My poem Him all Jack Kerouac and shit published at This is Poetry

This is Poetry

a project of The Literary Underground

http://theliteraryunderground.org/

Him all Jack Kerouac and shit

Him all Jack Kerouac and shit

him all Jack Keroac and shit
his biography an artist’s cliche
oh he told a good anecdote yes
took her to his garrett to see the view
she let him dry her with skin and lips
all happy in the moment he kissed her hair

her all this is only just for now you know
an ephemeral spring so drink up fast
when it ended she hardly noticed lost
so was she in grief for pretty words
mirror shards piled like minnowy regrets
all caught up in the moment she almost knew

“Him all Jack Kerouac and shit” was previously published in I Am South (Virgogray Press).

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My poem I am South published at This is Poetry

I am South

I am South

Once there were women who made many kings
by taking their mates
The tacit memory of them inhabits me
like stones left to mark my way
Blood of northern tribes undeniably runs
through my body
My hair is reddish and my skin pale
with caramel flecks
But I am South

Gravity pulled me from north to south
to find some truer self
South is where I learned to swallow
Pablo Neruda like rum
Where time stretches out like a bus trip
in exotic lands
And South is where I both swear and sweat
in Spanish
There is antiquity here everywhere
and I have become part of it
Inscrutable past etched across desertscapes
like ghost buttes
The scattered detritus of other lives lived
and other loves
Effulgent planes and circles circling out
through time and space
like ephemeral water

The humid kiss of desert stones
I am South

 

an earlier version of “I am South” was previously published inI Am South (Virgogray Press).

Speak the Language of the Land includes three of my poems

Speak the Language of the Land is the first of what will be an annual showcase of talented poets, presented by the Lummox Press in conjunction with The LUMMOX Poetry Anthology and the Angela Consolo Mankiewicz Poetry Prize(courtesy of the estate of Angela C. Mankiewicz and her husband, Richard Mankiewicz).

Order your copy here

Summertime rain

         for Oseye

Swing clarinet blinks neon in a foggy afternoon.
Black wings take to the carmine sky. A cry rises
loud enough to be heard on the other side.

Flash of black limbs spread deep into ruddy earth.
Another son dead 50 years before his time. Another
Mama looking hard for some good to find.

A spontaneous wail stretches from the golden gate
to the one made of pearl. Despair travels a highway
that ends in unfriendly waves.

Either way, waters cold or warm still drown the same.
Every mothers’ sun rises on a world black with pain.
Every breath becomes a sob.

Every mothers’ son lucky each day he doesn’t die.
Flesh like Black Palm. Skin like Walnut. 
Every time another son gone

every mother joins in the silent sigh. 
Nothing as cold as a summertime rain.

#####


Cruising the Alameda

After hearing Douglas Kearney’s “Alameda Street”

Down on Alameda, close to Azcarate, a 1955 Bel Aire. A stretch of chrome splits pink from white, ends in fins.
The color of Bazooka, that gum wrapped in a comic,
goofy boy’s face covered by a turtleneck.

A bass beat from a purple T-bird rattles storefront windows.
Good boys pretend to be bad, white cotton shirt over khakis,
almost a uniform. Pack of Lucky Strikes in rolled up sleeve,
sleek groomed hair.

Grandmas cross themselves, not sure if the bad boys just pretend. Intimidated bookkeepers on their way to work lock the car doors. Attracted, but not fast or loose, secretaries check their lipstick,
touch their hair, flash big I-Love-Lucy smiles.

If I Daddy hears me laugh louder than Bobby Fuller on the radio I get, What did your mama tell you before she let you come along, baby? What she always says, I chime, be a little lady. I look down,  imagine white patent leather shoes,

pink flowers on an Easter hat bobbing in time to rock and roll,
scalloped anklets embroidered with tulips. I repent laughing too loud,
still looking at the boys in the corner crowd. Eyes on my tennie shoes,
I hum along with the radio and vow,

When I grow up, I’m going to laugh out loud. When I’m full grown,
I’m going to brag of how I cruised the Alameda in a bubblegum car,
speaking Spanish to Daddy, English to Mama, and Spanglish to friends.
All the time loving the drama of bad, bad boys.

#####

Your smell is a glove

That splash of secret smile, so rare, such sweet victory. That flash caught by fluke in response to something I said  The Cramps blasting up to the open sky, wintry and hot.  The beat takes over my body and the words happen
without premeditation. I need a new wardrobe now.  I still feel the flannel gown I had on 20 minutes ago,
the snuffled tears dried by the desert air of my bedroom.

You move fast, both behind the wheel of a car and walking
through a doorway. Christening my lips with something
both sweet and bitter. I caress my face with speckled
knuckles. Your smell is like a glove.

