Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Poet
(in the manner of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens)
1.
Across the cluttered desk,
The only still thing
Was the brow of the poet.
2.
I was of two camps,
Like a smoky cafe
In which there are two poets.
3.
The poet kicked at the wastepaper basket.
It was a necessary part of the ritual.
4.
A pen and paper
Are comrades.
A pen and a paper and a poet
Are comrades.
5.
I do not know which to lust after,
The subtlety of Oliver
Or the subtlety of Kenyon,
The poet emulous
Or just at odds.
6.
Rain pelted the mirrored macadam
With fussy punctuation.
The cloak of the poet
Erased it, back and forth.
The sneer
Traced in the cloak
An undeniable fizzle.
7.
O hip folk of Greenwich Village,
Why do you select pristine poets?
Do you not see how the poet
Pronounces up and down the street
Of the madness inside him?
8.
I discern sweet rhymes
And rushed, avant-garde language;
But I discern, too,
That the poet is privy
In what I discern.
9.
When the poet ran out of words,
It heralded the end
Of one of many Friday nights.
10.
At the parade of poets
Reveling in a heady spotlight,
Even the gods of prose
Would bow down willingly.
11.
She hitchhiked to Montana
In her short skirt.
Daily, a wind blew through her,
In that she perceived
The different makes of cars
For poets.
12.
The hand is caressing.
The poet must be writing.
13.
It was quarter past all day.
It was raining
And it was going to rain.
The poet made love
In the back bedroom.
tubercular
i am blonde
and tubercular
my lungs like
pretty purses
full of angry coins
i am well known in
sanatorium circles
i slink through
silver hallways
my serrated breath
sing-songing
through
a somnolent sunrise
i wear white
i brush my hair twice a day
i stare past a window
and into the weeping tree
overlooking a lake
that harbors
every hesitant newcomer
i am not one of them
cursing the very air
my alveoli do a jig
and whisper
frivolous words like
honeycomb
galoshes
safari
and tax evasion
i may not be one of them
but i don’t want to leave them
we pack ourselves in
emaciated rats
pet-like
we run up each others shoulders
whiskers like feelings
tails like a drawing room
full of
heavy wine
and cigarette ash
Regina Green is a poet and therapist living in Marietta, GA. She is happily published here and there and reads Plath on a daily basis.
You can find her at Red Bird Chronicles (redbirdchronicles.blogspot.com).
