Door Dog (and Other Haikus)

Release

A breath like fire

flows as steam through my nostrils

until the heat fades.

 

Crush

A hundred heartbeats

crammed into half a second

marks when I see you.

 

Too Much Reading

All the words seem blurred;

the ink blended like black rain

bathing a blank page.

 

Breakable

Hollow and heart shaped

forged in a hearth just for you.

Please handle with care.

 

Door Dog

He waits by the door

hoping that I will take him

or he will stop me.

——

 

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Hungry Dog (and Other Haikus)

Old Shoes

Stained so that the dirt

doesn’t discolor the strings;

rather it dyes them.

 

No School

The sky looks more blue

and the sun seems to suggest

we go out to play.

 

Book Ends

The grim lion heads,

cemented with their grey eyes,

oversee the books.

 

Lungs

Rising and falling

like a feather caught aloft

by a light updraft.

 

Hungry Dog

His nubby tail

bobs along the tile floor

as he begs for scraps.

 

——

 

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Cat Greetings (and Other Haikus)

Voyager

The bark slid down stream

as though it was sailing off

to a brighter shore.

 

Exhaustion

The glaze on my eyes

fades the golden hues to gray

with each grudging breath.

 

Finishing a Book

The letters trail

down into the empty space,

but I’m still spinning.

 

Addicted

My eyes pulled away

from the provocative screen,

pushed by unseen force.

 

Cat Greetings

Their black ears perk up

at the jostling of the door

and they pad closer.

——

 

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Cat on the Table (and Other Haikus)

Table Outside

Gliding through the dust,

my fingers draw a smile

in the table dirt.

 

Morning Coffee

So much depends on

the small, yellow coffee mug

perched on the counter.

 

Boy with a Hose

The boy with the hose

spots me walking by his house,

smiles, then sprays me.

 

Packing Bags

My life would seem lame

were it not for the novel

peeking from the bag.

 

Cat on the Table

A leap to the chair

then one more to the table

just to say hello.

——

 

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This is the poem i wrote in eight minutes.

This is the poem I wrote in eight minutes.

 

It probably didn’t hit home as hard as I had hoped.

The stanzas are haggard and heavy,

but the lines are as hollow

as a hanging tree’s moral code.

 

The poem itself was swallowed

in the cesspool of modern scholarship

where the student ponders bad textbooks

and the teachers teach to a code.

 

“It’s all about the A to Z,”

is what the fedora-wearer said to me,

standing at the head of class

by his chalkboard learning scheme.

 

A will get you in the academy

and Z will zip you away

with a ten-thousand dollar piece of paper

and a square cap to put on display.

 

It’s too bad those two letters

can’t sandwich my life together

like the pieces of wonder bread

I ate on the way to school.

——

 

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DRESSING UP

The formalist would put you in a suit.

He would knot the tie so tight

around your tiny little neck,

that you would strangle to death.

 

The romantic would demand that you disrobed,

down to your silken stockings,

so that he could describe you walking

in all your splendor through the dusk air.

 

And then there is the Victorian,

who would worry more how Fra Pandolf’s hands

worked at the canvas of your throat

than how his ink depicted your dress.

 

Only chance would place him side by side

with Prufrock though, who would sooner put you

in a gas mask than a marriage gown,

so that they could ponder the sea together.

 

Yet who am I but another suitor

come to parade you across the palace floor—

for a minute. Another to curl the strands of your hair

over your ears and whisper sweet nothings to you.

——

 

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CRACKS (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

No Time

I trust that you know,

now will leave just as quickly

as never arrives.

 

Runaway Reader

I gripped the covers

like reins to a wild horse,

tearing through the words.

 

Bird Sounds

The rustling song

slipped between my dreaming eyes

to usher the morn.

 

Bed

She twined our fingers

like the lace of her bodice

that lay on the floor.

 

Cracks

Between the concrete

and the aging wooden walls

we hide our hubris.

——

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SUMMER READINGS

If I piled up the pyramid of books

that I promised I would peruse this summer

I would have a tombstone so great

that even Giza would be impressed.

 

But when scattered about in my room,

along the seats of my car, or still nestled

cozily on the shelves of the dusty library

they could hardly dwarf the statue of a gnome.

 

Which is why when I go to water the yard now

I see Eliot and Wilder standing guard,

reminding me how my time here is too short

to spend wasting away on this silly computer.

——

 

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WAVES ON A PAGE

My return to literature was like a sailor

returning to the salt air after a decade ashore.

 

The thin clatter of books from bookshelves

were like oars clattering into a paddle boat.

The small creak of hardback covers sounded

like wooden planks curling beneath my feet.

 

It wasn’t long before I’d raised sails,

and made my way into the first waves

on a broad, shining sea of letters.

 

After a few bumpy chapters,

the waves came rocking,

building, like a crescendo,

until each page was its own torrent

of water and hellfire crashing;

battering and beating the boat

 

and I was there screaming along,

mad with the thrill of the ride.

 

Until finally the pages shut,

the seas grew quiet,

and I found myself drifting along

waiting patiently for another storm.

——

 

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CRITIQUING BILLY COLLINS

So, I just got back from USC this past weekend after my month at the USC/LARB publishing workshop, which was an absolutely amazing experience. The people at the Los Angeles Review of Books are all extremely outgoing and kind. They clearly care about the value that every publisher brings to the table—we heard from smaller presses like Angel City Press and Tia Chucha, as well as massive corporations like Netflix and Amazon, and all the magazines, authors, and so on in between.

It was this constant dedication to diversity that made me wish to discuss the work of Billy Collins today briefly. Specifically, I wanted to talk about the poems in The Rain in Portugal, since I just finished it and it is fresh in my mind still. I should preface this with A) that I have not read all his work—in fact this is the only collection of his work that I have read, so take what I say with a grain of salt and B) that I really enjoyed his work. Like it was some of the most inspiring, thought provoking poetry I have ever read.

With that in mind, I wanted to talk about the issue I have with the collection. The issue I have found is that, in many cases, Collins provides only a male-centeric narrative to his poems. Under the Stars, Cosmology, and A Day in May (also titled “May Day”) I think illustrate this issue the best. Under the Stars portrays a person, who is most likely a man, pissing under the stars. While the overall message is to find tranquility in the most unusual of areas, the emphasis on fraternity creates a sort of in-group versus out-group mentality, where the reader may feel alienated if they lack a penis.

Similarly, Cosmology paints the image of the world resting on a variety of unusual pictures (the infinite backs of turtles, for example). Collins decides that placing the world on the back of Keith Richards, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and smoking a Marlboro cigarettes is the ideal place to rest the world. Of course, this is meant to create humor, but the decision continues to uplift the male narratives. Which isn’t necessarily bad, until Collins begins to represent women to the contrary.

In Collins work, women often become objects. A poem is personified as a woman, for example. And truthfully, it is extremely romantic and lovely to read. But it also can be one-dimensional. One example of this is in A Day in May, in which Collins highlights a girl telling him “have a nice day.” In his brief commentary afterwards, he mentions this statement as being “an irritant” because the girl could not possibly know how good the day was already. Yet to describe her as an irritant seems unfair. She was simple a cashier doing her job, and being polite about it at that. This representation presents women as “lesser” people. Which I think is on the border of cruel.

Anyways, that’s just my opinion. I still adore his poetry—I just ordered a couple more of his collections. But I still think that we can do better—or at least should be aware of the problems that exist even at the highest branches of poetic form. What do you think? Let me know in the comments!

 

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