New Poems From Peter Golub

In the Library

my love
everything is circumstance
for instance the onerous hippy in the corner
just dropped his cigarettes
the waitress picked them up
causing the men eating chili at the table next to mine
to turn their heads
in unison
like hounds following a scent or sound

they are talking
about how they don't feel global warming
one guys says,
"well, it seems like a whole lot
of people have been convinced."
another nods putting a cracker in his mouth,
"yeah well, America is pretty resilient"

I turn with them
and see the waitress's ass
and remember yours
naked and white
in the dim light of the library
where the long mirror stands over the fireplace
I could see myself in it
there were two of me
one watching you
the other watching me
it is this description
of my desire watching me
and you the object of my desire
wading in a pool of yellow light
that is the occasion for this poem

on my walk home
the winter trees tumescent and black with fog
a memory of you walks with me
turning the houses, trees, and weather
into our acolytes

this morning
I stood before a classroom of young men and women
some of them bored
some wide eyed some sitting methodical as at a play
and I often feel like I am a one man act
performing some ancient picture
written before the Aristotelian dichotomy
…but yes some of them methodical, some bored
txting on their phones
and all of them with the same anticipation
whether bored or wide eyed
they are expecting something
looking into the future with pictures in their eyes

in this class
acting before them
their eyes full of pictures
I imagined my reflection
in the library
and you standing naked
reading in the light


Salt Lake City Fragments

for Andy


you are behind once again
the truth is cheap smarty pants
and people are stupid
and the markets crash
against the levees
while you and I pray
we pray for what we've nearly forgotten
with these stale words
we make new cries
like children in the fields
playing at being sheep
we eat hay
and sculpt mud pies
we scream and yank each other's genitals
in sweaty nylon tents
with writing on the walls
flapping in the tremendous wind
you yell to me
from across the dark
across the hudson
across the jordan river
in salt lake
the salty sea
that never freezes over
and giant birds roost in the desert
the promontories
hanging over head
you scream to me
from across the world
inside your tiny emails
and sad jokes
you scream
that it's like camping in space
that the children are made of microwave parts
that they run around with buttons for eyes
video game equipment for ears
heads like broken BMW's from the flood
o lordy lordy lordy


House Keys

In the book we are always writing
I stand naked in the shower
Watching a red spider crawl up the slippery light blue tile
As you stand in your small shower
Thinking of Elvis and hockey

Outside the pigeons huddle in the roofs of old houses
Snow blows into the basement
Of a drunk heart sailing on a row boat
The music we write for the novel is simple but complex
Ridiculous as an autistic dirge with pretensions of sublime proportions

In the final scene which we write and rewrite
Sometimes I am standing on the shores of a warm tropical island
And you hand me a shell with a dead crab
Sometimes you are pale in these pastiches at other times
A roaring red with blood squirting out your eyes

It is all quite stupid and extraordinary
Drawing small plastic swords like straws
Throwing fishcakes out of the fourth floor window
Drunk and happy we begin anew heading into the next absurd sorrow
Wailing nearly mad


Writing the Poem about Love

After writing the poem about love
Where I use words like “boat” “snow” and “wailing”
I hear Andrew practicing French in the adjacent room
And Anna watching the television in another adjacent room
A house is made of adjacent rooms
The way a poem is made of adjacent words
Each word is full of its own events
Trying to enjoy itself without waking the neighbors

After writing the poem about love
I send it to Anastasia
Which is how I learn it is a poem about love
I rarely know what I am writing about
And lately have had a hard time thinking
Of appropriate titles
My cousin suggests getting rid of the title
I take away the title and the ending
After writing the poem about love
And taking away the title and the ending
I let it sit inside the computer screen
It looks naked and a little scared
The way a family looks at the doctor in charge of a sick relative
The doctor remembers his own family
The dog waiting under the table and his two daughters playing
Inside a grove of tall poplars

After writing the poem about love
I consider the argument that all poems are love poems
And a series of other clichés come to mind
Poems are prayers, poems are the dead
The title must stand like a French man inside a Portuguese play
A heart is the size of the ocean
The mountain speaks in snow

…


Peter Golub is guest editor at Jacket.