No, Popsickle by Gabe Gudding

I hardly know what to say. A case of nonsense and anthropomorphism: The popsicle as a resilient child. The popsicle as a metaphor for not giving up. Maybe Gudding didn't mean that. But I love the sounds and the craziness of it. It's delightful to me.

No, Popsickle

No, popsickle: stay.
Don’t be eaten. Remain in the freezer, the
super market, lodge in the long
far-traveling fridge truck—Be convoyed: indeed
be conveyed for a Dakota
a Missouri—but when the truck arrive
at its depository
—or store—at the end of what hot bridge in the dim forenoon,
stay, little bulb of colored cold,
far in your cozy no-no.
I say chill, be a child, popsickle, refuse.

First appeared in Court Green

To leave a comment, click below.

Blue Tattoo, by Mitchell Metz

Voice seems often lacking in contemporary poetry. Not here. The poem's voice jumps with a hip sweetness and cavorts by linking sounds. I see the speaker in a college town, hanging out in a cluttered coffee shop. His hair's probably hanging down in his eyes.


Blue Tattoo

Thanks for attaching the pic
of the dragon tattoo on your tricep
Downloaded just fine. Can't say I've fashioned
a strong opinion on the tat, except that it looks like a seahorse
Which I suspect —
and I don't know much
about body art, or mythical creatures
for that matter — is not the effect you're shooting for.
Couldn't help but notice, though,
that there seems to be a woman
lurking beneath the beast.
May be wrong. Been wrong before
about girly lurking. But I think I see
some flesh and the strong presence
of no blood & some meat — the meat
that is you, peeking. Definite sinew.
Are you pale, or what? I knew
you were. You told me. White as a wafer.
Didn't figure you'd make it some kind of sacrament
in a new sect. Christ,
you're almost transparent!
White that wanes past itself
cannibalizes into blue. A blue needing. A blue
needing to be eaten by the suggestion of shadow,
of me. Speaking of me
speaking of shadow, I'm, yum, all over
your lack of cleavage. That pretty hint of not much
is about the most feminine thing I've ever not seen.
Your tits are double negatives,
baby, and I'm turned on
by bad logic.
Oh, and those stray curls
that fall from frame's edge to
kiss the rise of your shoulder?
Never used the word tendril before.
Consider this a first. Consider it tender.
They're gray!
Blonde, yeah. But gray, too.
Screw auburn and platinum, henceforth
blondeyeahbutgraytoo's the best color curls
could possibly be. I said best,
which brings us to the show stopper. (Sure,
I understand that your seahorse is the star,
the marquee act in our peek-a-boo drama,
so fierce and manifest and full of intent
blah, blah, blah ...),
but from the wings
a bit player steals the scene.
She's a swan; the luxurious longitude
of your neck's tendon. Bold. Fragile.
Plunging provocatively
to the shadowed grotto, the shallow pocket
where the sternum bolsters throat, that very atrium
of flesh responsible for ... severe over-writing.
Point is,
it got me going.
And thanks for that.
I like the pic. Not bad.

To leave a comment, click below.

Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish

I love the rhymes, the simplicity. And there's maybe an irony or a paradox here. Despite the last two lines, the poem doesn't just be; it is active with similes, and the whole thing is a metaphor that builds something meaningful: a poem about the art of poems.



Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.


A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.


A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean
But be.


To leave a comment click below.