-by Deborah (Gottlieb) Garrison

Here we go again,
up the narrow stair
of fall, and I'm full of nerve,

have to have you, I'm looking for you
everywhere.  It's true
I like men too much, and when

I see one in the street
I used to know — starting to be
bald, in a raincoat eight years old,

worry a lit fish swimming across
his face — I could nearly wrap myself
around him, I'm all too ready….

But I'm sorry! It was for you
I meant to do these things, for you
to unbutton my blouse without a care–

Not so difficult, now the sun is tart,
the river the very color of cold,
November on her way to winter.

(I like this poem so much, and I had it posted once before on the old site, but I think it's worth looking at again.)

Listen, that I was never one to understand it
is part of the reason I never supported
waved, cheered, yellow-ribboned
the boys back home. There was too much
desperation, too much last option taken without
other options considered. But look: show me
a world without ghettos, show me
women lined up for their first vote, show me
something better after and I can understand then that
this is why we fight.

I am easily distracted by terms and thus my hate
for words like survivor and victim. Meanwhile,
nothing smells right in this room,
old copper onion stale sweet rot
everyone's lost something and everyone wants more,
one more moment of joy; she passes
the photo of a newborn baby and everyone touches
and weeps and orders another round of chemo
and I understand it goes beyond the self and that
this is why we fight.

It is more than I can summarize in ten lines because
it starts with the idea of stories, but yours
never goes beyond you, never counts the idea
of more than one narrative, never considers
who suffers, who could be saved,
who should be saved for, except if "who" is you.
It is more than missed birthdays that send me
reeling in tears from the room.
I can't explain, though I do understand that
this is why we fight.

Cary Grant was so perfect but his hands
look like someone else's as they embrace
the woman, the saint.
Maybe they were Leach's hands,
so out of place,
trying to be anywhere and never
belonging where he wanted to be.

There was the man he was born
and the man he was born to play.
Caterpillar and butterfly,
the one awkward and hungry
and the other too perfect to touch.

You wanted to put it behind you,
your own caterpillar days.
Emerging into a world you invented,
a world you control,
a world that will finally love your
iridescent scales and beauty.

You are the person you created,
the person you knew they wanted.
I'll tell you: I'm likely the only one left
who knows you're the same person.
And sometimes I'm tired of knowing it.

Sooner or later you will be tired, too.
Pretending you were never a caterpillar is hard.
He said they married Cary Grant and
they went home with Archibald Leach.

I am sure it is nice
to be loved for who you want to be.
But oh Archie, I miss you.
Put your hands where they want to go.
We can do this in one take.

Freshman year in high school, poetry class, and I was reading through
the book, and the teacher asked me a question and though I could
normally answer a question without even one ear half-cocked ("It
concerns man's inhumanity to man" was always good), the poem I had just
read had so torn me that I couldn't speak. If I opened my mouth, I
would start crying and I would never stop. I knew it. So I just shook
my head at her, poor teacher of poetry to freshman girls, ever so many
hormones and so much angst, and she blinked at me and I put my head
down on the desk, where it stayed for the rest of the class.

I've thought about that poem a lot in the last couple decades. I
can't describe it to anybody without crying afresh, and that makes it
hard to track down. Anyway, via the magic of the series of tubes, I did
manage to find it finally. And it is as good as I remember.

This story has three morals:

1. If you have created something, it meant something to somebody even
if you never hear about it. Whether you draw pride from breaking a high
school student's heart in a freshman poetry class or whether you have higher
ambitions doesn't matter. What matters is: it mattered.
2. If you keep looking, you will find it.
3. If you are at your desk when you read this, it is okay to put your
head down and cry (If it doesn't make you cry, I don't want to hear
about it, because you are talking to 14-year-old me and you will break
my heart AGAIN).

Read More »

Well, swords is the obvious example,
what doesn't kill you makes you stronger
and all of that.
Or in the case of chocolate
it makes you sweeter.
Or some spices,
releasing their magic.
Or in the case of glass
it can mean shatter.
There is also the aspect of balance
because it is what you do to
words, with wisdom.
Then also the time element creeps in
that job you had for a few weeks,
what were you then?
It also applies to music
though I don't pretend to understand that.
And of course there is anger.

You lost it so many times.

It has to do with the heat of passion
and the coolness of
maybe forgiveness, or
maybe time.

IN SYMPATHY, BUT ONLY FOR A LITTLE LONGER
–   by Ann Menebroker

everyone's
doing their job
but annie
and she can't
because she doesn't
feel up to it
and gets claustrophobia
she's thirsty
she has to go wee wee
she feels fat
she's tired
she's horny
she can't face people
without slipping into them
like a toe checking
water temperature
she feels unsafe
she drinks and gets sick
she sweats easily
she doesn't like her face
she needs to be alone
97% of the time
we all keep telling annie
we understand
because we want her to feel
loved
and we hope she gets well soon
because she is
a pain in the ass

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

It breathes on you softly
whiskered like a boy you kissed in college
who smelled like lavender whiskey
This breath tickles
looking for hidden treats in your fists
and pockets
close your eyes

It feels tough
like you'd like to be and aren't
your grandfather had a coat like this
smell of pipe tobacco and wheat
This skin is rough and tender both
under your hands
close your eyes

Smooth and hard
and cool like money
It reminds you of things you wanted to possess
leather and ivory
It smells of loss and tastes like bitten nails
don't talk about it
close your eyes

Sits on your car because he thought it was a circus prop
Steps on your foot when startled
Terrifying vindictive rage
I'm sure it needn't mean anything; mustn't;
close your eyes.

When you are not here
I slip my leg over to your side
just to remind you
that it was my bed
in the first place

and wake at night
telling you a dream
but even if you were here
you would have slept
slept through the story.

I dreamed I told you everything, that I laid it out in logic and compassion. In my dream you understood me perfectly. When I woke up, though, I was alone. And I had not yet said a word of what I meant.