{"id":112,"date":"2011-06-16T18:30:09","date_gmt":"2011-06-16T18:30:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=112"},"modified":"2011-06-16T18:30:09","modified_gmt":"2011-06-16T18:30:09","slug":"four-poems-by-m-g-martin-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2011\/06\/16\/four-poems-by-m-g-martin-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Four poems by m.g. martin"},"content":{"rendered":"

types of things<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

when you pretended to kiss me on the exact piece of skin where my eyelids meet my eye lashes i wasn\u2019t thinking about you or the time between the time it takes the finger to hit a piano key & the sound to sex yr ears or how poorly house plants do when yr always out looking for that one thing that is made of all the other things or how many cigarettes it would take to make the lungs of all the orca whales black as a sky above a place in the world with no light pollution i wasn\u2019t thinking about whales or pollution or being a child or what it was like to be a child or if we will have children or the way yr words taste when it has been raining in the back of yr mind or about the way little things can make you feel so big that you have to hide from other little things like the sound of a mosquito coughing i wasn\u2019t thinking about those types of things or about what it would be like to pretend to kiss you in yr exact piece of skin that yr pretending is not the most beautiful thing since all of the things were named & grew in pulchritude or any other kind of beauty<\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n

——<\/p>\n

it is raining in brooklyn & this is beginning<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

the first line of a poem
\nshould really aim its shot for the canon
\nlike:<\/div>\n
\u201cThe petals of the vagina unfold\u201d\u00b9\/\u201cThunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads\u201d\u00b2\/\u201cOh this Diet Coke is really good\u201d\u00b3\/\u201cIn a forest of question marks you were no bigger than an asterisk.\u201d\u2074\/\u201cIt is very stretchy.\u201d\u2075\/\u201cFire shimmied & reached up\u201d\u2076\/\u201cI dug you artless, I dug you out. Did you re-do? You dug me\u201d\u2077\/\u201cLady,i will touch you with my mind.\u201d\u2078\/\u201cYou are the candy melting\u201d\u2079\/\u201cOut of the corner of my eyes\u201d\u00b9\u2070\/\u201cWe measure our names the same\u201d\u00b9\u00b9\/\u201cI wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.\u201d\u00b9\u00b2\/\u201cMusic and bread, milk and wine, love and sleep: free. Great\u201d\u00b9\u00b3\/\u201cAlien winds sweeping the highway\u201d\u00b9\u2074\/\u201cIt\u2019s a strange courage\u201d\u00b9\u2075\/\u201cWhen the wind works against us in the dark\u201d\u00b9\u2076\/\u201cMake love to me in Spanish.\u201d\u00b9\u2077\/\u201cthe only place left to shave is inside your ears\u201d\u00b9\u2078\/\u201cTell it to the forest fire, tell it to the moon\u201d\u00b9\u2079\/\u201cWe real cool. We\u201d\u00b2\u2070<\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n
so when i write a poem for you it will begin with a first line
\nlike:
\nb\/c we understand the seriousness of things like food allergies
\nor
\nhow a full spring can be just one summer noon or none
\nor
\nwe met: i quit looking before i even knew i was looking for it: you
\nor
\nwe are we: at home. an ice chest old as the smell of a grandparent
\nor
\nstep into me like the way we fit together like an x-large shirt
\nor
\nwe are bread & the seagulls look pretty cooperative
\nor
\nif we stay radiant we will always behave between each other\u2019s legs
\nor
\nonce there was you before there were any, just you & a whole sky\n<\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n
\u00b9Richard Brautigan \u00b2Jean Toomer \u00b3Matthew Zapruder \u2074Charles Simic \u2075Kay Ryan \u2076Yusef Komunyakaa \u2077Harryette Mullen \u2078e.e. cummings \u2079Eileen Myles \u00b9\u2070Frank O\u2019Hara \u00b9\u00b9Aimee Nezhukumatathil \u00b9\u00b2Theodore Roethke \u00b9\u00b3Octavio Paz \u00b9\u2074Bob Kaufman \u00b9\u2075William Carlos Williams \u00b9\u2076Robert Frost \u00b9\u2077Sandra Cisneros \u00b9\u2078D.A. Powell \u00b9\u2079John Berryman \u00b2\u2070Gwendolyn Brooks<\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n

