Overdue Poems

Poor Folk

The book on her nightstand

is by Dostoevsky, one of

his early novels. She

studied him in college,

wrote a master’s thesis on

The Brothers Karamazov, his final.

The main character works as a copyist,

frequently belittled and picked on

by colleagues. His clothes

are worn and dirty. His

cousin is from the country.

He is in love.

But a rich man

proposes. She slowly

becomes accustomed to money

and leaves the copyist

alone. His plea goes

unanswered.

The book goes

unfinished. She has lost momentum.

Life happens too quickly. Two

full-time jobs leave no time

for Russian novels, only

Russian vodka.

-

It Speaks

A book begins to speak,

tells me how lonely it is

in dusty stacks,

            especially

for a book of poems.

Only poets

read poetry,

            unless

for academic assessment

or love inspires a search for clichés.

I take the poor thing home,

prove the truth it speaks,

            a poet

granting poetry

its only wish.

-

"Poor Folks" and "It Speaks" were published in Overdue Poems, a chapbook of work by members of the Wright Library Poets in Celebration of Libraries, Reading and Books, compiled and edited by Grace Curtis and Elizabeth Schmidt and made possible by a grant from the Wright Memorial Public Library Foundation.

Eric

Educational Services, East Campus, Room 6

A shark with a broken tail

hangs from the ceiling

next to the crab with only one claw.

The students are also broken—

some have twisted bodies

and shuffle sideways

through life's narrow hallways;

others are like the shark

that will bite but cannot swim.

Teachers are torn

like chum in the open sea,

so children can feed.

Some are food for others,
bones discarded, unwanted.

Few survive unscarred.

-

"Educational Services, East Campus, Room 6," along with "Not Quite Emo," is included in Issue 9 (Spring 2014) of Mock Turtle Zine. These constitute my fifth contribution to this local Dayton journal.

My poem "The Little Nun that Could" (which is included in my chapbook The Good Parts (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press)), is in Issue 8 (Fall 2013) and "All of a Sudden, but Not" was published in the Spring 2013 issue (#7).  In addition, "Beware of Poet" and "An Ubi Sunt for the Bees" appeared in the Fall 2012 issue (#6) of Mock Turtle. "An Ubi Sunt for the Bees" was originally included in issue #5.

Issues of Mock Turtle (including issues #5, #6, #7, #8, and #9) can be viewed online.

Eric

Second-Hand Trickster

Coyote the icon, the master. Coyote the student. Coyote the retired horse thief, dropping breadcrumbs and scabs to guide his way home. Coyote the second-hand trickster, finding a lump of coal under his pillow.

Coyote the widower, caressing a dead woman’s hair, remembering the scent of her breasts, the tang of her thighs. Coyote crying into open palms after midnight. Coyote waking in the morning, taking a shower, going to work in an office selling insurance. Coyote the master. Coyote the slave.

-

"Second-Hand Trickster," along with "Ode to a Sidewalk" were included in Issue 61 of Pudding Magazine.

This is my third contribution to "The Journal of Applied Poetry." My poems "Frost on the Ocean," "Old No. 2," and "This Poem" were published in the Summer 2012 issue, and "And God . . ." and "Peter Pan Must Die" were included in the Summer 2011 issue.  

Pudding Magazine is a hard-copy press. To get a copy of the any single issue or subscribe to the magazine, please go here. 

Eric

Momma Dwarf . . . , Tracing Snowflakes

Momma Dwarf Has Another Child

As if being slapped around and

downgraded wasn’t enough, the “fat asteroid,”

Pluto, has another moon—

barely big enough to spin, yet

pulling weight around her momma’s

midriff. They have named her

S/2011 P1, but call her P4 for short.

(All the good family names were taken.) Caught

on spy camera playing

between her two closest siblings,

nary a squeak.

She makes it a quartet.

Portraits provided courtesy

of Hubble Studios.

-

Tracing Snowflakes

My wife is pregnant again,

and I am watching her

as she irons the coarse weaves of my cloak.

I am trying to write, feverishly.

I am Doctor Yuri Zhivago,

and I am in self-imposed exile,

tracing snowflakes on the window.

I am dreaming of Lara.

The Bolsheviks have raided the city

and have purged the souls of the people.

The personal life is dead in Russia.

History has killed it.

I have had my fill of bloodshed.

I have looked at death with wild eyes.

I am coming home to Tonya,

to Lara—

                       

I am coming home. The key

is still where she left it.

-

"Momma Dwarf Has Another Child" and "Tracing Snowflakes" were included in Issue #2 of Vector Press, a hard-copy poetry journal in its first year of publication.

Eric

No Longer

I had to update my status today.
I am no longer tied, in the social media,
to your picture or timeline. The news
was sudden again but not a surprise—
a disappearing act I've grown used to.
I do not assume some wicked intent.
I am no longer paranoid. We still
have each other in real time, in bed
in the morning and before the light
goes out at night, in the kitchen
where we almost always make dinner
together, and lunch is still worth
eating late or early (or even quickly,
if need be) so we can be face to face.
I am not alone in some forest of
falling trees with no one here to hear,
no one to see me. I am no longer
clinging only to tangible evidence
of our relationship—the PDAs and
risqué trysts in dark alleys. I have to
believe that the bruises will fade, and
we will remain “in a relationship,”
even if “it is complicated.” I mean, really,
what is a “domestic partnership” between
a man and a woman anyway?

