Good morning, everyone, it’s Marina here behind the bar to keep up the conversation about poetic inspiration. Tony asked us what poets we admire now, while Mary asked us about our poetic influences in childhood. Well, I am going to draw your attention to poets who are little more than children themselves (although they would probably me mortified to hear that).
watching the millennium fireworks
from one unknown bridge or another.
with my brother, a plastic cover
keeping away the rain
as they unleashed their burning colours
and showered down their embers on those below.
crawling inside a duvet cover
and playing ant colonies.
the banisters when there was a knock
at the door, so the unsuspecting
guest would think I was an acrobat.
at the door was a policeman, bearing
I don’t remember what happened next.
that wasn’t my own.
I remember playing with the hand sanitizers,
I remember the picnics in Queen Square
and running along the little flower bed walls.
dressing gown, the smell of you.
of my own and took me on her ward rounds.
candles in a hospital room.
Dutch Baby by Ian Burnette
In the bakery, my girl
Grips a pregnancy test
like a pistol in her pocket.
The baker hands her
the key to the restroom
And leaves. In the back
there’s a small window
where he watches
men and women and
children – I don’t mind,
I’ve learned I can’t
protect anyone by now.
The raspberry Danish
in the pastry cabinet
is the baker’s daughter,
I’ve decided – bruised
purple and swaddled
in puff rope. I imagine
the baker coming back
from his window, filling
my empty hands.
Here’s yeast, here’s flour,
fruit and sugar and water –
make more of her.
Daughters by Phoebe Stuckes
Enough of pulling off high heels to run
Or else waiting alone in unclaimed ugliness.
No more crying out for guitar heroes
Or going back to old loves for the safety.
Let us build bonfires of those unanswered prayers.
Let us learn how to leave with clean and empty hearts
Let us escape these attics still mad, still drunk, still raving
Let us vacate these badly lit odd little towns
Let us want none of what anchored our mothers
Let us never evolve to be good or beautiful
Let us spit and snarl and rattle the hatches
Let us never be conquered
Let us no longer keep keys in our knuckles
Let us run into the streets hungry, fervent, ablaze.
Are a mighty thing
A captive animal, woken with a taste for blood.
You Amazon, you Gloria, you Swiss army knife of a woman.