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Posts Tagged ‘Susan Meyers’

A Week of Kindness

April 13, 2009 Comments off

What do you see?
A woman falling into water.
What color is the water?
The color of Monday.

A woman falling into water.
She is naked — stark — her hair
the color of Monday.
She, like Ophelia, needs flowers.

She is naked — stark — her hair
nothing like leaves in spring.
She, like Ophelia, needs flowers.
Buds refusing to open

nothing like leaves in spring
Stems on her seashell hat
with buds refusing to open.
Her Fredricks of Hollywood corset

pokes out from under her seashell vest.
The naked water polo was a bust, she said.
Her Fredricks of Hollywood corset —
too much mercury, unwanted guests.

The naked water polo was a bust, she said.
Drowning on Thursday, she scolds the dogs.
Too much mercury, unwanted guests.
Resigned to headaches, like an angel she dives in.

Drowning on Thursday, she scolds the dogs.
Victoria’s Secret hottie wears a clamshell teddy.
Resigned to headaches, like an angel she dives in.
Goldfish swirl around her day-of-the-week panties.

Victoria’s Secret hottie wears a clamshell teddy.
Lace laps at the shores of her hedge fund.
Goldfish swirl around her day-of-the-week panties.
What color is the water? The color of Monday.

by the Long Table Poets: Helen Brandenburg, Richard Garcia, Barbara Hagerty, Kit Loney, Susan Meyers, Deborah Lawson Scott, Katherine Williams, and Joe Zealberg

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Process notes

Richard Garcia writes:
This pantoum was composed at a class one evening at my house. Each student had a page from a collage novel by Max Ernst, A Week of Kindness. We also wrote the pantoum as a kind of exquisite corpse. The paper was folded so each student could only see the preceding stanza. To keep busy while each student worked on their section they were also writing a separate draft of their poem in any style they wished.

Melons

August 25, 2008 5 comments

Two melons on the kitchen counter are reading yesterday’s newspaper. One of them would like to turn the page but the other is a slow reader, mouthing inimitable and acerbic as if they were frozen spoonfuls. The smallest melon doesn’t want to get an ice cream headache. What she wants is the companionship of ginger ale. What the larger one wants is good lighting on a paid vacation. Who can blame each for this one dream? I once knew a girl who loved a melon. For two years her parents refused to claim her as theirs. This is not our daughter, our daughter is gone, they’d say, naming a country she was lost in. One time, Yemen; the next, Nepal. To them, the daughter was better suited to yogurt. They were sure the melon had spoiled her, but who’s to say? I’m told she eventually eloped, that the noticeable change in her — some called it a ripening — was a matter of time and temperature, a tender story, a happenstance of seed.

by Susan Meyers

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