2007 Anne Knish Poetry Contest Entries

 

 

The Snail Drunk

 

Ep. 1:1

 

I hope the waiter brings the chicken

wings in those little raffia baskets and

we better get a full array of condiments

not sauce in sachets and we want our

two complimentary beers cold not warm.

 

 

Ep. 1:2

 

The waiter brings the chicken wings

in raffia baskets with good cloth napkins

besides, gingham, to match the table.

The condiments are unrivalled - jars of

faultless, tart jellies and hot, thick relishes.

 

 

Ep. 1:3

 

We specifically instruct the waiter - No

beer - but he seems to glaze over at the

slight deviation from the menu. No beer?

he repeats, stunned. He scribbles on a

pad to confirm, No beer, then asks again.

 

 

Ep. 1:4

 

No - his carbon paper smile obliterates all

our demands with officious welcome - our

complaints or a compliment, thrown to

break the ice, all are removed alike - lovely,

lovely chicken - you're going to enjoy it.

 

 

Ep. 1:5

 

Our waiter brings two cold beers on

the house and another two, then two

more and a peppy couple at the next

table hand us forty Marlboro light and

a Marlboro lighter to light them with.

 

 

Ep. 1:6

 

As the evening progressed the whole place

seemed to gather at our table. Everybody

was delirious with laughter, the beers

were flowing — I was resigned to it by then —

for anything I said met only with approval.

 

 

Ep. 1:7

 

Then waiters brought chicken wings in

little raffia baskets and the full array of

condiments and watched as a tallow tear

bulged from the corner of her eye and

set — your silken hair, my love, like straw.

 

 

Ep. 1:8

 

I stared down at the chicken, incredulous

only noticing then the blotches of faint

green cubing under its skin. Like plaice

copy the sequencing of their surroundings

so our chicken had too, from the napkins.

 

 

Ep. 1:9

 

Suddenly her head began lolling over —

only the whites of the eyes left showing

like two mint imperials. Faces, swirls of

grimacing under laughter, orange and

hot like a brazier’s empty into hollow.

 

 

Ep. 1:10

 

I thought the moment had passed, that

her choking had gone without epiphany or

remembrance. Not so, I ordered more

chicken, some cold coca-cola and a pack

of Malboro full strength to revive her.

 

 

Ep. 1:11

 

Her neck as suddenly stiffened to revive —

her pupils dilate and the throat clears of

dyspepsia — you know what’s coming next —

that’s right, you know what’s coming, why

stiffen to revive, you know what’s coming.

 

 

Ep 1:12

 

Two waiters come, one grabs the cloth

and pulls it away, everything on the table

stays as it is, a miracle — everyone’s amused.

Meantime, a second waiter is setting up an

adjacent table and the night begins again.

 

 

Ep. 1:13

 

Peas rain down from the mezzanine floor —

more of a balustrade really I suppose, with

its thick choke-leg uprights and toffee-tan

varnish, like the type in Western saloons — the

devil’s in the detail, garden peas rained down.

 

 

Ep. 1:14

 

She ate with renewed vigour but I couldn’t —

the missiles had grown from a trickle to a

positive downpour. I glanced up and one

lodged in my eye, to chunks of laughter — do

you think we ought to move to a quiet table?

 

 

Ep. 1:15

 

No, I do not think we ought to move to a

quiet table, I think we ought to weather the

storm here. Waiter, bring us chicken wings

in raffia baskets and we want two umbrellas

and waiter, no peas with that, no beer.

 

 

Ep. 1:16

 

So there we sat, she in a soiled frock, empire

waisted and me in cummerbund and dicky bow

and two waiters are holding brollies over our

heads, it’s quite romantic really — we’re damned

if we’re going to let anyone put us off our food.

 

 

Ep. 1:17

 

It was romantic, she leaned over, whispering

this in my ear, if you must know — Oh, my darling

how I love your chicken breasts, pimpled and

grey in the cold. With that I unbuttoned my shirt

and flashed her, raising whoops of elemental joy.

 

 

Ep. 1:18

 

Hand on her knee, cold grey plume, Jesus

Christ, we’re kids again. The chicken arrives

and the peas subside slowly to an occasional

insubstantial plop in the beer. My love, your

skin’s translucent, I can see the meat go down.

 

 

Ep. 1:19

 

Skeins of beautiful Vivaldi stretch an already

beautiful moment out. As it rises and dips I

imagine love to be something like this, like

coming inland after years at sea and I say so

to her, No, she says no, my love, that’s wind.

 

 

Ep. 1:20

 

When the lights dim to a catheter yellow and the

waiter starts wiping tables, it’s a hint that it’s time

to go. Smearing a glass with a tea towel, he comes

over to inform us that they can wrap the bones up

if we like, there’s plenty of meat left on them yet.

