Peter Bushyeager: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_______________________________________________________

Citadel Luncheonette

 

I’m beached in the Citadel Luncheonette

with my pinned eyes blinking over minestrone.

Dr. Lester’s acid-yellow light

was one inch from my face then his

blue metal examining ring plumped my eyeball.

 

Gesture’s important.  The thumb and forefinger

lightly touched together: a little bit of jelly

for my toast.  The index to the nose: follow with

your eyes while my drops vaporize your

vision like deer in a volcano blast.

 

Besides Irish, English and Welsh are Celtic, too.

My father was 50 percent Welsh with a black cloud

Mother clicked shut venetian blinds on neighbors

in her measured English way and I love

the droney ancient modal keys:

 

Songs about dressing a dead wren in

a satin cape, gently laying it down in

a ribboned pasteboard box lined with

gathered crepe, twisting its neck

delicately to the side like

 

a martyred pope, piling gold rings on

its head, carrying it door to door

collecting coins and

proclaiming a capella that

the King of Winter is dead.

 

If I’m lucky I won’t wake up

bilious tonight from my carnal dreams.

I’ll make a wiry leap past Lester’s

taupe leather sofa and his wry knee-to-knee verdict

of naturally deteriorating sight

 

feel out the thickness of quarters in my pocket

lay out six on the counter

and walk dignified through the

snowiness of the Citadel

to even whiter light on Lexington Avenue.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Peter Bushyeager’s poetry appears in journals that include New American Writing, Hurricane Review, Local Knowledge, Sensitive Skin, Global Poemic, Boog City, and in his book Citadel Luncheonette. He lives in Manhattan with his wife and daughter.      

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

                                                    St Stephen's Day--- Three wren boys in road, Athea, County Limerick, 1947

 

Comments

[Mike Winch]

always pay cash at the citadel

[Grace Cavalieri]

This Peter Bushyeager reminds us to be free..Thank you! LIBERATION poetry. I think I'll write a poem. He shows us
how to do it. just do it. And connect everything with silver thread and hood humor.

And I would not want to die without seeing the three wren boys!!! Thank you, Terence.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks back to you, Grace.

[Don Berger]

Wonderful movement in this poem! I love how the original story expands and turns different ways, and how rich each line's language stays through the whole thing. A memory that seems really glad that it's being had. Way to go Peter, and thank you T for showing us.

[Eileen Reich]

Wonderful poem. Love the reference to his ancestry.

[Jeff Wright]

How rich--solid and breezy at the same time. Fine diction and depiction! I like the ancestry too.

[Denise Duhamel]

Terrific poem! The way we "see" the present and the past. Glorious details!

[Terence Winch]

Don:  Thanks for the comment.

[Emily Fragos]

Dear Terence, "Three Wren boys in road" is breathtaking. Thank you.

[Silvia Snza]

I could feel every second of your poetry.

[David Lehman]

Wonderful the pathos in the space between these lines: "the King of Winter is dead. / If I’m lucky I won’t wake up."

[Barbara Henning]

Hi Peter -- I loved following your mind as it shifted from one observation to another memory or thought (like a deer in a volcano blast). Wow. Thanks for this poem. Moments in a day in NYC. lets meet at the Citadel.
Barb

[Clarinda]

What a wonderful
Poem. I’m still
Shivering.

[Phyllis Rosenzweig]

Very humbling. The image of the King of Winter ceremony is truly haunting. Thank you.