poems by rachel kellum
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the morning I return to fall’s offices
1
I do not fret over morning glories
winding around grapes and raspberries, grateful
for those who bloom despite discriminating pluck.
2
In hope of late summer opening,
I clip off dead heads
to feed my lower tiny buds.
3
Tomatoes raise their arms
in perpetual tsa lung.
I try to follow along, head heavy with fruit.
4
Before sunrise, yarrow fronds stand long-spined.
Pumpkins open wide, strong hands.
Late riser, I know what August sun will do by noon.
2011
Sweet Betsy
Dark Corral, by Craig Johnson
co-written with Fey Witt
Never did I intend
To pull away
It is just
what my people do
Inconstant, unsettled
Unpredictably
I
move toward what is easiest
fool’s gold
Someone else’s dream
A tintype of mountain stream
It isn’t easy
this worry of losing
and getting lost
I should be used to it all
by now
Piker that I am
Fists in my pockets
fists around my heart
Crumbling, crumbling
past dust to powder
I sift, I scatter
I offer you the wind
2011
Reading You
Write all
you sense
upon clear
strips, line
by line.
Lay each
one upon
the next,
hold this
stack up
to sky—
try to
read it.
Give up.
Be read
by sky.
2011
The Tomato Sutra
Driven from the growing shape of morning on the red stone patio,
called by the mulched path between woman-sized tomato plants,
I took my seat to breathe in early August shade.
To the left of the path, three plants. One: an heirloom Cherokee Purple
whose child nearly bursts out of its name next to a smaller green twin.
My fingers thrill against the give of its plump readiness, but I must wait
one more day for Sage, my own purpling daughter, to return. I want to see
what this strange fruit does to the shape of her eyes and face.
And of two Romas, only one of their sons approaches red in a sea
of green brothers. But what a sea! I dream of thawing winter salsa.
And then, because there is left, there is always right, on the right side
of this path is a family of Caspian Pinks. Queens of mazed branches full and broad,
blossoms promised high in lofty reach. Down low, no blooms or tiny fruits!
Midway, a few shriveled flowers inside inner architectures of green.
Of four plants only two diminutive green globes! But what generous shade!
I tell myself they must be late bloomers, like my own slow breasts
(how I prayed!), my own slow living, finally tall, full figured alphabet
putting out prayers above the cage, empty with promise, while others—
look at you dazzling beings!—already heavy with purple and red! I wait.
This is the Sutra of Cherokees Purples, Romas and Caspian Pinks!
May every summer’s last blast of heat bring the least of these awake into the world.
Everything empty staggers toward a steady ripening, a delicious fleeting fall.
On all sides, may the perfect wisdom of this mantra be proclaimed:
tadyatha, mato mato, to om mato, to om om mato, bodhi svaha!
So, noble poets, gardeners, sons and daughters,
we should train in the profound perfection
of wisdom in this way, and rejoice!
2011
Who Shows Up Next
in answer to Rosemerry's question
When Defensiveness meets Pain crouching
behind you, shining red, bare skinned, seared
by expectation, her shield falls in a clamor
at his feet. She pulls off gloves finger by finger,
lifts the shapeless burlap, leaden over head,
exposes chafed arms and breasts, a heart
beating through invisible flesh. A sacred heart.
Pain shifts to get a closer look. She wants to fold
her arms across her chest but lets them fall,
wedges steel toes against each heel, and
with great effort, births her blistered feet.
The mask is last to go, and Pain jolts
in surprise. There is a hidden eye in her
forehead no mask is built for.
She says, My name is really Honesty.
Even though she is sadly smiling
in her own red skin, Pain cannot
embrace her right away. He blinks.
Tears sting the places they fall.
She waits for salt to do its work.
Sometimes it’s the only salve we have.
2011
The Machinery of Desire
1
Everything is calling, clicking
an intricate clockwork of longing.
Crickets rub their toothy wings,
cars race hungrily along black ribbons,
airy arms tingle for breakfast,
pigeons ever gurgle on the wire,
dogs whine to be let in—pity them,
and me, I chase my stories round
my head looking for the end.
2
My words are never content with silence,
that great engine turning poems.
And why not? Silence has everything to say,
everywhere to go. Words are its wings
rubbing together, singing come here, love me,
leave me alone, no—stay, yes—go, listen, don’t
look too hard for me. I’m under the pile
of dirty jeans, I’m tucked in the crotch
of the mulberry tree, I’m up here
in the mouth of the great horned owl, waiting.
2011
The Toy
The boy holds up the toy he built
of colored slotted discs
from a Taco Bell kid’s meal
and explains softly to his mother:
His neck is made of earth.
His chest is air.
His arms and belly are also earth.
His spear is a shaft of air tipped with fire.
What is this?
The pelvis, his mother says.
His pelvis is water.
His thighs are air.
His calves are also water.
His feet are fire.
His head is a shield.
I like him, he concludes.
He’s the Friendly Earth Guardian.
The boy has built himself.
She turns the toy over in her hands,
his elements rushing through,
and recognizes the man.
2011
Rant of the 21st Century Blog Poet
Forgive me for not wanting to be more
properly, postmodernly, publishably
obscure, but, enough already,
proud, paper poets, clutching your journals
and precious books, peddling bitter art syrup
and sorrow for next to nothing! for tree killers!
Words are free!
Forgive me, I am weak. Living is maze and flame
enough without our random word strings. Yes,
there is chaos. There are black holes
in train station eyes. Even mine.
But there is also pattern and, unfortunately, rhyme.
Go ahead, call me trite, or better yet: Poetaster.
The art of posing isn’t hard to master.
How do I want to see?
I want to glue all the broken cups
together and offer them,
leaking, to you. Drink!
Take it from a bumper sticker:
Don’t believe everything you think.
This place is not so fractured
as our blinking rootless lines.
We all hold our own things
in a certain fractal order. Just because
our order shrinks doesn’t mean
expansion doesn’t sing!
And I’m going to say it: I can’t pretend
postmodern poetry doesn’t stink,
even if we like to sniff our own reeking pits!
It’s ok to get clean once in a while, kids,
wash off the crowded street.
Say something sweet, for gods’ sake,
for Nietzsche’s! Do you really want
only pale academe to read you, Übermenschen?
Pile you dusty on their shelves next to Keats?
Bright stars, admit it! That is our wet dream.
But let’s get with it, Marxist wannabes:
words aren’t some commodity!
Anyway, they pay us beans.
Whose whore are we?
Haven’t you noticed? Words are finally free!
(for a modest monthly wireless fee, of course,
or a quick trip to the library.)
Even if no one remembers me
after the Mother of All Solar Flare Catastrophes
licks my words right off this screen,
that’s fine. I’ll either be dead, or still writing.
Maybe then I’ll more readily seek
your perfect bound postmodern ranks.
Like Stanley and Blanche, we could bury
the hatchet and make it a loving cup.
At least until the network
is back up.
2011