ROWING WITH ANNE SEXTON

How right you are, Anne. But you were always
right - even when your worst critics tried to
silence your awful truth.

So I've flipped the pages of my dusty
calendar, and have seen May for the first
time this year:

An enormous field of lazy lavender flowers. How
I long to sleep in such a rich and natural bed!
Instead, I bought a new 100 watt bulb,

and lit up my dark cave in the sky. Now I am wide
awake. I see too much dust and death, and a
rare living sunflower or two. I place my frozen

TV dinner in the microwave, and read your holy
words while I wait for that faint little bell to tell
me my toxic meal is done.

I now have light, Anne. But there is no life
saving soup. There's no home or heart when
depression has robbed its victim of

everything that matters most: Family, friends, joy,
those silly little bruised flowers on the bank
calendar page. So I read your poems, and wait for the

rowing to come. I know it might never happen: That awful
rowing toward God. But you came so very close, Anne.
That's the tragedy for people like us:

We came so fucking close.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

VIRGINIA DAVIS (11/1/42 - 10/22/13)

So very sad to read about your passing. I will remember your great spirit every time I read one of your beautiful poems. May you rest in peace, Virginia.


UNTITLED

disease is by choice
my mother had jungle

rot
and my father

gangrene
I went mad

believing all
my red corpuscles

were explosive devices
commanded by Mao

and one false step
would blow my mind

so I moved
with crazy

grace
the way

the cripple
and the child

dance
every

movement
a prayer

there were cures
my mother washed

her hands every
two hours for a

year
and they cut

off
my father's toe

in mid-dance
I was locked

in a room
with no handle

on the door
you may ask

how I came
to be here

it wasn't easy

Poem © 1994 by Virginia Davis

STREET ROOTS: I AM NOT A POET

Two of my poems are included in this awesome 15 year anthology of street poetry and art. Given that I rarely submit my work for publication anymore (finally decided that the Emily Dickinson approach to writing poetry is the most honest way to go), I was both astonished and happy to find my poetry in a book (I frequently take a long peek at the new poetry available at Central library - that's where the best poems can be had for free, etc.). So when I chanced upon this book in the poetry section, my heart skipped a beat or three. I AM NOT A POET is on my desk as I write these words.

What a joy to read (again) the poetry of Sherry Asbury, Israel Bayer, Kevin Hull, Jay Thiemeyer, and C.A. Mesch! How well I remember the timeless hours spent at that long (Last Supper) table. And there really was something holy about confessing all our so-called sins in a poem. Because we knew (deep down) that we were good people at heart - even when society did its best to make us feel invisible and unwanted. Street Roots became our church.

I've been reading (and admiring) this book for the last two weeks. Alas, I'll have to return it to the library at the end of the month. If you are a lover of poetry (and art), I suggest you give this book a very long peek. You will discover that beauty can be found in places you've never visited or known. So don't be a stranger. I have seen the most beautiful stars from the gutter. We are all connected.

http://streetroots.org/iamnotapoet

Poetry/Art
Street Roots, 2014

Reader Rating:
10/10

P.S. A copy of this book (at Central library) has already went missing. That really does say a lot (in more ways than one).

Review © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

STANLEY'S CASE

(After Harold Pinter's The Birthday Party)

Boy, why are you so menaced by the world? Is it
God or his death that troubles you so? Making you
quite fey: A little lisping Adam without your prized
testicles. You really are a remarkable case: A
miserable shut-in, you see, you seldom leave your
small room. A lot like Stanley: Open and shut. Quite
curious and classic - that sort of case. But in
America. Only go out when the full moon's watching
you above. The wet streets reflect pale light  and
queer passing shadows, as you make your way to
the neighborhood liquor store: Heineken. 22 OZ. Big
green bottle. I see you, boy. I've watched you
nervously count your last pennies for the
butch and angry cashier. A regular Roman, that one.
And your stringy Jesus hair and pathetic sandals only
make him want to string you up, like a scarecrow or
Christ. He'll make you suffer, boy. He makes you
suffer. All the way out the door.

You seem better during your long walk home. Notice
the many bright lights in the chill December
night. Little Drummer Boys abound. The
Christ's-child's safe in the miniature
barn. If I could, I'd tell you beauty and
truth are just artificial things to help pass
the time: Art. Philosophy. Religion -
all pretty lies, boy. All pretty lies. Give your blood
money  away to the least of your kind instead.
Whisper your false words in a beggar's lonely ear.
Tell him silver is greater than love. Pretend it's a
prayer, a holy promise. Then betray him with a kiss.
It's your ticket to heaven, boy. Much easier than a
noose. The Romans would have loved the shameless
Christ-lights, not because they are such a stunning
spectacle of ceremony, but because they are electric
and would have come in handy for the daily crucifixions.
They'd merely turn the crosses into wooden chairs -
a kinder way to kill. Romans. Real men. Adam
with his silly balls intact, boy.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

THE CABBIE THAT GOT AWAY

He drove an old battered Taxi
and tried to pick me up
every time I walked home

in the midnight rain. I had
very long hair in 1978,
and most people

thought I was a pretty girl.
In truth, I was a scared to
death

gay young man. Worried about
everything, and not sure
about anything.

I loved his blue eyes and
wicked smile, but never
managed to accept his

free ride: I knew the price
would become much too high
once he learned the truth

about me. So I kept on walking
and his sweet whistle was
like the soundtrack to some

favorite black and white movie
I used to love, but no longer
can remember the name of.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell