Poetry Super Highway

Poetry Super Highway

July 30 – August 5, 2012: David Romanda and George Moore

week of July 30 – August 5, 2012

David Romanda and George Moore

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David Romanda
david.romanda@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

David Romanda lives in Kawasaki City, Japan. His poetry is forthcoming in Gargoyle Magazine, The New York Quarterly and PANK. Visit him on the web here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/davidromanda

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by David Romanda and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


slip off your name

but leave
the high-cut dress on

leave
the lavender orchid

at your hip
for a little longer


Originally appeared in FreeFall Magazine

 


George Moore
George.Moore@colorado.edu

Bio (auto)

George Moore was recently married to Canadian poet Tammy Armstrong. He lives in Colorado outside Lyons, which is outside Boulder. He has a collection coming out next spring with Salmon Press, called Children’s Drawings of the Universe, and has been publishing online and internationally in places including Queen’s Quarterly, Blast, Semaphore and Dublin Quarterly. He has also been twice nominated for Pushcart Prizes, as well as the Best of the Web and Best of the Net awards, and was a finalist for The Rhysling Poetry Prize, and the Wolfson Poetry Prize.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by George Moore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Gardening

I am here among cauliflowers
wild in this uberous garden;
someone else¹s, some years ago,
neglected a decade,

let go to seed for weed
mingling cauliflowers,
fighting for space
of sapling crowded yard¹s edge

in last tenant¹s order. I¹m here,
white brains blossomed,
immutable like stones
in green dandelion stems,

solid as eyes.
I pluck them up by nerve ends,
they have struggled so hard
to be plucked up,

to be eaten and unalienable,
delicious, as if being itself were.
Crazy to think them portals
in a world wholly past and empty,

a place where people ate,
grew, furrowed; shallow
graves of gardens,
reckless with vine.

Here¹s to the cauliflower, then,
from the first dimension,
back for the plucking, a head-first
birth, a earthy, imperishable brain.

 

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