Tag: mary fons slam poetry

  • Ode For the Ocean: My Shedd Aquarium Adventure

    Residents of the deep ocean. Photo: Wikipedia
    Residents of the deep ocean. Photo: Wikipedia

    There were fish, sharks, fish, strange plants, and 1.5 millions of gallons of water at the aquarium. In response to the Shedd, I’d like to post a poem I worked out this summer. It’s longer than most of my poems, but I hope you will read through it today and when someone asks you, “Did you read any poetry this week?” You can say, “Yes, I did.”


     

    Ode for the Ocean

    by Mary Fons
    © 2015

    I’ve never thought it beautiful.

    I much prefer a mountain range, which
                             strikes me as more traversable;
    The ocean just strikes you with waves.

    The “treasures of the sea,” to me,
    Are going silver
                 (such foolish gold)
    Not proof of some grand, courageous adventure,
    Just wet and old.

    We are to find an endless blue
                  (or anything endless) a reflecting pool?
    This is madness
               and all madness should frighten you.

    For lurking under sunset fire, just beyond the lovers’ sighs
    Are beasts with coal black eyes
                              blind with only one own-only mind:
                                                                                                            survive

    And longer than you, laughs the whale;
    Killer, indeed, and with a tail to crush you,
    As you clap and wave and save your photo.

    All combers,
    Mind the suck down —
                                        that human-sized sucking sound;
    So much chum and lunchmeat now,
    First for the mighty maw that spied you
                               (what’s red and white and red rolled over?)
    Blood becomes you
                   ‘till you’re dispersed in that vast, mast-hungry pool
                                                                       adrift on the waves that lulled you
    Back when Cabo was not the site of your grisly end;
    The fishes catch the tissue last
                                              and any flecks of left eye that’s left —
    Are you finally out of the office

    Further below, in depths we cannot fathom deep —
                               translucents sleep
    Why they wake at all
    A question we ne’er allow to ask;
    Preferring such questions as:
                             “Shall we take the pink umbrella, dear?”
                             “Is Carol bringing Jake?”

    The sea does not care
    The sea does not love Carol

    But for heaven’s sake!” the swimmers scream,
    “Death’s not all the ocean! Think of schools and dolphin,
    Think of shells and oyster feasts!”

    Please

    A grinning manatee emerging from misty black is a heart attack —
    You’d mess your pants and your electric fan;

    And if walls of undulating weeds or tangerine clowns are cool to you
    Fix them in your mind for
                             five minutes down the line these lives, too, are over;

    Such is the lifespan of sea color
    And what a drag!

    The cleverest trick the ocean ever played
    Was convincing us of her placidity

    There’s chaos in the drink —
    A jungle reversed,

                               inverted earth
    Primeval monster bedlam,
    Time and zero memory locked in loggerheaded war;
    What in heaven’s name 
                               are you out there for

     

    The sea does not love you

    The sea married herself a long, long time ago
                               and she’s kept a tight ship ever since

    See how she takes out the garbage

    See how she freezes her food
    See how she sweeps the floor

    See how she claps herself on the back,
                                            see how she races herself at the shore, one more touch,
                                            one more touch, one more touch, one more

    She doesn’t love you
    She doesn’t even warn you

    You: land creature
    Get out

     

     

  • Quilts Are Like Poems Are Like Quilts: Fremd High School

    Quilts Are Like Poems Are Like Quilts: Fremd High School

    [Photo credit forthcoming.]
    First period performance at Fremd High School Writer’s Week. About 8:12am. Photo: Gina Enk.

    Thank you to all the students at Fremd High School today, the kids at the Latin school last week, and the students I’ll see tomorrow at Bartlett.

    It’s an honor and a privilege to come to your schools and revel in the beauty of the English language and all the marvelous tricks it can perform. Fetch! Shake! Roll over!

    I hope to see you all soon.

  • Fremd High Writer’s Week 2014: Part I

    That's the door I usually take to go inside. By year four, I actually remembered that.
    That’s not the door I need to use. By year four, I actually remembered that and went to the other door.

