Poems for Persons of Interest

Polari Catullus 50 A double act? We agreed to fool around, have a little fun, the other day, toss off some gags, craft some jokes, not for any show but just for play. How utterly fantabulosa! What fun and games we two had, coming up with quips, drinking cheap red wine, round your bachelor pad, and as time went on, the punchlines became more and more outrageous – heartface, your dirty mind and dirtier laugh were quite contagious! And then when I went back all on my tod to my lonely old ken, all I could think was how I needed to be with you once again – my dear, I was so very fired up by your wit and your talent, I couldn’t manage even a single wink, I swear I couldn’t, tossed and turned about on my single letty ‘til ever so late. And today so as to let you know all about my two and eight, I’m dropping you a line. Be a bona pal, don’t be a meanie: Miss Karma can be a terrible bitch – you’d better believe me!   Polari glossary: fantabulosa – wonderful;...

There’s no angel tastes like the groundfall apricot   Met brick and sun one perfect afternoon   I didn’t miss you so much as rolled the pit in my mouth   And spelled your name 

  A Spider Poem I cannot bring myself to write a love poem. at least not the mushy romantic stuff my friends write and read aloud when we gather for wine and dip and literature.   Nothing is pure enough for me. The marble fountain is scuffed with dirt. The water from my tap clouds up on release.   I just don’t respond to another’s eyes the way they do. I can’t just hear what I want to hear but what a guy actually says.   I don’t even write “like” poems. Mine are of the “be wary” variety. Or the “don’t make a fool of yourself again.”   My friends look up and see a starry sky. I keep watch on a spider crawling across the ceiling.

  Editor’s Note Memory, in the phrase of Oliver Tearle, is an “exercise in nostalgia”. We visit our past to regret decisions, laugh out loud at joyful moments, and seek answers to an endless list of questions. In this issue, we have curated a collection of 39 poems from poets visiting the space between past and present   Jane Berger walks us through the “scouring memory” of a traumatic childhood experience in “Four Years Old,” both becoming and comforting the little girl she was.    “Elephant” by M.D. Skeen shows how personal recollection can be selective and painful. The poet's use of detail and direct address makes us see how two people can experience the same event but remember it differently.   Marie Burdett’s tender “Love in Memoriam” keeps love alive despite the sharpness of a lover's absence.   Sometimes you remember with all your senses. In Stephen Mead 's “The Wearable Scrapbook,” memory is stored in objects as something tactile, not abstract. ...

  Four Years Old With his claw-arm he caught my wrist, dragged me to the water, my heels dug shallow ruts to the sand. He walked deeper in. Ribs cinched against his torso, lids scrunched, mucoused face pressed against his chest, mouth pinched tight to dam the flood, I hung surfboard stiff. Inhaling thrashing waves, I hiccoughed, coughed foam. Flooding, flooding. Then, as if he’d tamed a beast— chin lifted, Father turned, slowly bobbed to shore, dropped me like a hefty suitcase. Head drooped forward, wobbling, I stepped around plaid and striped blankets with bathers, stared hard at grains of sand that shifted between my toes, scouring memory. I reached Mother talking with my sisters. My face must have been illegible as a shell, I sat, wheezed. Later, in slow motion I ventured to the edge of spent waves, filled my pink pail with sand; its moist weight pulled my right arm long. Softly I spoke to my two sisters about sand pies, castles, and wheezed. How often had I been caught? For eac...