Thursday, June 30, 2011

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


Thursday, June 23, 2011

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

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

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