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Archive for the ‘poems’ Category

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My copy of the January issue of Poetry Magazine came featuring three of my #GoT poems.

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Let us count that you regard

            and I regard

 

the changing of the tides

the sea of the last

            We are tenaciously taking the tides

            in favored abandons.

 

We are contempting the contemporary

            or co-tempting the contemporary

            into a kind of sin.

 

We are doing more than channeling

When we laugh

When we strategize

In-my-day, I was a believer

            In-my-day        in my day

            In-my-day        in my day

 

The dial-up had a certain purr

That ruffled my roost.

That’s lost, now.

*

Now, you, you, let alone with the golden.

Let the golden wilt and wild.

We can construct the past

Potshot the pristine

 

Here, coordinate my sprawlings

Together, this could  be  nostalgia

© Umansky 2013

 

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It All Translates to Prowl

 

[1]

 

There will be fat years and lean years,

but either way it’s going to rain.

 

[2]

 

There are men’s voices in our heads,

but every so often a woman goes to the top

every so often a woman takes two

stairs at a time                          two

 

Here’s an imperative: a reason to be.

This isn’t a slumber party.

I am not others.

I resend. I rescind. I recall.     I remind

 

                                    [what? I don’t

                                                …. recall]

 

[3]

 

Rounded. I am well-rounded.

Will I wear this box?

Will you?

Will you, with me?

Wear it with me.

 

 

© Umansky 2013

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“Love is just an advertisement that men made to sell advertising”

 

I want this. I must do thus to obtain this. I will hence do this. Ergo, I shall get what I want. Stupid girl. You will never win anyone through pity. You must create the right kind of dream, the sober, adult kind of magic: Illusion born from disillusion.

                                             The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

 

It’s a madmadmadmad world.

Everything can be manufactured, sold and bought, but love, love is the mold.

You sure could have a lot of fun with this.

In the material world, objects are marked up from face value.

The confusion of client services is merely based on articles, like he and she.

You can find anything on the internet:  even beauty.

Advertising is based on happiness. Be happy.

 

 

© Umansky 2013

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The most important word is N-E-W !! And, in the face of optimism

It’s all about getting things done. You need to feel something –   

That’s what sells.   That’s what steals over you, across your face,

Down the back of your neck; into the flush. It’s the selling.

Some part wanders off and actually likes the remembering.

The remembering of being told what you like and what you don’t.

It is almost-precious the way the back of the head is both cushion and

Target  [and I’m aiming]. You can feel after it, but the reality of the sale

Is there: you want to be told.  Your personal territory is harvested

[Some would argue deforested] but  remember the feeling

Right before you put your finger on it; right before you knew

What it meant to want.  It was delicious.  It was savory.  It was:

Pure.     Now.     Quickly now.   Go brush away those crumbs –

That remembering.         [or are you saving those for later?]

 

© Umansky 2012

 

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The Little War

 

The heart cannot speak. The stomach cannot see. The kidney cannot hear. The liver cannot taste. The eyes cannot feel. They lack.

 

In this little war, the speed of the eye is null and akin to nothing.  No one knows this.

 

Still, it theorizes,

                                        

 

 

of this.

 

Together, we do not move or forage or forest.  Reader, what do you know of muteness? Of the world so strange and of the haunt of numbers?                                 

                                                                                                                           

I want

to know what you carry

                                                                        …there…

 

(if it is a key,   give it.)

 

It feels like a battle. A hidden one. A hidden, little, one. Subtle-like, where my feet do not leave prints. The air does not capture my breath. My hair does not hit the floor, it flies up to a tree where it harvests a nest for someone/thing else.  Nothing shoots. Nothing loads. No thing screams, but I know something inside wants.

 

I don’t know what is beneath the exterior, or  the virtual. I am losing.  Alignment is losing. Thought is losing. Feeling is latching to some thing some where.

                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                What happened to the story?

when?

What happened to the tale?

how?

Say that someone, somewhere knows.

reach.

 

                        Reach me.      

 

© Umansky 2012

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Actually, I’ve decided it’s a good thing to be off

because I’m tired of being on but I know

certainly, IT will find me, in the thick

downing white wine on a night where I’m boogying to the music

everywhere and it will be enough; it will be

forgettable in an unforgettable way; in the most

gorgeous way, because I will hold it with my

hands; hold it by the seat of its pants and

I will love it to the ground. First, in envy, and then in

jealousy. I will bash its brains out; I will

kill it; make it late for supper; give it a wedgie; I will

laugh in its face and kick it in the nuts. Being

mean will feel soooo good – finally – and in time, I’m sure,

nostalgia will settle on our couch like a dear

old friend; and we will laugh at the way I gave it a

purple eye; and we will hold each other close; and

quiet those later-demons; those sullen misfits

rapturing up the past like a bulldozer in the morn;

sullied in my remembering, I will invite this chaos in for

tea, but I digress, I won’t suppress,  now, back to the beating. It will

unequivocally deserve what it gets after leaving me: fielded. Alone.

vaulting my heart up to any star’s arms, any star’s hungry fangs.

won’t it feel good to start blood from your nose; to

ex-communicate you from your shenanigans; and show

you how sorry you’ll be for missing what I’ve had to give all these years.

“ZOUNDS!” you’ll say; and then you’ll give us a kiss that was way overdue.

 

© Umansky 2012

 

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Connecting

                                               

This is where we are now and the audience participates     

We throw apples, oranges, bananas and pears. (Knives, sometimes, too)

We aren’t really starting fires; if we are, they aren’t real fires.

 

We villainize others, at times, but it’s usually in jest. Do you know those   

villains were really just country-folk and that our intentions then sour?

This is where we are now and the audience participates.

 

The way the flames start is through niceties and like-ings and

the things that empower our spirit like sparkings and spunk.

(we aren’t really starting fires; if we are, they aren’t real)

 

When we participate it’s a given-charity, like lamplight or sky.

The agency is good and the activity is fresh. Life moves. Be ready.

This is where we are and the audience packs their bags and hops on.

 

They can enter any car to any destination, screaming choo choo with the rest.

It is gingering and relieving and near-ambulatory to say what you mean,

how you mean it. These aren’t real fires; it’s just private campgrounds.

 

And sometimes others interfere. They want to join your pack;

they want to add to your ghost-story; throw shadows into the

campfire and put the fire out before dawn. This is where we are

now and you don’t want to be left out. Gather round, here.

                                                                                                            Now.

© Umansky 2012

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