thesocialpoet

Archive for September, 2013|Monthly archive page

The Tea Party

In Poetry on September 22, 2013 at 1:27 pm

The tea party

waits for world destruction,

they hope it favours them.

They put on their glasses upside down.

They drink the water where

they boil the egg.

They throw away the fruit

and chew the peel.

They smoke the butts.

They clean their aquariums

with dirty water.

They show their love

through the rules.

They brush their teeth

before they wake up.

“What a bunch of people!”

Says a lady who talks to me

about the Tea party.

 

Blanca Haddad, Venezuela

Advertisements

The Artist’s Hand

In Poetry on September 13, 2013 at 6:06 pm

I’ve seen your hand, the kingdom

of it digging into flesh. The old, tarlike

 

crevice. Like light, lifelike villages

burst from your knuckle mounds in rays,

 

a sea of windows on the mounts of your palm,

wrenching, thickening, wanting more of itself.

 

The hand has touched me briefly,

between my atoms converging into the skin

 

on the wiry bone. Skin which is like paint

uprooting and uncertain of its stroke.

 

Bone which is not wood, or even bone,

tapering off to its home, wherever,

 

into my own hands, tiny brittle things

that don’t speak, oppose, or curl.

 

I start too molecular. I’m open to start.

Shiver of art, wanting to be your hands,

 

which are timeless and large, the part

of the body demanding my oval eyes.

 

I’ve wanted you to give me eyes.

These black things will not do-

 

they’re not life enough for you.

When I look into myself, oval in the glass,

 

embodied in the glass, unkingdomed,

unclaimed, I am recorded pallid

 

and dusty like snow. No-faced.

 

Bayleigh Fraser, USA

Where Are You From?

In Poetry on September 13, 2013 at 4:14 pm

Where are you from?

I’m from a beautiful and dangerous city:

A “suffering paradise,”

poor on the surface

rich underneath.

a place where assassins

cry for their mothers

and the food is home made.

I’m from that corner where a kid

pointed a gun at my stomach.

I’m from the tropical rainforest

where they captured a monkey

to give me on my fifteenth birthday.

Screaming, screaming, screaming

Without aesthetic discourses.

I am not from Paris, London

or New York.

I am from Caracas,

that corner

without discourses

a gun

screaming:

painting.

 

Blanca Haddad, Venezuela