The Best American Poetry

"Possum" [by Mitch Sisskind]

Possum

At night occasionally a possum
Passes by peering in the window.
It represents my sexuality. Prehistoric,
Very slow moving, and the children
Would be repulsed by it were
They awake which they are not.

Over time I begin to wait for it wondering
If it's attracted by the TV room light
Or perhaps by the TV itself --
Who knows? No way to tell
what a possum is thinking or,
I should say, that gift is not given to me.

I watch "Survivor." But the skittish
Marsupial now owns my waking thoughts
And later, brazenly, my dreams:
I climb a tall tree with it, we read
Comic books together: Donald Duck,
Scrooge McDuck, Daffy Duck, all the rest.

-- Mitch Sisskind

Ernst Herbeck [by Sharon Mesmer]

Here's Gary Sullivan's Ernst Herbeck site.

Gary says, "Responses to these translations encouraged, especially from anyone who reads German."

That previous poem was totally uncalled-for ...

My apologies.  Here's a much nicer one ...

When The Moon Turned Away

I looked at the moon, and the moon turned away.
I looked at the moon on the water,
and the water turned away.
At least it should have been the moon, or the water,
but those shapes on the water were just the landmasses of Asia,
turning away.
I looked below me and the grasses looked up afraid
in a sick green light
at the moon which had turned away.
The moon was too small anyway, to give much light.
Maybe it was sorry for hitting me that time.
Maybe it was sorry that I turned away.
Maybe it never saw the pain that made me turn away.
I was a moon once, too.
A singing moon.
A bright smiling moon with a baby truth.
A white see-saw baby bouncing up and down.
Look up, all of you.
Come on look up because I am still the moon
and beautiful
in the rear view mirror,
like a woman
not salt-bound, not sad,
not a ghost caught crying.
At least not that.

-- Sharon Mesmer

Any fans of tantric sex out there?? [by Sharon Mesmer]

When Tantric Sex Gets Ugly

I'm not sure what "tantric sex" means
but I think a finger goes up your butt. 

“Tantric sex” seems to be reserved for people
who went on vacation for a week
at a Medieval Times restaurant
in Sedona, AZ,
with a large dwarf named Bruno.
In other words,
the redheaded stepchildren
of the fly kingdom.

When I get angry, it’s ugly.
When Gurdjieff gets angry,
it’s “tantric sex.”
At least that’s what P. Diddy told me.
I might consider tantric sex with Sting,
or any guy who’s lovin’ himself
more than he’s lovin’ me. 
Yeeeah . . .

Guess what?
I WAS A TANTRIC SEX SLAVE
FOR A SENIOR TIBETAN BUDDHIST MONK
screeching at the Tibetans to GET OUT OF CANADA.
I was 16 and content to be
5'2" of pure Jewish jewishness.
I ended up on an island
surrounded by old perverts
where high priestesses were chanting
while touching themselves
to escape dementia.
That's when I spotted Steven Tyler
with giant white dentures
in half a coma.
I smelled a familiar perfume,
the one my grandmother had worn
to her own funeral.
My fly was undone,
my shirt unbuttoned,
and I was making love
to a barking tiny pony.
His or her name was
Barking Mad Elmo.
He or she was not distracted
by the 4 wheelerchairs going down
on a bunch of American teenagers,
the coolest of whom was
the guy who invented Ctrl-Alt-Delete
who also happens to be
the Fonz. 
Yes, apparently,
the Fonz is back in town, and he's looking for
Tantric sex involving Arthurian legends
involving Spongebob and Gandalf
involving gangsta rap and druidism,
all rolled together in the guise of some
tantric dragon lady with all sorts of spooky
Eastern sex secrets.
I wish him
all the luck.

-- Sharon Mesmer

Monotonizing Existence

"The wise man makes his life monotonous, for then even the tiniest incident becomes imbued with great significance . . . The truly wise man could enjoy the whole spectacle of the world from his armchair; he wouldn't need to talk to anyone or to know how to read, just how to make use of his five sense and a soul innocent of sadness.  One must monotonize existence in order to rid it of monotony.  One must make the everyday so anodyne that the slightest incident proves entertaining.

