Maureen Thorson (@maureenthorson) · DIRTY

Maureen Thorson

@maureenthorson

Poet person. New poems in The Bulb Region here:

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Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 23d

“I sing the song of the sleeping wife.” A poem by Robert Creeley.

SING SONG

I sing the song of the sleeping wife,
who married to sleep,
who would not sleep simply to get married;

who can be up at dawn, yet
never cannot go to sleep if there is
good reason not to go to sleep;

who sleeps to sleep,
who has no other purpose in mind,
who wouldn't even hear you if you asked her.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 24d

“Wake up please open yourself.” A poem by Donald Justice.

To Waken a Small Person

You sleep at the top of streets
Up which workmen each morning
Go wheeling their bicycles

Your eyes are like the windows
Of some high attic the one
The very one you sleep in

They're shut it's raining the rain
Falls on the streets of the town
As it falls through your sleep stop

You must be dreaming these tears
Wake up please open yourself
Like a little umbrella

Hurry the sidewalks need you
The awnings not one is up
And the patient bicycles

Halted at intersections
They need you they are confused
The colors of traffic lights

Are bleeding bleeding wake up
The puddles of parking lots
Cannot contain such rainbows

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 25d

“All sparkling steel and spritzed crystal rubbed down clean.” A poem by Harryette Mullen.

Champagne dreams wet shammy softy. Hands-on carwash, a pampering. Bathtub's a cheap vacation. Cruising her archipelago, laid back with turn-on pages. Emerged from placid stacked suds, hyperbolic exotic aisle of glamour bubbles. Pearl diver's paradise. All sparkling steel and spritzed crystal rubbed down clean to the squeak. A body with an interior rolls out sleek waxed shiny hard enameled. It takes her away, that seductive new smell, in fourteen flavors. She's cherry, just driving off the lot.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 26d

“I should be in awe of the living.” A poem by Hieu Minh Nguyen.

Litany for the Animals Who Run from Me

BY HIEU MINH NGUYEN

Anything can be a bird if you're not careful.
I should say something nice about the weather.
I should be in awe of the living, but the world dulls
when I step into it. The squirrels scater, the branches
lift. Sure, I've hurt the ones I've loved
by not paying attention. “Not alone—never alone”
is a lesson I need to understand. It was you who said that.
It's you still. You who says, “Look!” You who points
to the sky. You who tilts my chin toward the heron,
who cups the minnow in your hands,
who spots the deer miles ahead, who dulls
the world with your absence. You who says, “Look!”
& when I look, you are gone, replaced
by the whitetail's hind legs, fading into the bush.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 27d

“Green current turning under rain.” A poem by Neal Bowers.

RIVERRAIN

For Nancy

Whether the river smells of rain
or rain the river, the river
roars like rain, the way the rain
downpours making the trees a river,
green current turning under rain,
rivering, the scent of river
everywhere in the rush of rain,
in the curve of your sleep, a river,
here in your absence, a rain.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 28d

“The color of that flower also its name.” A poem by Michael Palmer.

All

All the beautiful women in my life
were called Sadie or Sadist I forget
the color of that flower also its name
now that you ask

where I have been these past few months
between the solstice and the total eclipse
of all that we once had known
or thought mistakenly to know.

Perhaps the snow blinded us
or we gazed too long at the startled sun
forgetting our strict instructions
like so many others

who had assembled there for the event
that came and went
without a word without a breath
while the dancers so young filled the streets

and the fields with a sort of silent song
thinking they could go on and on.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· 29d

“A beetle exploring the extravagance of a lamp.” A poem by Ukata Edwardson.

With My Father, like Scent with a Flower—IV

BY UKATA EDWARDSON

My father catches a beetle exploring the extravagance of a lamp on the side table. He says all living things have a tendency for death. All living things desire to be references to nonexistence. I disagree like a week of sunshine does with rainfall in August. I say the end of all living things is the beginning of living. What dies transfers itself into every nerve which once knew it, aiming for every survival. My father takes my poem and reads it aloud, and I hear something broken in his voice. I ask how he knows without knowing Death. He says: well, your mother is a memory now, is she not?

