POEM OF THE DAY BY A.J. RATHBUN

In Ithaca

Before arriving in Ithaca, pass

the whatever river, whatevering

around the dusty credit spring

loans summer, where men off

ante meridian to relieve water

of any but the wiliest trout.

Sweat drips as simple syrup down

gawky morning chins of lost tourist,

invited visitor alike as they amble

past the poetic Wendy’s, sing

of how five gorges cater breeze

over hot May noons. 1942’s

Comprehensive Pictorial Encyclopedia

in the public bathroom on Seneca

says scenic beauty expands

out of nightingales and bees

and a picture of John Wayne.

Lunch is orange and sweet. Porches

restrain sheep, become kernels

of early Iranian cinema dialogues

for the burled tri-state area.

In Ithaca, no one calls Ithaca

the Switzerland of America.

Deer multiply into stars, stars

replace deer, but evening light,

nostalgically golden brown, is hard

for me to remember, once borders

are crossed. The Cayuga dreams

of Tioga, from a distance, and, 

as an heiress to an empty estate,

State Street woos New Jersey state

while iced Italian Soda served

under fans at Home Dairy want savoring,

if the flavor is Kiwi, the tropical

component of 4:30, here, in Ithaca,

where astronomical observations

reveal to even jaded passers-by

a street, a city, a moon, an ocean

papier-mached with glacial confetti

from a million legendary parades.


-A.J. Rathbun

SOMETHING TO SAY

Consider a moment
those dank, primeval basements
and mud-flooded sub-basements of the brain

where the fish and lizards

and monkeys of our formative years

still wriggle and skitter and scurry about.

If we peer deep enough inside ourselves

we can see them, there, still completeing

their respective lengths of circuitry,

still telegraphing up their two-cents worth,

from time to time, despite all our attempts

at processing and refining them away

down the spiral staircase of the spine

out into the Big Nowhere.

Look, for example, how the Gar

with their jagged, maniacal grins

are all lustfully eyeing the little pink toes

of our haplessly bobbing frontal lobe,

while the Catfish are fatly content

to sift and slither in the rich,

fertile muck of prehistoric memory.

And the skinks and Geckos and Chameleons,

all contoured and layered together

in their crevices, are dreaming of the days

when they ran the show.

And the Monkeys,

that coffee and smoke saturated

back-room gaggle of gag-men

and speech writers, all hunched and contorted

over their cranky, old Underwoods,

are up against a bitch of a deadline.

For the Alpha Male needs something to say,

something witty and charming,

yet, still somehow mysterious and aloof.

And he needs it yesterday.

-Jason Ryberg, 2009

POEM OF THE DAY BY PABLO NERUDA

ODE TO SUMMER

Summer, red violin,

clear cloud,

the hum

of a saw

or cicadas

announce your arrival.

The heavens

arch

to a smoothness,

lucent as an eye,

and below your gaze,

summer, you are

an infinite sky-fish,

shameless messenger

of praise,

lazy,

sleepy-eyed one,

little bee belly,

mischievous

sun,

terrible paternal sun,

sweaty as a toiling ox,

and the scorching sun

in one’s head

is like a

sudden blow,

sun of thirst

crossing the sand,

summer,

desert sea.

The sulfur

miner

drips

yellow sweat,

the aviator

maps,

ray by ray,

the celestial sun,

darkened

sweat

slips

down a forehead

into the eyes;

at Lota,

the miner

scrubs

his blackened forehead.

Seed beds

burn,

wheat

rustles

blue insects

seek

shade,

touch

refreshment,

dive

headlong

into diamonds.

Oh lush

summer,

ripe

apple

cart,

verdant

strawberry

mouth,

lips of wild plum,

roads

of tender

dust on dust,

midday

coppery red

drum.

In the afternoon,

fire

rests,

air

makes clover

dance; it enters

the deserted factory:

a fresh star

rises

in

the cloudy

sky.

A summer night

sizzles

without

burning.

-Pablo Neruda