Troy Holden
By
Penn Kemp
Synaesthetics
Flute notes shatter to ricochet off
concert ceiling— coloured balls in
a game of electric pool. The noise
of new music splatters to harmony.
The mezzo meets her match to climb
a patterned range beyond the scale,
resplendent in corresponding gown
till the senses bounce back and laugh.
Outside in the very cold, crystal still
dances in light gusts of ice flakes
descending from darkness in clusters
to sweetly melt on cheek, on tongue
and ring in our ear, ring in the year.
Filling the Cart
I lose my breath in shopping
malls and can’t tell where
to find it. So many others
bustle about breathing just
fine but my chest cave slumps
crunched, compressed to less
than half capacity. So I cling
to the cart to keep upright,
shop quickly, buy this and that
on impulse, trusting the clerk
not to cheat me when I am
numb to numbers
and clear out fast to parking lot
in hope of cleaner air.
Giving Your Word
How do you deliver your poems? Do
you fix the audience with a glare and stare
or stuff your nose into the book? Do
you memorize, mumble, murmur, bellow,
read, recite? Better think of a replacement
for ‘recites’: How about Tells? Poetry tells.
Poetry is telling, is told. And the noun tell
means the riches of midden. Suggests
strategies to soundly spread our chosen
patter/n of fertilizing speech.
From now on, we will be telling,
so the word will be heard in layers
laid out, laid down, laden in strata to
unearth as we will.
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