Featured Work Archive
It just so happens I was NOT able to keep from trashing this one up, so here's your warning: I don't write in this journal to win friends and influence people. I say some pretty awful things. So if you're faint of heart or you tend cry and whine when you read something by me or something really bitchy, please don't read this. I'm asking as politely as I can.
here goes my second try, lessee if I can keep from trashing this one up.
Apologies - am revising many of these over time, and moving new versions to the Submit boards here at PC, or https://twitter.com/riordato, or https://www.facebook.com/tom.riordan.378, a private site at https://www.facebook.com/groups/811479732227259/, or the trashcan - in some cases, stranding your Reply without a subject poem. Sorry...
Lovers of poetry
go rough on poems
—averse to fluff.
Warning: I don't write in this journal to win friends and influence people. I say some pretty awful things. So if you're faint of heart or you tend cry and whine when you read something by me or something really bitchy, please don't read this. I'm asking as politely as I can.
Sometimes you work and work with an issue, a difficulty, you try everything.
This is my last attempt to remain and linger.
She's not your mother,
your lover, your girlfriend,
your friend, your advisor,
she's nothing but herself.
She is not a muse.
Leave her out
of your arguments,
your wars, your battles
your romances, your fantasies,
your delusions, she's nothing
but someone who needs to write
to stay happy.
If she writes about sex,
it's not an invitation.
If she writes about sadness
it's not an invitation for ridicule,
pity, or analysis.
She doesn't look to the left
or to the right.
Doesn't care what you think.
She's not interested.
It came to me whist ironing vertical blinds
in the confines of my kitchen
whilst I'm pretty sure that I'm not the first
to think such a thing
I know that Mrs Lawler
who's trimming her Ivy next door
has never had it intrude
and I've never read a poem
or short story featuring this perversity
if this thought were an animal
it would be an uncategorised creature
lurking beneath a slab of icy ocean
an elusive beast, as quickly as it comes
it leaves, and as I carry the blind
into the gloomy front room
scratching around for a notepad
it is gone-- slinking away
its shadow the shape of a long cloaked man
the arc of a scythe high above
glinting in the sun
I've done this before and would always delete the thread for some reason. I really hope I have the chesticles not to this time. I love PoetryCircle, love the management, the editors, the poets and all the players. Wonderful wonderful memories here. And to think we are making them now! There's no way I can post every poem I've especially loved but will attempt as they are brought to memory.
I have a couple on my mind right now. Some poems I love just because I love them. Other poems I love because I see things about myself I've never seen, or see things that others see about me I didn't know were there. Not that these poems are about me, by any means. That's just the way they make me feel.
Here's the first:
any old day by milner place
i will not
on my shoulder
of leaves bursting
and of a summer’s lust
that will never know
Thoughts on email from a friend far away.
He sits down each evening
regular as clockwork.
Sixteen hundred to be precise;
reads his email.
Dirty jokes from a brother,
admonishments from his mother.
Happy pictures of a well-groomed garden
From a well-meaning wife.
Within a portable aluminum cocoon
he still hears random gun shots.
At night, instead of children
He tucks men in bed.
cover by Tomm Scalera of Graphic Angels Design
Below in this journal are the first drafts of the poems. Most recent drafts of the book length poem can be downloaded at http://poetrycircle.com/forum/resources/the-muses-advisory.5/
it's the start of winter tonight,
25 centimeters of silent snow,
i'll wake to a changed world.
it might as well snow, it might as well
cover us all and turn us inward. it might
as well stay silent until dawn and cold until spring.
it's not December 21st,
it's the night black trees
begin to haunt white fields.
they'll wag back and forth
for days, until an equinox.
for the next four months, the only things
with a heartbeat will be me, wind chimes
and the ticking of my watch.
I like this idea of a journalese, so here's my stuff that just didn't make the cut.
I miss the mountains, and
there once was a guy from Missouri,
who had to get out in a hurry,
but then in the end
he found his best friend
had been sentenced to death by a jury.
I wish I could tell them
that I never wanted to be
money making hand over
fist into the cold pot
that sits on top of
Tap Tap Tap.
Me Me Me.
Tap Tap Tap
Me Me Me
and after I
will not recognize
who I be be be.
don't don't don't
read read read
But if it happens
that you do
Life so far today has been Carlos Santana and too much Iran. Click to channel nine, Tom Cruise doesn't seem too nervous about the Paramount plunge. How long does real cream last? I think I bought this small carton two weeks back.
Should I wear the purple v-neck or the pin stripe cream and black top with that cute bow at the waist? Polyester....which has more of what bakes flesh?
The v-neck weighs in at less than ten percent. Gotta live cool in my Global
Warming World. How do I do August? I say, "Self, Dallas has it worse."
Work now includes a new girl who llikes to talk loud and long in the car pool.
Yesterday I learned the downfalls of her new cell phone plan. I puncuated the rant with head nods and uh hahs... and concluded that it will be harder to find
poetry on Highway 27.
I stood for hours
watching the seep
the trickle down drain
to hear you move above
and I was drunk for days
but that was once -
and once is a very long word
that’s not forgotten
that you should think
the world is flat by means
of arrogance and never give
birth to voyage unslurred
I busy myself pantried
stock shelves rearranged
and mummer the proper response
in mourning a greet
there’ll be no birds today
no sense of scavenge as
even the carp feeds bottomed
Poetry communities are the centre of a poet's life,
poets move in ever expanding circles around them.
A journal, definition, an official record...
more elaborate than a diary...
contains information relevant
to its readers.
Having never written anything like this before now
I asked a few people for advice and decided that this journal
will not be a place for poetry. It will, instead, be a place
where I collect all that I learn here in Poetrycircle, and elsewhere.
In that way I will not forget and we might all be enlightened.
It's good to have aspirations.
On Monday the air in at my open window came in uninvited
and at such a pace: not a run, not a skip, but with the sweep
of a ballroom diva gliding a fast fox-trot. I had no choice
but to name her Joyce.
Tuesday, the gauze curtains hung limp until sunset when this air
(I’m sure it was German) blurted through in know-it-all gusts,
rocking a crockery stringer of fish to clunk like terra cotta bells,
chipping a maroon fin. I named her Bertha.
Wednesday brought Anna who curled my bedsheets up
like the back of a slumbering cat. And Thursday, Phyllis,
who stirred only rarely, and then like a nurse with a tongue
depressor, demanding that I say, Ahhhhh.
Today is Friday. None have come and suddenly June
fails to fit this chunk of days with one this still, this stale.
While doldrums remain, June will be Jane. (I had, you see,
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