Royal Tales » Poetry

A Poem of Mine Making Fun of Itself

taylorstevens — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 23:58:09 +0000

My word choice and voice aren't terribly fine,
I usually misjudge the length of a line.
I flail a lot. Sometimes I recover,
cast lines that can linger, and can hover
but soon bounce around some similar sounds
then give up, explode in commas, break, stress,
enjamb. Enjamb! Then make light of the mess
by falling plainly back to Romance grounds
reserving you, the reader, table ten
(for two!) at Exquisite Le Bernardin;
Whisking us off on my personal jet
for dinner after Opera at the Met.
Then, though you've been waiting the entire time,
I leave you two, dry, unheroic lines.

The Big Dance

taylorstevens — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 23:28:48 +0000

On maple planks layered, for a Court,
with leather and sweat, and the set plays
to net, the squeak and gallop of
sneakers from streaking, to break-way or outside
corner for extra (round is the balls
bracing backspin when going down)
a rebound battle to hoard
the boards, picking and rolling about
the low down, ooping the pass -
struggle for flight when one fights one for lift -
willing the arms work - chance to advance -
the finger tip lay-in! a trip to The Dance.

Sonnet for the Dogs of Kolkata

taylorstevens — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 18:44:46 +0000

Kolkata dogs with their single mixed blood
lay passed out on sidewalks of midday heat.
Bitch's tits sag dusting tired milk in mud
while sires long to coax some scraps from the street.
They bathe in showers dusty, dry and stale,
and scratch in mindless strokes their flea ridden skin,
leaving gold coats splotchy, raw and pale,
their flesh thin and loose where meat should have been.
A litter sifts some litter under cars
as the sun fades in the afternoon haze.
They will sleep beneath a blanket of no stars,
hunger, not light, will wake them to the day.
And in the morning few will have survived,
left to be mourned by those barely alive.

This poem was published in the 2008 issue of The Eckerd College Review.

Union Stockyard Jazz

taylorstevens — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 04:04:45 +0000

Flat pack crates, chi-town steaks, axles creak, churn, clack,
slip out the station speeding from slow,
chug chug go, chug chug go, train on the tracks.

Cowboys clink, sink in mud, pen doors rattle-tak --
grain strikes a gong song in feed bin bongos,
flat pack crates, chi-town steaks, axles creak, churn, clack.

Cattle clamor, hot-iron sizzle sears backs,
bovine bells long din ding-ing echo woe,
chug chug go, chug chug go, train on the tracks.

Whistle! wince! whine! shrill steam screech in black.
Saws scream, sheer sinews and mute when bone low,
flat pack crates, chi-town steaks, axles creak, churn, clack.

Tannins soak slime, drip muckingly from racks,
leather pulled plied stacked, meat chimes chained in rows,
chug chug go, chug chug go, train on the tracks.

Tumble rumble machines shake meat into sacks.
Cats scratch rip tear and meow for marrow,
flat pack crates, chi-town steaks, axles creak, churn, clack,
chug chug go, chug chug go, train on the tracks.

This poem was published in the 2008 issue of the Eckerd College Review.

Sonnet for the Morning

taylorstevens — Wed, 07 Nov 2007 18:13:20 +0000

I see in Georgia the earth is asleep.
With silk spider strings the cool of night
hangs the early morning mist in light;
silence calming all things that crawl and creep.
The muddy milk of the dawn paints pastel
shapes in kind hues on a peach tree grove,
and dew drops drip from the leaves. A belle
view from the simply warm southern alcove
window under which I rest. Smells of honey-
suckle drift in on winsome unseen drafts.
I motion to taste the fragrance blindly,
but awaken and smile-sigh to a laugh.
No I've never been, only dreamt this place:
eyes closed, between breaths -- inches from her face.