-


"No Longer" is included in the 2012 Prize Winner Issue of Poetry Quarterly. An on-line preview of the issue can be viewed here.

On December 18, 2013, "No Longer" was read by Conrad Balliet on Conrad's Corner, WYSO 91.3 FM as part of his local poets project.


Eric

It is Spring

The day ends with rain falling on daffodils.

It is spring and has been for weeks. The flowers

are no longer thirsty. The sky
has cried on them and spat on them.

They have been drenched for days,

but the colors are bright and the petals

are large, threatening to bend stems over

and lie them gently on tall grass.

The day ends with rain falling. It has

been falling for days. The colors

are rainbowesque, only

without the crystal spectrum

of light from the hot sun.

A drenching like Noah’s flood,

almost half of the forty days down

and counting.

The day ends with daffodils drowning

two by two. The color of blood

and the color of the lost sun swirl

around a drain. And the ancient oarsmen

call desperately. The day ends

with rain and saturated flowers,

and colors blending into darkness,

and colors fading to black.

-

"It is Spring" was read on March 21, 2013 and again on June 5, 2013, by Conrad Balliet on his radio segment, Conrad's Corner, as part of his local Dayton poets project on WYSO 91.3 FM.

Eric

Two from across the pond

Lonely Spirit

While collecting souls, 

I stumbled upon the bones of an old friend. 

We lost touch during the hurricane, 

when the wind was blowing, 

and rain beat against the window. 

The lights flickered then failed. 

I left to buy whiskey and a blanket 

to keep us warm.

When I returned, it was dark. 

The door on the porch was ajar 

and he was gone. 

How his bones came to lie in the desert, 

I do not know. I may never know.

But I drank that bottle alone,

wet and tired.

-

Midwest Mud

The mud seems almost fresh,
but the footprints fossilized

over a frozen winter, exposed

by ebbing snow.

They were likely left
by settlers moving south, seeking
steady work somewhere in Texas,

where oil has yet to run dry, where
dreams have yet to die, where
mud is still soft and squishy.

-

"Lonely Spirit" and "Midwest Mud" are included in issue 13 of Turbulence Poetry, a British poetry magazine established in 2009 and based in Hull, East Yorkshire, England. To obtain a copy of issue 13 or a subscription to Turbulence, visit the "Buying Turbulence" page. 

This is my first overseas publishing credit!

Eric

Peter Pan Must Die

They are toys-r-us kids lost
on an island called Neverland—
lost in Afghanistan—with
pop guns and little plastic
swords and bombs. Lost boys,
lost army men, lost children,
fighting pirates offshore.
Lost war, lost in Iraq—
the never-ending fantasy.
Lost fairytale. Where's the
magic carpet? Where's the
pixie dust? Tinker Bell was wounded
by snipers during an unmanned
drone fly-by. The croc is on time.
Tic toc, tic toc.

Peter Pan must die. Let
the pied piper of youth be remembered well.
But before we have peace, the poppies
must lie flat. More widows must cry.
More mothers and brothers, more
girlfriends and fiancées and lovers
must cry. Peter Pan must finally become
Peter the man. R. I. P.

-

 "Peter Pan Must Die," along with "And God . . . ," was published in the Summer 2011 issue of Pudding Magazine.  Pudding is a hard-copy press. To get a copy of the Summer 2011 issue or subscribe to the magazine, please go here.

Eric

Repertory Justice

Smith vs. the State again
today on the marquee docket,
another decade-old case.

Drab oak, maple
or walnut panels upstage the light, honored
with traditional props—

the books, the bailiff, the brunette
typing transcripts, and the yawning
from the jury.

A dark robe clings to the bony,
bifocal-ing, caffeine-driven director,
stayed by impromptu lines,

tortious logic ad nauseum, reaching for gavel
at the close of applause—
another bifurcated encore.

Pin-striped costumes
in a choreographed side bar, plead, motion,
beckon for prompted verdict.

"Your honor, are these the legs of a murderess?"
Yet another gallery gasp, in unison.
Flash! Camera flashes.

Opinion:
Held over, mistrial, no
reversible error.

Clerk's note:
Place back on the docket
for rotation.

-

"Repertory Justice" was originally published in the Fall 2009 issue (Vol. 4/3) of Wilderness House Literary Review.

Here's a direct link to the poem (in .pdf):
http://www.whlreview.com/no-4.3/poetry/EricBlanchard.pdf

On December 20, 2012, "Repertory Justice" was read by Conrad Balliet on Conrad's Corner, WYSO 91.3 FM as part of his local poets project.

Eric

An Ode to Inspiration

A while back, I posted one of my favorite modern poems, "What do Women Want?" by Kim Addonizio, on a Facebook discussion group. Inspired, a young woman in Greece named Efi Didi posted a response in verse, and I replied in kind. This is the result:

Conversation Outside a Store Window

I want to walk like I'm the only

woman on earth and I can have my pick.

I want that red dress bad.

            from "What Do Women Want?"

            by Kim Addonizio

[Her]

i want a black dress not to be seen

i want it tight to take my breath away

i need it long so it can wipe my tears from the floor

. . . but i must say

my worse fear is living beside a man

who wont see all i care about is being me

for no one else will do that for me.

[Him]

Then get a yellow dress

so he can see the sun shining in your eyes

and feel the warmth of your soul.

You can hide in a field of flowers

or soar with canaries, if

you must have your freedom.

Wear a yellow dress,

woven from the softest silk

and twinkling like the stars.

Be springtime and Easter, but

do not cloak yourself

in the hue of death's robe.

[Her]

yellow . . . in my world . . . the colour of bad blood

wont even get me near to the closest sky

to fly among the shimmering birds

or dance with the stars of my vision's past.

What do you seek in the arc of the rainbow

that cant the colours of your soul provide?

beautiful stranger, let a woman's choices be.

Let her take you in a world of greater images, to dream.

[Him]

then purple

or blue, my dear,

or green.

magenta is not you?

then black, my goddess,

if that is what you choose.

Or absence of light,

if that is you.

Or absence of life,

if that is you.

[Her]

Life lies in our moves,

any garment unneeded.

Our essence hides in dekkos,

any evidence muchness.

Closing your eyes

colour disappears

but existence remains.

Do you remain?

Choices change.

though you remain.

[Him]

When I close my eyes,

colors abound. When the light

is gone

I am alone,

in a forest with no tree

to stand as witness

to my falling.

Is movement life,

with no one there to writhe against?

With no one to catch you

on lens or on canvass

among the fresh leaves and

cool water.

Or, if simply

no garment is needed,

might I suggest the slight almond of skin tone,

or milky white and pale pink?

[Her]

No need to continue disagreeing

or even better

make new choices and matches

for garment that

work as masks.

No need to continue,

than the need within all

people continuing diaphones.

Keep alive the colours,

the movement,

the joy.

Enthusiasm is invisible to mortality,

but when closing ones eyes

it keeps you alive.

Though fluid phantoms chase you

through frozen fields or sunny clouds,

through rainbow nights or colourless dreams,

I cant imagine a better clinging garment

than your arms around my almond facies and. . .

But again, i must disagree,

as i am a woman.

[Him]

There is no need. Agreed,

though forever would be sweet.

A woman wants what she wants, and

things change.

Be there a spectrum or not,

pitch or nothing at all,

I would take your breath, and I

could wipe your tears from the floor.

A choice is a choice. The choosing can't lose.

It was fun while it lasted.

I agree. You are a woman.

You know what you want.

[Her]

No don't agree, 'cause forever wont be a chance if you do.

that's the main reason man disagrees.

so don't.

What would luck be if we wouldn't believe in it?

just a word.

what would anything be, without our support?

Even our own choices, but we are mortal

and even gods have the right to apostatize.

We are not here to remit anyone's believes

we belong to the human race

we are cursed to make mistakes

so please, disagree.

Forever is not for us

unless we choose so.

Forever though would never be enough.

[Him]

Then make it pastels, damn it. Big

splashes of violets and teal. And

yes, yellow sunsets and blue midnights,

with textures abrupt and surreal.

Let the neckline plunge and

the hemline be bold.

Choose an elusive color, my love—

a dress designed by van Gogh.

Or choose to vanquish your veil

and hide in a tangle of elbows and knees,

then guide me through decades,

chasing dreams.

[Her]

Maybe soft grey

like what a cruel

fire gave away

Or maybe brown

an empty ground

royalty without a crown

My sweet unknown

my dress is long

hiding insistently the dawn

I've put some white

into the dark

try to capture rays of light

I'll leave a trace

a red pallete

so I could touch your homey face

But then again I can't be sure

for what's divine and what is pure.

[Him]

Earth tones and slate. The colors of

certitude—of knowing

one's self well. What fine fabric

. . . you are.

Grays and browns, you say?

Earth tones with accents?

Just a glimpse of your ankles

. . . I beg.

I remain, contained by desire.

Unfit to climb fences or flee

for the hills, bound by the promise

. . . of dawn.

[Her]

The more your words betray your gift

the more i want to permeate in it.

My bones can't hold my soul's vehemence

your magic's chasing all my demons.

Let's leave the earth tones to this land

and concoct new ones made of sand.

Needs caution love, how to be treated

this dress is glass, but not incising.

[Him]

Demons be gone!

I am a hero in my lover's eyes.

My gift is your freedom.

Bathe in it.

Let your mask become ashes

and your dress drape the floor—

my fantasy rainbow,

broken.

[Her]

Our barefoot feet

will not bleed though,

as mental wings

have grown

on our nude bodies

on the instant the glass broke,

you can espy them at our shadows frames . . .

And there, in the hug of our sooty figment

no obstacle is able to snip these wings

as they are not made of feathers

but from a diversity of colours.

I must wear a pelisse now my love

it's cold and I'm falling asleep without you.

-

It was a whole a lot of fun.

Eric