Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Three Poems by Alan Britt

TRAPPED IN NOMENCLATURE, CUCUMBER

PLANTS BEGIN TO WITHER
 
That’s the downy woodpecker,
invisible as he cheeps
through a virtual forest
of Japanese maples,
oaks,
cherry trees.
 
Constant clucking
followed by a trill,
the Northeastern sparrow’s
silk ribbon
pulled
through
straw hips
of sunlight.
 
Fingers,
curly green tendrils
of amaranthus,
attempt
to reach
full cacophony
inside the birds’ Purgatory chorus.
 
Suddenly, a tiny red spider
breezes
past the lexicon
of conventional nomenclature.
 
Thank god
he scurries
on all eight legs!
 
 

NEO-FORMALIST POEM

 

*
 
      The topaz streetlight beneath the giant
maple removes her clothes, relaxes in a white
metal chair beside me.

**

      Raindrops sniff white gutters before leaping
down their anaconda throats where, ironically,
they’re held in place, gulp by gulp, by the needle
teeth of topaz light.
***

A pair of rosy finches enters the garden.

The one with blazing red throat and cap preens

a thin wire fence, while his mate pecks at tiny

jade weeds in the glistening black earth.

****
      A boat-tailed grackle waddles through
the yard; his ebony tail crushes the wet grass,
churning raindrops into tiny topaz rivers.
 
 

SPRING CLASSIC

The black
              swallowtail’s
         sign
                   language
filters
                through
                                a
                      doorway.
     A slender brunette
                        with the
                                patience
        of a
               moth
absorbs
            the door’s arch
     with one hand
          while her other
                               hand
   flutters
                 like
                            ashes
          above
                       a
                             burning
            50-gallon drum
   behind
                 the
                         baseball stadium.
The curtains of her voice
                           rustle.
       Tractor trailer
                gears
                            inhale
                                                  damp
                   cool
                            humid
                                       air.
The ribs
                     of a
                                split
                                          rail
                            fence
          are a carcass
                scavenged
     by white
                jackals
                      of lamplight.
              Blue fingernails
                  of lamplight
        comb the
                        petals
                              of an
                                       exploding
          pink
                     rose
                               bush.
A
    child’s
                voice
         is a
                razor
against
               the
                    bare
                         throat
                             of darkness.
     A mockingbird
               immediately
                          begins
        stitching
               the universe.
                     It’s a good
                                  thing
            silence
                    places the
                                    porcelain
                                                      cup
of an
                empty
                                   nightmare
          upon the
                       edge
                                  of an
                                           aluminum
                                sink.
It’s a
            good
                         thing
       the universe
                   consists
             of ashes,
                       papery
                                        ashes
blown like
      toxic
                    dust
                                across
               Europe
           and North America,
                      from the
                          industrial
                                          deserts
                 of South Africa,
from the
               greedy
                              humans
        sucking
                        every
                                     nutrient
   that ever
                     existed
           from
        the earth’s
                           volcanic
                                           soil.
       This is
                   a
                        good
                                  thing
           since
                       otherwise
                   we might be
                                     forced
    to gaze
                  deep
  into the eyes
          of the
                     slender
                                   brunette
    with
                      ashes
          fluttering
from her
                              solitary
                                             hand.
        It is
                  possible
that with
              eye
                         contact
            such as this
    we might
                                 be forced
                  to honor
         smoke rings
             on the
                       jaguar slug’s
            panting ribs
instead of a
                      multimillionaire’s
        name
                   stitched
           on the back
               of a dim-witted
                       third-baseman.
It is
            a
                   damn
                              good
                                         thing
       the average
                          human
             has no
                            aspiration
                   whatsoever
             to transcend
                         the coliseum
                  the domed arena
          the horseshoe stadium
                          with its rainbow
                                                       water
                                                                   falls
                beer vendors
         and ushers
                    as indentured
                                   servants.
        For to
                     ascend
            like an
                          ash
               that dips
                      and rises
                  on a
                             thermal
                                    of freedom
                          brings
                                    with it
                                consequences
                                           a responsibility
                       to touch
                                      the flame
                                 to feel
                                         the swallowtail light
                            in the
                                      dark
                                                hand
                             of the
                                         slender
                                                brunette
                                    who leans
                                          against
                the suffering
                                       arch
                                          of intellect.
 
 

Alan Britt's interview with Grace Cavalieri for The Poet and the Poem will air on Pacifica Radio in January 2013 (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/poetpoem.html). He read poems at the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center (TributeWTC.org) in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012, at the We Are You Project (WeAreYouProject.Org) Wilmer Jennings Gallery, East Village/NYC, April 2012, and at New Jersey City University's Ten Year 9/11 Commemoration in Jersey City, NJ, September 2011. His poem, "September 11, 2001," appeared in International Gallerie: Poetry in Art/Art in Poetry Issue, v13 No.2 (India): 2011. His recent books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). The Poetry Library (www.poetrymagazines.org.uk) providing a free access digital library of 20th & 21st century English poetry magazines with the aim of preserving them for the future has included Britt’s work published in Fire (UK) in their project. Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, The Robin Hood Book: Poets in Support of the Robin Hood Tax, by Caparison, United Kingdom, 2012, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, Chicago/Athens/Dublin, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008. Readings & Presentations: Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry for the PCA/ACA Conference 2008 in Boston, Ramapo College in Mahwah, NJ (2009 & 2012), the WPA Gallery/Ward-Pound Ridge Reservation in Cross River, NY (2008), Ultra Violet Studio, Chelsea/NYC (2008 & 2009), White Marsh Library, Baltimore (2011 & 2012), Enoch Pratt Free Library (Canton Branch) Baltimore (2011), Pedestal Magazine Reading at the Writers Center, Bethesda, MD (2012). Alan currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University and lives in Reisterstown, Maryland with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Frise and two formerly feral cats. Links: http://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/potw.html#fp1;
http://spectrumofpoeticfire.com/Reader%20Directory/Alan_Britt.htm;
http://theliteraryunderground.org/wiki/index.php?title=Alan_Britt;
http://aliensareus.wordpress.com/

 

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