Mira's submission for Monday, February 4th

Stephen Dunn

Belly Dancer at the Hotel Jerome


Disguised as an Arab, the bouzouki player
introduces her as Fatima, but she’s blond,
midwestern, learned to move we suspect
in Continuing Education, Tuesdays, some hip
college town,
We’re ready to laugh this is Aspen
Colorado, cocaine and blue valium
the local hard liquor, and we
with snifters of Metaxa in our hands,
part of the incongruous
that passes for harmony here.
But she’s good. When she lets her hair loose,
beautiful. So we revise:
summer vacations, perhaps, in Morocco
or an Egyptian lover, or both.
This much we know:
no Protestant has moved like this
since the flames stopped licking their ankles.
Men rise from dinner tables
to stick dollar bills where their eyes
have been. One slips a five
in her cleavage. When she gets to us
she’s dangling money
with a carelessness so vast
in art, something perfected, all her bones
floating in milk.
The fake Arabs on bongos and bouzouki are real
musicians, urging her, whispering
“Fatima, Fatima,” into the mike
and it’s true, she has danced the mockery out
of that wrong name in this unlikely place,
she’s Fatima and the cheap, conspicuous dreams
are ours, rising now, as bravos.

Frank's Other Submission for Monday, February 4th

I Love You by Sara Teasdale


When April bends above me

And finds me fast asleep,

Dust need not keep the secret

A live heart died to keep.

When April tells the thrushes,

The meadow-larks will know,

And pipe the three words lightly

To all the winds that blow.

Above his roof the swallows,

In notes like far-blown rain,

Will tell the little sparrow

Beside his window-pane.

O sparrow, little sparrow,

When I am fast asleep,

Then tell my love the secret

That I have died to keep.

Frank's Submission for Monday, February 4th

This Cat

This cat Is cat How cat
They cat Met cat Five cat
Years ago

He cat Sent cat A cat
Text cat In cat Code cat
To her phone

They cat Talked cat For cat
Week’s cat And cat Then cat
Fell in love

You cat Too cat Must cat
Now cat Crack cat The cat
Cryptic code

Scarborough Gypsy

Adriana's Submission for Monday, February 4th

The Open Window by Edward Rowland Sill

MY tower was grimly builded,

                  With many a bolt and bar,

"And here," I thought, "I will keep my life

                  From the bitter world afar."

Dark and chill was the stony floor,

                  Where never a sunbeam lay,

And the mould crept up on the dreary wall,

                  With its ghost touch, day by day.

One morn, in my sullen musings,

                  A flutter and cry I heard;

And close at the rusty casement

                  There clung a frightened bird.

Then back I flung the shutter

                  That was never before undone,

And I kept till its wings were rested

                  The little weary one.

But in through the open window,

                  Which I had forgot to close,

There had burst a gush of sunshine

                  And a summer scent of rose.

For all the while I had burrowed

                  There in my dingy tower,

Lo! the birds had sung and the leaves had danced

                  From hour to sunny hour.

And such balm and warmth and beauty

                  Came drifting in since then,

That window still stands open

                  And shall never be shut again.

Gabe's submission with original spelling and form

Tymes goe by turnes
By Robert Southwell


The lopped tree in tyme may growe agayne
Most naked plants renewe both frute and flowre
The soriest wight may finde release of payne
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shouer.
     Tymes goe by turnes, and chaunces chaung by course
From foule to fayre from better happ to worse

The sea of fortune doth not ever floe
She drawes her favours to the lowest ebb
Her tide hath equall tymes to come and goe
Her loome doth weave the fine and coursest Webb
No joy so great but runneth to an ende
No happ so harde but may in fine amende.

Not allwayes fall of leafe nor ever springe
No endlesse night yet not eternall daye
The saddest birdes a season finde to singe
The roughest storme a calme may soone alaye.
Thus with succeding turnes god tempereth all
That man may hope to rise yet feare to fall

A Chaunce may wynne that by mischaunce was lost
The nett that houldes no greate takes little fishe
In some thinges all, in all thinges none are croste
Fewe all they neede but none have all they wishe
Unmedled joyes here to no man befall
Who least hath some who most hath never all.



Notatations from St. Robert Southwell: Collected Poems. Eds. Peter Davidson and Anne Sweeney, 2007.

These kinds of proverbial images function as vernacular equivalents for the emblems of more academically skiled readers.

1.6 happ: fortune.

1.7 flowe: rise to full tide.

1.10 Webb: cloth.

1.22 ‘Who has little has something, who has the most never has as much as they want.’ With the moral that all human life is uncertain (and that this as much consolation as cause of grief) as opposed to the certanties of heaven.

Alice's Submission for Monday, February 4

in Just

in Just-
spring     when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles     far     and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far     and     wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
          the

                    goat-footed

balloonMan     whistles
far
and
wee


e.e. cummings

Gabe's submission for Monday, February 4

Times Go by Turns
By Robert Southwell


THE lopped tree in time may grow again,
     Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
     The driest soil suck in some moistening shower.
          Times go by turns, and chances change by course,
          From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
     She draws her favours to the lowest ebb.
Her tides hath equal times to come and go,
     Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web.
          No joy so great but runneth to an end,
          No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
     No endless night, yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
     The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
          Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
          That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
     The net, that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossed;
     Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
          Unmeddled joys here to no man befall;
          Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.