March 8-14, 2010: Robert Wynne and Hanoch Guy

Robert Wynne
robert.wynne@sbcglobal.net

 

Bio (auto)

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University He is the author of 6 chapbooks, and 3 full-length books of poetry His first full-length collection, “Remembering How to Sleep,” was the recipient of the Poetry Society of Texas’ 2006 Eakin Book Award His second full-length collection, “Museum of Parallel Art,” was published in February 2008 by Tebot Bach Press Tebot Bach will be publishing his third collection, “Self-Portrait as Odysseus” in 2010 He has won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife, daughter and 3 rambunctious dogs, and his online home is www.rwynne.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Odysseus Surprised by a Poem

Scrawled in an airport bathroom
on a stall wall with thick black ink,
a few unexpected lines:

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don’t sound good
Refrigerator

Odysseus smiles, suddenly hungry,
then focuses for a moment
on clear water splashing

the sides of the bowl,
rippled surface extending
as far as it can, before settling

back into the smooth guise
which lulls everyone into thinking
it doesn’t actually reach

all the way to the ocean.


Odysseus Watches HBO

In between jokes
and swearing
Bill Maher questions
the importance of myth
because he doesn’t believe
in belief Since it seems
everything has been
reduced to story
and nothing can be proven
Odysseus drinks
three extra beers
to gauge the impact,
then invites
a lamp outside
to watch the slow seduction
of darkness He tells no one
that tomorrow
he’s planning
to drop an apple
from the balcony,
like this lamp
he casually sends
tumbling over the rail –
shadows spinning
as the cord extends
just far enough
for the filament
to lose its brief
bright argument
with gravity.


Odysseus Surfs the Net

On the web at the hotel, he finds
a video of someone dropping Mentos

into a bottle of Diet Coke The geyser
reminds him of volatile Mount Etna

where the Cyclops Polyphemus hid
until Odysseus plied him with wine

and incinerated his world
with a blazing stake See how

the soda splashes down in bright puddles
because your retinas are intact? Imagine

everything going black, how lava
explains away the future so convincingly

no one thinks to ask why, why
an eye consumed by fire

loses the memory of light
until metaphor is its only future:

stories propagated in flickering images
and words, carrying all that remains

of what was once
the simple, astonishing truth.


Odysseus Turns Off the Lamp

He can just reach it
outside the cocoon
he’s spun from

400 thread-count sheets His fingers twist
the small black knob

and he falls
away from the fading bulb,
retinas burning

with the afterimage
of more light
he can’t catch

in cupped hands Linen wings
spread beneath

but can’t carry him
anywhere
except the edges

of this empty bed.

_______________________________

Hanoch Guy
hanochkguypoet@yahoo.com

 

Bio (auto)

Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English, Hanoch is an Emeritus professor in Temple University He has published poetry in Genre, Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies, Visions International and several times in Poetica where he won an award He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society on 2007 He has recently published poems in Hebrew and English in: In other words.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Hanoch Guy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Feathers

Jackals howled at the edge
Of the wheat field
For the three nights My mother got up
From the dinner table:
I feel in my bones the mongoose
Is pouncing on the hens
Go out with a broom Make sure the chicks’ nursery is secure
My sister whined
Mom he spilled the purple compote on the table cloth Uncle Mosh called
The cancer is in his lungs
In the morning there were feathers
All around the pecan tree
At least
Garden snakes and
Banana trees
Will multiply for
ever

Said my father,
Slammed the door.


A score

My hands shake violently Hail balls drum on the window
The storm breaks into the room Thunder waves flood,
The ancient oak sliced by lightening
Grasses soar to windows
Squirrels dance
My hands run across the key board feet paddling furiously,
String section races Wind players shoot up The hall chandeliers collide Crescendo drowns by long applause
Men in top hats and women in evening gowns
bow to me
Stage collapses with a thud Musicians grasp their instruments Flying scores stick to moldy walls Shrill whistling in my ears
as I lie on the muddy rug Pain sears my temples

Church bells out of control
A hand falls off the square’s clock Pale sun shrivels in the window A flute gasps last note Ice candles at my head A feather cloud covers me gently A muffled trumpet signals my departure


Short

I can not get used to the weather
Rain magnified in the tunnels
Sirens for fallen cops blast through the nights I am nauseated by canned praises Gushing prayers/burn my skull Artificially sweetened hymns
give the worms a heartburn
Hyperactive groundhog burrowing keep me awake So do drunken guards belching,
playing cards on the marble,
spitting for good luck

I could never get used to the
Expressway crashes,
tow trucks falling into mausoleums

I’ll hitch a ride tonight on
a military chopper to a war zone
where death is swift
and sermons
short.