carnival of part-time poets
Corset
I've awaited this book of poems for years, and now it's finally published! Shannon Borg's first published book of poetry, Corset (Cincinnati: Cherry Grove, 2006), is now available and as soon as I learned it had been published, I eagerly requested a review copy from the publisher.
This book contains 43 collected poems, some from the author's dissertation and others that were originally published in a variety of poetry journals, and these poems are divided fairly evenly between three separate parts in the book. Despite the wide variety of topics explored in these poems, they all focus on the one immutable aspect of life; everything is subject to change.
All of Shannon Borg's poems are wistful, humorous and audacious by turns, and all of them speak beautifully, eloquently, of family and life and love; of their prerequisite constraints and entanglements, and their enduring promise. For example, in the title poem, "Corset", she tells of seduction's familiar (and amusing) dance; "He moves close, says hello, you remind / me of someone, can't quite place. Your face, your / look, don't quite know. Drinks and scents float / between, across, amongst."
The author's poems are acutely sensitive to several worlds. One of my favorite poems is a stream-of-consciousness piece, "In the Old Peculiar Near the End of the Century" (p. 86-87), where the author ponders the constraints of friendship, of gender, of social expectations while lingering over beer with her friends. In "During the War", she carefully reveals her parents' parallel lives prior to their marriage; he, an overseas soldier while she buried soldiers at home. Another poem describes the juxtaposition between her father's open heart surgery and herself as she was driving through the crowded streets of a large city a thousand miles away; "I see the surgeon's red hands while I steady / the steering wheel's ring. My father moves through / the post-op dreams they told him would come, followers / of pain. He wonders if he should keep his eyes closed / and I wonder why I want to give the moon a soul / like mine. Why this desire to gaze down on myself / at night, navigating streets between skyscrapers / or red desert streams? The freeway speeds / away beneath my car. The drive home promises / to be long - the roads are full, empty, full." [from "On a Table Under a Round White Light" (p. 47)]
Grrlscientist presents the full review of Shannon Borg's book here.
~~~~~~~
The Forces of You
When she weeps,
the curtains rebel,
incensed, they foment,
they crease,
they flutter without a breeze,
even the damn blinds split open,
each lip trembling
crackling and popping,
like leaves at unease;
and when she turns away in sorrow,
her face to the wall,
the celibate AC,
celebrates the moment,
in excitement, in vigor,
it revves up, becomes enticed,
beleagured it lets tumble
shooting forth from the wall,
all its spiced electric juices,
chilled but chaste,
they rush to the sighs,
she has sung into the dawn;
when she wails,
the pale white paint,
chips crackles and rips
breaking like branches
off the tree of ceiling:
the dampness to which they peel,
is from the humidity of her tears;
even though I like to believe
that water-stains brought their demise,
secretely I’ve known their pain.
The paint is skinned and flayed,
because it reacts to her exclaims;
when her silence hangs heavy,
the dreary house fears infinity,
cold invisible wraiths rumble,
and silent electric snakes
whisper, slithering uninvited;
and death falls like dew,
and breath becomes a recluse,
and fear reigns in the stillness,
and all this
leaving the TV
no choice but to scream
out loud
intense
extreme,
until volume loses it voice,
and its throat goes hoarse,
it becomes white noise,
and black and white splotches of snow,
pleading for her to bring back life,
for her to once again please,
speak
please.
Copyright: Ali Eteraz
~~~~~~~
My Muse, My Poetry, My Life
"Dey Call her Cowgirl"
wearing black
fragile red
tumbling thoughts
through her head
canter hard
against the tide
can she ever
be a bride.
warrior lass
so she sings
many choices
for a ring
friend and foe
cannot see
her soul branches
like a tree.
seize the moment
when you know
all that fate
will bestow
love is kind
it stays true
there is someone
just for you.
Thanks cowgirl
Brian has several poems listed at this site.
~~~~~~~
Placate the masses
Be they as cows, moping in the fields
unaware of all but their plight
Leave them be, mooing happily
while we prepare for the fight
Get a strangle hold on what is right!
Our time is now
to change the world our way
Our time is now
this is the day!
Get a grip on the importance of today!
