A Toast to the Glory

After First Draft: A Literary Social 

w. Tamiko Beyer

To the glory of your scent 

(which draws me in, unwavering)

To the glory of the way you look 

to me (this is important)

To the glory of your music 

(which you alone are the god of)

To the glory of your self-proclaimed broken soul

(which is your soul, nonetheless, let’s not forget)

To the glory of your love 

(which I crave)

To the glory of your brown eyes 

(just like mine)

To the glory of the mirror you hold
up to my own broken soul

(which is also my soul, 

let’s not forget)

To the glory of broken souls

(which come together 

to share in their brokenness)

So they can (finally) heal

So they can have a better future

(where things go their way more than they don’t)

So they (finally) have

a safe place to call home

and (also finally) peace of mind

To the glory of all the new people I call home

(they taught me about true love,

owning my power, and holding space)

To the glory of the ongoing battle of self-care 

waged by every soul plagued by apathy

To the glory of imperfections

(which really can be our perfections,

disarming us to the ones we love)

To the glory of god, who (finally) isn’t at all bad

for knowing me as well as (and better than) I know myself

To the glory of the wilderness

(which, to me, is the backyard furnished by two chairs and a family of racoons)

To the glory of the sun

(which will rise and will set no matter 

what I do or fail to do)

We Came to Love

taking the world in my arms
requires
a lot of heart

to bear the pain
required
to bear the joy

to shed the tears
required
to share the laughter

and all the love
wrapped in the arms
of each person that
you come to call

because let's all admit
we're much too small
to fit the literal world in our arms
but not when it's beating
inside each heart of every love

one by one

we came to know
we came to love

A Virtual Chapbook

Written with the guidance of Michael Keenan & his Poetry II class

for R3N

Stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight.     -H.D.

Yet it is true, poetry is delicious.      -Virginia Woolf

New Philosophy

Teach me how to use your sweatshirt

while I unravel it around a spool.

Tell me how to keep time

as I destroy the second hand.

 

Help me memorize these words;

it is the only way to catch them.

Teach me how to speak these words

I love but cannot touch to use.

 

Impress my hand upon your face

while I etch you in my memory.

Teach me how to word the eyes

I hold only in their moment.

  

I do not care to know things.

I care to know conceptions.

I care to know you.

 

You fail to misunderstand.

The Songs You Play

I misplace the tune, or find it hidden

because I awe, often, at who we were

(what changes?) or who we are.

I scour through empty deject

until I hear traces of

you,

your music, and the tones linger

through the room, time, ear, our

memory, and emote.

A Coaxing into Childhood

This room is calculated and immaculate;

There is no unplanned magic here.

 

But the baby powder residue

On your fingers from the walls

Takes you to the edge of that limit

you lost when the quick tick, tick timer

Replaced the slow beating echoes that were

Yours to keep track of the minutes like

hours spent reviewing picture-book clouds.

When the intensity of your eyesight

made it all look like your grandfather’s

black and white photographs except for that

Cerulean

Balloon floating towards you on a lazy gust

then

      Pop.

Your fixation with endings

began the day your father’s

arms stopped acting as an airplane

and you thought, perhaps that heaven

they believe of is merely a belief.

 

This room is the adulthood

you are taking the train away from tonight.

Fanny Och Alexander

1.

Grey man

and ruby woman

sailor boys and flower girl

a peppermint blonde

seek

the boy Alexander

whose

eyes

blink and breathe

legs

jump into bed and cover himself

as

straw man

weeps

Marmalade woman

and her ladies laughing

until

straw man

falls

2.

he is dying

Alexander

straw man is dying

Alexander is facing death

with tears on Marmalade hips

straw man is his father

gasping for breath

sailor boys and flower girl wear black

ruby woman in cross-wearing plum cries

Marmalade woman weeps

empty out lined blue eyes

belong to the peppermint blonde

Marmalade straw

collapse

all is black

3.

Alexander and the peppermint blonde

watch their father

between

darkness

peace in a slit of light

and darkness

this awaits you

Alexander

4.

Alexander haunts

Innocence with his tune

piss

damn

hell

cunt

purple marmalade ladies

at a black wedding

sturdy man

replaces

straw

and everybody else

Amen.

dada dere dada

live as me

know my throbbing

empty bucket head

 

do not show me

free me

 

i dont mean

that or this

stage the bliss

flee the guilt

 

remorseless song

that seems not wrong

 

never will be right

 

sunk in thought

a purple notion 

 

cocoons

crumble

recrystallize

desynthesize

fall to waste

again

 

where is my worth

is there any

 

there is to you

 

And you

And you

 

but not to you

 

Or you

Or you

 

so I ask

always

why

 

never know

yet still do go

 

happy on

the see saw

Silent Picture

Our elbows

touched to warmth

but I was cold, I was cold.

 

a reel runs on

 

as we drift between sleeps

  Guillaume

  Guillaume

self sought to stay

but my self fell.

 

Elbows touch here but not there

where the reel runs off the real.

 

He watched my eyelids

then the ceiling grinning

at the warmth between our elbows.

 

I awakened to his eyelids.

He had fallen.

              Guillaume

              Guillaume

He was cold, he was cold.

Warm at the elbows.

 

I watched his eyelids

then the ceiling grinning

at the warmth between our elbows.

 

I was cold, I was cold.

 

And the reel runs on

the reel runs on

 

remorse:

we did not meet in mind asleep.

 

So I was cold, I was cold.

I took my elbow back to

take the only warmth we had.

 

Now both eyes touch

and nothing more,

nothing more

     Guillaume

     Guillaume

Now we’re warm.

We are warm.

 

And the reel runs on

the reel runs on

The Good Soldier

two

gloated

crow-footed

eyes

              yellow

salt-and-pepper

matted eyes

 

lips

   sombre under

   rolling like a sea

 

quarter the walls

within himself

      

readying to pour

           into

mild bone and

                  flesh

    

the sun

       black

stronghold

 of gold

      dark and still

on the beach

 

shapes foreign

foot the night

uncrested

 

old ordnance

and brass cannon

wealth

send a solid

 

 

all

 

you

  

              be

 

shot

 

 

solitary

moonlight

peopling tombs

Deconstructing Prospect Park

Sitting here, I keep a dead oath alive

I should have, lying threadbare beside me

in her way, she, who knew me

out of purified dust constructed us

She who, in my way, I knew withal

To abandon this, our hallow ground

speckled with dead dream leaves

would be to live—to break a promise

that isn’t mine, that wasn’t ours, we

never agreed, I have, never agreed

Pause

 

I go in your arms

learning your hug

 

I already know yours

 

It goes on warm

 

over your

leather jacket

 

I learned it fast

 

I learn slow

I’m not letting go

 

not now

 

You don’t know mine

how I want to know yours

 

I need to go

I need to go

 

That I know

                 

Then let me go

 

But I want you

to seep beneath my

leather surface

 

What can I whisper

to make you let go

 

Stop

 

make time

stop

 

Time goes

I won’t go

 

I want to learn how

you learn

 

I never learn

I just linger

 

until we’re warm enough

to have us when you’re gone