Daily Archives: March 10, 2016

My Husband the Artist by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

Do you prefer my second face,

this artefact you’ve cast anew?

I’d hate to think you’ve left a trace

of what was so repulsing you.

My eye-white spreading down my cheek,

my nose and lips half burnt away.

Come here and take another peek,

appraise me in the light of day.

If this look’s not quite right to show,

may I suggest you try again.

Most painters need another go –

why stop at one? You could have ten.

Each draft will bring dramatic change.

Vary the mix, the line of flight:

after a hurl at point-blank range,

the gentlest trickle from a height.

Think of a future press release;

picture Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall.

I’ll stand there as your landmark piece,

“the most acidic of them all”.

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preterite proof by reuben woolley

I am not a silent poet

again they come
to see
…………the bleedings
…………hands to catch
…………the final
i’ll take me now
…………& die
………...give you
this crutch
for kindling
…………will not want for cold
it is terminal
& i
am working on it

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Pink Balloons by Andrea Nicki

I am not a silent poet

The poetry leader tells us

to write about childhood experiences

He shares his poem about

his love for baseball

I write energetically about child rape

the ways I tried to love myself as a girl

When it’s my turn to share

he pops my pink balloon

says this experience must be locked in a room

with a professional therapist


I look at his blue balloon

the string held tightly in his hand

On it he has written

in thick black marker

“Pink balloons are dangerous”

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Crossing the Prairie by Geraldine Green

I am not a silent poet

There goes green corn
fierce as tornadoes
her cougar skin rippled
her bright eyes dazed with
dust-storms and headlights
she crosses the prairie on
her greencorn song of misery
upright as telegraph poles
lining the freeways.

Boy whistles wind
wind comes running
wind combs her back
of greengold corn
for a hundred miles
combs greencorn hair.

Nightstars crackle
moonwafer breaks open.

At dawn, a deluge of buffalo
at dawn, their ghosts cross the plain
at dawn, their notorious herd of steam
their outrageous breath
their sweat and blood
their sinews and bones.

These ghosts of buffalo.
These man-haunting bison.

Ghost bison pound earth
their hooves the pestle
this land their mortar.

Look! a city catapults
itself across the sky:

a wave of cities
a deluge of buffalo
a rivering of ghosts.

Grass cracked moons
grass tricky as coyote
grass spilling greengold
handsome as cougar

moon mirror cracks
buffalo stampede

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