{"id":1344,"date":"2014-10-21T22:26:24","date_gmt":"2014-10-21T22:26:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/?p=1344"},"modified":"2015-03-15T13:02:08","modified_gmt":"2015-03-15T17:02:08","slug":"poems-mcgarrell","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/poems-mcgarrell\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

KEATS<\/strong><\/p>\n

ROME, 18_, to Miss Fanny Brawne<\/em>, never posted<\/p>\n

Severn props me on my pony. I am a wraith, a doll.
\nWeightless. In waiting. Wight of no might at all.
\nA Roman wench lifted great eyes to me, says my friend.
\nI didn\u2019t look. Fanny, your face (graven behind my eyelids) reigns
\nIncontrastata. <\/em>The weather\u2019s hot and damp. Is this the end?
\nThe food\u2019s so foul I hurled it down the Steps of Spain.
\nO for a lucent quince! Last night I coughed and coughed.
\nYes, there was blood: grumi<\/em> they called it — clots.
\nToo late for me to beg a curl from your bright locks.
\nIl dottore<\/em> says I\u2019m better. Another shameless lie.
\nDear girl, you will have heard: it rhymes with die.
\n<\/em>A nightingale sobs past all cacophony and crockery.
\nDeath\u2019s shadow hurtles down from somewhere far aloft.
\nI am alone, in love, in pain, in fear. A mockery.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THE MANATEE’S MATIN\u00c9E<\/strong><\/p>\n

She was an animal, yes, but at the same time she was an immortal goddess\u2026. <\/em>
\n— Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, Ligheia<\/em><\/p>\n

Rising through blue and green and Tyrian drifts,
\nI tilt your craft and smile. A long look.
\nI haven\u2019t sung one note, but, sailor, you are mine
\nTill the ninth wave. \u201cAfter\u201d?
\nI don\u2019t know what after<\/em> is.
\nSome night you\u2019ll call my name and I will come
\nFloating from caves where my sleek sisters choir,
\nSea-milk already rounding their small breasts.
\nThere, tritons unfurl garlands of cold fire
\nTangled with stars and starfish. Touch:
\nI shivered nightly in that northern sea
\nWhere I was netted once, and taught to knit.
\n— That story\u2019s on Dutch dishes, blue and white.
\nUnraveling, unrivaled I burst free,
\nStitches cast off in soft epiphanies.
\nMy captors gaped like cod, I (joyous) dived.<\/p>\n

Sicilian summer. Scrim of shimmering heat.
\nBeached graceless on damp shale
\nI writhe to reach you, teach you inhuman love..
\nTaste me. My mouth is blood and brine..
\nYour tongue strays, questing, thick with wine.
\nMortal, unshining lover, forked and shy,
\nCome nearer, nearest. Now sound all my deeps.
\nMy mother is a muse who never sleeps:
\nOne of the Nine, Calliope.
\nShe sings men down to bone.
\nEnding, remember me. I will bring you home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

T.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0for James Gandolfini<\/i><\/p>\n

Fragments of porphyry, serpentine, and a bronze lion\u2019s head were recovered by divers exploring Nemi\u2019s volcanic lake. — <\/i>Michelin Green Guide to Italy<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve loved you, feared you;
\nnow we\u2019re braced for mourning,
\ncocksucker
\nWith all that that entrails<\/i>.<\/p>\n

How ya doin\u2019?
\n<\/i>Landfill or shark gut,
\nSausage casing or stir?<\/p>\n

Pussy, Chris, Cousin Tony,
\npoor sweet dumb Ade:
\nit always was fated.
\nWhatcha gonna do?<\/i><\/p>\n

In the lakeside wood
\nsleepless, the king keeps watch.
\nA twig cracks:
\ndrops of gold. What the fuck?
\n<\/i>Nemi.
\nCaligula\u2019s ships
\nburned up on the Hitler channel
\ntoo far north and too late.
\nTry the Phlegrean Fields
\nwhere Naples keeps stoking
\nunderground fires —
\nblood-orange rinds and scorched coffee
\nchoke the entrance to Hell.<\/p>\n

Pale shades swarm near him for a taste of dark blood
\n<\/i>Swift-handed Odysseus fends them off with his blade —<\/i><\/p>\n

He hears stuff like that. He\u2019s on it.
\nHaruspicate. \u00a0Hack open a bird, what\u2019s it tell you?
\nSnatch some sharp moves from Prince Matchabelli.
\n<\/i>Bronze tablets say they\u2019ve been buried too long.
\nDreams don\u2019t lie but they\u2019re cobwebbed.
\nHere\u2019s a hint: True love is not human:
\nGive your heart to a racehorse, a bullet\u2019s trajectory,
\nThe steep flight of ducks.<\/p>\n

 
\n 
\n <\/p>\n

Two for Irene Trivas<\/em><\/p>\n

PERIOD PIECE<\/strong><\/p>\n

No grace in this going.
\nSlumped back, doped out of pain,
\ntwo nights ago we spoke.
\nOh, morphine\u2026 nice\u2026.you sighed,
\none last truncated breath.<\/p>\n

It is 1948.
\nGood children, silent on the set,
\nprowling the back lot, star-struck but aware
\nnothing was real. We knew.
\nMain Street was all fa\u00e7ade,
\npropped up on two-by-fours.
\nWe knock and run away,
\nfleeing what wasn’t there
\nbehind the painted door.<\/p>\n

Stunted trees clutch at wildfire,
\ndazzle the darkness, frail charcoal sketch at dawn.
\nNight-blooming cereus spills fragrance room by room,
\nSecrets stay put long years beneath a stone.<\/p>\n

Who says we\u2019ll like everybody we meet in Heaven?
\nWho says we only fall in love with someone nice?
\nLoss and betrayal.
\nSeedlings rise from loam.
\nMove over, tendrils.
\nDeath has brought me home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

MONOCHROME<\/strong><\/p>\n

White birches.
\nSnowy owl.
\nEnfolding shawl of flakes.
\nYour farewell winter, tethered to oxygen —
\nVermont in mild Siberian drag.<\/p>\n

Behind our eyelids
\nolder beginnings play:
\nSunlight. Espresso. Dogs.
\nI did not expect, you said, to be a hag.<\/p>\n

Upstage, six cygnets lift
\ntheir arch of arms.
\nGarlands. The entr’acte. Bourr\u00e9e.
\nAnd if from the proscenium\u2019s height
\na tuft of swan\u2019s down seems to drift stage left,
\nfrail as a breath, imperfect as all fact,
\nbrush it away.<\/p>\n

Regret, remorse.
\nI dwindle like a reptile
\nshedding skin.
\nThese bright days burn me.
\nI hide beneath a hat
\nand try to sing.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

Severn props me on my pony. I am a wraith, a doll.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1357,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[100],"tags":[112],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nTraveltainted | Poems - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/poems-mcgarrell\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Traveltainted | Poems - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Severn props me on my pony. 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