"Because I am nothing, I can imagine myself to be anything."

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, Serpent's Tail, 1991
Edited by Maria Jose de Lancastre
Translated by Margaret Jull Costa

A Thanksgiving Post (by Laura Orem)

Happy Thanksgiving, BAP readers! Usually, at this point, I'm running around in frantic circles, trying to get ready for the holiday, but this year, I abdicated. I gave Rick a choice: we could either go out to eat, or he could cook dinner. By "cook," I also mean plan, shop for, and prepare without asking me any questions (as in, "Honey, how do you boil potatoes?"). After mulling this over, he gamely agreed to give it a try, and I plan to spend Thursday morning on the sofa in my pajamas, watching the Macy's Parade and "Miracle on 34th Street."

Don't get me wrong - I love the holidays. It's just that they are an awful lot of work. It was a helluva lot easier when my mother did everything. Now I'm the mom, and it's become my job, and frankly, the whole Norman-Rockwell-perfect-turkey-and-trimmings thing is exhausting. So I bailed. And to be honest, I don't feel one bit guilty.

For one thing, instead of panicking when I can't find the gravy boat, this year I can concentrate on actually being thankful. I've got a lot to be thankful for, and it will be nice to be able to take a few moments and reflect on the blessings I've received. Corny, perhaps -- but true. I am thankful (not the least because someone else is cooking).

One of the things I'll be thinking about is the opportunity I've had to join this community of writers, readers, and wonderful poetry lunatics. So, dear cyber-friends, here's a fun Thanksgiving poem about family and abundance. Have a wonderful holiday!

"Sunday Brunch at the Old Country Buffet"

Madison, Wisconsin, 1996

Here is a genial congregation,

well fed and rosy with appetite,

robust children in tow. They have come

and all the generations of them, to be fed,

their old ones too who are eligible now

for a small discount, having lived to a ripe age.

Over the heaped and steaming plates, one by one,

heads bow, eyes close; the blessings are said.

Here there is good will; here peace

on earth, among the leafy greens, among the fruit

of the gardens of America's heartland. Here is abundance,

here is the promised

land of milk and honey, out of which

a flank of the fatted calf, thick still

on its socket and bone, rises like a benediction

over the loaves of bread and the little fishes, belly-up in butter.

 

by Anne Caston. from Flying Out With the Wounded, NYU Press, 1997. 

"It is November in New York" [by Florence Cassen Mayers]

It is November in New York

and so we go in gloves

to vote. We go in droves,

we go overtly

to polling alcoves, 

we vote covertly. 

We are lovers,

ex-lovers, 

booklovers.

We are controversial,

overeager,

we are doves,

extroverts,

 

we are introverts

in handwoven

pullovers,

we are drovers 

in overalls,

we are movers,

 

governors,

we are shovers,

shit shovelers

in overcoat

and overshoes.

We are slovenly,

we are hungover,

we are overweight,

we are overlooked,

we are impoverished,

we are unproven.

We overestimate, 

overspend,

overstep.

We discover 

undercover

coverups,

we overhaul,

we improve,

we overturn government 

approved takeovers.

We vote to overcome, to recover.

-- Florence Cassen Mayers

Riverview (by Mitch Sisskind)

Riverview: first a beer garden,

Now a terrifying amusement park
At Belmont and Western Avenues.

Entering the main gate, King Fat 

Turned to me: 'I feel exhilarated,
’Here in the arena of manly challenge.

 

‘Look, there is Aladdin's Castle!

‘Within lie mazes, and contraptions

‘That blow jets of air, and revolving

 

‘Barrels through which one must crawl,

‘And startling fart-like noisemakers.

‘Once I saw a dwarf reading a newspaper

 

‘In a corner of a room therein -- a room

‘Dominated by a slide that, unless

‘Great care were taken, could land

 

‘You in a tub of water. Now that was

‘Sensation! The dwarf, however,

‘With utterly indifferent mien, kept

 

‘His nose buried in the newspaper

‘Whose headline has stayed with me:
’RECORD HEAT TO CONTINUE.'

