Poetry Contest Submission 2

Untitled

It was a business.

Foot massage, back massage, head massage,
we offer them all-
just as we said in the classified ads.
So you see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
We conceal nothing.
Granted, we pride ourselves in our creativity,
Our innovative methods,
Our casual setting,
Our full-bodied commitment to our clients-
But please, don’t underestimate our schooling
in the art of applying *just* the right pressures.
It’s only a business,
and my, do your feet look tense.

Poetry Contest Submission1

Untitled

It was a business foot massage.
But not strictly business—
His fingers curled under her toes
The way sin creeps under the doors of a church
The pads of his fingers pressing into
The underbelly of her sole
Applying the pressure of his temptation
To lead him not into demotion.


Body Pride Week Poetry

Ed note: I know Body Pride Week was last week but I never check the email account and this one was too good to hang onto for another year. Don’t like it? Well, that’s too bad.

When I look at my face
In the Mirror,
I wonder,
What am I going to look like
Five
Ten
Twenty
Forty
Years from Now?

I’ll be honest with you,
I don’t have a clue!
Just like I don’t know why the sky is
Blue!

All I know is:
I will miss my young Beautiful face
Because I like looking Beautiful
Nevertheless,
I must say:
Since old age
Is coming my way
I will forget my looks for now
And work on my heart
And my mind
So that when my Beautiful looks
Fade away
You will find
See the beauty
Behind my looks
And that is
The beauty in my mind
And the beauty inside

 

By Alex Snee


Preying for Baltimore

On a raucous morning
the city dawns
in pink and blue and orange

The sirens bleat like so many
sheep on a hillside,
pithy horns singing a symphony
of anxiety and depression.

The grey concrete beneath
is deathly still.

Icy tendrils threaten to
overtake me,
creeping up and down my legs
(unwanted)
violating my warmth and peeling
my soul from my body.

It is cold enough that clouds of
exhalation swirl when I inhale,
that my big toes are curled
against mismatched socks
within tattered snow boots.

Steam gathers in the laundry vents
and the crazy old man with a
condom-hat preys on the warmth.
He reminds me of a giant soothsayer,
sucking in the ghosts of someone’s
clean tighty-whiteys.

He is either preying or praying and
he is hating this tough-as-nails winter.

Whoever said that  this city was
glorious
might have had something…
but they might have been on something
because I don’t feel very glorious right now.

I feel cold and violated and lulled to
A pulsing, vibrating sense of
Resurrection
Every time the stoplight changes and the
howls echo and the
Red
&White
&Blue
of those patriotic, sheep-like cops
flash across that crazy man’s face
like signs from God.

– April Nicotera


Tuesday Video: 1,2 Buckle My Shoe

This is a pretty sweet video made by my good friend Pete Huszagh, a teacher in Riverhead  New York. He’s not a Loyola student, but I love this video. For more check out letloosemothergoose


Your Palette

The first time you painted me, my dress was red.

Your fingers reached underneath to find new colors with wide brush strokes along the ivory canvas of my thigh.

You found soft pinks and blues and soon after sharper shades, like orange and green.

And then you found the red.

You took the red from me, extracting it from white wistfulness and silvery sighs, turning it darker and heavier with the magic of your brush.

You created a new world of color in me.

 

The last time you painted me, my dress was white.

Not that white wistfulness.

Not white like first fallen snow or doves of peace.

Not the white of a wedding gown or a newborn lamb.

No, it was the white that sails above ships who have lost their bearing.

That white that waves with a dull sad yielding—signaling enemies that their time has come to be overcome.

 

You blanched those pinks and blues and oranges and greens in me.

And even the red—especially the red.

But those colors will forever lay somewhere deep underneath the whitewash you spread over the once-loved shades.

For it is hard for a painted canvas ever to be fully covered, and impossible for it to be erased.

 

–Cathryn Dutton


Thursday Update – Abel Tasman

The following video is part of a series that Jerry Fagerberg and Dan Koster composed while abroad in New Zealand last semester.

The pair call the group Abel Tasman after the famous explorer for whom a national park is named on the South Island. Their album, Sighs of the New Zealand Outback, includes an eclectic mix of spoken word, folk music and experimental audio tracks.

The album is available in full on YouTube.

This video is for their song “Hearts Beating Laughter at the Foot of Mt. Thomas”