Focus on Kandinsky’s white dot

 

                    dedicated to Trayvon Martin

 

focus on Kandinsky’s white dot
let the banality of real disappear
the colors like musical chords
the drama of primary
the black on white of keys

the white dot
it makes everything else black
dark holes envelope the whole
the emptiness of space stretching
from your there to my here

artificial constructs of time and space
memories of colors red and yellow
the impact of light on matter
what matter gives up to the eye
what it keeps for itself is black

black the color of all colors
the white dot in the dark whole
the sound of breath inside your head
imagines you are more than a dream
but your there is only a dream

my here nothing but a dreaM
forget the rules of the academy
there are no rules
forget theory of the iconoclasts
remember Einstein was wrong

there is no theory of everything
everything does not exist
the there and the here
the other there’s and other here’s
this earth spinning in a black void

energy moving through void to place
a truck leaves full of blue Buddhas
music born of an inner necessity
the disappearance of self and other
the meaninglessness of there and here
a white dot in the dark whole

published in BorderSenses 19, 2013

kandinsky's white dot

poem in first Yellow Chair Review anthology

 

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Embrujada

she seeks truth in a boy’s flesh

he has none

nothing promised

nothing given

nothing subtle nor redemptive

a flame between her eyes

fire at the tip of a spotted nose

burning bush splinters and ash

disconsolate night gives birth to fate

 

ancient house of cactus and brick

she howls there in the shadows

a starved dog on a hot night

dystopia present tense and here to stay

decay accumulates with every breath

nothing borrowed and nothing new

honest blues buried in the back yard

a stone grave

a brass bowl

an angel carved from a dead tree

her self caught in bad retro porn

The Devil in Miss Jones

no satisfaction to be had

grace and wisdom another myth

 

the only truth found in a drunk tattoo

ugly monkey

frog beauty

frantic ache

sad tequila spit of rain across her face

language no more her gorgeous cloud

no mermaid symphony

no siren song

no wild sweet echoing in the dusk

gentle oasis gone dry too damned fast

his warm flesh now snow cold soon old

a foul shadow left behind to tantalize

time chained and drunk in a pine cave

universe dancing to night’s song

____________________________________

 

 

In 2014, Donna Snyder released two books of poetry, Poemas ante el Catafalco: Grief and Renewal (Chimbarazu Press) and I Am South (Virgogray Press). NeoPoiesis Press will publish The Tongue Has Its Secrets in 2016. She coordinates free weekly workshops for the Tumblewords Project, which she founded in 1995.

Order Yellow Chair Review Anthology

I have two pieces in the new anthology She Rises

I have a poem and an essay in She Rises, a new anthology from Mago Books.

cover of She Rises

cover of She Rises

Available through the publisher Mago Books and through Amazon

My poem The Crisis in Physics in VEXT Magazine, with art by Reiner Langer

http://vextmagazine.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-crisis-in-physics-by-donna-snyder.html?m=1

Einstein’s failed search for the Theory of Everything A truth that mathematically reflects the universe Those poor Platonists so sure that numbers and equations are the true reality behind this pathetic reality we call here and now The ideal realm of which we mere psyches sense nothing but flickers and shadows  Those special minds Their beautiful equations bring us multiplicities  Multiverses and the immensity of black holes’ negativity  A string that leads from this umbilicus mundi to that where sometimes a pipe is not just a pipe And time is not just a moment gone faster than the length of one’s lament

No experiments demonstrate a + b = c because there is no absolute The one thing Einstein could take pleasure in knowing was that he was right about that one thing  But was he really?  Or is it all just psychology, just another construct? That arrow shot from the back seat of the celestial omnibus arrives later than the one liberated from the hood  At once an ornament and a memory
The answers are in the stars after all Relativity’s proof  Like the comparative thickening principle of corn starch or flour from wheat  The difference between pudding and roux  Without the attentive spoon all is scorched  Not even the dogs will eat it  There is no imaginary time when stirring the pot  Once burned it’s done  No way back from black
If Einstein could not solve this problem of the now then even less can I a mathless victim of uncertainty’s principle  I can’t see direction and speed at the same time  I am just one example of indeterminancy  The observer always changes the observed  Ask an honest social scientist if you can find one
Escape from the easy comfort of Ptolemy  Embrace the fact that all truths are truncated  There is no escape from the passing of time
While drunk on youth behind us the mighty all is gone

OHRENSAUSEN 44 ( DAS LEBEN  Anfang oder Ende  Kraft )  by Reiner Langer

OHRENSAUSEN 44 ( DAS LEBEN Anfang oder Ende Kraft )
by Reiner Langer