Poetry By
Shawn Normandin
Published on: 8/4/2010
To Print Culture
One early April evening, I saw a tree That kept its autumn pension of copper leaves. I imagine it rooted in a gulch that heaves A picket of oaks around the refugee, Guarding its photosynthetic sovereignty. Picturesque anachronism cleaves To every branch, dozens of pale reprieves From winter's pogrom of anomaly. It's kindling for the Kindle's plastic page. When Apples ripen and IPods loose their buds, The emperor of social networks brags Of your irrelevance. But prune your rage! The emperor's naked in his tweeting floods, So thank him for the comfort of your rags.
Published on: 3/17/2010
Francine Can't Drown
Damply whirring ratchets confirm my being: No surprise. My Daddy insisted that I Know myself. He must've already died in Sweden . . . or elsewhere. Queen Christina wanted to talk with Daddy Sixty years ago. So we had to leave our Home and visit her in the coldest country God has created. God did not create me: my father was my Maker. God made Daddy, and Daddy said his God would never want to deceive him, never Make him conclude man Held no share of being. He told me how he Built me, plugged my pineal gland, that tiny Cone inside my head, and installed my humming Gears, so I'd think like Fleshly daughters, think like the daughter Daddy Built in Helen's belly, before my birth date. Fleshly girls can't tell you the time the way I Tell it: precisely. Now it's forty seconds until the darkness Pours on Stockholm. How do I know? I've never Even been to Stockholm; no sunlight mops my Seafloor apartment. Nonetheless, the accurate time is always At my call, so Daddy declared he loved me More than any clock that the world invented, More than his oven, More than math or Helen. Christina's letter Came, and Daddy locked me away -- "It's only Temporary" -- locked me inside the pinewood Box, so they'd never See me. "Sailors think with their meat," my Daddy Often scoffed. "Their pineal glands are mushy." Daddy talked to Captain Andreas, wearing Holes in his boat shoes, Chatted till the sunset released him. Nightfall Snuffed the darkness. Daddy returned and, jangling Keys, unlocked my coffin, discussed the weather, Foolish Andreas, Birds, and navigation. He read the Bible, Gave me hope, unfolded the allegories Wedged in tales of Jonah and Moses. Thunder Muted his sermon. Daddy laid me back in the box and left our Cabin. Fearful sailors intruded. Lightning Rowed them. "Descartes, save us! Our ship will quickly Sink if you cannot Cast a spell to frighten the storm clouds." Snooping Here and there, they found my retreat and tore it Open. "Daddy's gone," I informed them, peering Through their bewildered Eyes and dripping beards. They skedaddled, howling "Witchcraft! Witchcraft!" Captain Andreas followed, Fearing little -- only his God, and drowning. Cursing the French, he Dragged me by my ankles. The deck was warped and Greasy. Shouting "Daddy, where are you?" made the Captain angry. "Descartes, we've seized your hellchild!" Daddy was absent. "F---ing girl's as heavy as iron, Cap'm" -- Words the boatswain wheezed as they swung my body Overboard. The water is cold, although my Porcelain derma Has no nerves. The fishes have munched me naked, While I sit here, telling the time to sea slugs, Waiting for a whale to descend and gulp me. Father is nowhere. Thinking isn't being beneath the surface. Whirring isn't knowing -- because the ocean's Earless, therefore waxless. In sorrow's eddy Daddy's no savior.
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