Labels: Josiah Bardsley, Poem

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ELECTION DAY, NOVEMBER, 1884

'Twould not be you, Niagara - nor you, ye limitless prairies - nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,

Nor you, Yosemite - nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyserloops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,

Nor Oregon's white cones - nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes - nor Mississippi's stream:

This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name - the still small voice vibrating -America's choosing day,

(The heart of it not in the chosen - the act itself the main, the quadrennial choosing,)

The stretch of North and South arous'd - sea-board and inland - Texas to Maine - the Prairie States - Vermont, Virginia, California,

The final ballot-shower from East to West - the paradox and conflict,

The countless snow-flakes falling - (a swordless conflict,

Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's): the peaceful choice of all,

Or good or ill humanity - welcoming the darker odds, the dross:

- Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify - while the heart pants, life glows:

These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,

Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

Labels: Poem, Politics, Walt Whitman

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Labels: Old Garage, Poem

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It was still dark; and as I padded to the first floor, I could feel the early morning chill seeping through the walls. I was shivering and, despite my reluctance, I turned on the heat.

The radiators burbled, coughed, and just like that summer slipped away.

The leaves are mostly green, but they’re tired. Some of their neighbors have begun to die (dye?). It’s faint, but there are speckles of red, yellow, and orange. The splash will soon come. The color will explode. Autumn – quick, furious, beautiful autumn – will seize the day.

And then the descent begins – the fade into winter. Fall is my favorite season. So ephemeral; like the pleasure of eating a freshly pick apple or the intoxicating vision of a mound of pumpkins. It's the season of poetry.

So why talk about autumn when you can experience it:

After Apple-Picking

By Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep

When A Poem is a Wheelbarrow

Mystical, Melancholy Autumn

The Rage of Autumn

Labels: After Apple-Picking, Autumn, Poem, Poetry, Robert Frost

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• Grendel becomes more of a confused teenager struggling with his isolation. He kills because men reject and hate him for his differences (instead of being a devil-spawned mass murder). In fact, during his death scene he becomes a wounded child

• Grendel’s mother (played by Angelina Jolie) becomes a sexy seductress who charms King Hrothgar and then later Beowulf

• Hrothgar is a drunk and philanderer

• Grendel is King Hrothgar’s illegitimate child

• Instead of killing Grendel’s mother, Beowulf is seduced by her

• Grendel’s mother gives birth to Beowulf’s illegitimate child – the dragon

• Beowulf kills his son and his son kills him

• The movie ends with Beowulf’s second in command being beckoned for seduction by Grendel’s mother

Labels: Beowulf, Movies, Poem

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Labels: Mike Snider, Poem

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By Christine Larson

One: Say That a Thousand Times

In the air,
on my tongue,
on the paper,
each time it weighs differently.

Say that a thousand times more:
My father killed himself.

Two: They Made Love

He threatened to kill himself a thousand times,
a thousand times, maybe more.
Maybe she threatened to leave.
I can see him pleading
baby, baby, baby.
I can see her enjoying that.
Maybe she said
this isn’t working,
smoked a cigarette.
They made love.
It grew within him like a cancer,
one that only he could imagine and foster.
Already in touch with failure,
he fucked her, pretending to enjoy it.
Maybe she was distant,
already worried, perhaps.
we need to talk
she might have said
and then lit a cigarette.
They made love.
My father was not well
and she was
not affectionate.
They made love.
I imagine it went something like this.

Three: Did She Know?

His oldest daughter
almost called him on Father’s Day.
Did she know?
One brother had just died and
another refused him money.
Did she know this?
His mother had just disowned him.

I don’t know if she knew.

Did she say
you have your family
And did he say
without you there is nothing
Maybe she said
no, it’s over
never actually intending to go.
I picture her smiling.
I think she smiled a little.
baby, baby, baby
That day, I think he begged.
She played his loneliness,
and he, her guilt.
She threatened to leave;
he threatened the same.
Maybe this was an old dance for them.

Did she know?

Four: The Safety

This moment was far from the first.
He did something different, maybe,
fucked up to start with.
To show he was serious,
would he have taken off the safety?
Or out of habit perhaps.
Was the safety even on?
He would have held the gun to his head.
it isn’t working
this isn’t working
That day, did he hear her?
He certainly fucked her
on the fold-out couch.
He always kept his gun
by the fold-out couch.
He would have reached for the gun,
his gun.
You are all there is
He would have said.
I have no family
He would have said.
It would have put him over the edge,
the perfect jumping-off point.
Did he take the safety off?

It doesn’t matter.

