Showing posts with label other people's flowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other people's flowers. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 31, 2019

asparagus



Recently I posted my poem, "Darling Mary," which was first featured on the lovely podcast Other People's Flowers 

Here is another of mine from Other People's Flowers inspired by the 1979 Suzann Pitt short film.



Asparagus

-after Suzann Pitt


Candy red apple heels,
blonde hair pulled back,
I pull on the asparagus
and wrap my lips around
its purple bloom. I leave him
to sleep in his maroon
leather Laz-E-Boy, the bunny–
eared TV lit with grinning
Republicans. I clip-clock out
the dollhouse into the night
of polymer snow and I sneak
into a theater, where,
in the dim light, I make out
that the spectators are made
of clay. I shake plastic
flurries off my black fur
and watch the screen:
a clown smears his makeup
with tears. His voice creams
with agony. He stabs a man
and then his woman.
The clay people rise
out of their seats
with scowling faces. I leave
to find in an alley, a discarded box,
the size of a coffin, with a picture
of a RobotMaid on it. I take my heels
and I slide inside to wrap myself
in my fur and the bubbled plastic.



-Jeffery Berg

Friday, May 24, 2019

darling mary



My poem "Darling Mary," which appeared in audio form on the lovely podcast Other People's Flowers.




Darling Mary

-after Julie Christie


The world relief billboard peeled
for my lips—medallion neck-
lace, brushed over Dankworth’s
with lilting jazz. My story begins
as Mary staring out in a stable scene.
I want to feel not so terribly Chelsea
out of the phone booth swinging
handbag, polka dot scarf, binoculars.
I toss my fur to the bed, kicking off
my kitten heels into the white shag.
To get by, to turn heads, I have to be
frightfully lean, smoking Kent’s
inside another glass condo up
in polluted haze. I carry Revelation
luggage and cablegrams. I want to be
The Happiest Girl in the World. I am only
a face on a billboard. Let me stew here.
Once, from the nativity, I pulled out
Mary and felt the hard ridges
of her blue robe—I wanted to be her,
blond and all wrapped up, nothing to
touch me but myself and dust,
a lone wolf in permanent prayer.


-Jeffery Berg