Poetry – Page 9 – THE CITY KEY

“London: Circle Line” by Eileen Moeller

A woman reads on the Underground
as it drags like a match along the tracks.

A woman wearing a handkerchief linen blouse
on the hot train reads a thick book
about World War II and bites her lip.
A young girl stares at her as she does this.

A girl who sits on her suitcase at the car’s end
with nothing to do but stare at the woman’s
head as it tilts toward the book,
her blunt cut hair, the drama of her face
as it acts out the words.

The words unknown, of course, to the girl,
except for what she can see in the angle of brows,
the pinch of lips, lashes flickering
the way signal lights
pull a train along
beneath the pages of city above.

Images float to those hungry for them.
That’s what they say
and that’s why some angle off
to an old lady at the other end.

A white haired lady frail in her thick coat,
in spite of the heat, who glances full of longing
at the blonde hair of the girl
squinting past her down the car.

This is how it works and always has, just like a fax.
Heat transforming text into text
and the certainty of response:

mysterious as the memory of a young girl’s
first awakenings to the world
as she hunches in silence with strangers
under the ground while London burns.

Eileen Moeller and her husband, Charlie, have lived in the Philadelphia area for the last twelve years. She has two books: Firefly, Brightly Burning, published in 2015 by Grayson Books, and The Girls in Their Iron Shoes, published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press, and has many poems in literary journals and anthologies. Her blog: And So I Sing: Poems and Iconography, is at http://eileenmoeller.blogspot.com

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.

Five Poems by John Grey

A CITY AFIRE AT NIGHT

No foot can survive unscathed,
not walking over these coals,
not while the city burns
and before the guilt rains down.
Nowhere to run
that isn’t molten,
a pool of tar
flooded with crying,
a conflagration,
where even the gutter creatures
barely survive.

Broken glass, syringes,
acids and powders,
hookers in flaming dresses,
the angry heat
sputters around,
red and luminous,
yet weeps to itself-
incandescent tears
in a dreaded backstreet
of people fused to the spot.

Heaps of them burn,
variegated scars
begin to smoke
intense as hell
in clots of black,
red-stained rivers
smog orange moon,
overheard wires sizzling,
the sky is aflame,
the coast can never be clear.

THE WOMAN WHO JUMPS FROM A BRIDGE

I don’t do
this out of despair.

It’s just that the part of me
that’s been down so long
wants to exert itself,
to make something
of all this nothing.

It is a series of events
that do not aim
for release,
and certainly not joy.

How it works
is that

all off my truths
hit the water
at speed,

create suffering
for myself
but end it
instantaneously.

Then I can claim victory,
that one breath left to me.

AN OLDER BROTHER’S NEW HOUSE

Prideful is the last word I’d ever use
to describe the man
but as we step outside
through the sliding doors,
there’s more than shyness
in that awkward smile,
more than addiction
in the way he releases a cigarette
from the box
and lights it in a kind of
unspoken triumph.

His blue shirt is open to the throat.
His skin is leathery
but his mood is as smooth
as the petals of the tulips
slowly shutting down for sunset.
I feel as if I’m on a tour of
a historic house
with him as my guide
when it’s just the place
he finally can afford
after years cocooned in one of those
pale stucco dwellings
pressed into the side of the hill.

And now here he is,
after a hard day’s work
in which he can feel every dollar earned,
with a cigarette in one hand
and the palm of the other
flat against solid brick.

He watches the smoke rise.
dissipate, be rendered invisible by air.
Now, for certain,
with his name on a deed,
that will never happen to him.

OCCUPANCY

You know there’s rooms such as these:

a dull kitchen
with a woman slumped in her chair,
a cigarette burning down to ash
in one hand,
a cold coffee cup holding up the other

a parlor
and a man crashed on a couch,
staring at a baseball game
on a dusty television screen,
half-slobbering, half-drinking,
his fourth beer of the night

a dark bedroom
and a young boy
hanging from a belt,
one end wrapped around
a light fixture,
the other crushing his throat,
and a chair kicked to the side
for all his life was worth

You already live in these rooms.
And some day,
you’ll meet the occupants.

KISSING SOLDIERS GOODBYE AT AN AIRPORT

People stop what they’re doing. The guy in the
bar raises his beer in salute. The ones who’ve been
there overnight toast the uniform with slowly
raised eye-brows. A little kid is slapped by his mother.
“Stand to attention,” she says, as if the anthem
is playing though it’s just the usual voice warning
all and sundry not to leave baggage unattended.
An old woman wipes a tear from her eye.
She’s seen it all before. It doesn’t always end happily.

