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Ann Bogle

 

Ann Bogle's poetry has appeared in/at/on ~*~ W_O_M_B ~*~, P.F.S. Post, MiPOradio, onedit, ars poetica and other journals. Her chapbook, dog barks up a tree at the apple left in it under a deerslim moon, was published by Orium Press for the Dusie Kollektiv in 2009.

 

 

 

 

Another girl to figure out

no reason to break here/
want to tell her kinship to it
blue save them walked past
phone legs of dead Lady
victim standing just inside
betrayed her gray cherry
comfortable guilty long name
configuration of all mother
beautiful shades of protective
touches head lay nosegays
know French therapy bill
college man strong enough

 


Catnip

Orange fur corpuscle of
instantaneous muscle relaxant

Silly little smart one
girl of no big vagina

smells air,
remembers boys from outdoors.

They hook you, you lamb.
Pensive and listening,

leap to the floor.
More catnip, more ironing board. 

 


Haiku Romance

i. Sew

Irish, in sandals
but her feet are too wide. They
widen her arches.

ii. Match

She has a high brow
and he is all forehead: a
pair of moonplatters.

iii. Crossing

Black Navy coat
and black wafers. Chloris curls and
pink slinky tunic.

iv. Liberace

The frames are heavy
and mahogany. The bell
is lighting the phone. 

 


Head

Z. is asleep
Z. is sleeping
soft on his Indian-
and-blue-eyes face,
bald as his Head,
bald and personable
as his one-and-truly prick.
Z. is atoned.
Z. is stoned.
Z. is in his 10th Step,
exactly
where he started.
Z. is fortunate,
though not a son
anymore.
Z. takes lewd
suggestions
with little blinks
of his everlasting
eyelashes.
Z. enters nirvana,
not nervous
not envious
of nervosa,
not tanked.
Z. is about right.
Z. eats queens’ greens
for a side to his
acorn squash
and pork belly.
Z. misses Miss Ann.



Key of James

i.

Receive with meekness the implanted word,
which is able to save your soles.
Let not many of you become teachers, my brethren,
for you know that we who teach shall be judged
with greater strictness.
Who is wise and understanding among you?
... the harvest of righteousness is sewn
in privacy by those who make privacy.
You ask and do not connive because you ask.
Let your eyes be eyes and your nose be nose.

ii.

Though I have much to write to you,
I would rather not use paper and ink,
but I hope to come to see you and talk with you
face to face, so that our joy
may be complete.

The children of your elect sister greet you.

 


Many how are seid

Many how you people are one
Do fall at night -
Swing, mar, bite, shun your own
Ache as family -

 


This Is Why I Loved You

Your opal eyes
Your sea-blue eyes
Your sky-blue eyes
Your ice-blue eyes
Your gray-blue eyes, your periwinkles
Your hazel eyes
Your violet eyes
(almond-shaped and almost cubist)
Your indigo eyes
Your topaz eyes, your sunkissed lashes
Your turtle-sundae eyes.
I loved your black shiny hair
Your turquoise streaks
Your blond parade
(your hair that speaks)
Your red-sown hair
(cosseted in its own knot)
I loved my friends without sorting things first.
I loved your ringing in the ears
Your Rolling Rock
Your rough-hewn jaw
Your three-day beard
Your mercury
Your staggering toward me
in your navy mugger's cap
in a werewolf dementia 
(I loved you and would have shown it to the moon)
I loved your nifty pronouncements
that drifted like seagulls over the pay lot.
And later, your country squire's avant garde
Your full-grown beard
Your handsome sons
Your spirited daughters
I loved you because you had good taste.
I loved you because I learned many things from you.
I loved you because you fed me.
I loved it that you read out loud to me.
I loved the personalities of your women.
We didn't lean.
I loved the country you were born in.
I loved its theater and rock n' roll.
I loved your classicism.
I loved earth more than I loved you, first;
I loved the animals, second;
I loved the children of other people in the wildest, most abstract way,
without irresponsibility or possessiveness.
I loved your passion
and your maroon eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

copyright © Ann Bogle