Original Poem: New Dress

New Dress

Rachel Marie Talan

Tissues--

fallen soldiers of love

have surrendered,

their bodies scattered over the floor,

a trail from the bed 

to the bathroom vanity.

Ben and Jerry,

beneath the bedside lamp,

are arguing who

has dibs on the silver lady,

lying at the nightstand’s edge.

The bed’s pillows are 

wrinkled and angry

and the TV has

been on for days, 

mourning the ends of

shows stuck in reruns,

characters never aging.

The walk-in closet

glows yellow

--a bulb about to burn out--

and hangers

are tangled bitterly

over the mouth of a

hungry hamper.

Then the front door clicks.

Footsteps up the stairs.

A box on the bed.

The TV off.

Purse slung

into a chair.

Zzzzzipp.

A look in the mirror

with a sudden smile says:

Nothing heals

a fractured heart

like the touch of

a new dress.

Original Poem: The Kuleshov Effect

Recently, Josh did a stop motion video of me writing out one of my poems called "The Kuleshov Effect." Stop motion is done by taking consecutive photos and then playing them back at 24 frames/sec. It gives the film a choppy look, and with the antique effect Josh used, this really looks like an antique film (well, except for the two cars in my driveway). I hope you love it as much as I do!

 

The Kuleshov Effect

Rachel Marie Talan

Shelved books gather dust like old,

forgotten trophies. Sunlight streams through 

the open window,

a spotlight.

Cut.

The author spins phrases on his typewriter

while the sun strikes his back with 

warmth, with pain. 

Cut.

There’s a dandelion on the lawn. A 

lone survivor. All his friends, killed on

behalf of beauty’s war. 

Cut.

She sits at the bar and takes her

first drink in fifteen years.

Cut.

A penny is stranded, tail-side-up, in the gutter.

Cut.

A cigar still burns in an ashtray,

smoke dancing up and away from its

abandoned form.

Cut. 

The metronome ticks atop the musicless piano. 

Cut.

Featured Poet: Gina Alyse

Potpourri

by Gina Apperson

To someone else

Dried flowers may seem better

Than a collection of random

Literary extracts.

An extract of honey perfume

May smell more welcoming

Than the crisp paper pages

My fingers hold.

A diamond ring that flashes

With every change of light

May bedazzle more brilliantly

Than the next metaphor listed.

In fact the next hidden meaning

Of this delicate language

May just go unnoticed

As clouds spiral day by day,

Making curtains in the air.

Such curtain, only of lies,

Would then feel softer

Than the quiet melody

Of missing voices

In the beryl skies.

And the sweet music that vibrates

Daily instead

Would sound better

Than the flawless flow

Of words voiced with strong soul

To someone else.

But never am I

This someone else.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Featured Poet: Gina Alyse is a delight. She keeps an eclectic blog where she catalogues her interests and daily musings, and she was kind enough to feature some of my work.  "Potpourri" has such a calm rhythm to it. I especially love the lines "as clouds spiral day by day, making curtains in the air." Such a lovely image. 

For Reasons, Most Wondrous

"To the garden, the world, anew ascending,
Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,
The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,
Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;

"The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, have brought me again,	5
Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous; My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous;

"Existing, I peer and penetrate still,
Content with the present—content with the past,

"By my side, or back of me, Eve following,	10
Or in front, and I following her just the same." ---- "To the Garden of the World" by Walt Whitman

Outfit Details:

Photos taken by Josh.

Glasses//RayBan
Earrings//Vintage, 1950s
Ring//Antique
Cardigan//Charlotte Russe
Dress (worn as blouse)//Vintage, 1980s
Skirt//Vintage, 1960s - via Vintage Archives
Shoes//Vintage 1960s
Handbag//Vintage 1950s

Original Poem: Clumsy

Clumsy

by Rachel Marie Talan

My poems are always so clumsy...

The words sort of

trip

over

each 

other

in choppy rhythm.

Are they even poems at all?

Just weak collections of lines.

The writings of others

know exactly

what they're about.

They've skipped adolescence

and stopped falling over their own feet.

Their text,

black, straight, organized,

stands erect

in perfect,

rectangular columns.

Not mine though.

Mine finds a way of

slipping

off

the

page.

____________________________________________________________________________________

As promised, this is the poem I had published in Nota Bene. I really enjoy playing with the positioning of words in my writing, and I absolutely love concrete poetry, which is a form of poetry where the words are placed intentionally out of alignment on the page in order to make a picture. It's quite fun. To me, poetry has always been like doing a puzzle.

My Name All Done Up in Helvetica

Seeing my name in print never does cease to thrill me. My poem "Clumsy" was chosen for publication in Phi Theta Kappa's annual literary anthology Nota Bene along with other poems and stories from students across the country. They chose the most perfect picture to accompany my piece, which, as you can imagine, just tickles me and my whimsical heart pink.

