Featured Work Archive
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
You can’t sleep, so you pull on hard boots, walk to the park where bruised trees moan and sway—a horse with a human face waits beside a fallen oak. When you wake to the sound of lawn mowers, you remember everything: the mare, a broken piano is only a tent splattered with pikake blossoms, like pieces of a girl's dress. Let’s say you do succeed in changing your life that day, and all the others marching away from you--you'll remember when you had one hand on my breast, and the other pointed a pistol at the lake. Stop me, you whispered, help me choose.
You can’t sleep, so you pull on hard boots,
walk to the park where bruised trees
and sway, a horse with human face waits
beneath a fallen oak.
When you wake to the sound of lawn mowers,
you remember everything. The mare. The broken
black piano was only a tent splattered with broken
pikake blossoms, like pieces of a girl's dress.
Let’s say you do succeed in changing your life
and all the others...
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.
Black on black
Under the bridge over
the engines moving
the people drive
Range Rovers, Escalades
reports and dollars
cigarettes for pens,
whiskey for coffee
Not me though.
I collect black eggs
you go off the
rooms go quiet—
it’s all very
neck like soft
they ask me is that
a chicken you hold
and I say find
your own damned
Artwork by Roger Doyle used with permission.
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?
Books are stacked in front
of other books. No room left
on the living room shelves.
Friends come over:
you've read all these?
I answer: most.
One asks: when do you find time?
I smile and shrug,
I walk toward the shelves,
pick up a book,
and off I go.
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
A smellephant lives down the lane.
He's got home cooking on the brain.
He cannot cook. He has four feet,
better for marching down the street.
Besides, he doesn't know a pan
from the lid of a garbage can.
When his belly starts to rumble,
door-to-door, he’ll sniff and stumble
after potatoes and juicy roast,
or coffee and some eggs on toast.
Hear his trumpet, let him in,
or a trampling might begin;
of gardens, and of outdoor toys.
Don't hide your food, or make a noise.
Just place it gently out the door,
so the smellephant will not roar.
He'll gobble it in seconds flat,
then be as docile as a cat.
sometimes I stare
at the wallpaper
count geometric patterns
watch the shadows fall
I smoke blunts
and speak to the effigy
who hangs on my wall
his pale blue robe fading
into the sea of Galilee
his eyes sharp and shiny
his smile soft
if I had a resolute bone
in my body
I could really love that guy.
i used to cut out food
because i could
because i wanted to see
i used to cut my skin
because i could
because i wanted to see
i used to cut out people
because i could
because i wanted to see
my own soul
see if I liked it
now I cut out shapes
concertinas of hands
all the waste paper
floats to the floor
i keep what's beautiful
because i can
because i don't want to see
Page 6 of 76