Tag: poetry

Excerpts from Three Poems About a Father’s Hands

“These hands are my father’s hands but smaller”
—Why?, “These Hands”

“My father gave me these hands, fingers
inch-wide and muscular like his”
—Richard Blanco, “My Father, My Hands”

“These hands are my father’s hands these eyes
Excessively veined his eyes”
—Charles Wright, “Congenital”


The Penis Elegies: The Second Elegy

I saw you struggle to contain it
Within the seams of your dirty jeans. 
This was the charming of the snake.

I saw you struggle to tame it
My ass was both carrot and stick.
This was the breeding of the horse.

I saw you struggle to explain it
As your seed exploded past my face.
This was the flapping of the dove.

Notes on Masculinity, Part Seven: Five Easy Pieces; Night and Day

For a man, there is no ending
To his journey home.
Because, it’s like James Baldwin
Said: Perhaps home is not a place but
Simply an irrevocable condition.

He is a lone drifter,
A wandering soul,
A hungry vagabond,
A wing-clipped angel.

Don’t wait for him.
He cannot stand still.
Just watch him run –
A child at heart.

five_easy_pieces_final_image night_and_day_final_image

The Visitor

Ecstasy ecstatically pleases me
In these frequent bouts of flight.
Happiness haphazardly visits me
When I walk stark into the bright.
Pleasure potentially excites me
At the cusp of sensual delight.
Yet disappointment continues to visit
No matter how hard I try.

For Anton

A beautiful poem by Donna Pucciani that expresses everything I love about Chekhov with staggering simplicity.

Donna Pucciani, Poet

I’ve always loved Chekhov,

the manic visitations, the incessant

comings and goings.

I’ve never had to abandon  villa

or watch an orchard fall to the axe.

But I have known the languid whistle

of a train in the night . . .

–excerpt from “For Anton” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective, Chicago 2013). First published in Tribeca.

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The Art of Cruising

An affliction of affection that society scorns
Our litany of love that no others can prescribe to
A cloak of shame that hides our sordid faces
Dirty bushes, dark corners and dutiful wives
Say farewell to this farce, yet greet me again.

For Ozu

A hen leaves the nest
The taste of beer and saké
Don’t despair, just smile.