A lot has transpired since my last blog post in September. My poem "The Trick to Elevation" has been accepted for publication in The Chaffin Journal, the literary magazine of Eastern Kentucky University. Three of my poems were published in Romania in Nazar Look's "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology. These poems will be featured here, starting with the first in the series, below. Five of my poems will appear in next year's Cantos, the literary magazine of Missouri Baptist University. My poem "To My Octogenarian", which appeared on the blog previously, was re-published in England in "The Poetic Bond II" anthology compiled and edited by Trevor Maynard. And lastly, three of my full-length poetry collections are under submission to book publishers, so please keep your fingers crossed for me
Now, here's some poems for you. With winter coming soon, here's a poem about early winter in my home state of Louisiana, which appeared previously in Cave Moon Press' "Broken Circles" anthology:
DEEP DELTA FREEZE
The fishes stare up, pie-eyed,
sideways in the ice,
the brackish marshes frozen,
the satsumas in blight.
She fusses over grommets,
bungee cords and tarps,
and mutters to the smudge-pots
that they won't save her crops.
The tangerines are freezing,
and won't survive the night;
she glares skyward so angrily
she gives her God a fright.
The tall bananas wither,
their fruit hangs dead and brown,
so shriveled up and ruined,
one boot would bring them down,
but she won't do it now.
Now that the holidays are upon us, we can count on enjoying a variety of galas, both personal and televised. Here's a poem about a different type of gala, published previously in Sugar House Review:
Watch the fishes walk their bones
and shake them down below.
The yellowfader elfin hands
make broom-stands on the swaying stage,
their seven kneels to the peacocks' three,
the larvate magnates praised.
The excesses of fetch and rend
have spent the fish in somberness,
the strings cut loose from the pupas,
the audience transfixed, as two denuded apples
stare out foolishly, stripped to the core.
Here is my first poem in the "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology by Nazar Look. Like many of my poems, this other-wordly tale is dream-derived.
The first earth wave takes you by surprise,
and grabs you by the ankles,
the Ulinary undercurrent never stronger,
its waters thick and black as tar.
You know you must flee immediately,
You curse inwardly for having
dismissed your sitwas, and brace yourself
for an arduous escape.
The second earth wave takes you
by the thighs as you reach the crusted mounds,
wrapping its dark arms around you
to suck you in.
You claw your hands into the dried clay,
and strain for your life,
an inchworm pulling itself
from the muck of primordia.
You will not survive
the third earth wave.
The third wave breaks as
you free yourself and run for the cliffs
from the deadly tide.
From around the bend,
you can hear the cries of your subjects
on the public beaches.
You have climbed these bluffs
Since you were The Young Sajan, and know
all the footholds and handholds,
so you reach a safe height quickly,
then hear your name being called.
Below you on a sliver of ledge
are your wife and daughter.
You give them instructions,
but your wife is stupid
and the girl is timid,
and they stare up blankly,
not comprehending; but your sitwas arrive
with cords, pulleys, and rope chairs,
and you can turn your efforts to the horde
of sun seekers bolting up the dirt path
back to the city, some stained
by their own brushes
At the end of the trail
is a high rock outcropping,
and the commoners are fighting
over the ropes. A Fatweh woman
pushed perilously close to the edge
recognizes you, and whispers,
"Help me, Sajan,"
as the ground beneath her gives way,
and she falls backward to her demise,
her robes flapping
in the updrafts.
You must take control,
so you run to the rock,
climbing it without a rope,
and shout, "This way!"
Others begin to follow
as you reach the city overlook station,
grunting in exertion and relief;
then you groan inwardly as you peer down
at violent bedlam in your streets;
the Fatwehs and the Jaccebas are warring
Finally, here's installment 3 in my humorous series about the Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:
A Big Parade
Grand Poo-Bah rode high
on his best fluffalump,
but the beast’s hump
was chafing his rump.
Swaying and nauseated,
small coppers he tossed,
the crowd below seeing
his Soul was now lost.
Excesses of everything
and the ebb tides of war
had made him lose conscience,
his reign now a blur:
“Oh, well! What the hell,
not every little thing
calls for a cure…”
That's all for now. Your comments, as always, are appreciated. Don't forget to send your poems to our review,
Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com.
Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com.
John Lambremont, Sr.