 

 

Ep. 1:21

 

No, we’re going, I tell him, but then the chef

comes out of a back room with a bottle wanting

to engage us now his shift is done and we can

hardly turn him down — OK, just one small glass —

waiters appear out of nowhere with chicken wings

 

 

--  Andy Hirst 

 


 

 

the call came at quarter

to

is she there, you know Mom?

nah

you remember what Alex and Wayne did

to you?

nah

you wouldn't with those stars stuck in your eyes.

what

they get it the way of you seeing

ok

there still there i can tell

beeeeep, beeeeeeep.

 

 

--Joanne Falvey

 


 

The 1st and the last zero, Ace-pilot scared of flying

 

I knew the mathematician

the zero

the king of kings

and his little dog.

 

He told me too

and everyone else

about the zero

the king of kings and

his little dog

 

He impressed me

secretly, he is the was,

he is the is,

he was the is

you and I both knew

he always was.

 

Stupid is that!

How stupid was that?

Totally! Why!

he was scared of flying!

 

 

 

--By the real fake Albert Einstein's

 


 

 

Squirrel

 

Sweeney Squirrel cracks his nuts,

Swears against his tendonitis.

In the pub Sween's wife declares

Nothing's wrong and nothing right is.

 

I told the man from the council, I told him straight, Wipe your feet on the

mat before you come in, I said, and take that grin off your face, I said. You

don't /look/ like someone who can fix my piles, I said, and you know what he

said? I'll tell you what he said, he said

 

nothing.

 

O, unreal nothing!

 

Nothing comes

Of nothing, nothing

Ever did.

 

O O O, if there were the memory of a nothing only!

But here there is no

Nothing.

 

Well did you ever?

What a politician at the swell party

(Full of Pernod, fat and farty)

Spoke is not for us to guess;

Not for us unless to bless.

 

No, not for us, who are forbidden entry to the rose

Garden. No, not for us, yet perhaps also for us,

Who may turn a no into yes

As easy as the seller of Cuisine Française turns thoughtless testicles into

Money, giggling, jiggling, jug-jug-juggling

 

Drib. Drab. Drib. Drab.

 

This is likely

To go on for

Quite a long

Time, isn't it,

As life all too often does. BOO!

 

Nothing ever ends. The graspèd garden of Peace

is conquered by the greenfly of Destiny and

 

DA!

 

the badger of eternity (so long so long I

did not guess it was such a big long one) prioritises

The digging-up of roots, all our happy roots

that were once happy but are no more.

They were once happy. They are no more.

"Happy roots", I thought, as I dug like the squirrel

or perhaps even more like the mole

or the unadventurous Earthworm King

Who fishes alone on the muddy spade-turned shore.

But the roots were, and are not, happy.

The squirrel ate

Them.

 

And, yet, perhaps, maybe,

 

DA-DUM-BUM-CHING!

 

This is not, after all, a joke

At the expense of the

     Stetsonsed men

     On the bridge

     /Sur le pont d'Avignon/

But rather, when we return to the rose garden,

A moment for reflection

And not for reflection,

And not a moment:

A time when one mulls

And a time to break some skulls

(Including Webster's)...

And yet not ever really a time.

 

DA-DA-DA-BOOM-TEE-AY!

 

And O! children sing in the playground:

Hurry krishna, hurry krishna,

Hurry up please it's time, it's

Almost

Over.

 

But will anything ever truly be over?

 

So, mere mortal man, brown river flows.

Perhaps, mere mortal man, the squirrel knows

More than you.

 

So long.

 

DA-MN!

 

 

-- PJR :-)

 


 

Circle

 

 

Lipstick too red nails too long

Pants a little tight, I let out a cough

I was soft spoken at the table

Then laughed too loudly at a joke

I rang the bell one time too many

Filed my nails way too short

My shirt seemed a little low

My one son is too short

The other is too loud

The oldest, you just can’t figure out

I came with my three sons

No other man sat beside me

Wondering why I fly solo

Ponder why I date too much

My lifestyle keeps you puzzled

Assumptions come in droves

As I watch you take a shot at me

I wonder when you’ll ever cease

I bear the insults that you hurl

And the whispers behind my back

The mean looks you think I don’t see

Never feeling part of your crowd

Wondering if all this I can live without

Family is not what you seem to me

More like strangers with each encounter

My life I’ve kept my own

Opinions of mine you never cared

Dismissing any views you didn’t share

But my stubbornness that you’ve despised

I’ve refused to be compliant and suppress

For that is what I consider my strength
and refuse to dismiss the part of me that’s wild

So continue living in your little circle

With your minds of the same size

For I’ve never really been inside your world

And I now choose to remain only in mine

 

 

-- Bklynbred

 


 

Ah but the ficklest of psyches

has wrought so gently

the irons of dogg'reloid stupidity--

Sitting in obtuse corners,

conical caps atop our hapless pates,

we grin and weep in duncical bliss,

until at last we expectorate

this motley miasma,

this nitrogenous naivete,

this visage of vacuousness

that slither and dance

beneath the skull

like linguini under marinara.

 

 

Come, let us celebrate the purge

of the nanopoets

and revel in the sweet vintage

of the versologic giants!

 

--Teresa B