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Simeon Berry

@simeonberry.bsky.social

Author of Monograph (National Poetry Series, UGA Press) & Ampersand Revisited (National Poetry Series, Fence Books). Posts daily poems by others. he/him

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Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · 2d ago

“Your face, / so pale now it is blue. / And in the icy, dead moons / of your eyes, the things you / loved are trembling; all / utterly blue— // The small, soft breasts / of your sister. Vienna’s night—alone; / frosted stairways.” —David St. John, “For Georg Trakl”

FOR GEORG TRAKL. Your face, so pale now it is blue. And in the icy, dead moons of your eyes, the things you loved are trembling; all utterly blue—The small, soft breasts of your sister. Vienna’s night—alone; frosted stairways. Blue sonata, blue rosary of morning, blue sun. The river, and the sleek angel stepping from its waters, offering a robe of woven larkspur. And the azure pearls of opium, asleep in your palms—as if, from the glazed balcony of your cheeks, blue tears had fallen. David St. John
Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · last wk.

“I’ve won the tourniquet, I’ve devastated toddlers / in the height of their podlike fashion, in their pink-naped / heaven of Erasmus and his near-wife, Chlamydia.” —Brenda Shaughnessy, “Arachnolescence”

ARACHNOLESCENCE. I see I have so quickly endeared you to my dazzled fray of bedpan. With a stealth hand on my breastbone, I’ve pilfered the last gangrene remedy, honey-wax fiber, from my neighbor all century and I’ve bullied you into a few cramps yourself. Give me drug of terrifying strength or I will become it. Love me in my strict empire of phantom pain, in my wiliest contempt for all that is mere fever and sweat, strain and maculate, florid and maternal, decent and plain. I want theater, the domain of intoxicated grief. And spifflicated louts are we, absolute gourmands of the ugliest meal. I have a radium of the soul, a petulant amputation, eight! A poultice for you, my arachno-demigod, wacky and skeptical. A promise of loot and skullduggery for all your children. I’ve won the tourniquet, I’ve devastated toddlers in the height of their podlike fashion, in their pink-naped heaven of Erasmus and his near-wife, Chlamydia. Give me five years, lovers, I will give you the ancient torture device constructed of kisses, in the glum transfusion of crisp, lichen climate with rectangular erotics, I will kill you with the blistering foods of a Crimean war, sluiced with a dura mater’s soldier-ration of tiny moistures, in this temple of my tryst with the daughter of the red god’s red dog. I will solder you to the Krsna of ironworks and most bellicose dementia. Give me liberty or give me everything you’ve ever loved. Stop me, my ancient history, as you always have, before I poison my own sleep with the wanderlust of this my stardom in the galaxy of worms and toxic ability. Brenda Shaughnessy
Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · last wk.

Dreamed a yacht club water victory parade devolved into many inexplicable corpses in shallow waters and then random violence, improbable twins, ludicrous disguises, portentous dialogue, extravagant plot twist, and pretentious malice.

Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · 2w ago

“Mushroom explosions taped to the chest. / Naked reminders of the death cup cloud. // O mammilla O / Papilla.” —Catherine Bowman, “Twins of a Gazelle Which Feed Among the Lilies”

TWINS OF A GAZELLE WHICH FEED AMONG THE LILIES. Antlers butting against the full moon. Bellies lolling on my belly. Creamy chestnut crania in convex cones. Dogs, they follow me around in circles. Everything I do they mimic. When I laugh they laugh, when I cry they howl. Fins break water, slice the waves that make up my body. Galactopoietic forms that feed the Milky Way. Hunchbacks girdled to the chest for life. Interwoven compartments of lobules containing a network of tubes. Joined to the tubes of each lobe are ducts and all ducts lead to the nipple. Knots for the tongue to untie. Lazy-boy recliners for lips to sit on. Mushroom explosions taped to the chest. Naked reminders of the death cup cloud. O mammilla O Papilla. Quivering wolf snouts nose through my dreams. Rats on a whiskered basso-relievo. Sleep on your back they point to the stars. Two points earned at birth. Nightpoints to stick to a crying baby. U x 2. Vaulted cupola. Baldheaded misers hoarding the mammon. Women lie topless, side by side on the beach, from A-flat to C-sharp to 3-D. Xylophones for the sun to play on. Yes to say yes. Zeugma. Zucchetto. Zoo. Catherine Bowman
Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · 3w ago

