April Poetry month, installment five!


Hmm. What to pick for you today…Lemme go back in history and check what my favorite poems are.
OK, I think Kim Addonizio for today…If you don’t know her work, you should check it out, shes lovely and intense and smart and gutsy. I appreciate her poetry a lot. I thank Rewa Z, a rock star poetician, for introducing me to her. My life is very boring today, nothing much to report on (in case anyone cared), highlight of the day is figuring out how to get to Abu Dhabi to film the London Symphony in rehearsals…ahh, That could be fun in itself, listening to music midday. I reiterate, production is a great job, unless you’re making a commercial for diapers…hasn’t happened to me yet. Oh I digress from poetry. Ok back to poetry, off to get breakfast for me.
I leave you with Kim. This one is for all the boys who don’t know what love is.

You Don’t Know What Love Is

You Don’t Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she’ll try to eat solid food. She’ll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she’s headed, you know she’ll wake up
with an ache she can’t locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

Kim Addonizio

more? ok MORE!!!


This is a valentine for the surgeons
ligating the portal veins and hepatic artery,
placing vascular clamps on the vena cava
as my brother receives a new liver.

And a valentine for each nurse;
though I don’t know how many there are
leaning over him in their gauze masks,
I’m sure I have enough—as many hearts

as it takes, as much embarrassing sentiment
as anyone needs. One heart
for the sutures, one for the instruments
I don’t know the names of,

and the monitors and lights,
and the gloves slippery with his blood
as the long hours pass,
as a T-tube is placed to drain the bile.

And one heart for the donor,
who never met my brother
but who understood the body as gift
and did not want to bury or burn that gift.

For that man, I can’t imagine how
one heart could suffice. But I offer it.
While my brother lies sedated,
opened from sternum to groin,

I think of a dead man, being remembered
by others in their sorrow, and I offer him
these words of praise and gratitude,
oh beloved whom we did not know.


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