It’s not like you see in the movies, the train load
of men in brown uniform hanging out of the window
kissing their childhood sweethearts. The farewells are
scattered. And it’s a busy airport of course. Over
by the x-ray machine, an entire family is paying
their tribute to a bespectacled man in his thirties
who was a banker yesterday. By the sign that says,
“Welcome to Rhode Island”, a middle-aged couple embrace.

Boy kisses girl between sobs sure but it’s the girl
who’s in green and brown, her tickets stamped Baghdad.
A pregnant woman leans over her belly to peck.
And a child of eight or so turns away from a departing
figure, cursing his father for leaving him. Goodbye is
a strange kiss, odd meeting of the mouths, one lips
off home, one to war. Swapping spit, we used to call it.
In lieu of touch, a jaw full of each other.

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John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Editor’s Post: Enchantment

Constantinople calls, sitting between continents
crossroads of civilizations, a city of starlit
streets and blue domes, gargantuan in size,
alien steel floating in sky.

Istanbul mornings fill with light as cold
air from water wafts in. The beauty
of buildings every color bright,
surrounds with red, yellow, and green.

Shivering under covers, city dwellers
wait to hear adhan, the call to prayer the steadfast won’t miss.
At break of day, Istanbul’s sun hits eyes from behind
buildings, off water, until bright rays
become locked in mind.

Nightmares dissolve as night falls
and frees you from memories of disenchanted days.

Ayesha F. Hamid is a poet and creative nonfiction writer published in Blue Bonnet Review, Philly Flash Inferno, Sheepshead Review, and Rathalla Review. Her full-length memoir The Borderland Between Worlds is available through Auctus Publishers at Barnes and Nobles and Amazon. Ayesha also has a full-length poetry collection called Waiting for Resurrection. She is a Poetry Editor at Ran Off With the Star Bassoon and an Assistant Poetry Editor for The Night Heron Barks. She is the Editor-in-Chief at The City Key.

Ayesha holds a Bachelor of Arts in French and A Bachelors of Science in Sociology from Chestnut Hill College, M.F.A. in Creative Writing and an M.A. in Publishing from Rosemont College. She also holds an M.A. in Sociology from Brooklyn College. Aside from writing, Ayesha also loves film, travel, and photography. You can find Ayesha on twitter @ahamidwriter

Ayesha is a lover of cities, big and small.

Five Poems by John Grey

ALLEYWAYS

If it weren’t for alleyways,
these creatures would not exist.
If trash didn’t overflow the bins
and bleary faces stare down
through cracked window panes,
there’d be no predator
with hat shielding his eyes
or knife-wielding tattooed hooligan
stabbing his blade in crumbling brick.
A cardboard hovel
sheltering a white-haired jabbering homeless man,
breeds a fleeting taloned stranger
barely deeper than the wind
or a shadow on the wall of something horned.
Rats bear some of the guilt.
Random gunfire also.
And likewise the cop who patrols
the neighborhood
but leaves the dismal dark dead ends
to their deadly discrete marauders,
Every so often,
in the best light day can manage,
Rescue drags a body out
of one of those smelly pits.
For an hour or two,
it’s Lumley Lane
not spawning ground.

AT HOME BELOW STREET LEVEL

occasional glance through the window bars
of the room I’m in…
closed in judgment and in fact –
promise to bathe more often,
or give the tanned young man in my head
a chance to breathe –
or stop lapping up tap-leak with my tongue,
and ignore the landlady
screaming about the rent –
sky can never clear,
air can’t warm up not even a little –
spend my last years
surprised to meet a man
of my shrunken dimension –
take money where I find it,
converse with my dead mom but not my dead dad –
ask a cop – sip the flask –
rot in my cellar, unequal even to the buzzing flies
sucking on the crystal sugar of my energy –
imprisoned by the roof, the windows, everything…
sad fate of a dead man in a cellar apartment
clutching the tattered family Bible,
my sins staring up at the street

JUNGLE

in the jungle,
red ants, lounge lizards,
jaguars, both feline
and valet parked,
potential prey
done out in the latest
slinky fashions,
spiders as big as tabletops,
piranhas and vultures,
snakes of all varieties,
vines and other stranglers,
interact, compete
and prey upon each other –
a paradigm of Gaia’s
ever-evolving
dynamical system
or Saturday night
once the clubs heat up

DEATH OF A WARRIOR

The cracks in the face are painted over.
The eyes are closed,
two bulges in the forehead,
where red veins used to be.