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 13

“I want to dress ! like a gale! full of glitter!” A poem by Chrissy Williams.

!katya!

BY CHRISSY WILLIAMS

i want ! to be friends ! with katya ! i want
to dress ! how i want to dress ! like a gale!
full of glitter ! and back alleys ! a seagull
laugh ! to shake our being ! whose secret lies !
perhaps ! in kicking legs upwards in delight !
painted ! an omnivorous harpy ! goofy !
loving our friends ! lighting up around them !
what a man ! “unstoppable” ! they'll say, why!
they're the perfect woman ! (now that's “me” !)
judy jetson ! enraged ! with a penis ! and
obsessed with “Contact” too ! in every situation !
a litle Jodie Foster ! “o dear role model
for my role model” ! find meaning! play parts !
everything real ! happens ! behind the eyes !
all those things we cannot prove ! like love !
like the world ! is just ! what we make of it

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 12

“And again the nude hills come back.” A poem by W.S. Merwin.

ON THE OLD WAY

After twelve years and a death
returning in August to see the end of summer
French skies and stacked roofs the same grays
silent train sliding south through the veiled morning
once more the stuccoed walls the sore
pavilions of the suburbs glimpses
of rivers known from other summers leaves
still green with chestnuts forming for their
only fall out of old dark branches and again
the nude hills come back and the sleepless
night travels along through the day as it
once did over and over for this was the way
almost home almost certain that it was
there almost believing that it could be
everything in spite of everything

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 11

“The fox returning to the fable's lair.” A poem by Elaine Equi.

COMPLETE SET

Perennial
white on white
blooms in winter

where all that
is unspecific looms
wooing

turning or torn off

"the inessential"

starling
caught between
the signatures
of two buildings

the fox returning
to the fable's lair

rain at night
and traffic
scattered like leaves.

Is cadence then
the opposite of decadence?

Baudelaire would not think so.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 10

“With a sound like the most exclusive refrigerator.” A poem by Mark Waldron.

The Stick

BY MARK WALDRON

Existence trumps nonexistence every time. It has
all the colors and all the shapes and all the moves,

it is rude in its bounty and its grotesque reach that
overcomes all before it. This bit of stick I found in

the park was showing off because the dead cant have it.
They can't have any of it. It was sticky and prickled

with a showy, dazzling presence, though it’s quietened
a little now, now that I've taken it home

and have it here on the mantelpiece. It has dressed
in purple robes and carried its being like a chalice

with such disarming mock-solemnity down and down
the pale carved steps into its candlelit depths.

Its being rests inside it now and purrs quite inaudibly
with a sound like the most exclusive refrigerator,

or a sound you might take for your own sovereign
wheels spinning. Little stick. Wait for me. I'm coming.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 9

“Once more I am your star.” A poem by Velimir Khlebnikov, translated by Paul Schmidt.

Once more, once more
I am
Your star.
Woe to the sailor with level
And compass
Whose angle is false.
He will wreck on rocks
And hidden shoals.
Woe to you without love
Or compassion
Who angled me false.
You will wreck on rocks
And the rocks will laugh
at you
the way you did
at me.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 8

“The lungs ask a question the heart repeats.” A poem by Laura Solomon.

FEELING SUNLIGHT

a little wind and the skin
takes off like geese

the head nods
& the shoulders relax
finally

the feet feel lucky
suddenly to have toes!
are the hairs smiling?

the lungs ask a question the heart repeats
the nose knows more than it can say
the tongue tastes
the genitals wake
up

the mind believes again
it still exists

& there is nothing but this
between
everything and the golden tornado

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 7

“It breaks the first law of water.” A poem by Wendy Battin.

Frog. Little Eden.

BY WENDY BATTIN

Amphibious, at home
on the surface

tension, in
over my head, not
out of my depth, not deep
deep deep,

not in far. Not
high and dry, not
even in treetops,
where I sing water
into the root-hairs.

