March 19-25, 2001: Shannah Hogsett and Jak King


 

week of March 19-25, 2001

Shannah Hogsett and Jak King

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines


Shannah Leah Hogsett
shannah22@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Shannah Leah Hogsett is a twenty-six year-old stay at home mom She has been writting since she learned how Her first recollection is of penning a book at the age of six She has recently had an ephiphany of sorts, realizing that writing is her true passion After deft prompting from her fiance, she has decided to take her work seriously and begin to find a niche for it Perhaps prompting from her high school English teacher and college instructors should have told her something To date, she is unpublished, but hopes as all beginners do that this will change soon.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Shannah Leah Hogsett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Eleutheria

That summer was grand and lazy,
laying on the lawn- swatting at the mosquitoes
we swore could smell our young blood They were hungry,
and so were we Soft skin was tight and numb, drunk from wine and laughter-
pretending not to feel the eyes that stole glances
of shorts and arms and the hint of a curve Nag Champa curled into noses,
traveled up to the brain
and spread like warm honey-sweet and hard to get off the fingers Night glow of white teeth and brown skin
dazzled under a July moon and attracted them
like moths So they sang,
To acoustic and drum “One was dark, one was light, one was trapped in twilight “

Girth and Splendor

A rounded hip gives under your firm touch
Milk and flesh are what hungry hands reach for
When we lay like this
And you whisper into my ear
For one moment I am perfect and tight and lean
Contracted muscles humming with electricity
Fueling bodies in the blue glow of the alarm clock

Reflection

In the shocking truth of bathroom light
I see myself Not alone I carry the years upon my face Only twenty-six, but the years are there Perhaps the line between carefully tweezed brows
came to stay during those awful two years
that I lived with a scowl , while I lived with him My ears full of holes
from my wild days Two lines Smile lines they say And the chicken pox scars from childhood in the corner of each eye I am not alone I carry the years from head to toe


Jak King
jakking@home.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Jak King and I live in Vancouver, British Columbia A cockney by birth, I now speak west coast American fluently I have always written and have had several poems and essays published over the years I have also published two chapbooks of my poetry, and performed my works in bars of loud repute Between bursts of poetry, I am currently writing the great British-Canadian-Chinese novel.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Jak King and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Visions of Cendrars’ “profonde aujourd’hui”
in A Photograph of Soldiers At The Front, 1915

You were young men in the Guards
treading water in wretched trenches
swinging kitbags and rifles and broad silly grins

so young
that two billion volumes single-spaced wouldn’t be enough
to list all of life’s treasures
you haven’t experienced yet
and still you would die
right then
right there
doing right
or so you thought
as you lay where
no-one could tell where
mud ended and blood began

three and four generations removed,
we lay wreathes for your wraiths
on a hollow day in November
while the parades and the poppies
hallucinate
an annual landscape of memory

profound today, gone tomorrow

and for a week or more the flowers fade
and the greenery browns at your memorials
and then the work crews come

young men and women with guarded futures
treading water at minimum wage
swinging brooms and shovels and black plastic bags

and when the work trucks leave
your memory has turned once again
to cold undecorated stone
and nothing can ever change
the fact
that you died before you started living.

Landscape

Beloved lady, sprawled naked across our cot,
Arms akimbo, legs athwart soft pillows,
Calls me with signs

Like some hailed cab Circling for a U-turn,
I search eagerly for the approach;
But no opening lines

Need separate our desires Her breasts are
Stepping stones to the dark beneath;
Nipples taut as tines,

Or lighthouses on the distant shores of isles
Discovered in the tumbling seas of passion Our legs entangle, vines

That grasp and clasp my hawthorn root as it
Dwells and swells within the quicksand of her sex,
Deeper than mines

Of gold and silver And no pithead whistles
Match the banshee wails that celebrate our
Coming in times

Uncounted And the finish brings no endings
Or sorrows or regrets as we lie together, fragrant
Beneath the pines.

Jimi Hendrix and Me

Jim Hendrix was born in Seattle
and died in London
choking on his own vomit I was born in London
and almost chocked to death in Seattle
on a fishbone at Pike’s Place Market
Whole books have been written about Jimi
while I was reduced to a 3×5 card
at Seattle General Hospital
Excuse me while I touch my fly

and check that I can still sleep with good looking women
and Jimi can’t
All in all I’d rather be me now.