Poets Online Archive

HOME  Call for Submissions  Issues  Submit  Links  Blog  About Us  Books for Poets  Mailing List  Copyrights 

REMAINDER

I prefer that you call me a remainder. One left behind, unsold,
but still in excellent condition here on the lofty shelf of literature
amongst the names that are studied in classrooms.
Hardcover, my dust jacket is just a bit worn
from the young girl who works on weekends
who takes me down and reads when there are no customers.
She gently removes my jacket and makes sure her hands are clean
and returns me to my place before she leaves.

We hear stories of the hurts. Damaged and shopworn sent away
to some place where they’ll never return - at least not in the same way.
Paperbacks that have had their edges sanded to freshen the look.
Hardcovers given a new jacket for a new season.
Once, one who was hard came back after being stripped with a soft cover.
Those on the tables with a dot, stamp or cut so that someone
cannot return it and pretend they bought it new.
The worst fate is to have your cover ripped off and returned for credit
while your body is recycled as pulp. None of us want to think about this.
Dumped or burned, not unlike some characters in my pages.

I note the days.
The store is dark and then it is light.
I know not how many of these remain for me.
Take me down, young girl.
Read me, purchase me, steal me, take me home,
someone you loved and never really lost.

Pamela Milne



IN A BETTER PLACE

In a memorial forest not far
from the Pacific cliffs, redwoods tower,
shielding a creek that in winter nearly
mutes the sound of wind moving through the trees.

Our guide walks easily among these trees,
comfortable on the paths she knows well.
She looks back but not to chide or spur us.
"Listen," she says, "and you'll hear them speaking:"

“More people," one sighs, "here to find their tree,
their anchor to the future without them,
their ash to be spread with dirt at our trunk,
their voices transcribed into polished brass.

Soon their own senselessness will press against
a future where they cannot see the buck
standing tall and strong alone on the ridge,
or the ferns that grow from the mossy ground."

Rob Friedman



SONO LISA

Behold, before my own eyes
It is I, the Mona Lisa, Lady Lisa,
Lisa Gherardini, Lisa Giocondo
I am all and I am none
My visage known -
Not just in Florence
But far and wide
A pity it resides elsewhere
My home was my world
First, my father’s and then my husband’s
The veil or the marriage bed
A choice we did not, could not make
As for bedchambers, I understand
it once hung in those of a French Empress
I wonder what she thought of it
How odd that a simple pious lady has so many admirers
It troubles me and I blush to think of it
I am no saint, no Madonna, no Christ
What do they see? What do I see?
Wife, mother, one devoted to God
A girl child with a noble family name and little else?
One fortunately well-betrothed?
One blessed to have lived through the birth of six children?
  - And four who grew to adulthood
One who arranged convent life for her two daughters?
  - Behind those walls – safer, freer than most
It is I and yet it is not
Like seeing one’s reflection
In a looking glass, basin or lago
We know the person we see
But we questions its authenticity
Perhaps it is our inability
To grasp our own countenance
Our own being
In a way those around us
Seem to do so easily
Commissioned by my husband Francesco
I was reluctant yet pleased
That doing so would make him happy
For wealthy men like showing what they own
But neither he nor his business associates
Nor I saw the finished portrait
I was one not yet come together
So, I wonder what brings them to come look
Perhaps it is not for me
Perhaps not even for the talents of its creator
But rather the lady he saw
The one he wanted to see or thought he saw
The lady completed
And if we are touched by what we see
We feel a thread joining us
We feel in some way it is ours
But the Mona Lisa cannot be owned
She cannot be known
She is more than any attributed value
And she knows it

Terri Jean Guttilla



THE DYING GAUL

Stranger! Stop a moment to hear my tale.
I am what is left of a conquered race,
one of thousands butchered a long long
time ago, driven west and north, now
on display for the gawking millions.

I was alive once, just as you, ran as
a child in wood and meadow, loved
and was loved, was a leader of my tribe,
fought naked beside my brothers
against invaders from the south.