From Ceremonial Soup
~~~~~~~
Nothing
Lets go back where I began
From the moon
From the stars
From the nothing
Lets go to where there's most pain
To my heart
To my soul
To the nothing
Lets go to where everything is
In cold
In the dark
In the nothing
Lets go where tears aren't afraid
From love
From hope
From nothing
Lets go to where it all ends
In the beginning
In the clouds
In the nothing
From Saphire Intrigue
~~~~~~~
Trashing a Monet
They will trash Monet
They will steal beauty
Why do we pave paradise?
Turn it to Concrete,
Green places beautiful,
To my heart sweet,
I hear the business man wants,
A place like that,
Near where I was a student,
I lived in a flat,
I was taken by the place,
I went to walk there for the quiet,
I escaped the city pace,
Flew my soul as a kite,
It was beautifully England,
Down by Ribble river,
In its morning mists,
I enjoyed the Winter!
Now the song of its birds,
Will be run over,
By a blind man,
In a bulldozer.
Busy City at my back,
I walked across the bridges,
Into the silence,
In the nature so rich,
That It could be painted,
by the Impressionist,
Also tainted,
By the industrialist,
And found as I walked,
In the green so kind,
It was time to take,
The sadness off my mind,
We all need open space,
To ease the heart pain,
The Ribble was beautiful,
In November rains,
The money mad world,
My soul drains,
To watch the Ribble hurl,
I felt my soul regain.
This situation
Is the microcosm
Of the Earth’s peril
We must save her.
In this life we have a choice,
To turn away the head,
Or use the strong voice,
To say something said,
About a place so sweet,
For Ribble-Land
They will drown it in concrete,
They will pave paradise,
To the green tree tunnel
It will be 'Au revoir'
To be left with the housing scar,
All will be left with,
Is memories,
You sad where you live,
I sad overseas,
So I am rousing,
People in my song,
To say the new housing,
By the Ribble it is wrong,
Please don't touch, businessman,
Don't come again,
Any day,
You take beauty,
Throw it away,
Like trashing,
A Monet!
This, and pictures and more at Save The Ribble
~~~~~~~
the snapshot of yourself
hung
now falling from the wall
the song about yourself
you wrote
fading into static
and you're standing in the
back-door hangouts of
your junkie dreams
you wake up to
a nightmare
petty responsibilities
your lost ambition
making noises in the attic
you go out without your jacket
waiting
waiting for the rain
that never came
love
waiting
waiting for the rain
Kimbal Ross all rights reserved
I've awaited this book of poems for years, and now it's finally published! Shannon Borg's first published book of poetry, Corset (Cincinnati: Cherry Grove, 2006), is now available and as soon as I learned it had been published, I eagerly requested a review copy from the publisher.
This book contains 43 collected poems, some from the author's dissertation and others that were originally published in a variety of poetry journals, and these poems are divided fairly evenly between three separate parts in the book. Despite the wide variety of topics explored in these poems, they all focus on the one immutable aspect of life; everything is subject to change.
All of Shannon Borg's poems are wistful, humorous and audacious by turns, and all of them speak beautifully, eloquently, of family and life and love; of their prerequisite constraints and entanglements, and their enduring promise. For example, in the title poem, "Corset", she tells of seduction's familiar (and amusing) dance; "He moves close, says hello, you remind / me of someone, can't quite place. Your face, your / look, don't quite know. Drinks and scents float / between, across, amongst."
The author's poems are acutely sensitive to several worlds. One of my favorite poems is a stream-of-consciousness piece, "In the Old Peculiar Near the End of the Century" (p. 86-87), where the author ponders the constraints of friendship, of gender, of social expectations while lingering over beer with her friends. In "During the War", she carefully reveals her parents' parallel lives prior to their marriage; he, an overseas soldier while she buried soldiers at home. Another poem describes the juxtaposition between her father's open heart surgery and herself as she was driving through the crowded streets of a large city a thousand miles away; "I see the surgeon's red hands while I steady / the steering wheel's ring. My father moves through / the post-op dreams they told him would come, followers / of pain. He wonders if he should keep his eyes closed / and I wonder why I want to give the moon a soul / like mine. Why this desire to gaze down on myself / at night, navigating streets between skyscrapers / or red desert streams? The freeway speeds / away beneath my car. The drive home promises / to be long - the roads are full, empty, full." [from "On a Table Under a Round White Light" (p. 47)]
Grrlscientist presents the full review of Shannon Borg's book here.