——<\/p>\n

guess who? <\/strong>or don\u2019t touch my vagina<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

& now i\u2019m doing that crying thing again. where i think about you. your human bird call, making the lark jealous as a face. it makes this keyboard damp with salt droppings. & now i\u2019m staring at the beads on the bracelet you made for me, some glow in the dark, two with my initials \u201cm.g.\u201d staring at the picture k gave me, the one where you are wearing a pink jumper & a lighter pink shirt & i\u2019m wearing the neon pink & blue skateboard shirt. where you are lying on my two foot back with your two foot body & a toothless two inch smile. on my back. staring at this picture & now i\u2019m doing that crying thing again. now t is texting me saying that she wished i didn\u2019t have to hurt & that i\u2019ll see you again. if only it was as lackadaisical as a text to make pictures real & memory travelable. if you were here i\u2019d be nice to you. nicer than the first time, or that time before, like now i\u2019m doing that crying thing again.<\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n
we have no skin
\n\tyet the band keeps
\n\tplaying on. a negro
\n\thooded xylophone
\n\tsounds prettier than it
\n\tsounds when it is watching
\n\tyou. we are watching
\n\tthese sounds like ghosts
\n\twatching three dimensional
\n\tanythings. yet we still
\n\thave no skin. we ride
\n\tan abandoned carousel
\n\tover dressed in only
\n\tour two teeth, an orchestra
\n\tof xylophones painting
\n\tour eardrums black
\n\tlike the inside of a coffin.
\n\twe\u2019ve never had skin
\n\twe wear each other
\n\twe are skeletal mink
\n\t& human tapestry.
\n\tyet the music looks
\n\tso good
\n\thanging
\n\toff our shoulders. <\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n

——<\/p>\n

poem for t who walks like nina simone<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

she was always scared & she hid
\nher intelligence: it had teeth so
\nsharp it had to call & apologize
\nthe night after it had a hot date
\nwith him. she had the courage of
\na drunk divorcee who demands
\nto slap the bartender for a lack
\nof anything else to do. but she
\nhad so much to do that she hid it
\nfrom it all. she had neurons that
\nmoved like a four armed anime
\ncharacter dominating the touch
\nscreen of just one smart phone.
\nin most ways she was perfect
\nbut she was easily sent affright
\nshe\u2019d hide: lost in her own last
\nname. she was afraid of her
\nown tongue that it would break
\nthe world. to each their own
\nbox of pandora: hers was herself.
\nshe had follicles that would go
\non even after her fear left her
\nin a form of formaldehyde bliss.
\nan inch of her hair could cover
\nthe whole of her intelligence &
\nshe had freshly cut
\nbangs & a blue salvation
\narmy dress the morning she
\nstarted sleeping beneath
\nsix feet of earth.<\/div>\n
now she walks
\n\t\t like a pimping
\n\t\t madam &
\n\t\t pulls me across
\n\t\t the street against
\n\t\t the light as my
\n\t\t tiny heart jumps
\n\t\t & starts living in
\n\t\t my throat that is
\n\t\t not intelligent
\n\t\t enough to tell
\n\t\t her that she is a
\n\t\t synonym for
\n ferocity. long
\n\t\t live she. <\/div>\n
&nbsp<\/div>\n

——<\/p>\n

m.g. martin<\/strong> is the author of One For None<\/i> (Ink., 2010.) His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in PANK<\/i>, Shampoo<\/i>, ZYZZYVA<\/i>, & Short, Fast and Deadly<\/i> among others. m.g. is a co-producer of Literary Death Match NY. Find m.g. at mgmartin.tumblr.com<\/a> & on twitter as @themgmartin<\/i>. He lives in Brklyn with the poet Tess Patalano & the dog Ihu. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

types of things when you pretended to kiss me on the exact piece of skin where my eyelids meet my eye lashes i wasn\u2019t thinking about you or the time between the time it takes the finger to hit a piano key & the sound to sex yr ears or how poorly house plants do […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-112","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/112","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=112"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/112\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=112"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=112"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=112"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}