PSH: Poets of the Week

Bio (auto)

Peter Schwartz has over 100 poems published, some of them in nationally-distributed journals, some printed overseas. He has stories and paintings printed both on and offline as well as his own somewhat controversial journal that can be sampled at: www.watchtheeye.com. He's also the associate art editor for Mad Hatters' Review. He lives a quiet life as a virtual monk in the forests of Augusta, Maine.

woodshop

no one can explain
the mechanics of ownership

these old prodigal crutches
thrown back into

the forest of translation
without a revolver

for nothing is such an exile
as a human eyelid

perfumed by zeitgeist
watching the blue trees

(please picture me
bringing that back

like an invalid
to his master)

legionnaire

you're present day giant throbs
among the betterment of cannonballs
and bicycles

written in foreign letters like named rain
you're perfect until
you're not.

you're one of those
two-stepped procedures
those flying crossbreeds

breaking the fragile cornucopia
of halves into infinitely
same graves.

Bio (auto)

Since 1997, Richard Lynch has become even more imaginary. He wrote 6 books on image editing, became an orphan, cloned himself, changed the style of his beard twice, and quit smoking six times (those bubble-gum cigarettes are hell). He had an unsuccessful bid for the presidency, baited several hooks, and stopped cooking his food. He has painted far too many things beige, using different color brushes, and collect swatch samples in case of inspiration. He got married to the corporate world, gave up life and hope, and was promoted repeatedly.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Richard Lynch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Quiet Piano

when i sit
at my piano
limp fingers
touching the ivory
i wait for music
to start playing

sheets of notes
stuffed in envelopes
in the stool
know music
that i could play
if i stood
and went under

quiet as the night is
it needs music
wrapped in paper
gifted with ribbons
to the ears
the notes
in the stool
the music
not singing
the fingers limp
the dampness in my palm
with anticipation
hoping sounds
will save the evening
paste the shadows
with new color

i pretend
to hear cellos
and think
faint air gathering
wind in the branches
clicking leaves
like applause
my silent piano
motionless ivory
potential in strings
palms sweating
notes black
under my seat
a tickle
of ivory
a sweet note
on my tongue
takes the evening
in a way
I was not expecting
the piano
is quiet
the notes in
my stool.

How I Misunderstand

When you say to me
the color is blue,
I see it,
quote a hex of numbers
"that is blue".
You say: “No, blue.”
And I say:
“No, you don’t understand.”
I repeat the number,
saying, "It is blue".
You say, "No,no,"
and I say, "No, no."

I have misunderstood.

I type a word
thinking I know what it meant,
pretend to know the numbers
that correlate the letters
and add up the meaning.
The sound of my voice when I say
“It means,”
sounds like a liar.

I look up definitions
and point,
becoming a number-lover
again, for the first time
stepping on a scale
seeing it finally lower
after all the dieting,
thinking the numbers
made sense.
But the sense is like
Pigeons
who fly between rooftops
making that hurt peeping,
their wings needing oil,
in mid-flight
rudely interrupted
by the sun,
hating the color blue,
and the numbers,
and dentists,
rationalizing the sound
of crumpling paper
when the word isn’t right,
having a no-no
where the line is
because the method
is a curve,
by the numbers,
and not nearly a line
by the tips of wings.

I have misunderstood.

I add the numbers,
get the blues,
think it’s not right,
no, no,
then understand it
all again
before, ultimately,
misunderstanding it
in a flurry like wings
and peeping
that hurts
like the dentist
who is a liar,
saying it won’t hurt,
when the sound I hear
interrupts saying,
"No, no. It will."

I add it all up.

I misunderstand.