 

*

Inside the Castle King Fat attacked

The first maze as if trapped a pinball

Machine, bouncing from one wall

 

To another, undaunted by failure,

Spinning on one leg, kicking

Like a mule, hurling his girth

 

Against the actually quite flimsy

Walls of the maze while singing

At the top of his lungs, ‘One-eyed

 

'One-horned flying purple

'People-eater,' a novelty

Tune popular that summer.

 

Emerging from the maze, he

First head-butted, then kneed

In the crotch an acne-scarred

 

Attendant pathetically ill-equipped

To restrain him, and cannon-balled

Into the water tub. He was now

 

Singing, 'Who wears short shorts?'

The droning, pounding lyric by the

Heretofore little-known Royal Teens.

 

*

Later we loafed on a bench as the

Crowd meandered by – white

Suburban kids, black gang members,

 

The general hoi polloi of Eisenhower’s

Final years. King Fat seemed sad,

Preoccupied, eyes tightly closed

 

As if to exclude the physical world

In favor of some compelling inner

Reality. At last he opened his eyes

 

And spoke in baleful tone: 'I've been

‘Having some disturbing visions,'
He said. 'Apropos of you, Mitchell,

 

‘I see a peculiar existence that

‘At least offers novel unpredictability.
’Money will always be a concern, this

‘A karmic correction for the materially

‘Comfortable circumstances of your

‘Youth. Sexually, you can plan on

 

‘Quite a rangy arc of experience

‘Including some troubling episodes

‘Of erectile dysfunction side by side

‘With occasional amorous triumphs

‘Of the kind that accrue to men who

‘In future time will be called stud muffins.

 

‘Ha! You’ll be a cuckold and a cuckolder

‘Of others, sometimes in one weekend,

‘You putz. you schmuck!’ Then he sighed

 

And shook his fine leonine head.

‘More disturbing, however, was a

‘Dreamy tableau of my death from liver

 

‘Failure in a room of the Belmont
'Hotel. And as for this place,' he

Continued, with a sweeping gesture

 

That encompassed the whole of  

Riverview, 'it will be demolished

‘And replaced by a police station,

 

‘A jail, and a parking lot. But come

‘Now! All that is tomorrow and this

‘Is today! On Thorndale is a bar

 

‘With belly-whomping contests!

‘Tutti fruitti aw rootie whop bop

‘A loo whop a whop bam boom!’

 

Auguries [by Sharon Mesmer]

Need answers to life's persistent questions?  Then why not try ...

Ailuromancy — divination by the behavior of cats
Alectryomancy — divination by chicken
Amnimancy — divination by the membraneous sac of a newborn
Bibliomancy/Rhapsodomancy — divination by turning to a random page in a book
Cledonomancy — divination by chance remarks or events
Copromancy — divination by feces
Crominomancy — divination by the curved patterns inside an onion
Daphnomancy — divination by the crackle of burning laurel leaves
Entomancy — divination by insects
Fractomancy — divination by fractal patterns
Gyromancy — divination by whirling
Haruspexopy — divination by examination of entrails of sheep, swine, oxen
Hippomancy — divination by inspection of horses' hooves
Lunomancy — divination by moonlight on a face dusted with silver
Metoposcopy — divination by reading lines on the forehead
Myomancy — divination by the movements of mice
Nephlomancy — divination by cloud "pictures"
Omphalomancy — divination by belly button
Ophiomancy — divination by the movements of snakes
Stolisomancy — divination by reading people's clothing/style
Tyromancy — divination by coagulation patterns of spoiled cheese
Xenomancy — divination by meetings with strangers
(My favorite: flarfomancy — divination by Google search

"Sans Soleil" [by Chris Marker]

Have you ever actually read the text of "Sans Soleil"?

http://www.markertext.com/sans_soleil.htm