If you stop by again on Friday, I'll post the full-length poem for you to peruse.
Until then, my friends!

Original Poem: Paper Tyranny

Last Friday I went with Courtney to a poetry reading in southern Wisconsin. The café was delightful and only carried organic products. I confess, I ate cheesecake and a cinnamon roll for dinner that night. The server told me she admired me, but there's nothing to be admired about a 20 year old eating sugar for dinner and then blowing bubbles in her milk because she's so nervous about reading a poem in front of an audience that she has lost all her common sense. 

But I digress...

It was my first time performing at an open mic, and I felt quite brave afterward -- like a gladiator of poets. The poem below is the one I read...into the microphone...that made my voice really really loud...so everybody could hear every single word I said...

Paper Tyranny

Rachel Marie Talan

We are paper dolls

in a paper world, and all

must fold before you.

Your wicked lips, like

paper clips, are click-clicking 

over paper ears. 

Crumpled citizens

listen and watch, faces blank

with unprinted fears.

Your scissors above

are casting shadows and dread:

Snip. Snip. We’re all dead.

I'd also like to thank everyone for the sweet words of encouragement you gave me on Monday. All of you are just swell :)

Featured Poet: Jessica

Somebody Doesn't Exist
by Jessica of The Midwest Muse


Will somebody remember us?
When  the oceans dry up,
and the finest art decays,
the stars burn out and modernization never happened.
And there's the jasmine scented room,
where we laid our coats and our bodies,
and you caught me looking at that man,
that wasn't you and I smiled.

When there are no trees left to be wheeled away,
buildings aren't constructed out of brick and mortar.
And the midsummer nights are riddles,
where you seduced the warmth with a broken banjo.
And I gambled the night away with a drink,
a false smirk and the skin under my favorite dress.

Will somebody remember us?
When the food chain shifts,
the leaves stop changing.
And children are never granted innocence.
The grass vanishes,
replaced by sand,
And the landlocked blues
fade into the Earth.

When the color drains from my wine stained cheeks,
and the world has no color palette.
The plethora of choices become a single option,
and like the scones I never ate,
we crumble into crumbs.

Will somebody remember us?
When the birds can no longer fly,
and your once bright eyes have dimmed
like the moon that forgets to set,
and the sun that never rises.
We were young once,
when we dressed up in our Sunday's finest,
and we stole from the house by the sea.

When the heat never returns,
and seasons are a foreign concept,
like the film we watched that first night,
and the fireworks we created before we understood,
what the tears really meant.

Will somebody remember us?
When time was a concept built by a man,
but the man died and took his secrets to the grave,
The vegetables cannot grow without water,
and water only existed to wash away our dreams,
like the paint we used on the bridge that collapsed.

When harmonies cannot be heard,
because the world is tone deaf.
Like the night I sang out of tune,
to your broken banjo.


__________________________________________________________________


Featured Poet: Jessica is a lovely lady, who was kind enough to feature my blog on hers not too long ago. Her style is always colorful and well thought out. To get to know her better, visit her blog here.
__________________________________________________________________

Are you a poet? I'd love to feature your original work!
Submission Guidelines:
Subject matter is not limited, though profanity is discouraged.
Submissions are subject to editing if deemed necessary.
You must be a follower of The Quirky Poet via Bloglovin' or Google Friend Connect.
You may send your poems to rachelmarie@thequirkypoet.com.


Thanks for reading!

Why should I leave you?

The Taxi

by Amy Lowell

When I go away from you

The world beats dead

Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars   

And shout into the ridges of the wind.   

Streets coming fast,

One after the other,

Wedge you away from me,

And the lamps of the city prick my eyes

So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,

To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

____________________________________________________________________________________

I hate to disappoint, but while in NYC my blog shall remain on pause.

But when I get back, I promise to share all the snapshots I will have taken while away.

Don't miss me too much ;)

If you'd like to keep up with me while I'm on vacation, check out my facebook and twitter.

Featured Poet: Jill McFee

Exodus

by Jill McFee

It would be easy

to lay down our lives

like spades after plowing

and walk away with nothing

but the stories on our backs

the vein maps to everywhere

we’ve already been

I would walk away with you

our hearts in hobo sacks

we trade and sling over our shoulders

as the dust of the road paints our faces

we’ll know when we’re there

because it is somewhere far from anywhere

and it is where we will plant

a flag and lie in the grass

without wondering where there

is a washing machine

_________________________________________________________________________________

Featured Poet: Jill McFee is a bubbly, adorable multi-talented lady, and if you'd like to get to know her better (which obviously you do!) you can find her lovely blog here. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

Are you a poet? I'd love to feature your original work!
Submission Guidelines:
Subject matter is not limited, though profanity is discouraged.
Submissions are subject to editing.
You must be a follower of The Quirky Poet via Bloglovin' or Google Friend Connect.
You may send your poems to rachelmarie@thequirkypoet.com.


