Backbone > Poetica

Eited by Phil Levine

April

if spring is youth and
love is April in Paris
wouldn’t any woman, but
particularly a woman

in her autumn years,
want to rush through
the intractable
ides of march

to get there,
to feel once more
the flood of dreams
that overpower her reason

driving her to pluck the crocus,
not caring that the tender
stem pushed through
a frozen tunnel.

she desperately reaches out
to feel the embrace of the warm
breeze, failing to remember
the harsh sting of the wind

that will blow the perfect
day right out of her hand,
causing a squall that blinds
and confuses her,

only to mysteriously vanish
in a sun drenched melt.

it is the cruelest time
this month of heartbreak

because she’s forgotten
that April is the harbinger,
not the deliverer
of promises, rarely kept.

—Jan Marin Tramontano

Nine

Once curiosity
Had proved quite fatal, there
Were still eight other lives
To go. How terminate
These—send him, purring, to
A feline heaven? Well,
Always the chronic war
With dogs could be relied on—
Also the tendency
To choke on velvet mice
Or songbirds, strangled in
Mid-aria. And, not
To be discounted, this:
Competitive, loud lust.

—John Nixon, Jr.

my favorite poet

said “i’m popeye the sailor man
i live in a garbage can
i like to go swimmin’ with bow legged wimmin’
i’m popeye the sailor man”
or was it bukowski
who said his favorite poet said that;
i guess who cares because
i’ve never published 20 books on expensive paper
and i’m still drunk and
fighting and sleeping in the alley
in 10 degree weather eating
thrown away hot dogs and 2 day old bread
so fuck bukowski
because i’m still here
and that’s what counts

—Joe Lamorte

Alchemy

Regretfully, we regret
At this time, or, presently
There is no space we could get
For to house your poetry

Your style does not quite fit
The current tastes of the time
But luck in your next pursuit
Of finding shelter with rhyme

—Christopher Porpora

Maps

We have left
tall trails behind us,
drawing maps to
the places we’ve been.
I read the waves of our wake,
you read roads.
We give life to
objects around us.
Everything has a name
in our circle.

Alone, my ways
run crooked. My
direction becomes lost.
I place Chicago next to
New York and feel connected.
I think wherever you are
borders where I am.
I don’t feel so far.

We draw maps,
not bridges,
For it’s not architecture,
but the art of moving
farther apart and
finding ourselves.

—Mel McCarter