Gene Twaronite's Blog, page 5

Could Be Lovely

My two poems “Murdered” and “Could Be Lovely” were just published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue #56 (Spring 2023). You can read them here (pages 4-5). https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj56

Here I’ve used an Albert Bierstadt painting for the backdrop of “Could Be Lovely,”

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“Demystifying Poetry” Workshop

I will be leading a free workshop on “Demystifying Poetry” as part of my Writer in Residence for Pima County Public Library, on Wednesday, June 7, from 2-3:30 PM, at Dusenberry-River Library in Tucson.(https://pima.bibliocommons.com/events/64484d6d73e31d2900b46643)

Geared for a general audience of poets, poets-to-be, or those who simply wish to find out more about this deeply imaginative and emotional kind of writing full of meaning, sound, and rhythm. This will be less a reading and more of an open conversation. Followed by a short introductory sampling of my poems and those of others, I will discuss a life in poetry and demystify how poems come to be. We will then discuss several writing prompts to give you a way to write that important first line of your poem and go on to create a whole world. Writing materials will be provided, though of course you are welcome to bring your own notebook or journal.

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Meet the New Writer in Residence

Poet and ‘writer in residence’, Gene Twaronite.

I am honored that the Pima County Libraries have selected me to be their new Writer in Residence from May through July, 2023. As part of my duties, I will be offering free consultations to area writers and will lead two workshops on writing poetry as well as a final event in which local poets are invited to perform their poems (pre-registration required). Find out more about it here: Pima County Public Libraries Writer in Residence

Knight Moves

Playing chess with my computer,
I struggle to relearn
what, where, and how to move
and now all I see is squares—
bathroom and floor tiles, crossword puzzles,
the checkered blouse of the lady in front of me—
as pawns plod forward in dull straight paths,
rooks zoom about in their rows and columns,
bishops whiz diagonally back and forth,
while king steps cautiously
one square at a time and queen
goes anywhere she damn pleases.

But mostly it is knights I see
moving in their crazy L’s—
two squares one way and then one square
perpendicular the other way,
or sometimes one square, then two—
charging into center position
or angling away to evade attack,
jumping over every obstacle
in their lively three-step dance
around the board.

My knights may not be as
valuable as other pieces,
but I find them handy and formidable
in tight corners and unpredictable,
like the long game I play.

First published in Tipton Poetry Journal Spring 2023 https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj55

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Tiny Centerfold

Into the pregnant night the female moth

sends her subtle seductive scent to some

unsuspecting male moth and I wonder what

crazy pictures form in his little brain.

First published in Minnow Literary Magazine Spring 2022 https://minnowliterarymagazine.files.wordpress.com/2023/02/minnow-spring-2022-1.pdf

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The Woman in the Window

My new poem “The Woman in the Window” was just published in the Winter 2023 issue of Sky Island Journal. You can read it here https://www.skyislandjournal.com/issues#/issue-23-winter-2023/

Dear Mr. Simic

Charles Simic (1938-2023)

I should have written this letter years ago, not today after reading of your death in The New York Times. And though you will never read my words, I still need to write how much I learned from you and what’s more, how important it was for me that such a person as you existed. We never tell people how much just knowing that they’re alive means to us until it’s too late. Reading your poems I learned to look on the edge of things and not to be afraid of going out on a limb. You taught me that writing a poem is like hikng a mountain trail, never taking a direct ascent, but a series of switchbacks slanting sideways to the summit. Your language was simple and honest, never inflated like some puffed up toad. If I had to use one word to describe your poetry, I would call it surreal. But it could also be dark, violent, and bizarre. You had a way of taking everyday things and illuminating them with strangeness. But always there was that irrepressible humor of yours, even in your bleakest poems.

I confess that I don’t understand all your poems and that some work better for me than others. I think that’s true of all poets, even my favorite ones like you. Hey, we’re never going to please everyone. But the important thing is to keep on trying to take your poems to new places. And did you ever! Your poems defied classification. As one New York Times writer wrote of you, “Only a very foolhardy critic would say what any Simic poem is about.” So I’ll just mention a couple of my favorites.

I am so glad I finally got to hear you read at the University of Arizona Poetry Center, in 2018. It was a huge crowd and I was sitting way in the back. Your voice was not what it used to be, and I had difficulty hearing your words. As you read, you would often smile and wisecrack at many of your poems. Even when I couldn’t hear them I smiled and laughed with you.

I just reread this untitled prose poem from your collection The World Doesn’t End, and I never grow tired of it. That first sentence cracks me up every time.

