Untitled

Page 2 of featured poet Cindy Hochman
            Cindy Hochman page 1

Table of
Contents

Untitled Self-Referential


I was born on a wild and whipping Wednesday in the wake of ambivalent winds.
I was born listening to the sweet suckling of lambs. I was born with a caul and a calling.

Small as an atom, beating against hard glass, I was born with a shrunken head
and a load of lovely fears, under Virgo and sapphire, in the maternity of modernity.

I was born green with analysis, with pomp and poems, and the ties that blind.
Child of Pushkin and Pasternak; cold as Siberia, hot blood of Ukraine.

I have hovered between illness and ego, pus and shiver. I’ve been low girl on the
totem pole. I’ve been something seismic, and cosmic. I’ve been engorged, entrenched,

enjambed, encumbered. I’ve scratched your back and you’ve scratched mine.
I’ve released my birth certificate and my taxes. I’ve held my bound feet to the fire.

I have basked in the glow of the glare of the spotlight. I’ve spit blood through gnashed
teeth. I have licked myself into a frenzy. I’ve soldiered on, I’ve melted down.

I have walked with a full heart and bulging discs. I have made love to damaged men.
I’ve twitched in my fickle and faithless flesh. I’ve thrashed in my nondescript skin.

I have filed my summons and complaint. I’ve testified at trial. I’ve been Exhibit A.
I’ve settled my case while the jury was out. I’ve weighed myself on the scales of justice.

I have woken with a wooden spoon in my mouth. I’ve dug in; I’ve bowed out. I’ve
coveted the wine. I’ve dreamt of diamond ravens beckoning me with their jeweled beaks.

I have walked on rickety sticks. I have seen my lips lose their gloss. I have melted into
water, into waste. I’ve drowned in moot pools. I’ve sputtered, gagged, tottered,

and guzzled. I’ve choked on the bone of madness. I have become the calcified bride.
I’ve made plans and heard God sneer. I’ve watched my country split its seams.

And everywhere I’ve walked, I’ve stepped in grief.

(previously published in Pirene’s Fountain)

Cindy Hochman

Snippets

News like this is always a 10 on the Richter scale. From epicenter to aftershock,
everything I owned fell off the shelves, funny how my walls did not come
tumbling down too.

When you're nervous and small, everyone wants to shield you, but this one shook
my bowels in three-quarters time. I had to banish all the "C" words from my
thesaurus—no more Coughing, Catastrophes or Coffins—here, take my C-name.

From Magna Cum Laude to San Marco to Chemo, this sure has been an oblong year,
or maybe we should just call it a slightly pregnant pause. And, suddenly, all the vials
of my youth have come home to roost in mega-doses. Life is obviously not a
bowl of Viagra, and we don't accept simultaneous emissions.

Can you handle a hornet's nest? When people speak of this as a battle, I picture
myself in the ring of the Coliseum with a wild boar and a fine Greek chorus.
Somebody's going to be gored . . . or cured.

I can see my corrugated tongue has left everybody squirming. Good, that is
what the poems are here for, but what can you say when there's no more
mercury left in your mouth? I always manage to rub saline into everything,
but even saltwater is not a reasonable facsimile for sperm to fill these
fluid-less sacs. Everybody needs a wet connection.

This is about what happened to my body. Sometimes the soil stagnates
and sometimes things grow where they ought not grow. So why be
euphemistic? I refuse to hide under my hat and pallor. Let's fill this poem
with rakes, hoes, and plenty of spades. Ad nauseam. And, speaking of which,
I'm stone-cold nauseous, but these days there's not much to vomit over.

Now is the time for books, sabbaticals, and hibernation. The Pope is dead,
but no one told me to put my papers in order. This is a no-panic zone.
If you park it here, your anxiety will be towed away.

(previously published in CLWN WR)

                           Cindy Hochman

	Page 2 of featured poet Cindy Hochman Cindy Hochman page 1
Table of Contents	Untitled Self-Referential I was born on a wild and whipping Wednesday in the wake of ambivalent winds. I was born listening to the sweet suckling of lambs. I was born with a caul and a calling. Small as an atom, beating against hard glass, I was born with a shrunken head and a load of lovely fears, under Virgo and sapphire, in the maternity of modernity. I was born green with analysis, with pomp and poems, and the ties that blind. Child of Pushkin and Pasternak; cold as Siberia, hot blood of Ukraine. I have hovered between illness and ego, pus and shiver. I’ve been low girl on the totem pole. I’ve been something seismic, and cosmic. I’ve been engorged, entrenched, enjambed, encumbered. I’ve scratched your back and you’ve scratched mine. I’ve released my birth certificate and my taxes. I’ve held my bound feet to the fire. I have basked in the glow of the glare of the spotlight. I’ve spit blood through gnashed teeth. I have licked myself into a frenzy. I’ve soldiered on, I’ve melted down. I have walked with a full heart and bulging discs. I have made love to damaged men. I’ve twitched in my fickle and faithless flesh. I’ve thrashed in my nondescript skin. I have filed my summons and complaint. I’ve testified at trial. I’ve been Exhibit A. I’ve settled my case while the jury was out. I’ve weighed myself on the scales of justice. I have woken with a wooden spoon in my mouth. I’ve dug in; I’ve bowed out. I’ve coveted the wine. I’ve dreamt of diamond ravens beckoning me with their jeweled beaks. I have walked on rickety sticks. I have seen my lips lose their gloss. I have melted into water, into waste. I’ve drowned in moot pools. I’ve sputtered, gagged, tottered, and guzzled. I’ve choked on the bone of madness. I have become the calcified bride. I’ve made plans and heard God sneer. I’ve watched my country split its seams. And everywhere I’ve walked, I’ve stepped in grief. (previously published in Pirene’s Fountain) Cindy Hochman	Snippets News like this is always a 10 on the Richter scale. From epicenter to aftershock, everything I owned fell off the shelves, funny how my walls did not come tumbling down too. When you're nervous and small, everyone wants to shield you, but this one shook my bowels in three-quarters time. I had to banish all the "C" words from my thesaurus—no more Coughing, Catastrophes or Coffins—here, take my C-name. From Magna Cum Laude to San Marco to Chemo, this sure has been an oblong year, or maybe we should just call it a slightly pregnant pause. And, suddenly, all the vials of my youth have come home to roost in mega-doses. Life is obviously not a bowl of Viagra, and we don't accept simultaneous emissions. Can you handle a hornet's nest? When people speak of this as a battle, I picture myself in the ring of the Coliseum with a wild boar and a fine Greek chorus. Somebody's going to be gored . . . or cured. I can see my corrugated tongue has left everybody squirming. Good, that is what the poems are here for, but what can you say when there's no more mercury left in your mouth? I always manage to rub saline into everything, but even saltwater is not a reasonable facsimile for sperm to fill these fluid-less sacs. Everybody needs a wet connection. This is about what happened to my body. Sometimes the soil stagnates and sometimes things grow where they ought not grow. So why be euphemistic? I refuse to hide under my hat and pallor. Let's fill this poem with rakes, hoes, and plenty of spades. Ad nauseam. And, speaking of which, I'm stone-cold nauseous, but these days there's not much to vomit over. Now is the time for books, sabbaticals, and hibernation. The Pope is dead, but no one told me to put my papers in order. This is a no-panic zone. If you park it here, your anxiety will be towed away. (previously published in CLWN WR) Cindy Hochman