That’s normal under the circumstances.
As is the closed mouth,
that raspy voice no longer required.

And there is nothing of barrooms
and diners,
those bookends to his daily routine.
The man in the box
could have attended church daily
for all the lies
the undertaker’s handiwork tells.

But what choice was there?
A man who began his day
eating greasy slop
to disregard his heart.
A drunkard at night
with an entire family to defy.
Wakes are general exhibition
not parental guidance.

So the man is concealed.
Someone smooth, innocuous,
takes his place.
Maybe the mourners won’t notice.
Or memory will make good times
out of bruises.

Thankfully, the eyes are closed.
Now death is only sad.
It could have gotten ugly.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Yes, we were the ones
who scooped tadpoles from ponds,
gave turtles new unwanted homes,
boys in our early teens
with the belief that nature
didn’t belong in nature,
was more suited as periphery,
atop dressers, on bedroom floors.

With nets on sticks,
we chased butterflies,
pearl crescents with black and orange wings,
red admirals, eastern commas,
killing them with one squeeze of the abdomen,
pinning them to project books
where their wings crumbled,
and bodies turned to dust.

Our parents said,
at least they don’t get into trouble
like other kids –
no shoplifting,
no breaking into abandoned houses.

But we stole from the leaf-mold and the wildflower.
We busted into the fragile cycle of life.

A glass jar half full of brown water,
holes punctured in its lid,
and a creature stalled, stiffened,
halfway through metamorphosis –
a crime scene.
I was there.

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“Red Philadelphia Years” by Carlos Jose Perez Samano

Years like bubbles,
leaves, or cups.

Before Market Street
just a plateau,
back in time
those old trees
that now name
our beautiful streets.

1634,
Lenape woman,
an Armewamese one,
corn, beans, squash,
three sisters,
daughters of
Kishelemukonk.

1682,
cousin of William Penn,
son of two good Quakers,
also called friends.

Can you imagine
Richard Saunders
writing in his almanac,
words to the wise,
just to become Benjamin Franklin,
our first American guy?

Coming from Haiti,
1793,
a relative of Mackandal,
speaking only Creole.

Summer 1800,
slave 24 years,
from Cuba by boat
waits in Lanzaretto a month.

In 1849
the Moyamensing prision saw
how Edgar Allan Poe
tried to kill himself.

The same year,
some boats,
some Germans came,
the 1848 revolution ended.

By 1984 a guy from South Korea,
with a name hard to pronounce,
came after rolling for years
in the South Cone,
also called South America.

Coming from a wealthy family,
he became poor,
like an Allegheny or Kensington
meth woman dancing
without mouth.
Now his name is Jimmy Pak.

We all came
from different places,
and different times,
and here we go,
the years like empty drawers,
rusty dishes,
broken and dirty dolls,
pieces of me and you.

We all know that brotherly love
is a beautiful image
but Lorraine Hotel was full of stories
that we try to forget.

L-O-V-E in red,
pictures of Philadelphia.
with or without the hashtag
#love.

Philadelphia can be,
a nest,
a red brick,
some red
and yellow
and pink,
falling leaves,
touching lightly
the surface of the river
floating smoothly
through the small waves of
the Schuylkill.

And Philadelphia is
snow when it snows,
and heat like hell
if you don’t have a fan.

Years will come,
we will be gone.

But today here we are,
sharing this
Philadelphia year.

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Carlos José Pérez Sámano is a literary fiction and nonfiction author, teacher of Creative Writing Workshops in countries like Mexico, USA, Kenya, and Cuba. He has four published books, and is the recipient of the “Best Seller” award of Ad Zurdum Publishing House. His work has been featured in more than 20 international magazines like Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, Errr Magazine, Quinqué, Poetry in Common, Cultura Colectiva, among others. He is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in Publishing at Rosemont College. He will be published by Temple University Press in “Who Will Speak For America?” in 2018. Find him on Twitter: @carlosjoseperez

Three Poems by John Grey

CITY BOY

A city grew out of where I lived,
full of voices,
full of bouncing on the box spring.
It kicked stray dogs in the teeth
but worshiped whatever lurked inside its cracks.
It was loud on its feet
and lost a lot of blood when the moon came out.
The city listened in.
It figured me out.
It said “Sorry, no work,”
as it chiseled out slabs of stone
to honor some long-dead gangster.
But it never cooked enough
so it could feed everyone.
And nor was there ever enough warmth
so its inhabitants could sleep.
The city just sprawled away from my chair
in the small kitchen
of my second-floor apartment.
Whatever promises it made to me
were undone like my bed.

