Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 14
                                   

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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


THE WAY YOUNG WRITERS DO

Oh Frank, we are at the beach, exchanging
hypotheticals with our notebooks and

the sun is a net that we swim in and I'm thinking about
how a writer feels the need to remove herself

(like it's happening but I'm not going to feel it
because I'm going to make it something else)

like an article of clothing, from the moment to not forget
the story, the poem, the flash of fiction (the gall of that!).

Like the one you told me about a man who falls out of the sky
or off a bridge thinking about the velocity of numbers

and lands splat next to her, you, or me while we are writing,
while we are sketching a circle of minnows underneath that bridge

carving shadows into cement and stone with our fins
the shape of ouroboros, the borough eating its tail.

The young man next to us thinks that it might make a great tattoo
and writes that down. We don't even notice the act. We don't even hear

the bones break, one by one, every day. Instead,
we are encased in the light. Instead,

we catch the glide in mid-flight and dream of flying
fish on the way down from a morning drive,

freedom instead of fright.

                           Alan Semerdjian

YOU'RE LOOKING GOOD LIKE A WAVE

and a gust of wind

comes in from the north

when the lights are low

and then recedes.


Your breath is like this,

like the sea or wind or a gull.


You pull the world in

with all its heavy air

and bushels of gold


and blow the ghosts

out of your attachments.

                           Alan Semerdjian


WHAT IF, BLUEBIRD,
            after Bukowski


the sky were a nest for it,
and it nested? What if your chest
opened and it spilled out of your heart,
finally air, finally?

Or what if it's two bluebirds in your heart
and not one, and what if the bluebird
isn't blue at all but red, ignited, ready to burn,

and what if one of these birds is perched
to fly away and the other is motioning
for you to stay, come closer so I can see you better
better to smell your strange feathers,
better to sing you sad bird songs,
better even to bludgeon your sad heart
looking for a few scraps of birdseed
some sustenance for the coming seasonÉ

What if that bird
bludgeoned your heart

because it mistook you,
too human,
for a cat about to pounce?

                           Alan Semerdjian