We were so poor I had to take the place of the
bait in the mousetrap. All alone in the cellar, I
could hear them pacing upstairs, tossing and turn-
ing in their beds. “These are dark and evil days,”
the mouse told me as he nibbled my ear. Years
passed. My mother wore a cat-fur collar which
she stroked until its sparks lit up the cellar.

I see you dedicated this book to Jim Tate. You were certainly kindred souls, though your styles were vastly different. And both of you fought the good fight in writing and publishing prose poetry, even when many insisted it’s just prose and not real poetry. Apparently those who chose this collection for the Pulitzer disagreed. That’s another thing I’d like to thank you for, in giving me the courage to write prose poems of my own and to challenge those who still seek to put limits on what a poem can or should be.

I’ll end here with this enigmatic micro poem which I think best reveals your indefinable style and character. Every time I wake up at three and look at my clock, I think of you. Thanks a lot!

THE VOICE AT 3:00 A.M.
Who put canned laughter
Into my crucifixion scene?

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Tracks in the Surf

Can you read this? Most days, my words look more like tracks of a sandpiper skittering along the edge of the sea. But I see them clearly now—o blessed words! There’s so much I want to say before they leave me again and I must go back to that inarticulate cell, as memories play out like silent movies, and I must watch them speechless. Moving in and out on the stage, strange people arrive, imploring me to do things, uttering sounds and looking at me as if I’m supposed to understand them. They start off smiling, but then begin to frown. Their voices grow louder, and I can feel their frustration slowly rise in an angry wave. Why can’t you understand me? Don’t you remember? Sometimes they yell at me, and all I can do is babble. But I must hurry. The words are fleeting, and I must write while I can. So if you’re still here, please share this with that lady with the luminous face. She’s here every morning. When she smiles, she fills my every dark corner, and her words play softly on my soul. Sometimes she opens a book, and points to the tracks on the page as she speaks. And each night before I go to sleep, she sings to me a sad song that reminds of what I do not know. Please, tell her that I ….

First published in Tipton Poetry Journal Fall 2022 https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj54

Sex Shop Sestina

I chose to write this poem in an unusual and complex French form called a sestina. You may notice that throughout the poem there are six words that occur at the end of each of the first six stanzas. And as if that isn’t difficult enough, these six words must be used in a precisely different sequence in each stanza. And to top it off, all six words have to occur in the last three-line stanza, referred to as the envoy.

So why would any poet choose to write in such a difficult form? I remember being inspired by the sestina “A Miracle for Breakfast” written by Elizabeth Bishop, one of my favorite poets. Using this form, she took an ordinary event and created a magical effect. So I took her poem as a guide, noting the placement of each of her six words, and wrote this loving remembrance of the time my dad showed me a 42nd Street that no longer exists.

42nd Street in 60s

Sex Shop Sestina

By Gene Twaronite

He brought me to the New York flower show
at the Coliseum, but another kind of flowering
awaited me in the 42nd street windows
filled with playful outré objects
to entertain every colossal desire
of an endless erotic childhood.

My dad never talked of that childhood
or what to expect. All he could do was show
me a glimpse of that world of desire
awaiting at lust’s first flowering
through the whispering objects
in the windows.

Through those stained-glass windows
I could see only dimly the childhood
I was about to enter. I can still picture one of the objects,
a hot water bottle shaped like a naked woman, a peep show
of sudden flowering
awareness of it as an instrument of desire.

I began to see these blazes of desire
everywhere, popping up like multi-colored windows
of files and programs flowering
on the backlit screen of my new childhood.
Inside was the real show
I conjured up from these objects.

That my dad, ever faithful husband, could view these objects
with the same eyes of desire
as mine was the precious magic show
he would leave me: how to look through windows
and cherish each tingle of a childhood
perpetually flowering.

For the flowering
continues long after the objects
of our human love are consummated, and a second childhood
begins. And now I see the shocking lewd books of desire
I once found hidden under his mattress as windows
into the life of the father he could not show.

Spring was in full flowering at the Coliseum, but the bloom of desire
I saw on my dad’s face as he gazed upon the objects in the windows
is the childhood memory I carry: our secret sex show.

First published in Panoply, A Literary Zine https://panoplyzine.com/sex-shop-sestina-by-gene-twaronite/

“Hopper’s People” Video

Hi All,

For those of you who didn’t have the chance to attend my recent reading or watch the entire video, here’s a short clip of me reading “Hopper’s People,” accompanied by images of Edward Hopper’s paintings.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfFNgDszGF4&ab_channel=GeneTwaronite

This poem is part of my latest poetry collection (my fourth!) Shopping Cart Dreams, available from Kelsay Books or on my Books page. 

Cheers,