FROM THE TOP OF THE TOP FLOOR

Grand view.
Game board streets.
Taxis like moving pieces.
Factories below smoking cigarettes.
This is the highest of the high-rises.
Lungs feels like they’ve climbed ten thousand feet.
But here I am – eyes in the clouds,
elbows in the wind –
up fifty stories.
Hats off to the architect
with his inflated dreams.
And the construction crew of course.
And the electricians. And the plumbers.
There’s power and water all the way up here.
All adding to my vision.
All making me this human sky-cam.
I pity the generation
addicted to social media.
Is that a pavement down there
or a cell phone screen?
Their awe will pay for it in the end.
Such a small price to pay to ride the elevator
but the pettiness of talking to a friend prohibits.
So here I am, top floor, delirious with
the kind of fever
doctors cannot classify.
Look at those overworked corporate-slaves below.
Those ants must surely be cursing their luck.
They can’t even get out of the city’s shadow
while all I have to contend with is my own.
So how long can I stay up here?
Vertigo’s no issue.
I’m sure I’m part mountain goat.
And the spectacular never wearies me.
Only my ordinary life does that.
Yes, I will have to rejoin it eventually.
That’s the far shore, the cruel one,
straight below.

SOUND OUT

Jackhammers crack open a sidewalk two blocks away
to get at civilization’s mysterious underworld.
It’s the necessary noise of living in this age.
It’s the sound of the car engine, the cries
of lovemaking, the hellos of people who vaguely
know each other, the loud music some need
in their lives to compensate for how little
impact they’d make on the world without it.
I imagine a city in which we were all deaf.

How well we’d need to know our fingers.
Eyes would follow hands as we each spelt out our needs, our desires.
No worry about being shaken out of sleep
by the pounding of our surrounds.
I’d really want to have you in my presence
for your sense to get through to me.
Can’t you just see it.
In fact, that’s all you could do –
our hands flapping like wings,
a dainty twirl of the thumb,
a slight cock of the index finger
bringing such a smile to your silent lips.
But I would miss the symphonies and the jazz
and the lilt in your voice of course.
So I must endure the worst of buses
to get at the resonance of the heart.
Honking horns, screaming neighbors –
they’re archaeological digs
scouring down to the timbre of the true treasure.
The phone rings – another necessary evil.
Your warm greeting vindicates one sense at least.
All kinds of noise in the background.
For now, at least, it knows its place.

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Two Poems by Mitchell Grabois

Broom

The boys in baseball caps
wolf down ice cream
grab their temples and
moan about headaches

They toss remnants of cones
onto the dull green linoleum
and run out the door

the bell ringing in their wake
leaving me and Eppa with
a whole lot of quarters

I go get the broom

Age

I feel the heaviness of my body
It has too much age
has suffered too much exertion
Its labor has been exploited
and used for others’ pleasure
Soon I won’t be able to move it

Vivian refuses to send me a photo of herself
I haven’t seen her in forty years
as long as Moses wandered in the desert

Perhaps she is doing me a favor
We want things that are
not good for us
She claims she is marred by warts
and carbuncles
but perhaps it is even worse than that

Perhaps her la raza cosmica
has lost its cosmica
and all a photo would show
would be a graceless chunk of mud

Vivian is right
It is better that she remain invisible,
that I not be subjected to reality
but instead imagine something finer

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.

Three Poems by Spencer Shaak

Winter Janggi in Chilseong Market

You can hear the two men’s chuckles
throughout Chilseong Market.
Their fingers tap
cold octagon pieces
on wooden board
propped by stool.

Hot coffee, scallions, and garlic
rest by their restless feet
as they plan each other’s defeat.

People come and go
sometimes stop in street
to watch both sides unfold,
like two suns splitting rays
over Sincheon River.

Boys and girls run
with fried eomukguk on sticks,
their parents close behind
carrying fresh fruit and vegetables.
Jung-go furniture sells in stands,
mulmandu and gimbap steam
underneath colored umbrellas.

Many hours later
still warm coffee, scallions, and garlic
rest by restless feet
as both men plan each other’s defeat.

People come and go
sometimes stop in the street
to watch both sides unfold
like two half-moons casting shadows
over Sincheon River.
Here you can hear each man laugh
and listen to their Janggi pieces
tap tap tap.
It’s with tips of their caps
they become most alive.

They look like two werewolves
eyeing a full moon.

