in which you never see the thing
in which the thing is a shark
or a shadow of a shark
a shadow of its former self
ocean floors have a way of concealing
as if it’s all so much light and shadow
to say nothing of fins
to say nothing of
teeth
Using one of today’s prompts from Robert Brewer’s PAD Challenge. If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.
Pooky girl slurps her hot chocolate
with marshmallows. An apple and
some orange juice took too long
yesterday, she says; hot chocolate
and marshmallows are quicker,
and then she can pretend
she’s drinking coffee.
At the garden, she helped me
unkink the hose while telling me
how she told everyone in her class
that her mom writes poems and just
got some published, and one kid said
maybe his mom had read my poems,
and she said, Well, has she ever heard
of Marilyn Cavicchia? And the kid
said, That sounds familiar.
There’s fiction is this somewhere,
but it all feels true.
The Algonquin Indians have
a pretty nice way of living,
she says. I probably have
more than a thousand
hairs on my head.
If it’s Tuesday p.m., which it is here now, be sure to check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.
My best attribute is that I’m wearing a green sweater today,
and in it, I never tell lies. It’s my truth-telling sweater, and I
have one in every color, only some of them are T-shirts—
when I’m wearing short sleeves, all you get are half-truths.
But that’s better than what most people give you. Whatever
they have on, you’re only getting tank top-level honesty,
or a bra, or pasties. Or bare chest. But maybe I have this
all wrong—maybe the only truth is in flesh, in which case,
I have things completely reversed. In which case, I
apologize. In which case, I have been lying to myself.
Put the kettle on, someone—it’s a chilly night,
and I have a lot of new truths to tell.
I know the human heart,
how inside it’s lined with stars.
I say never trust anyone,
but then I always do.
Who is the one who has to
drag me down? And what is this
about? Everything falls apart;
I wish I knew the trick,
the one that helps you face
the truth. I’m making up my mind
to fight against the tide; maybe
I’ll get what I want this time,
learn how to read my own
breathing. Maybe this time, I’ll
get it: the trick of how I feel—
how to be that kind of girl.
And so we’ve come to the end (of this month-long musical exercise, anyway). I will spare you the lengthy fan-girl explanation of why I absolutely had to close with a Garbage song, and will just say that this band has been hugely important to me for the past decade-and-a-half. Their music has carried me through countless phases in life, and now lead singer Shirley Manson is my role model when it comes to Fierceness Past Forty (to put it in obnoxious women’s magazine-like terms). I aspire only to be myself, but I would love to borrow a little of her take-no-prisoners approach to everything she does, her willingness to let her guard down and say what she thinks, and — yep yep yep — her style, too,
“The Trick is to Keep Breathing” seemed like a fitting song to close this month and this series. I have thought of this phrase often over the years. At one point when I was working out a lot, this was always the song that came on just as the treadmill was slowing to a stop. It felt like Shirley Manson was right there with me as some kind of rock goddess/personal trainer/spirit guide. The trick is to keep breathing, so I will — and I hope you will, too.
Like stars, your begonias
burn holes in my eyes.
My beard grows against
your skin with a lion’s thirst.
Flicking fire, I drag you back—
no more walls. Only an inch,
one sleepy inch, keeps us
from bursting in the dark.
After Passion Pit’s “Sleepyhead.” A second one for today, by the way, because I missed yesterday on account of being too tired (and also there might have been a little Candy Crush Saga involved).
And … you know I sometimes write persona poems, right? So I’m not necessarily the bearded guy in this poem? OK, good.
My eyeball jumps at you
from inside my mouth;
its eyeball friends spill
down my tongue. Do you
know what to make of this:
scissors, bees, giant fish?
Careful—under her hairnet,
the lunch lady has no face.
I am angry at this shark,
this skeleton hand, these
neon-frosted doughnuts.
It all spins too fast; I can’t
ride my unicycle when
the lunch lady, joined by
clones, is dancing around
my fruited head. My poor
blob head. How it throbs
with frilly spectacle as
a giant bone pokes in
from the window. What
defense can there be, in
this gas-permeable world?
All I can do is clap. Clap—
and wish for toast.
I jumbled it up, but believe it or not, all these images and more (so, so many more) are in this song from Japan that became a huge viral hit a couple of years ago. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you should go watch it right now! Or if you do know, go watch it again—it really is as crazy as you remember.
Son, I am the eagle
that has come
to take you home.
Son, the wind is
blowing; your heart
is machinery going
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM.
Son, climb the hill
again; you can trust
imagination. Time
stands still, son;
grab anything
that takes you
home.
After Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill.” I love this song, but there’s another reason I chose it for today. This morning, I met with a friend who is from China. She has been reading my poems, and we had a very nice conversation about a few of them. She mentioned the BOOM BOOM BOOM in this one. It occurred to me that I knew another song where a heart goes BOOM BOOM BOOM. Betty, if you’re reading this, I hope you enjoy it! 🙂
Joy to you and me,
boys and girls.
Joy to you and me,
and rainbows.
Joy and sweet love.
And wine.
In the deep blue sea,
there are no cars,
but we get around
mighty fine,
the bullfrogs,
the boys and girls,
the wine—
and me.
Probably obvious, but this one’s based on “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night. If it’s Tuesday, 3 p.m. Eastern or later, check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. And if you’re feeling the joy, please feel free to leave me a song request in the comments!
Letting in sky, I shine—
I know what it’s like.
Under the city lights,
I start screaming,
leaning back, smiling,
blowing that roof off.
I wanna just live
inside my big white
walls, lounging,
easy weaving, riding
into the night, trying
to cross the bridge.
After Macklemore & Ryan Lewis’s “White Walls.” Amidst all the bitches and hoes, f this and that are some really lovely images. I lifted those out and rearranged them here.
I need feet to run away from you.
I hear a lilting melody; it’s Hoochy-Coo
from a carnival tent in Scunthorpe.
I’ll walk there after I run, and I’ll
dance there after I walk.
Did you ever stop to think, as you
stood on my toe? Did you ever see
how I was fraying at the ends? I am
not to be sniffed at, nor are my feet,
after a hard day’s work.
But you’re a pretty girl; when you
gaze at me, how can I lose my temper?
Think of all the things we can do
in Scunthorpe. I need my feet
to run away with you.
Ever heard of Bernard Bresslaw? ‘Ave ya? I hadn’t, but in my Facebook news feed was this funny, Cockney-accented song about feet. What do you fink of it?
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 