Poem of the week from Swindle
If you were visiting Swindle everyday, this wonderful poem by R.T. Smith is the kind of thing you’d find.
Thanks to Matthew for the submission.
The regulars
Ash Bowen's poetry has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Blackbird, and Black Warrior Review, among other publications. He lives and works in Texarkana, AR.
Jennifer Jabaily's poetry has appeared in Mannequin Envy and Fickle Muses. She's a second-year MFA student at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville.
Ashley Anna McHugh is a third-year MFA student at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Measure, DIAGRAM and Memorious as well as other publications.
Johnathon Williams's poetry has appeared in Best New Poets 2009, the Pebble Lake Review, and Unsplendid. He lives in Fayetteville, AR, with his wife and daughters.
A poem from your guest blogger, part 5: “Just Call Me Beastmaster of the Morning.”
Just Call Me Beastmaster of the Morning
My clout sweeps backwards as I run, girded with a sash of garnets.
Sapphires set ablaze by the fire and light of my movement.
And of course I run vertically, dumbass—of course I face forward and down.
Jesus Christ—that’s just the way you do it— not face up or side-saddled,
side-Earthed, if you prefer. So as you draw my extruded arms
and waves and bubbles, my companions remain surprised at my world
into which I am drawn. Listen up, mortals, gather round me
as I caw caw caw while small mammals bite me,
for I am in their wise company, for this Beastmaster
will prepare meal for you. He will assign seating according to your hair.
A poem from your guest blogger, part 4: “After Shame.”
Dirty Frank’s bar, Philadelphia. Photo from tatyana jula’s Flickr.
After Shame
In a damp bar full of old men
she places my hand on her head
just on top of a bulge on her skull—
a bump really, and my stomach sours,
humbled to be across from her, drinking beer with
an abbreviated unicorn. I swirled kinks
of hair on that knob. Just so you know, she said.
Which I thought was odd, even
presumptuous, and I felt dead, drawing
my hand back in a jerk.
COMMENTARY TO THE FIRST STANZA
I don’t know why she showed me her bumpy head.
She went off and became a painter,
a good one really, who liked to show groups of kids
languid and calm after playing all afternoon.
After I looked around in her room
she never spoke to me again,
the forbidden knowledge of what deforms us
forgotten until now. It must be age.
Shame can only be given in particulars.
I tell these stories to explain why people stop liking me.
– first published in Hollins Critic, 2001; also from The History of My World Tonight
A poem from your guest blogger, part 3: “The Ceramic Apple.”
Not the actual ceramic apple, but an approximation.
The Ceramic Apple
From deep inside the ceramic apple
on top of the family fridge, I noodle out
a photo, hidden for years. The Fourth of July
parade, Maryville, Tennessee, the eastern tip
of the state, visiting relatives. I was a punky kid
with long bangs, and sulked on the curb,
skinny legs wide-flung in shorts,
watching bands march by. I refused to smile.
Both of my hairless balls were hanging out
in the snapshot, and were visible from across the street.
Why did my mom keep this embarrassment,
tucked under tacks and spare birthday candles?
Whole color guards must have passed, distracted
by my sagging family jewels. I was reunited
at last with distant cousins. Like Dicky Bird Nester.
He was cool. He had a speedboat
and was my new hero. I told Dicky Bird
about junior high band, and how I played trombone,
the cruelest instrument for a pubescent
boy to play. The slide was always
barreling out, jutting, knotted, protruding. I still know
one song, the bass part
to that damn Coke commercial,
“I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing,”
when everyone held candles, singing,
beaming for the camera.
–first published in Mudfish, 1997
A poem from your guest blogger, part 2: “Found Poem: Gene Simmons Impersonator.”
That is actually Andy.
Found Poem: Gene Simmons Impersonator
From Tribute: A Rockumentary
A lot of Genes—
and I don’t want
to name names here—
get caught up in
the character
and forget who they
are. It’s a trip—
you know you’re
looking out to
the audience
and they’re looking
at you—but you’re
not you—you’re
someone else—and
that’s a weird
connection—because
when I’m looking
at them I’m
someone else—and
I hope you’re
buying into
this. It’s easy
to sink into
it. But last night
when I saw Dave
do his Gene, I
knew we could move
on without Andy.
– first published in The Dead Horse Review, 2007