PC Bang

Oh, but it is smoky!
-this little PC Bang
smoke-filled, smoke-stilled
to choking encounter.
Be careful with your lungs!

PC man wears a hoody
that droops over his face
concealing his cigarette embrace
smoke between teeth.
Who does he meet
on his way home?

Poker cards flicker
on his screen
as he opens brown paper bag.
Three azaleas sleep in back
on a window sill,
still and patient.
Why such pretty petals?
Shouldn’t they be on Mt. Biseul?

Somebody must water these azaleas
or soju them.
Somebody must arrange them
watch them grow
amidst flickering smoke
and poker cards.
Somebody must love us all.

Seoul Man’s Soul

Strumming silver-lined strings to Hey Jude
Wearing New York shirt and shoes
I heard Seoul man play
Down on Dong-Seong-ro the other night
By his radio store’s fainted light.
He rocked back and forth
To the tune, Hey Jude
With his calloused hands on each string
He made that goose-necked guitar sing
Hey Jude
Rocking back and forth on his swivel seat
He played that tune while tapping his feet
Sweet Jude
Coming from a Seoul man’s soul.
O Jude!
In high-pitched voice with pleading tone
I heard Seoul man’s song, his guitar’s stroke:
Hey Jude, don’t make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better.
Tap, tap, tap, went his foot on the ground
He strummed more chords then opened his mouth:
Hey Jude, don’t be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better.
And far into the night he played Hey Jude
Till Dong-Seong-ro radio street was lit by moon
Then Seoul Man stopped playing and rested his eyes
While Hey Jude traversed through his mind.
He dreamt like a child, or man missing his wife.

Capture

Spencer Shaak is a MFA Writing graduate from Rosemont College in Philadelphia. He has had many great experiences in South Korea from teaching kids to spending great times with friends in downtown Daegu, Pohang, Busan, and Seoul. The following are poems about his own experiences and reflections in South Korea.

Three Poems by Ben Nardolilli

The Nightmare Network

I went through several forests full of metaphors
Before I got anywhere close to the city,
There were the trees clustered together in vines,
Woods resembling the nervous impulses of the brain,
And a forest dead in the center but alive at the outskirts

I reached the river and other bodies of water,
Occasionally I reached bodies sitting by that water,
We never talked or looked at one another,
But I felt a kind of unity since we were both counting
The contours of the waves spackled with sunlight

I only became a minor celebrity in the city,
People talked about me and children
Were told to stay away from the potential dark cloud
Of hidden disasters that my presence represented,
My black cape and top hat finally a good investment

Hudson Valley News

Sunday’s pastime: Hudson Valley wanderings
Under a nebulous cliffhanger fog,
Empty town and city and country pass by
Along with solitary mountains
Which break from the horizon
To peak without any friendly range nearby

Even the train is having trouble keeping track,
The cars swing and screech over each bank,
Outside, a river thankfully knows
Its course and stays in the vessel
It carved out for itself over centuries
While making the commute south to Manhattan

Looking Critically

Empty city streets, so what?
The colors are out
And I can enjoy them, from red to white

If the streets overwhelm
With their procession of cars and banners
I have the sidewalk to clean my eyes

So then I can look up again
At every light post and power line,
The auburn wood a leash for glowing pets

ben

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.

“The City” by Jenny Keto

Where every gram
of every human
inhabiting this place
is ground to dust

poured into cement
and mixed with the
water we only see
when it rains gray.

Gray that is hard
but is not rock
spreads over this
Earth we call home

and the land is
plotted out with
the width and height
of every human here.

Human sized
human sourced
boxes, we build
and we pave

and we build
with our waste
until we run
out of room.

Yet we come, we all come
here, because it must be here

and we pound
this pavement
thirsty, so thirsty
for something

we cannot see or hear
or smell, but we come
and we build our boxes up

until there’s no more light
until there’s no more
blue or green or brown
and gray is all we have in sight.

So we wait, we all wait underground
and we close our eyes to air that rushes but is not wind
and we sit or we stand in place, not moving

while something else moves us
waiting for someone to move us

because it must be here…

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Jenny Keto is a writer and actress born, raised, and currently living in Austin, Texas. She graduated with a B.A. in Theater from the University of Texas at Austin and acted regionally until wanderlust bit her. As a life experiment, Jenny moved to NYC just shy of turning 30. After the city taught her what she needed to learn, Jenny returned home to switch gears and become a nurse. She looks forward to the prospect of helping people for a living. Her first publication can be seen in the upcoming web publication of Painted Cave Literary Journal.