    Every year for (oh my) nine years? ten? something ridiculous like that, I have served as a presenter at Fremd High School’s Writer’s Week. Writer’s Week XIX kicks off on Monday, and I just happen to be headed to Chicago on Tuesday, so on Wednesday morning, bright and early, I’m taking a Metra train to Palatine and to try and kick up a little writer-y magic for my Fremd homies.

    Here’s an abbreviated description of what Writer’s Week is, taken from the Fremd website:

    “Writers Week began in 1995 when we featured students, faculty, and professional writers during lunch hours for a week in April. Since then, about a thousand Fremd students have taken the stage to share their writing. Faculty members from every department have related their stories through writing. More than two hundred professional writers from around the world have visited the Fremd campus during Writers Week to help us better understand writing and authors.”

    Good idea, right? Lots of folks agree, including the likes of Gwendolyn Brooks, who presented at Fremd years ago. Billy Collins. Marc Smith. These are writers of consequence, authors whose work has shaped (still shapes) the American literary conversation. And because people on that little patch of land in Illinois believe in the power of and the need for good writers writing, high school students get to walk into an auditorium in their very own high school and receive the lessons, the joy, the discomfiting feelings — the blessed thought — good writing can bring. The amount of work involved in putting on Writer’s Week is head-spinning. Scheduling, booking, fundraising, booster-ing, coordinating — it’s nothing any of the teachers get paid extra to do and they do it all anyway, year after dedicated year.

    I’m slightly famous at Fremd because I usually end up kissing people. There’s a piece in my lil’ repertoire that involves kissing an audience member. You want to make an impression on an auditorium full of 500+ high school students? Try kissing one of them. I’m not making out with anyone; it’s just a kiss on the cheek. But it’s a kiss on the cheek with commitment, and I’m nothing if not committed. That usually causes a stir, but I might be famous at Fremd because I write a poem on the spot for a student every year, or because I had a breakdancer kick it onstage (he was up there anyway getting a poem!), or because I presented a Lady Gaga song as verse once time — anything can happen and I think we all like it that way. Whatever the material might be, I give 100% of myself (my attention, my focus, my passion for words, my passion for having fun with them for heaven’s sake) to the Fremdians.

    I seriously love that entire high school. It’s like we’re dating long-distance. I don’t see you very often, darling, but when I do, when I do.

    I’ll dress up for you, darling. And I’ll bring you a gift from New York. Wait for me.

     

     

  • “Nightingales (Chicago)”

    Nightingale & Rose I, etching, 20 cm x 22 cm, [8 cm x 8 cm], Edition of 50.
    Nightingale & Rose I, etching, 20 cm x 22 cm, [8 cm x 8 cm], Edition of 50.
    It’s been some time since I had a new poem to share. It’s a lucky thing, starting a new year with a poem I’m happy with. I hope you enjoy it.

    Nightingales (Chicago)
    by Mary Fons
    (c) 2014

    Say “cоловей поют в городе именно для тебя.”
    Say it again/say “cоловей поют в городе именно для тебя.”
    Say “городе”
    Say “именно”
    Say “nightingale”

    This is not god’s country/it is ours/code summons and watermarks/pills and the bus/the hustle and run till two crashes under a nightlight light/our city is this country/and the books could all burn/and the rock stars claim that they were here first/but the nightingales are singing in the city just for you/and I know those birds/and I sing, too/this is not god’s country/there is no jungle in the Bible.

    We shall remain nameless.

    And I swear by my palms my сердце is dear for I did sweat and loot to be here/for this era to the swamp I stole to steal my brain back/filthy as it was/so that I could rest in the cloud with you and our palms might kiss as holy palmers do/if time is money and money is you/you are time, too/go slowly if you have to hie/stay in bed awhile; thou need’st not be gone.

    You’re my trade/perfect спальное место/and you have gotten in.

    Trilling, trilling/the birds go up/killing, killing/the boys blow up
    Fix my wing/Nolandia king
    There’s treasure in this city.