Thanks for reading!

Featured Poet: Amber R. Nelson

The Redwood Children

by Amber R. Nelson

He said: I wouldn’t mind if you buried me on that knoll

under a red boulder from the ruins of the big house.

It was the discovery of two small graves in the Valley of the Moon.

Children of a pioneer, gripped by sickly root, lay underneath

fallen oak leaves and warm earth, tuned to the field mice

and bearded trees.  Their loneliness is expansive.

In this spot a father burst open on his knees

before trudging forth that silent morning over

newly-shaven hillsides.  A wilted lily, a redwood tree

reaching out of the ground marked with redwood tablets.

The wood oscillates.  In this soil are the hundred year old

hoofprints left by an appaloosa, the freshly-discarded

skin of a rattlesnake, the down a towhee shed in the thrust

of flight.  The boulder was rolled up to the burial ground.

The happy death: to let one’s remains give company to two others.

_________________________________________________________________

Featured Poet: Amber R. Nelson is a published poet and keeps a stylish little blog called Un Petit Fauve. Her poetry always seems so sophisticated to me. If you'd like to read more of her beautiful words, you can visit her blog or purchase an exquisite broadside of this poem in her shop.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Are you a poet? I'd love to feature your original work!
Submission Guidelines:
Subject matter is not limited, though profanity is discouraged.
Submissions are subject to editing.
You must be a follower of The Quirky Poet via Bloglovin' or Google Friend Connect.
You may send your poems to rachelmarie@thequirkypoet.com.


Thanks for reading!

 

The Sunlight of Edward Hopper

Sweet Talk
by Billy Collins


You are not the Mona Lisa
with that relentless look.
Or Venus borne over the froth
of waves on a pink half shell.
Or an odalisque by Delacroix, 
veils lapping at your nakedness.
You are more like the sunlight
of Edward Hopper,
especially when it slants
against the eastern side
of a white clapboard house
in the early hours of the morning,
with no figure standing
at a window in a violet bathrobe,
just the sunlight,
the columns of the front porch
and the long shadows
they throw down
upon the dark green lawn, baby.


_________________________________________________________________________________


If you're wondering, the works of Edward Hopper are incredibly mundane and simple, yet they're equally beautiful and moving. The lighting is exquisite in his paintings. If dear Billy had said this to me, I would believe he saw me as down-to-earth and real, but still just as lovely and inspiring.

Kore

"I have watched your smile in your sleep

and I know it is the boat 

in which my sun rides under the earth

all night on the wave of your breath

no wonder the days grow short

and waking without you

is the beginning of winter

"How is it that I can hear your bird voice now

trickling among the ice towers

through the days of the anvil

as the year turns I carry an echo

over my own stones and I listen

my eyes are open looking ahead

I walk a little ahead of myself touching

the air where nobody sees you

and the sun as it sets through the forest of windows

unrolls slowly

its unrepeatable secret

all the colors of autumn without the leaves

"You were shaking and an air full of leaves

flowed out of the dark falls of your hair

down over the rapids of your knees

until I touched you and you grew quiet

and raised to me

your hands and your eyes and showed me

twice my face burning in amber

"Already  on the first hill with you beside me
at the foot of the ruins I saw through the day
and went on without pausing
loving the unheld air
as a wing might love it flying
toward you unknowing
knowing

"When they are together our hands are of an age

and a dark light flows up between them

into its feathers

We have brought

nothing with us

but what has come of itself

we pass the stone fragments

the ancient smiles holding out

no hands

like the trees their sisters born older

"I trust neither memory nor expectation
but even the white days of cities
belong to what they do not see
even the heart of the doubters' light is gold
even when you are not with me
in the flowerless month of the door god
you look at me with your eyes of arrival

"Thirty days after the solstice

forms of ripe wheat

emerge from the tips of the branches

Far outside them

here

where you have never been

I reach for you with my eyes

I call you with my body

that knows your one name

"Days when I do not hear you 

it seems that the season flows backward

but it is only

I

of hollow streets

deaf smoke

rain on water

"We cross the smooth night lake together

in the waiting boat

we are welcomed without lights

again and again we emerge by day

hand in hand

from all four corridors at once

under the echoing dome

guided by what has not been said 

"The shadow of my moving foot 

feels your direction

you come toward me

bringing the gold through the rust

you step to me through the city of amber

under the moon and the sun

voice not yet in the words

what is spoken is already

another year."

-- W.S. Merwin

Details:

"Kore" by W.S. Merwin - to read the complete piece (nope, this isn't the whole thing), see his collection The Compass Flower.


Photos by Josh.


Glasses//Ray Ban
Necklace//Antique
Dress (worn as blouse)//Vintage, 1980s
Skirt//Vintage, 1980s
Trench Coat//Vintage, Thrifted
Cardigan//Charlotte Russe
Shoes//Vintage, 1980s via The Paraders