Thursday, May 10, 2012


all women have their idols—sex, song, silver screen, sports, take your pick—
predictive symbols of youth, reminders of the good old days—let's order another drink, 
light another cigarette, dance to another song, saturday night in the bars days.

in the 60's girls cried and screamed for the beatles—ed sullivan,
stiff, struggled to announce four names. flash forward: 2012: new
english and irish boys on the block during matt and ann and al's

time slot on today fill the plaza with girls, girls, girls, cellphones held high a chorus
of burning love, while hidden, peering from behind their daughters' shoulders, mothers with cellphones but smaller voices sing their own songs

the notes wafting between the tall buildings where i escape
to discover my own idol who fires ping right on the bullseye
i don't have time for a pop culture god

a media-made celebrity chirping thumbs-up-likes

i'd never fall for one of those

give me instead

                   a gritty wordsmith i can sink my sharp teeth into

one at whose unlocked door i can hear
come in! and here i go pressing the button

                   up, up, up

where i linger inside the glass walls of an examined existence, a scheme

of finite dots, sketched pointillistic humanity, tinctured downsideup hope
capturing, losing my invisible slipping sliding self—
it is then, when i am again at ground level, i notice on my shirt

a smudge as assertive as punctuation, incisive wound
of an ending and a beginning, token of dried blood
nodding where the arrow met its mark.

1 comment:

Jayne said...

Oh yes, my little one is all about One Direction at the moment. I feel like a terrible mother, but I don't indulge her. No concerts, no trips to NYC to further boost these media fabricated heroes. Well, to be honest, I don't feel like a terrible mother--maybe that's why I feel terrible, because I think I'm supposed to feel like a terrible mother for not indulging my daughter-- but all I can think is, What are they thinking? Indulging daughters as such. Feeding the machine.

Oh, goodness, I'm afraid that this evening's one glass of red is catching up with me! Heh.

What I really want to say here, m, is Wow! I'm glad to be back, reading SWD. This is one heck of a poem. And I think any keen writer, any artist, any poet, would be unable to produce such beautiful prose and verse, open other doors, cease to feed the machines, without first experiencing the idols of her youth, and those Saturday night in the bars days. Oh, but she sets it right.