Poetry By
C. Brasset
Published on: 9/28/2011
Something cheerful
Something cheerful comes from failure Not happiness something much better Having failed for years I begin to feel it as clearly as the cool days at the end of summer The wind blows strong for a moment through the trees You carry it with you long into the night
Published on: 9/28/2011
Blue jeans
Blue jeans as blue as water as tight as congested sinuses against the railing before the river The smiling freckled Irish woman bends one knee and shifts her hips Down into the silent water with Joni Mitchell's guitar 10 dollars in change and a sketchbook Down into the fast forgiving arms then back into the air sometime later puffed up with silent water On the ruined paper in the sketchbook they found drawings of the Louvre
Published on: 9/28/2011
You Can Rest Now
You can rest now It is dark and quiet here The stars are going out I lick my thumb and extinguish them Tsss tsss is the sound my wet thumb makes on each hot star
Published on: 9/28/2011
Tony Bennett
Like Tony Bennett I left my heart in San Francisco Someone put it on a bus to Seattle I went down from Vancouver To collect it That was the summer Of 1998
Published on: 9/28/2011
I cannot sleep beside you
I cannot sleep beside you Though you are soft and inviting Because you snore like a bear I cannot walk home through the snow Because my legs are tired And I have to lift my feet so high To get over the drifts on the sidewalk I cannot tell you I love you Because I do not love you And I cannot lie I cannot tell you I love you Because you snore like a bear And because I am lost in the snow And because I cannot lie
Published on: 11/30/2010
Today was most excellent
Today was most excellent I got off the bus in front of Arthur's apartment Carrying two packages of dry noodles Which we like to eat - Hello, Drew. - Grunt. Grunt. Ark. - What are we today? A dog? A bear? - Mmmph. - A fish? A bird? Some other animal? - I'm crazy, he said. - Crazy is for teenagers. - Grunt. - A shark? A star? We boiled the noodles and ate them in front of the computer - Things are unclear in my head, he said. - Tell me from the beginning. - All right, he said. There is a patriot, lost in imitation, in the long, lonely fields,who sings, Glory, glory, when the mood moves him. His feet fall quietly on thelemongrass. His heart is raised to his knees. Summer is ending. Glory, glory, singthe reddening leaves. Glory, sings the silent brook. Glory, glory, glory, cries theAtomic Bomb. Glory, says the breast pocket of his best suit. Glory, rafting over thesonic geography. And there is a lion, lost in the lemongrass. Like a city singingsweet songs, he wants to regale with his vision of God in the trees. Glory, sings thepatriot, in his shaky voice, alive to the hips of the world. Glory, glory, declares thelion. It is a fine day here in the thick matter. It is windy and cold, and the sky isclear. This is the beginning of clumsy form. You know, the average river wouldrequire a million years to move a grain of sand one hundred miles. That's 160kilometers. The farmers' crops, dead from a dry summer. Glory, glory. The goldensunset, squinting over the lemongrass, touches the lion's mane, with Glory, glory.And the patriot sees that the wall of skin is sacred, the air is sacred, the sweatysheets are sacred, the cool of evening is sacred, September is sacred, clarity issacred, and the day has culminated in clarity. The sky is clear, the light is gritty, inhis mind there is clarity. Then the moment passes. The stale wind of war begins toblow, and, because of our faults, he disappears among the untrimmed hedges andmushroom clouds, the stale, smoky spheres of war that devour planet after planet.Glory, sings each radioactive mushroom. Glory, sings the unused machinery.Kafka falls dead to the evening Glory. Glory greets Kierkegaard as he folds up hispant leg. Glory, declares the empty footprint. I am back where I began. The eternalblanket is my home. I have not hung onto the clarity. The patriot falls victim to thelion. Blood rolls over the lemongrass. I am left with the Glory, only the Glory, andthe windows sing, Glory, the lion, asleep with the blood of patriots, dreams ofGlory, the peeling paint reveals Glory, and my confusion is the noise of Glory.
Published on: 11/30/2010
Sometimes I think
Sometimes I think my heart is broken but it's just gas I go to the bathroom and then I'm ok You came into the bar and walked right past me As if we'd never lain for hours in the morning By the window in my bedroom Naked and quiet and in each other's arms
Published on: 11/30/2010
We empty out
We empty out Of the graduate bar Leaving the drunken Professors of literature And go westward over the foot bridge The headlights of a car Parked in front of the all night diner Make big bright fists In the falling snow
Published on: 11/17/2010
Are you
Are you lost where you are? Europe or South America, one of The two; I can't remember, I can't Keep track I'll bet you're lost Sweating heavily While a stranger looks at your legs It gives me satisfaction To think that you might need me But the more I think the more The satisfaction gives way To a hackneyed fury And I want to murder the man Who cannot protect you It goes on like that I pace for a while And eventually the fury fades Into boredom And I choose to forget you For another few days F--- you and your travelling F--- Europe and South America I am alone in a rented room On a residential street In Toronto, Ontario Near the Don River
Published on: 11/17/2010
In the unending falsehood
In the unending falsehood of your character there was probably a little truth or at least something natural just enough of it to convince an old dog to call his nose off and ride with you down through the country patient and happy for a while
Published on: 11/17/2010
The garden is dead
The garden is dead The grass is dead Ice on the railing breaks under my hand From the undaunted curve to the girded swing and the swollen angles of the snowy ground Comes the sound of the horn to beckon us on from sorrow and boredom the last tyrants of the world
Published on: 11/17/2010
The contributor's heart
The contributor's heart is not cracked by frequent rejection nor dulled by a wall of smoke rising through an elevator shaft into a twelfth floor apartment The contributor's heart is goddamn magnificent and if you do not know this it is only because you have not yet read his poems, which are inclusive, thoughtful, and correct without losing the value of twelve stories, smoke uneventful evenings a lack of good will and frequent rejection The contributor smears a certain aspect of his heart across the short white page much as the Lithuanian cleaning woman leaves a streak or two on the window in the hallway every Wednesday Then, sitting on the edge of the mattress in his socks and underpants he checks to make sure the alarm is set for 6:45 am
Published on: 5/19/2010
A World of Good
I need to wake up earlier It would do me a world of good Last night I didn't sleep at all And by one in the afternoon I was bored So I went downstairs and sat on the porch The light was just right It was coming over the rooftops I sat there with a cup of coffee and a cigarette For ten minutes or so And I think I'd like to do that every day Usually I stay up late and sleep till four And while there are many other things I am frequently told to do Sitting in that sunlight Is better than saving money Or learning to eat right In fact I think it deserves prior attention You may not know my meanings otherwise Perhaps no one will read these poems Death may come early or As an even less pleasant surprise Life may be very long These secrets may exhaust me Until they are At last and completely forgotten And the batteries empty their yellow juice And the sink fills with dirty cups And a rolling wind breaks the high green hill But I will relax in the light
Published on: 2/11/2010
The Whirling Worlds
The neighbours were noisy They woke me up early I went down the street To the coffee house The whirling worlds of night Were hidden by The blue atmosphere of day But they still Sent out their messages Which I received fragmentally Two girls sat Facing each other on a bench by a birch tree I ordered a coffee and sat Nearby They leaned in to laugh And leaned back to laugh harder Talk to them, a message indicated Say something funny The girls stood up And unlocked their bicycles from the birch tree I stayed A while longer Evening came The messages grew stronger And the hours of disintegration Were upon us
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