weight because I'm waiting.
For what, you ask. For us? I don't know,
anymore, except I tell you that ivy moves
really fast. A foot or more each day.
You blink as I recite facts that don't matter:
how plants grow, total days in orbit, how to tally
silk or grain, the way I counted things before you.
The old rooster pecked
among husks and corn spires
for years and years.
A fighting cock he was,
who let neighbors know things
only cocks would know.
He evaded death until yesterday,
and just before I took his head off,
the cock’s thoughts became mine:
fear, the stilts of the crib,
a rusted fence. Egg shells.
Later, I sat down to thin-boned soup
with blood on my cuffs.
Embarrassment when others use cunt
in public shows how I was brought up
middle-class, told folk swear when they
don't know any better, which I didn't
as I am delighted with the Sex Pistols
embellishment of ant to unt in "Vacant"—
I've a Pavolv's dog reaction when I hear, read,
or see "C" in videos, my head dribbles Mam's
accusations: "...uncouth, dirty, indecent",
and, "you ought to know better." In Bruges,
finding them on exhibition walls, I make
a furtive effort towards less emotive aisles.
In front of them I'm a small lad sneaking
glances at newsagents' top shelves
Dali's fine line drawings
Lily head botanical illustrations.
Lynn Doiron is a long time member and former editor here at poetrycircle. She is the recipient of the Dominic J. Bazzannella Awards in Fiction and Creative Non-fiction and author of Hand wording, New & Selected Poems. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Currently living in Baja California, Mexico, she works with retirees in honing their memoirs and is the co-founder of the Baja Wordsmiths.
In Lynn's new novel The True Life Adventures of Irene in White Tights, the past conflicts with the present, one side of the country with the other, younger generations confront older generations, culture collides with culture. The book is a fascinating and moving story of how a decades-old, almost forgotten murder influenced the following generations of one family. I asked Lynn to tell us a little about her writing process and inspiration for her new book:
LAVONNE: Lynn, thanks so much for the interview! poetrycircle members are eager to hear about your writing process...
no more tony tiger
while ralph ate cereal dotty swept the stars
and folded laundry
ralph bit with teeth
so bright the sun watched dotty replied with a basket
of sunday silence
swallowed her pride
while ralph rolled the chevy
on too many ballantines
with hard hands
ralph took dotty
into protective custody
he knew the suitcase at the top of the stairs was a sign
so was the thick mascara and lipstick
dotty never wore flats
they both bled that night
Rain. Again. For some reason the air
holds the smell of a struck match.
The breeze is loose around the walls,
tying itself up in the soon-to-bud lilacs.
Father’s breath shows and fades on glass.
I imagine he says if and I wait, still not knowing
his language, even after all these years,
all the things he might have meant.
Do I believe in God?
I go to church, but it’s political.
The shit I’ve done?
If God exists, he’d have to be a pussy!
Maybe in the clouds he has more balls—
but down in this world he has very little sway.
Not very godlike. Trust me.
“God’s a schmuck,” my father used to say.
“And so his followers are also schmucks.
If you want proof,
just walk around in Sheepshead Bay!
He even sent his son down to get crucified—
and look at Sheepshead Bay!”
That cracked him up.
My mother was a big believer, though!
She had a picture of Christ’s sacred heart—
that lantern shining in his chest!
My father mocked her for it.
“Dream on!” he derided.
“See if he can put a single beef roast
on your dinner table!”
If the two were candidates,
you must admit the polls would not be good—
the ticket-topper grouchy and aloof,
the VP hardly confidence-inspiring. Alright?
Jews did vote, actually. You know that.
wasn’t even close.
We live and let live, God and me. Okay?
The mechanism in my toilet tank is not working right.
I flush it and a few minutes later I hear a sound like rushing water.
It keeps doing this over and over again. It keeps me awake.
I must have done something bad to make this happen.
I don't know whether to stay in bed and pray that God will fix the toilet
or get up every time this happens, jiggle the handle
and hope that if I do this enough times something will catch
and eventually the sound of rushing water will stop.
I doodle during the dull business meetings
when half of the time people are deciding
when is the next discussion. I shall
ask Derek for the summary tomorrow
I play Candy Crush on my way back
in the Metro. Today is the fifth day in a row
when I shall eat cornflakes for my dinner.
I shall cook some pasta tomorrow
The tap in the bathroom is leaking,
gas cylinder is empty, the lock of the main
door is jammed. I will call up the landlord
My girlfriend has dumped me
without giving any reason. She's
not even giving me the Netflix password.
I will call her up tomorrow
A Letter to Greta
“…so pitying and yet so distant,” Cecil Beaton
Among my father's posthumous
flotsam recently washed up in my house,
I found a letter, postmarked 1928,
addressed Miss Garbo Hollywood Cal
(Private!), stamped RETURN TO SENDER,
sealed unread and stored for sixty years
inside its author’s desk. Held to light,
the envelope revealed a trace of earnest
cursive written to a star flickered
on a million screens. I set a kettle
on the stove to steam the letter open
and expose the heart of this dead man,
once vestal boy, husband to three wives—
one widow, one dead, one faithless
(also dead)—fighter pilot with cleft chin
and good teeth whose friends had died
from too much war or too much booze,
who, if asked, what happens when you die?
would sip his drink and say, "you rot."
When the envelope at last unglued,
I found a time-fogged photo of a skinny
school-age boy standing contrapposto,
looking straight into my eyes. I slipped
the photo and unread letter...
I have chosen
this obscene love.
The cruel God in my heart
a home in my lust.
I make him
jealous by making love
to moonlit paper lanterns,
of the deceased.
I feel the sweat dripping
off bloated stars
I taste the mouth
of kerosene angels
like strangled pinatas
from crippled trees.
I suck the cruel
venom from virgin
I finger the lotus flower
in the dirty pond.
heart because it
cups the soft
breast of the frog
that's proof nature
is my whore.
I think you should confess to a priest
that you wiped your cock on the curtains
because she didn’t have a tissue.
It doesn’t work as a poem;
It isn’t art – that’s the issue.
I know the blowjob was intense for you
but posting a description devoid of irony
suggests, braggadocio, you’d like one from me.
I’m sorry, I’m taken; your oeuvre is mistaken.
Orgasm by stimulating genitals with genitals
objects, fingers, tongues and body parts
holds a clear fascination for you. But describing
how you practice on your own is not art at all,
I have read better poetry on a lavatory wall.
All holes filled. No holes barred. These
clichés I can read in an escort ad,
but you pad them out and hope that I ‘like’’
am I getting old, or is this sad?
Perhaps it’s a sub-
on how I live
this re-occurring, irrational scenario;
on an ordinary obsidian night
while walking Porter,
I’ll be unaware—hunched-
as an inattentive driver
kissing the top of my head—
like a mother—
she nibbles on my lobe
breathes into me
as I stare at the ceiling
complicit in the act
but not really engaged
her huge breasts press
down on my rib cage
massive purple nipples
gyrate in my coarse chest hair
her hull rocks backwards
sweat drips from her frizzy fringe
onto my face
I readjust to stop the cramp in my thighs
Did you cum?
yeah baby I came
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