dylan tweney

if you're bored, you're not paying attention

Tag: Poems

  • 3-0 game 

    in the blue sky 

    above the goalkeeper 

    a turkey vulture 

    turns and turns 

  • untitled

    scattered gravel
    along the bike path
    and one old
    champagne cork

  • untitled poem

    3 floors

    above
    the alley
    where
    2 young
    men
    examine
    1 paycheck
    a window
    box
    of
    geraniums
    and
    a gray
    satellite
    dish
    and–
    what made
    me look–
    wind
    chimes
    ringing
    out


    6/1/2010

  • Some haiku from November

    after the last train a man works the floor polisher alone almost

    snow calculus — the slow accumulation
    of almost nothing

    turning the corner into the sudden warmth of sunlight

    in a light rain
    a woman pushes a shopping cart, singing “Wish You Were Here”

    new glasses: all of my mistakes now painfully clear

    the wool smell
    of grandfather’s army coat —
    frost-tipped leaves

    (contributed to the 1,000 Verse Renga Project)

  • Backlash

    One thing follows another,
    as sure as teeth mesh
    with teeth, the pinion turns the gear,
    the axle drives the wheel and the world
    tumbles forward on its pivot:
    Some things are reversible,
    allowing for the unavoidable backlash,
    a little play, a wiggle in the works,
    a slap in the gears, the jerk of each car
    as the train gets underway,
    the taking up of slack
    and the moment
    just before reversal,
    the holding of breath, the gasp,
    the lash, the slop, the stop.… Story continues … “Backlash”

  • Chamber Music Society

    The rosin dust on the violinist’s
    oldest violin is white,
    like the chalk beneath the words
    where children learn to write
    the equations that will define
    the arcs and angles of their work.
    Rosin is the trace of a hundred
    thousand notes, silent, no spark
    remaining but the sense that all
    has come to rest: the scratches
    on the indestructible stands,
    the shabby folding chairs, matches
    in the composer’s tweedy pocket.… Story continues … “Chamber Music Society”