{"id":42,"date":"2014-11-23T19:29:09","date_gmt":"2014-11-23T19:29:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/MarilynWP\/?page_id=42"},"modified":"2015-03-12T22:15:36","modified_gmt":"2015-03-12T22:15:36","slug":"poems","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/?page_id=42","title":{"rendered":"Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
\u00a0The Enchanting Verses Review (“Forget the Silk” and “Ravishing”): <\/span>http:\/\/www.theenchantingverses.org\/uploads\/4\/6\/1\/6\/4616<\/a><\/span>98\/marilyn_kallet_poems.pdf<\/a><\/span><\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

Forget the Silk<\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

Forget the silk of poppies, their unrelenting red. I could<\/div>\n
take you to forgetting, lick amnesia across your lashes,<\/div>\n
make you forget half-learned love, forget your name<\/div>\n
and the word for blood, caress you with my breasts until you<\/div>\n
spill your hair over me and we\u2019re lost in a silkstorm.<\/div>\n
Forget the drained desert stars, hold me fast as constellations<\/div>\n
you painted on your ceiling as a boy, unfold me like a true map,<\/div>\n
wander my sleepless byways. Taste the dark-skinned girl<\/div>\n
you used to love coming toward you without sorrow,<\/div>\n
surprise the man you mourned hiding blues inside<\/div>\n
his hair\u2013\u2013we\u2019d be the bridge drumming one world into<\/div>\n
another, riding our breaths. Over, under, all around,<\/div>\n
crooning our own night chant, finger cries.<\/div>\n
Could you bear forgetting this?<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ravishing<\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

Madame says she’s ravished by the tortoise. <\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I’m jealous.<\/div>\n
I can see why Madame is ravie.La<\/em><\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Tortue <\/em>with her Cutco beak<\/div>\n
crawls out when Madame coos,<\/div>\n
chomps pissenlit<\/em> and crawls<\/div>\n
back under rock.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
I too was ravished by a beast<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 aeons ago.<\/div>\n
Last year. The floating hair,<\/div>\n
Dark eyes. H\u00e9las<\/em>, then<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Beatrice showed<\/div>\n
and short-circuited<\/div>\n
my ravishing.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
Madame says she is moved<\/div>\n
by intelligent animals,<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Me too.<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I admire Tortue\u2019s indifference<\/div>\n
to my face.<\/div>\n
She doesn\u2019t need to be petted,<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 unlike the dog down the road<\/div>\n
who stops by my gate ten times a day.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
Madame Tortue circles<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The garden edge.<\/div>\n
Fourteen years, she\u2019ll never<\/div>\n
unlatch the garden gate.<\/div>\n
She traps herself<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 under a flowerpot<\/div>\n
never knowing how near<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the Vita Nuova waits<\/div>\n
next door.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
A thrill when she<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 rounds the corner<\/div>\n
again and circulates<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Like Wallace Stevens<\/div>\n
slo-mo in the sun.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
I am almost ravished<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by the tortoise,<\/div>\n
but hold back just<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a toe<\/div>\n
in case you come<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 round the bend<\/div>\n
with a sunny bouquet<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and a slow hand.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

Hear Garrison Keillor read Kallet’s “Fireflies” from the Writer’s Alman<\/em><\/strong><\/span>ac<\/em><\/strong>, July 29, 2012. Click here<\/a>.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a>Selected Poems<\/strong>: I Want You Here<\/a>, Euridice in Nelson County,<\/a> Fireflies,<\/a> The Love That Moves Me,<\/a> That Chicken,<\/a> Get This Right<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a> I Want You Here<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

So badly my fingertips ache
\nroses droop against the stones<\/span><\/p>\n

the green light of the Garonne
\nstuns my eyes<\/span><\/p>\n

I talk to dogs to my chair
\nlisten at the neighbor\u2019s door<\/span><\/p>\n

The old stones of the village are too smooth
\nThe stubble of your chin would do <\/span><\/p>\n

I want you here so badly
\nI can taste your salt<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d save a place or two for your mouth
\nlisten hard to your tongue <\/span><\/p>\n

we\u2019ll coo like mad doves
\nbecome ballads legends<\/span><\/p>\n

climb to the centre ville
\ndevour the first May cherries<\/p>\n

pilgrims
\nat home in each other<\/span><\/p>\n

beneath the blue sheet
\nof sky.<\/span><\/p>\n

(Marilyn Kallet, Blue Fifth Review, 2009)<\/span><\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

* * * * *<\/p>\n

<\/a>Euridice in Nelson County<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Euridice streaked the black Del Sol
\nthrough backwoods snow.<\/span><\/p>\n

She\u2019d trekked through hell before
\nbut this fell whiter and colder than <\/span><\/p>\n

Jersey. The Lovington Food Lion
\nroared with freaked-out country folks,<\/span><\/p>\n

hoarding bread and pad thai.
\nWhat to do? Go slow, pray? <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere ain\u2019t been no God of Israel in these parts
\nsince Job was a boy,\u201d Cuz\u2019 said.<\/span><\/p>\n

The grey man at the end of the driveway leered,
\n\u201cI told you so.\u201d According to the Nelson County<\/span><\/p>\n

Mortality Schedule, he\u2019d been dead long enough to know.
\nEuridice planned to track poems and down Bordeaux<\/span><\/p>\n

until the sun came back, or
\nOrpheus phoned. After all this time,<\/span><\/p>\n

would she know his voice if the call
\nwent through? She\u2019d made mistakes before.<\/span><\/p>\n

