Forty Turns for Poems

Posted on November 7, 2007

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By Ray Succre

1

With one motive deigned to possess others
in a wealthy, mild, unending curve,
when do I tire?

2

Her name is Lila because
her grandmother was Lillian
and Lillian’s son, Steve,
made a daughter.

3

At toll of some shadeless, last pose,
too long preserved.

4

Lila works in a clinic and
her grandmother is a housewife
and Steve has a barber shop,
hush-a-by-hush.

5

But clear the sevens,
shuffle and wager an all-fools
tournament,
all tired and out of view
(where the serious things occur)
with no friend out
to lamp the scraps of each
ever-new, even old save the memory,
from their trappings.

6

Iced rigid in clever corners.

7

Twenty six of them
describing the day,
at last terminated,
day shot up around
a boy who drinks
from the plastic,
the glass,
and the carton.

8

If I meet you where the floor
and ceiling meet, I will not
find reason to comment.
Lowliness is a sound
that calls misery, keeps her
turning on her head and
this sound will
seem enough.

9

Chasm is, for a moment, the belly,
space but what the swallow brought:
Hungering mince of foods
sought this heareafternoon,
put inside the body through
a wrought-iron head.

10

A mole is
three hundred feet
in a night.

The Sun lives
three hundred and thirty thousand,
three hundred and thirty times
larger.

11

The caregiver was a man who,
hunting finance, married her,
and in a hasty purchase, gave back
the honest reasoning courting
may have afforded him by trial.

12

Too universe young,
his hopeless sweetheart’s
Jupiter weapon is

her shoulder’s wild eclipse
and a creature breath.

13

He knelt by her, spying a monetary
knighthood, a trifecta, the relevant
liability of a straggling man, urgently
kissing a woman of place.

14

Scarfing little tooth-made severs,
do I eat?
Spangled laps from bowls,
the diligent port of crumbs,
the awesome brink of filling foods,
the honest drink like crumbling sea,
gullet down; I do eat.

15

The fuck-you fades,
 lending pores of overcast sky,
    back of sky, over itself,
      prolonging Meade street
    past acorn houses and
 a controlled fire, fuck-you,
  where no one can live anymore.

16

Injury is broomed into the corner,
little so deserving as an insult taken
with dimension, with matter,
unless the injury is heartborn,
which is no insult, but an outage
that will belong there.

17

When the band stops, this woman,
  epigram,
terseness wailed in a flowery dress,
 with no whim reserved,
 no feet on fours in grass,
 no rushes from rigid invoked,
is the wristbanded end of a night’s
  collect at the keg.

18

The grey death pads at the door.
A yardworm rescinds from a tread-puddle.
You open the door and you drive.

The car collides.
The cold drifts far.
It is a lucky life you live.

19

An annual person is
One thousand four hundred
and sixty dreams.

Your daily heart is
a hundred thousand
contractions.

20

Hounding not once,
daring never twice,
his wheeling heart rowed
oars forward in whitecaps
while he spit;

thought himself
winemaker, and prismed
to haunt, ill
at her vineyard’s back.

21

Who slipped aloft with painted strop
and gullicky poured in yeehaws,
and rode and broke his weathered horse,
skyward, roaming clocks and shots,
was fed in his bones by an era itself
that brought his tales to an end.

22

Past calendar primes and the shops
with clean windows, bullying routine
near eleven, where dimness stacks
pointlessly, sleeping near lust activity,
passed through and filtered by
daylight’s posing husk,
menacing components flare,
cat’s hours, policeman’s overhang
and much pacing,
things many people
have no care for,
unimportant
things.

23

To see her. To have,
watching her. To be fenced,
catching some delight of her.

24

I consign the Sun to memory,
     and navigate
     by step.

25

For his concerns,
she would be, chiefly,
a decade’s passerby,
touched like a tourist.

26

We were almost out
 when my kerosene
old woman
  with her lemon hair…

27

A hummingbird is
less weight than
a penny.

Ten thousand birds
die at a year’s worth of
windows.

28

In the morning,
in a garden on a hill,
full of shrieking
and cats,
and the rodents
that brought them,
I wake and run,
and rescue my wife
from the bedlam.

29

…went peering
 through sangria cups
  much to large
 for her chalk dust eyes.

30

This obese squirrel stomachs atop the branch,
billowed large on tourist grain and birdfeeder seed.
Its open chits and grunting is a doorstep
to a neighboring declaimed cat, who claw-scales
the tree to hunt this newsy squirrel’s padded fat,
this squirrel just screaming from within a warm,
nurtured skin all vim and sunlight.

31

The Nova shuddered
and he lit her a cigarette.
An album cued, restarted.
The four p.m. was
seasonal, trim like
the replacement shoots
of a harvest, and
had no hurry, and
was offhand.

32

With passports marked, our travel seeks
laugher’s of our dead fish, foreign,
in sleeper’s beds, each sleepy face,
that wake by noon, in the place of a name,
and not, by guide, at the name of a place.

33

To have much fame, yes,
to grow at lights
is to belong, each ounce,
to short talks of novel
things, to spend face
in the impression,
to unimpress and lure
the day-creatures
that hunt the fresh
out of all fleshly newness.

34

I have lived pacific, coastal, and unnoticing
for twenty-nine years.

A vast making of private troubles
and the cultivation of many public faults
helped.

35

To want to live
and flourish,
and owe and pay
livelihood
to the bear-masking
hearts of heartless,
reclined, stair-climbing
lives,
is fame.

36

Ajar by the blush of
her mind and its
glass of lemon blood,
I ask the kiss, and am
offered some
peck of citrus what
plays snout to unsettled blinks.

It is all that gets set,
and it is
enough.

37

Property forges
its owner’s sake,
is merciful
when brought out,
forgets
its short nature.

38

Where two eyes in heavy overcoats
line upwards, sleepless protein cultures
in a dish, I am.

39

When two mud-daubers adopt their
feet from a suffocated fish island
and zip across an unfolded lake,
like lust since the heart could shake,
she is.

40

There is a count, place, and fact
for all things.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Laika Poetry Review, and Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.

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Posted in: Poetry