Five: It Hurt to Hear Her

It hurt to hear her
say those things:
generous and loving, kind
She talked of a man I didn’t know,
this woman.
Not one kind word did the others offer:
his brother, sad-faced and quiet;
his ex-wife, pretending to cry
my poor girls;
the same as always
and beautiful like him, his daughters,
silent.
She was the only person
I thought I didn’t know.
Maybe his last thought was
bitch
I’m serious, damn it
His hand tight to keep from being swatted away,
without intent, squeezing.
Annoyed, he reacted.
She might have reached to swat the gun away;
this is what she said.
I suspect they struggled and the gun went off.
She said she tried to take it from him.
She said she reached for it
but something happened
this time.
My father, with a gun to his head,
generous and loving, kind.

It hurt to hear her.

(Artist by day and poet by night, Christine Larsen is a meanderer by nature. She is prone to overly dramatic pauses in conversations, unpredictable detours in thought and picking up shiny things. Christine is sometimes clever, often sarcastic and always highly susceptible to the temptations of chocolate and tequila. She lives and writes in Nashville, TN where her work can be seen and heard locally.)

Read Christine's other poem "Senryrus for Dirtbags"

Read our 5 Questions About Modern Poetry

Labels: Christine Larsen, Poem

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By Christine Larsen

1.

Like sociopaths,

Mosquitoes never worry

that they might hurt you.

2.

Even as I watch,

you manage to steal from me.

You are such a dick.

3.

Well-behaved and kind

as I am, I will explode

eventually.

4.

The phone is turned off;

the locks on the door are changed.

Can’t you take a hint?

5.

Email me again,

and I swear, motherfucker,

I’ll burn that laptop.

6.

Seven inches—ha!

I measure it in my hand;

six is generous.

7.

Your “prowess” in bed—

even exaggerated—

must embarrass you.

8.

Your three dogs leave more

of an impression on me

shitting in my yard.

9.

A piece-of-shit car

left behind in the garage

has more use to me.

10.

I dream you are dead

and ground up in a blender.

I wake up smiling.

(Artist by day and poet by night, Christine Larsen is a meanderer by nature. She is prone to overly dramatic pauses in conversations, unpredictable detours in thought and picking up shiny things. Christine is sometimes clever, often sarcastic and always highly susceptible to the temptations of chocolate and tequila. She lives and writes in Nashville, TN where her work can be seen and heard locally.)

Read our tribute to Red Wheelbarrow here

Robert Frost and the first snow of Winter here

Labels: Christine Larsen, Poem

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if i read you
pablo neruda
with faux spanish lilts
will you smile at me
deliciously

listen to the inflections
in my voice
until we fall asleep
in a blanket
of momentos silenciosos.

if i read you
spanish poetry
will you
adóreme.

remind me of kindness
with your warm
liquid eyes.
i barely comprehend
all the parts of you
i recognize.

if i sing you
pablo neruda
to the sounds of
your guitar
are we sharing music
or poetry
or perhaps
it is
eternity.

mira...
how your silent moments
awaken such sweet
sounds
in me.

(This is the second poem by Kara Emily Krantz featured at DaRK PaRTY. Kara is a graduate student studying counseling psychology who lives in Central Massachusetts. You can read more of her verse at the Writer’s Café.)

Read Kara's poem "meanwhile i keep dancing" here

Labels: Kara Emily Krantz, Poem

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1987. Fall in love with The Wizard of Oz. Learn to walk in red leather heels. Also, pretend to smoke thin rolls of paper and drape a yellow towel on your head like long blond hair. Feel utterly beautiful as the tornado whisks you away.

1989. Get a perm for your birthday. Show your Grandfather, who laughs and says you look ridiculous, which is not as bad as when he said your sister’s pixie cut made her look like an Auschwitz survivor, but still feel gravely concerned that your value as a human being has dipped well below socially acceptable. This feeling is central to being a woman.

1988. Kiss Lee Pongpipat (the only Asian boy you’ve ever known) on the cheek after agreeing to trade him Buddha for God.

2001. Take a job as a dishwasher at a party rental store where you clean frat-boy piss out of the drinks fountain. Use the money to buy a fierce pair of heels.

1993. Barbie and Ken break her white and pink plastic canopy bed on their honeymoon. The next day she divorces him and marries My Little Pony, and they consummate their union in the Playskool barn.

2002. Be cheated on by a frat-boy.

2004. Take a job as an occupational therapist in Oxford, where you have to bathe an old man who tells you to “go fuck yourself you Goddamn Yankee” and who will be assaulted by a middle-aged woman who will tell him that he’s dirty and plays with his bollocks and steals her babies. Use the money to go to Ireland.

1981, December 22, 9:42 p.m. Your father will note that you have the Brown “monkey-toes”, meaning that your toes, and the toes of virtually everyone in your family are freakishly long, a trait which he will point out at birthday parties and family reunions for the next 23 years, until you snap and tell him he’s embarrassing you both. Feel undesirable to foot fetishists.

1994. Get your ears pierced and practice French-kissing with a girlfriend. Also, after D.A.R.E. graduation, practice smoking grass. Not marijuana, lawn clippings.

1999. Your mother buys you a silver dress and silver heels. Get your hair and makeup done in the style of a dramatic 40s film star. Wear a corset for the first time in your life. Very nearly faint from lack of oxygen. Go to the prom with a blue-haired boy who will leave you for his ex halfway through.

2005. 8 a.m., kiss a boy to make up for the first kiss you had the night before but that was forgotten in a haze of white wine and hard cider.

1990. Convince your sister to run away with you from a life in the cruel oppression of your slave-owners to one of freedom and opportunity. Slip quietly into Oz while the dishwater goes cold and filmy in the kitchen.

(Poet and writer Jess Myers is a regular contributor to DaRK PaRTY. She lives in New York City where she is toiling away in corporate real estate.)

Labels: Jess Myers, Poem

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By Jessica Fox-Wilson

Streetlights dot the sidewalk,
pierce the dark sky like stars.

Salt, gravel and ice slide
me forward, unsteadily. I know

what is coming next:
eight feet, ten feet, twenty

of packed semi, buttressed
by sheets of plywood. I will hop

left-right-left-right, blowing
warm breath into my freezing

fingers, taste rubber work gloves
on my lips. I will not talk

too early, will not wear a back brace
over shirt, under coat, will not

breathe black exhaust fumes, will not
ask for help hoisting the oak armoire

on the lone two wheeler, while
guiding it safely inside. The only

conversation will be two unfunny
morning DJs cackling on the radio

and my internal counting of cardboard
boxes, minutes on my time sheet,

minutes until the sky burns blue
and I crawl tired, home.

(Jessica Fox-Wilson 30 year old working poet/writer for Minnesota. In between her job, hobby, husband, friends, she is trying desperately to create a working writing life. As she balances all of this, she realizes that she can’t be the only one attempting this tightrope act. She authors the blog 9 to 5 Poet to share her experiences.)

Labels: Jessica Fox-Wilson, Poem

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Labels: Bukowski, Poem

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I am getting lots of exercise
shaking those martinis.

.......sip, sip.........
....... sigh............

Shaken 'till they're icy
cause it's summertime.
Goose and all the gander.
I want it like a kid wants a
Slurpee.

.....sip, sip..........
........cry............

I have figured it all out.
I want to be a lawyer.

......sip, sip............
....... zzzzz.............

I'm getting too much exercise.

Labels: Krista Laraine, Poem

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Labels: Father, Poem

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By: Rebecca Traquair

like any self-respecting fangirl, I’ve quibbled over translation before

I suspect, for instance, that Japanese, unlike English

doesn’t distinguish the finer distinctions

between elves, fairies, pixies

but then, I know no word for kitsune

but kitsune

the publishers promised to preserve the manga feel

leave the art inviolate, to bring us the whole story

so back to front we read between the lines, fill in the blanks

gloss over our disagreements… to absorb story

told in blood and meat and bone and steel, love and betrayal

paper and ink… magic

I believe story is universal; I live for this

the western audience made it through ten issues without apparent issue

before the publishers broke their word

as though we readers can’t recognize hoof-beats, wind, or steel on steel

we can’t imagine the armour clanks, spurting squelching entrails,

or the roar of demon-gods, not angry, but hungry

at least, not without a little starred box to translate each sound

for the sake of the story, I’ll swallow this outrage

maybe I should have known better than to trust the publisher

to trust their audience

to understand the parts that should be left out

(Regular DaRK PaRTY Contributor Rebecca Traquair is a poet living in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.)

Read Rebecca's poem The Last Visible Dog

Labels: Manga, Poem, Rebecca Traquair

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“I am not a number. I am a free man.”

There are sparrows, and there are canaries
But any bird can have its wings clipped, and
Any bird can fall

Define your humanity. Leave out race, gender, age, orientation, belief, title, citizenship, economic status, the colour of your hair…
Are you in, or are you out?

It’s educational
A to Z. Auschwitz to Alcatraz.
Places to examine, imagine, even be overwhelmed, overcome
But an outsider can never really understand
You can go home again
You can walk away

Some things will always be beyond our grasp
Like the names of all who died in those camps
We turn it into museum and monument
Lest we forget

A prison can become a tourist attraction
Small comfort to more than two million people in America today
But interesting, curious, something to think on
For those with the luxury of contemplation

Freedom is abstract… like love, peace, happiness
Prison is concrete…
Concrete and steel bars and the slow leak of lost hope
Yet, infinity defines them both
What comes after
What’s inside

Released to a new life sentence of uncertain prospects
Freedom is only as big as the cage built around your heart

Read Rebbecca's poem "The Internet Is For Porn"

Labels: Freedom, Poem, Rebecca Traquair

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Labels: Church, Jess Myers, Poem

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Labels: Poem, Raymond King Shurtz

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Labels: Loneliness, Poem

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Labels: James H. Duncan, Poem

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