“The only light in the room comes from a luminous fork. / The bird murmurs something from a dream. The girl cannot / light a match.” —Matthew Rohrer, “Inside the Egg Something is Laughing”

INSIDE THE EGG SOMETHING IS LAUGHING. A bird in a room with a fever on a tiny bed made from a box of knives. In the corner a girl fumbles with a match, trying to heat a pan of water. Her breath descends like a veil onto the stone floor. Outside, the icy mountains loom. Voices can be heard from below, angry voices, dishes that have no choice in the matter yelling at each other as they shatter against the bruising cupboards. Somebody in the room whimpers; the girl cannot light a match. Her brother is outside prying the frozen animals from the side of the house where they huddled for warmth. It sounds like the bones of old trees snapping.The only light in the room comes from a luminous fork. The bird murmurs something from a dream. The girl cannot light a match. The girl’s pan has given up and gone to sleep. In a rare moment of lucidity, the bird asks for a rope. The bird asks to be shown the rapids where it once fed on trout. It asks if it will be forgiven for dining on a creature returning to its mother, to bring her flowers. The girl cannot light a match. The luminous fork is so old but remembers being forgotten by young people. The girl has never seen a fork cry before and she tries to catch its tear in her locket, whose picture is this in here? Matthew Rohrer
Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · 3w ago

Me: “Of all the bands, the Barenaked Ladies is the one I would have thought least likely to have a lead singer with a drug problem. They were so wholesome and nerdy!” Ariane: “And Canadian!”

Simeon Berry@simeonberry.bsky.social · 3w ago

“I sipped the dark / from my coffee. The black wick / of my heart snuffed in my chest. Afterwards, I pulled my hat / down over my eyes and walked through the snow towards / the bus.” —Sean Thomas Dougherty, “Cleveland Heights Monologue”

CLEVELAND HEIGHTS MONOLOGUE. I was born under the roof of rain that makes love possible. I borrowed an incomprehensible book from the old Jewish woman Mrs. Moskowitz who lived in the flat below. She was always giving me bread. She was always yelling at me in Yiddish. There were always things to borrow like clothespins, things she was losing like teeth. Her nephew pasted broadsides for radical meetings on the walls. She was the one my mother paid to sew my sneakers when I ripped them. The Hum of the old black Singer, her flat shoe on the pedal like a drummer. I ran young & naive as April light, shapeless as water. Once though they were dragging people into cruisers, I drank my glass of milk. It wasn’t my fault I heard her friend say, the word interrogation, the word detention. I watched her put eggshells in the coffee grounds. My aunt told me she had a box with the ashes of her stillborn child. I was born into a narrow happiness. What I bore I begged like an unexpected burden. I gave my allowance to the street musicians, the man with the violin and the hat. I was born from a wound, the names of small towns, the screech of tires, the labyrinth of days, all the long doldrums like the parking attendant at the hospital who took my ticket. The long slimy trails of snails on the stoop: the looping hand in a tasseled book the Rabbi read; I want to understand the shame of it, the shine of the black urn. A few words in Yiddish. Her young relatives with the long faces came and sat on the low stools. The black sheets over the windows. the bearded men. Even the branches wept. The old women rocked praying in Hebrew. Outside the sheeted window. There is so much to say etched with words. Elegies in the troubled light. A loneliness I cannot answer. A grief waist deep in amniotic fluid and ash. Only the early falling snow as I sat at a diner counter; the waitress named Alma slid a Kennedy half dollar across the counter. Alma I asked is that dawn? No, that is Alba, Alma is sol in Spanish she said, I know so little. Entiendo poquito. Looked out at winter erasing the world, said, it amazes me how fast we disappear, as easily as opening and closing a door. I sipped the dark from my coffee. The black wick of my heart snuffed in my chest. Afterwards, I pulled my hat down over my eyes and walked through the snow towards the bus. In the far distance, the flames from the last steel plant lit the sky. Sean Thomas Dougherty