Featured Work Archive
You can sit me in the corner all you want.
The stool is fine.
The class can laugh
and you can call my mom.
But I won’t wear that hat.
You see this hair?
It won’t survive.
You’ll all be very sorry if it gets destroyed.
The cone is fine,
I don’t mind if it’s high and pointy-topped.
It’s just the hair.
Sure. Send me to the principal. Expel me.
Rap my knuckles with your rule.
The hair is sacrosanct.
I’ll get revenge.
That’s not a threat, but fact.
I can’t do anything right now,
but if you set that hat on me,
you better watch your back.
You might be old and gray.
Some grandkids my age
might be playing on the lawn.
And up will glide a limousine. A Cadillac.
Out I’ll climb.
I’ll be somebody big.
You’ll see!—tremendously important man.
I’ll have the Law with me.
“That one. And that,” I say.
full series so far @ https://docs.google.com/document/d/1U5t4KTFyZtpYsyJNgwg3UMeRUkbsVbQ4LNNhqODP-k4/edit#
Like the smiling boy in a Caravaggio,
his outstretched arms offering apples and pears,
he steps into our living room.
You know what happens next: overturned
tables. Flames shimmy up a tall mast;
Theseus abandons ship just in time. Amazon
women with impossibly thick muscles wrestle
cowboys to the ground. Fists meet chins.
Ruthless executions follow: by firing squad,
sword thrust, a shove overboard.
At six o'clock, dust motes settle,
we sink into our brocade chairs--cracked china figures
in green and gold. I’ve lost you, little brother, tough older sister.
Our knees ache.
Story hour's over.
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.
Marriage didn't work.
Well, it did for a while, then it didn't.
The elbow takes on a cold utility.
The dirty dishes start to curse you.
Divorce didn't work either.
I tried all that mundane torture.
And being single is worse than divorce.
I've done all the stuff.
Drank the beers and rare spirits.
I even smoked a real Havana cigar once.
Well, I got it started.
I thought it would turn me into Albert Camus
and I'd write a book, but it just made my eyes turn red.
And children don't work either.
The thing about children is they are too big when they grow up.
They are outrageously big.
Big lumps of meat that move and talk.
By twenty years of age they are already gone mad.
I blame it on optimism and ambition.
I'd tell them if I could;
Listen, son, whatever you're thinking, it won't work the way you think.
I love you dad, but you're fucking weird.
And friends don't work either.
What kind of friends do you have?
Can they develop new mathematical theorems while they ride
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.
queer thick pickle shadow farm
dirty pommel girls smell
lovemaking session reheated
slept in cotton
brief Sunday turned queer prairie dog
I stopped researching thick pickle libido
for the sake of queer hetero highway
Judy Garland pommeled
to be more masculine like Cher
sexy queer bottoms are
striped ripped and beautifully pommeled
with chiseled jaw and
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.
If anyone would like a copy of anything I have made, please click the DeviantArt link in my signature below and browse through my Gallery and subfolders there.
You can download, store, print and display in any way you like.
I only would ask for a small credit if any image / piece is used in any publication.
If you are going to keep any piece and display in your home .. no credit is required
If you require a guide to help you go through my DA Gallery, how to download, where to store, printing details .. feel free to PM me.
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
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