a poem is a time machine

"Remember, a poem is a time machine you are constructing, a vehicle that will allow someone to travel in their own mind, so don't be surprised if it takes a while to get all its engine parts properly working."

charles simic (Belgrade, Yugoslavia, 1938), excerpt from Charles Simic on Writing Poetry, published on The Library of Congress web site, Poetry Home.


Further reading:

Poems by Charles Simic on Poets.org, The Poetry Foundation, The New York Times, The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, The Poetry Archive

Former Poet Laureate Charles Simic (Library of Congress)

Charles Simic, Surrealist With Dark View, Is Named Poet Laureate (The New York Times)

Charles Simic interviews at The Cortland Review, The Paris Review, The New York Times Magazine

mama's cookin' in heaven

Mama’s cookin’ chicken cutlets in the kitchen
Poundin’ down the poultry to make it tasty
I call it elbow grease, but she’s always right
It’s love that makes them melt so good
Some cilantro, bread crumbs, eggs and canola
sizzling smells from her Sicilian cucina’s cibo
We’ll mangia in a minute, so non tocare niente
Piatte di pasta with papa and mama on the side and my nonni
I can’t wait for heaven


victor kondratas (New York, NY, 1981)

my dearest libby

My dearest Libby
Is the type of poem
With a first verse
Just like the title line

My dearest Libby
Was my sex partner
For two years
In college

My dearest Libby
Got into drugs
Turned into a film-ready junkie
Sucked cock for coke

Once she offered to bring along
Her girlfriend
For a threesome
I said no

Being a junkie myself
I had nothing to offer
Sex just isn’t that interesting
After riding wild horses

I wish I could go back in time
And tell her: My dearest Libby
I wrote this poem for you
Title and first verse are the same

I’m not a great poet
But I love you so much I don’t care
I want you to be my girlfriend
Like, for reals

My dearest Libby


ron kenan (Colchester, VT, 1972)

counting money (a sonnet)

Work ends, the paymaster gives what is owed
The worker is left to count his money
Mail comes from the bank that I must decode
Bills come together: today is rainy
Seems there is never quite enough in there
The taxman takes his cut before I do
Everyone wants to take, God, is this fair?
Something left for me is long-overdue
Counting does not make the bank account grow
Counting does not make the creditors leave
It only tells us to sacrifice so
Next month we can spend less than we receive
When I count I see that I will survive
With care, I think that I will even thrive


michael david jay (Hutchinson, KS, 1976)

when we were kids, mom was marriedand dad was a hero

drawn sand strand anew
the backseat full and sticky
covered with two towels
burning plastic and coconut

dwell in peace, slow motion,
everybody up and running
yet another beach
late ping-pong hours

mom was always cooking
dad was always fixing the car
he didn't let us in with sand covered feet
we did our best to clean

mom was always cooking
she didn't let us burn
and pulled her cotton wrapped finger,
iodated touch, hideous trick

all healed and cured
she always seemed so happy
fixing sandwiches, spreading sun block
she seemed but wasn't

summer was two weeks of ping-pong,
tool handling, cleaning after
dad could fix everything
mom loved him and all of us

mom could fix an itchy throat
yet another beach
and they went for a walk
and we all seemed so happy

we did our best not to bring the sand in
clean after ourselves
we did our very best
all of us


paul betbeder (Washington, DC, 1978)

loveloops

below my chest lies concrete
a scarf half stolen bears resemblance
the crisp memory of a narrow street
you and me wishing for a ride home
elbows, neck, are all the same
expect no delays as I've said it all
won't come back for a negative answer
I won't ask what I already know
though bear in mind
love is persistent, weather resistant, geographically challenged
and curiously circular
in long unexpected returns
back to the very beginning
starting all over again from nowhere


michael s. lebon (Baltimore, MD, 1974)

maura

Mauragreeneyes
Why can't you realize?
Just what you have done to me.

Opengreeneyes
Maybe you'll realize
What you've done if you can see.

Mauraclosedeyes
Mauranoeyes
Maura tell lies
and I realize

Maurablindeyes
Zac-of-blackeyes
Giving rise
To your demise.

Mauraweteyes
You don't realize
When he's gone you won't have me.


claire audrey gallagher (Fresno, CA, 1991)