Galatians they called us, and moved
into our land and drove us west where
we settled, mingling with native tribes,
changing and being changed, living in
villages, farming the land, raising pigs.

But we were never left alone, as new tribes
attacked us from the south, Romans they
called themselves, living in large cities,
fighting in formations, bringing death to
our people near the mountains, squeezing us.

Then a huge army, led by the greed and desire
of one man, marched into our heartland
determined to kill us all, to ‘civilize’ us,
to bend us to the yoke of Rome, to take
our land, make those that remained slaves.

We fought valiantly but our Gods deserted
us, our last city fell, our great leader killed
a few remaining of the million dead were
paraded in Rome, our land ‘pacified.’ So
we dropped out of history, our people erased.

Look closely, stranger, and see yourself!

Rob Miller



ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE REFLECTS ON THE WILDFIRE AT BIG SUR

Nearly a thousand years have passed
Since my cruel husband
And our wolfish sons
Burned the lovely Loire valley
In their infernal lust
For land and castles and crowns.

What would I have done
If the tower where the proud Plantagenet
Kept me prisoner had caught fire?
Nineteen years in captivity
Seem like an easy dream
Compared to the horrors
Of those distant waves of flame,
And now a new conflagration far away
Threatens the earth’s oldest living beings,
Toppling giant and ancient trees
Higher than the battlements of Poitiers.
At least in my imprisonment,
I was allowed to hold my harp,
To lift my voice at vespers,
To pray
And to spend hours, indeed years
Safe in my solitude.

Will the fire storm in that strange and mysterious land
Near a gentle, misty sea, devour the fragrant forest,
Or will it be resurrected at last, like the Loire, from the ashes,
Filled again with silent, tall and peaceful pines,
Regal crested quail and
Larks singing like troubadours?
At least the dark angels of wildfire
Are kinder than the serpents of war.
I would have welcomed the flames to my tower
In exchange for the eternal carnage
My husband and sons have wrought.

Rose Anna Higashi



BRAILLE IN PUBLIC PLACES

Touch me, I know you want to.
What would you say if I told you
I’ve never been touched in my life
by anyone who understood me?
And even if they were having
their convention in this building,
squeezing into this elevator,
looking around for this restroom,
bumping gently up against each other like
a queue of balloons at this ATM—
do you think they would see me here
or even think to look? I hate my life.
I should have been a poem by Li Po
with a pond and a frog, a soft rain
and a pebble the size of a braille dot
thrown in. At least I’d have something to do
with myself for eternity. I have nothing
to do with anyone. I am holding up
a sign in an airport terminal, waiting
for a look of recognition to come
from among the arrivals who never
arrive. And it never comes. What
would that look even look like? Would I
recognize it? Is it round like a smile? Is it
pointed like a greeting or a touch?
Would I mistake it for love? All of my life
I have waited to be touched by someone
who could touch me like that. I have given myself
goose bumps, look, just imagining it.

Paul Hostovsky



I AM THE GODDESS OF THE VINE

When you stood before the mirror,
holding eye contact with the man behind the glass,
stating your intention for the forthcoming ritual,
I stood behind you
as a reassuring Presence.

When you entered the darkness of the Temple,
I was walking beside you,
holding your hand,
connecting you to the Eternal All.

When you drank your first draught
of the dark, strong, sacred liquid,
I stepped back, observing, monitoring,
keeping you safe;
the still, calm centre at the Heart of your personal storm.

When you lay on your side, all curled up,
I embraced you from behind,
enfolding you into my leafy arms,
empowering you to fully absorb the Code,
to become One with the All.

Throughout your hours of darkness
I never once left your side,
gifting you with the occasional caress
as you vulnerably, consciously died
to the old illusion of Separateness
and opened up to the Deep, and to the Wide.

