Just for fun, here’s an ekphrastic poem inspired by a photo my friend Ed Ackerson posted to Instagram the other day. The photo seemed to urgently want to tell a story so I had to make one up around it.
The Rainbow-Colored Gorilla Plays Foosball
We were down 10 points when
boom! The rainbow-colored gorilla
sat down on the foosball table. Maybe
he was wound up after the pride
parade. Or maybe he was just angry.
Oooo oooo oooo, was all he said,
but that’s all he ever said. We had
to abandon the game after that
due to the smell and carry the table,
gorilla and all, out to the alley behind
the house. He didn’t budge, and soon the
weeds grew up around him. To this day,
he patrols the penalty arc, rain or shine.
Best goalie I’ve seen in Uptown in years,
one neighbor said. Of all time! Insists another.
Here’s a new poem I’m working on. (Audio only.)
Tuesday, April 24th I read a few poems at the fabulous Multilingual Poetry Jam hosted by Helsinki Poetry Connection. The event was at a great and comfortable lower level venue, Mascot Live Stage and hosted by Kaspar Salonen.
Check out two of my recent unpublished poems in the video below.
Our grandparents knew
Guy Lombardo and champagne
are the keys to New Year’s Eve.
Hours before midnight, in the shoe store,
I could not keep my big mouth shut about the boots you found
which you were terribly excited about.
I just had to say I had bought that same brand last year,
and the heel came off
within weeks. Don’t you remember?
Your excitement faded. Your smile dimmed.
You no longer wanted the boots.
From that moment on, nothing I could say would convince you to buy them.
So what if they might fall apart in 3 months?
What right had I to take away the pleasure you might have found
from your first new pair of boots in 3 years!
my foolishness almost forgotten
I asked you to dance to “Auld Lang Syne”
when it came on the music player. And then
“Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think).”
It was intimate, exciting,
just the two of us,
dancing in the candlelight
to Guy Lombardo.
Who knows what the new year holds in store,
for us, or our shoes.
For all you bathtub readers out there, here’s audio only of “Reading in the Tub” from the forthcoming audiobook version of “A Flash of Insight and Other Poems” by David de Young.
There was no turkey, no dressing,
no jellied cranberry sauce, can-shaped and sliced.
There was no pumpkin pie.
There were mashed potatoes, lingonberries,
and meatloaf, but no day off work. It was just a Thursday,
and we might have been thankful
the stores were at least open,
so there was no rush to complete the shopping
for wine and last-minute ingredients for dinner.
We might have wished (had we thought of it)
that our youngest wouldn’t wake in fever
at 1 a.m. and need to be kept home
on Friday, causing a missed day of work
that in America would have been a day off anyway.
Still, these frustrations bring up in me
a thankfulness such a day as Thanksgiving exists,
one day each year we are reminded to be thankful
(as we so easily forget), thankful
we have any days at all, whatever they might be full of.
But next year, for heaven’s sake, let’s make a pie.
Because that summer we met the sea air
was warm and the wine flowed
freely in the ship’s cafeteria;
because, like you, I was on holiday and not
worried about mundane responsibilities and
such details as country of residence;
because as we talked deep into the night, I could not
find a reason to stop; because I wanted
to live in Europe and because you had never been
to America; because I did not know
how to say goodbye; because when
I asked you to meet me in Barcelona,
you said you’d meet me in Florence; because
when I asked you to meet me in Iceland
you said you’d meet me in New York;
because after months of phone calls, me
on my back porch in Minnesota, you
on your bed in Finland, and because of
things I can’t even remember now
I proposed aloud why don’t we just . . .
and you said quietly well, okay.