~~~~~~~
The Forces of You
When she weeps,
the curtains rebel,
incensed, they foment,
they crease,
they flutter without a breeze,
even the damn blinds split open,
each lip trembling
crackling and popping,
like leaves at unease;
and when she turns away in sorrow,
her face to the wall,
the celibate AC,
celebrates the moment,
in excitement, in vigor,
it revves up, becomes enticed,
beleagured it lets tumble
shooting forth from the wall,
all its spiced electric juices,
chilled but chaste,
they rush to the sighs,
she has sung into the dawn;
when she wails,
the pale white paint,
chips crackles and rips
breaking like branches
off the tree of ceiling:
the dampness to which they peel,
is from the humidity of her tears;
even though I like to believe
that water-stains brought their demise,
secretely I’ve known their pain.
The paint is skinned and flayed,
because it reacts to her exclaims;
when her silence hangs heavy,
the dreary house fears infinity,
cold invisible wraiths rumble,
and silent electric snakes
whisper, slithering uninvited;
and death falls like dew,
and breath becomes a recluse,
and fear reigns in the stillness,
and all this
leaving the TV
no choice but to scream
out loud
intense
extreme,
until volume loses it voice,
and its throat goes hoarse,
it becomes white noise,
and black and white splotches of snow,
pleading for her to bring back life,
for her to once again please,
speak
please.
Copyright: Ali Eteraz
~~~~~~~
My Muse, My Poetry, My Life
"Dey Call her Cowgirl"
wearing black
fragile red
tumbling thoughts
through her head
canter hard
against the tide
can she ever
be a bride.
warrior lass
so she sings
many choices
for a ring
friend and foe
cannot see
her soul branches
like a tree.
seize the moment
when you know
all that fate
will bestow
love is kind
it stays true
there is someone
just for you.
Thanks cowgirl
Brian has several poems listed at this site.
~~~~~~~
Placate the masses
Be they as cows, moping in the fields
unaware of all but their plight
Leave them be, mooing happily
while we prepare for the fight
Get a strangle hold on what is right!
Our time is now
to change the world our way
Our time is now
this is the day!
Get a grip on the importance of today!
From Ceremonial Soup
~~~~~~~
Nothing
Lets go back where I began
From the moon
From the stars
From the nothing
Lets go to where there's most pain
To my heart
To my soul
To the nothing
Lets go to where everything is
In cold
In the dark
In the nothing
Lets go where tears aren't afraid
From love
From hope
From nothing
Lets go to where it all ends
In the beginning
In the clouds
In the nothing
From Saphire Intrigue
~~~~~~~
Trashing a Monet
They will trash Monet
They will steal beauty
Why do we pave paradise?
Turn it to Concrete,
Green places beautiful,
To my heart sweet,
I hear the business man wants,
A place like that,
Near where I was a student,
I lived in a flat,
I was taken by the place,
I went to walk there for the quiet,
I escaped the city pace,
Flew my soul as a kite,
It was beautifully England,
Down by Ribble river,
In its morning mists,
I enjoyed the Winter!
Now the song of its birds,
Will be run over,
By a blind man,
In a bulldozer.
Busy City at my back,
I walked across the bridges,
Into the silence,
In the nature so rich,
That It could be painted,
by the Impressionist,
Also tainted,
By the industrialist,
And found as I walked,
In the green so kind,
It was time to take,
The sadness off my mind,
We all need open space,
To ease the heart pain,
The Ribble was beautiful,
In November rains,
The money mad world,
My soul drains,
To watch the Ribble hurl,
I felt my soul regain.
This situation
Is the microcosm
Of the Earth’s peril
We must save her.
In this life we have a choice,
To turn away the head,
Or use the strong voice,
To say something said,
About a place so sweet,
For Ribble-Land
They will drown it in concrete,
They will pave paradise,
To the green tree tunnel
It will be 'Au revoir'
To be left with the housing scar,
All will be left with,
Is memories,
You sad where you live,
I sad overseas,
So I am rousing,
People in my song,
To say the new housing,
By the Ribble it is wrong,
Please don't touch, businessman,
Don't come again,
Any day,
You take beauty,
Throw it away,
Like trashing,
A Monet!
This, and pictures and more at Save The Ribble
~~~~~~~
the snapshot of yourself
hung
now falling from the wall
the song about yourself
you wrote
fading into static
and you're standing in the
back-door hangouts of
your junkie dreams
you wake up to
a nightmare
petty responsibilities
your lost ambition
making noises in the attic
you go out without your jacket
waiting
waiting for the rain
that never came
love
waiting
waiting for the rain
Kimbal Ross all rights reserved