Robert Best



CATHEDRAL OF SAINT JOHN
Stop!
You pass me almost every day and never come in.
Are you afraid of what in you might begin
to see revealed? A you never before seen,
a soul, clean, healed, free from sin.
Please!
I am nothing without you praying on your knees.

Seema Singh



TRUTH

Look, I know I’m out of favor
Most of you don’t care
Whether something’s true or not
Whether something’s even fair

You’re all living in a world
Where folks make up reality
That’s convenient, to be sure
But it’s nothing more than fantasy

Fabricated facts are quite the rage
You simply fashion them to fit
The stories you’ve been told
Then, close your mind to any counter argument

You may say I’m just a concept
Not a human you can trust
But I’m consistent, without bias
It’s them you should distrust

You’re all driven by emotion
I’m pure reason at it’s best
I’m not invested in the outcome
And that’s the acid test

It’s true, I can be hard to take
Not always fun to be around
The truth may be difficult to hear
What I say may bring you down

Ironically, I’m your best friend
Despite how it appears
I’ll tell you what you need to know
Not what you want to hear

Frank Kelly



NYC OVERLOOK: UNTETHERED

Look there! Look there! The dove
on my windowsill habitually settles
come twilight and begins to peck
the pane until I lift the sliding sashay,
toss birdseed on the ledge, and watch it
pluck individual grains from brick tops
to mortar grooves. See how it
floats from my private terrace
to the public park below where
the peace lover mingles with pigeons
pushes pass pedestrian feet.
I too once exercised such freedom
moving among strangers and familiars
indiscriminately until the paparazzi
forced me out of nightclubs
then into the spotlight dusk till dawn,
dawn till dusk—just imagine yourself
lurking in subway shadows, waiting
for blind moments to serve up
opportunities for you to take flight
unobserved by others who straggle
up steps and imprint themselves
on their immediate environment:
lonely, hungry, hapless—out of tune
with present day melodies, courting
chaos as long as your feathered ego
remains intact and you can pick or choose
to blend into a human flock or stand
in solitary defiance, remotely counting
backwards as consciousness returns
to a mind overwhelmed by thought.
Am I right? Am I fair? Am I making
sense? Turn towards my bathroom;
imagine how my fishbowl once teemed
with life before I placed it on the toilet tank—
a timeless, fond memorial to goldfish
I flushed down the sewer to swim
in eternity’s aquarium bubbling below.
Come! Let’s grab a Dakota Apartment latte
then visit Strawberry Fields in Central Park.

Sterling Warner



FISH

They called me ‘Fish’
which I thought somewhat unoriginal,
but they were kind and fed me my favourite foods
of prawns and chocolate
and I opened my mouth and wiggled my fins
to show my appreciation.

Sometimes plastic bits had blown into my pond.
I’d tested them for food worthiness
and spat them straight out,
so tasteless and with a tough unpleasant texture.
I’d rather eat raspberries,
well, perhaps not raspberries,
but fish food,
yes, I’d rather eat fish food.
But I wouldn’t let my human friends know
that this was an option.

I was still concerned about Brexit
and wanted to make sure that
their stockpile of chocolate biscuits
was adequate to see me through.
When they give me a luscious big piece
I always give them a big wet kiss in return.
They seemed to like it
and really it’s no trouble,
they are so sweet.

There are other issues that cause me concern.
The frog they call Croaker told me
that numbers of dolphins
had washed up dead
with pieces of plastic in their bellies,
and not the ubiquitous micro
but chunks,
big chunks.
I knew that dolphins were mammals
and that mammals were said to be
the most intelligent of sea creatures,
yet they ate plastic!
It gave me food for thought.
Croaker says salt water causes brain death
and he seems to know most things about life and death.

They'd told me that I was very old
and that the oldest goldfish
had lived for forty four years.
I didn’t think I was quite there yet,
but one thing I knew for sure -
when I did sink into
the big pond in the sky,
no post-mortem would reveal
plastic pieces in my belly.
Or raspberries.

Lynn White