Soon as the sky cleared, she would find him,
\nabove, or below.<\/span><\/p>\n

(Taken from Rougourou, an Online Literary Journal,<\/em> Spring 2010, Vol. 4, Issue 1.)<\/span><\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

* * * * *<\/p>\n

<\/a>Fireflies <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

In the dry summer field at nightfall,
\nfireflies rise like sparks.
\nImagine the presence of ghosts
\nflickering, the ghosts of young friends,
\nyour father nearest in the distance.
\nThis time they carry no sorrow,
\nno remorse, their presence is so light.
\nChildhood comes to you,
\nmemories of your street in lamplight,
\nholding those last moments before bed,
\ncapturing lightning-bugs,
\nwith a blossom of the hand
\nletting them go. Lightness returns,
\nan airy motion over the ground
\nyou remember from Ring Around the Rosie.
\nIf you stay, the fireflies become fireflies
\nagain, not part of your stories,
\nas unaware of you as sleep, being
\nbeautiful and quiet all around you.<\/span><\/p>\n

(Taken from Kallet’s most recent book of poetry, Packing Light: New and Selected Poems<\/em>, Black Widow Press, 2009.<\/span>)<\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

* * * * *<\/p>\n

<\/a>The Love that Moves Me<\/strong>
\namor me mosse\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

Makes me speak. Or is this
\nsome lesser muse, that he-beast
\nwith reeking innards? <\/span><\/p>\n

Goth, I know!
\nWhy call for answers
\nif love\u2019s divine? <\/span><\/p>\n

Why not worship like el maestro,
\na glimpse of his beloved?
\nBeatrice cupped vision in words.<\/span><\/p>\n

Virgil spoke up.
\nHad he held still
\nthere would have been no book,<\/span><\/p>\n

no hell, heaven, souls.
\nNow every church in Florence has their number,
\nevery schoolgirl.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m well past the middle of my life,
\nless able to cast visions
\non a still life.<\/span><\/p>\n

I won\u2019t scold.
\nLet\u2019s admire the blank
\nyou have created,<\/span><\/p>\n

the sea of silence that surrounds you,
\nthe taciturn mountain
\nyou climb daily. <\/span><\/p>\n

I won\u2019t ask for hello.
\nThat would show lack of faith.
\nLet the song be my mojo,<\/span><\/p>\n

the terza save me from wraiths,
\nrima not take me down.
\nBe my Virgil if not my angel.<\/span><\/p>\n

If not my divine amor,
\nI might settle
\nfor gutsy love. <\/span><\/p>\n

(Marilyn Kallet Prairie Schooner, Summer 2010.<\/span>)<\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

* * * * *<\/p>\n

<\/a>That Chicken<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Was a senior citizen
\nan octogenarian
\nthe oldest one in Valence d\u2019Agen.
\nThat chicken\u2019s skin was so thick
\nit couldn\u2019t be insulted.
\nNothing could hurt it, not even a knife.
\nThat chicken was so old it knew my Grandma Anna in Minsk.<\/span><\/p>\n

That chicken was so tough
\neven the boiling water complained.
\nThat chicken wasn\u2019t worth 15 Euros.
\n15! That chicken was tougher than the pot,
\ntougher than the teenage boys who rumbled last night by the dock,
\nand much less sexy.<\/span><\/p>\n

That chicken was one of two on Noah\u2019s ark.
\nI ate it because I paid for it.
\nEach bite was an insult.
\nThat was the chicken they saved for the American.
\nThat was the chicken that broke d\u00e9tente.<\/span><\/p>\n

I made a soup of it,
\nand with enough hours and white wine
\neven the oldest clucking citizen of the republic
\ngave way to my teeth.
\nWith a loaf of olive bread to distract me
\nI polished off that beast.
\nBut was it a chicken or a buzzard?
\nJe m\u2019en fous! For fifteen Euros I\u2019d eat a hedgehog
\nif it landed in my shopping bag.
\nI\u2019m no spring chicken
\nbut I\u2019m livelier than that old bird.<\/span><\/p>\n

(Marilyn Kallet 5\/09 Auvillar)<\/span><\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

* * * * *<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a>Get This Right<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Non, the alderman said, num\u00e9ro trois, Place de l\u2019Horloge.
\nThe Jews used to live near the butcher\u2019s,
\nnot the soap shop. I thanked him.
\nNeed to get this right.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ad\u00e9le Kurtzweil tried to study there, before the butchery,
\nbefore gendarmes seized her.
\nGet this right. Fleeing Austria, Bruno, Gisele and their daughter
\ntried to live in Auvillar\u2014their papers in order. After Wansee,<\/span><\/p>\n

the Final Solution, gendarmes grabbed them,
\nchained off num\u00e9ro trois, Place de l\u2019Horloge.
\nFleeing one, two round-ups. Their papers were in order.
\nAdele dropped her history book. Drancy. Septfois. Auschwitz.<\/span><\/p>\n

Not the savonnerie. I thanked him.
\nNo mistake. \u201cKurtzweil. Number 3. Place of the Clock.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

(Marilyn Kallet 5\/09 Auvillar)<\/span><\/p>\n

Top of Page<\/span><\/a>\u00a0
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"kalletwithrose\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0The Enchanting Verses Review (“Forget the Silk” and “Ravishing”): http:\/\/www.theenchantingverses.org\/uploads\/4\/6\/1\/6\/461698\/marilyn_kallet_poems.pdf Forget the Silk Forget the silk of poppies, their unrelenting…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/42"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=42"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/42\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/marilynkallet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=42"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}