All posts tagged with poetry

December 15, 2021

Vera West Is Our 2022-2023 Poet-in-Residence!

Posted by Mike Rochester in News, Writing

Editor’s Note:We are excited to announce our second Poet-in-Residence, Vera West! Earlier this year, we were introduced to Vera through our all-star Poetry Barista, Yong Takahashi. Michael and Jennifer were throwing around the idea of doing a “potpourri post” of poetry. The timing worked out for it to fall on National Poetry Week, so we organized a lineup of poets for the post. I reached out to Yong to ask if she knew any poets who would want to contribute a poem and she replied with an enthusiastic request to include Vera. (You can see that National Poetry Month post here.) Over the summer, us baristas were discussing who we wanted to nominate for the next Poet-in-Residence position and again Yong came back with Vera’s name. We perused her portfolio and had a delightful Zoom…

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December 14, 2021

Announcing an FC Cento Poem Contest!

Posted by Mike Rochester in News

We’d like to announce a fun challenge for all you poets at the Café. We’re doing a Cento Poetry Challenge! For those who have never heard of centos, they are poems crafted from words and phrases found in others’ works and pasted together to form your new, unique thoughts. The best poems will be featured on FC’s site. The deadline is 12/31. To enter, email mike@fictionalcafe.com For more information on cento poems and how to create them, check out The New York Times‘ post.

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November 8, 2021

“Orphan Smile,” The Poetry of Gopal Lahiri

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Orphan Smile How hard it is for the stars to weave a story. It breaks through the wall and chain, and then in turn, with eyes closed. Words filter into dark rooms, unnoticeably, to the tune of the evening. It is not unexpected, nor is it striped, wood pencils sketch grey and grey sky. Each strum is a haze that thins and fades, the one who sings with all the heart for a while, is now trapped in the web of memory. Each mirror reflects the orphan smile, what remains is the rising smoke of the pyres. Ancient Palms We must learn to read, to hold them ever among the corn fields of the golden year. Before our eyes, the deep unique shadows take me up…

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October 27, 2021

“Bleb,” A Poetry Excerpt by Sanjeev Sethi

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Medic As casual as strolling on a graveled pathway in a close-by parkland, words cycle towards me on my inner track where ideas lap dance with a tumescent dash. The first draft is born. This baby needs a battery of nurses and other paraphernalia. I’m the doc on duty. Summon the accoucheur for stillborns. Memento Mori Campestral locales furnish the song and dance routine with a context. Ill-lighted rooms caution me of you. When their consciousness darkles, I am snug as a bug. Why does sadness complect my cheeriness? Is alertness a curse? Nonfiction Google and other griefs chase my working hours. Nights are cut out for graphology. In temple of needs my pelage seeks your petting. My god it seems is huffy. Fair Play The…

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October 5, 2021

“Architeuthis Considers the Sapiens,” by Katy Scrogin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Architeuthis Considers the Sapiens Before, we could believe in their innocence when they’d only seen us dead, another limp tendril of sea-culled debris delivered to dry land in those in-between hours when it was understood that nothing happened or arrived outside the boundaries of their serene dreams They had eons to build legends upon our pale still limbs to fill their need for fable with splayed gray membranes growing stale and sacred on the sand But now their truth-seekers know the cold-tingling thrill of penetration into deep-dwelling realms      of untethered motion      volition the stinging grasp of unstoried life. What now, my unarmed soul, now that they know? * It wasn’t until 2006 that humans finally saw a living Architeuthis dux, or giant squid. Until that point, the dead specimens…

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September 9, 2021

“Party Time,” Poetry by Shoshauna Shy

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

PARTY TIME Everybody’s laughing at you because you’re swinging a stick like a fool at nothing and because it’s June Fest but moms made them come h e r e. Even Bobby Ferrell, your classroom “book buddy” jeers. The cake your mother served was lemon coconut for your sister who missed out on her own party in April when sick. You trip on your own feet. This makes the pitch of laughter rise – and then ka-SHAB! – the stick makes contact, the string snaps, and the piñata tumbles to the ground. Nobody understands, least of all you, why you keep whacking and whacking that jackass flat even after it spills the goods. CHOOSING THE BEST TIME TO STAGE YOUR OWN ABDUCTION Not while your dorm mate is in Connecticut and won’t notice how you aren’t there but your purse and cell phone are. Not the day…

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August 30, 2021

“T.S. Eliot Homage,” Poetry by Timothy Resau

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

T.S. Eliot Homage (a love poem) Looking, now, at myself, do you think of me, later? When the tropical sun and high waves wash across my thin ankles? White-haired and crazy with spider-like legs, stumbling over small sand dunes— dunes I shall call memories. Should I be calling: — More champagne? Hashish? Incense? Should I be laughing: — Why have you forsaken me O Lord? Looking, then, at myself, and you, seeing you over my Paper-Mache shoulders— brittle, like old bird bones, these once worldly shoulders. Do you think of me? — And the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary that she was to be the Mother of God . . . White-haired and crazed, red bandana and erotic music. Original, native paintings upon my clay walls, so modest— The Mother of…

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August 23, 2021

“Drawing Mannequin,” Poetry by Julia Franklin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Drawing Mannequin Mischief in monochrome. Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. No life out of reach. The Pasta Hour Late walk, home again. Dark sky above, weak legs beneath. Fifteen-minute era of Waiting, Watching, and Stirring . . . To be rewarded with chewy-salty Victory, butter-cheese-fork Relief, calorie-laden Defiance, primal-unconditional Devotion. The Fire I come not from one house, but three. House Number One was festive, dependable, full of sweet dreams and hypotheticals that I shrugged off. House Number Two was empty, frigid and aloof, stripped to its skeleton, and infected with smoke. House Number Three was recuperating in the balm of springtime and accepting, sheepishly, the cardboard boxes that held its Number One face. …

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August 9, 2021

“Finding Progressions in Mere Lists,” by M. A. Istvan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

finding progressions in mere lists when none of the facts so integral to who you are can be reached absenting oneself from a situation by fainting sitting on a wood fence for hours in hope that a new face will show itself to talk failures loom larger in places where little else is around pinching the tongue of one seizuring the flood displacement would have been a glorified camping vacation had he not learned of her betrayal feigning knowledge of facts mentioned in an offhand tone as if you knew them already thoughts of suicide to stay in the game when mere to-do lists fail making the position clear threatens to make it vulnerable even the sexual organs of family are open for dinner conversation once…

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July 20, 2021

“Incompletist,” Poetry by Tom Pennacchini

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Incompletist It’s all a bit sketchy don’t you know what with the RMS and all.  Formal education and I didn’t work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar and particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi – conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.  (Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.  After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.  I rushed outside after a constricted couple of…

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