It seeks me, will not
forsake me.
Hand over hand it climbs.
It breaks
the first law of water,

all for my song.
Into the trunk and up, it greens
the leaves that the leaves may be
-emerald me.
The leaves breathe it out and I drink,

then sing

lest the water forget to rise
and the world be kindling.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 6

“One seesaw, one fountain, and one swing.” A poem by Gilbert Sorrentino.

Orange Sonnet

Across this water sits a shore
patched together out of dim and smudgy colors.
It brings to mind a cartoon oddly porous.
Static on a worn-out sponge. Yet a core
of translucent light seems to spring
from the center of what looks a town or market
and drenches the lime-green haze of the park
I put there. One seesaw, one fountain, and one swing.

Mothers and children in blue
filled with good humor, China blue
eyes and the rest, plus the sky is blue.

You can see I'm trying to get there
seriously. When I get there
I’ll be young again. I forgot orange. There.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 5

“There was no choice but to learn to boogaloo.” A poem by Wanda Coleman.

American Sonnet: 91

BY WANDA COLEMAN

the gates of mercy slammed on the right foot.
they would not permit return and bent
a wing. there was no choice but
to learn to boogaloo. those horrid days
were not without their pleasure, learning
to swear and wearing mock leather so tight
eyes bulged, a stolen puff or two
behind crack-broken backs and tickled palıms
in hallways dark, flirtations during choir practice
as the body organized itself against the will
(a mystic gone ballistic, not home but blood
on the range) as one descended on this effed-up
breeding hole of greeds—to suffer chronic seeings

was’t hunger or holiness spurred the sighting?

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 4

“The lance that pierced and then pulled slowly out.” A poem by Rachel Loden.

Lives of the Saints

BY RACHEL LODEN

After the offending bit is popped out
these tiny stitches on your neck

are exquisite. Lips of the slit
dont speak the way you think they should,

break into stupid song, blow kisses
at the doctor. Some piece

that kept insisting on itself
will spend a few weeks in a jar on holiday

with strangers, stained and diced
and separated neatly

from its secrets. You can only
wait, reading your book about the sex

lives of the saints, the lance
that pierced and then pulled slowly out

of Saint Teresa's heart. A slice
is venerated in Milan, they say, an arm

in Lisbon, a single breast in Rome;
but her heart's enthroned

behind the convent walls at Avila. Pink
under glass, it wears a tiny crown.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 3

“The commas caught their breath.” A poem by Raymond Queneau, translated by Teo Savory.

$SINES When One made love to Zero spheres embraced their arches and prime numbers caught their breath holding out their hands to fresh larches simple fractions fractured to death lay down in the torrent of silent decimals When B made love to A the paragraphs caught fire the commas caught their breath holding their necks over a bridge's arc and the alphabet fractured to death vanished into the arms of a silent question-mark$

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 2

“Now is her time to thrive.” A poem by Jane Kenyon.

Things

The hen flings a single pebble aside
with her yellow, reptilian foot.
Never in eternity the same sound—
a small stone falling on a red leaf.

The juncture of twig and branch,
scarred with lichen, is a gate
we might enter, singing.

The mouse pulls batting
from a hundred-year-old quilt.
She chewed a hole in a blue star
to get it, and now she thrives…
Now is her time to thrive.

Things: simply lasting, then
failing to last: water, a blue heron's
eye, and the light passing
between them: into light all things
must fall, glad at last to have fallen.

The hen flings a single pebble aside
with her yellow, reptilian foot.
Never in eternity the same sound—
a small stone falling on a red leaf.

The juncture of twig and branch,
scarred with lichen, is a gate
we might enter, singing.

The mouse pulls batting
from a hundred-year-old quilt.
She chewed a hole in a blue star
to get it, and now she thrives…
Now is her time to thrive.

Things: simply lasting, then
failing to last: water, a blue heron's
eye, and the light passing
between them: into light all things
must fall, glad at last to have fallen.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jul 1

“Between nearly knowing and knowing is a deep line.” A poem by Jane Huffman.

JANE HUFFMAN

A FEW NOTES ON A COMPOSITION BY EDMOND JABÉS

Some words come too close. “Limerence,”
too close. Like mishearing someone's name
three times but being too ashamed to ask
a fourth, and so compromising with not
knowing—the line between nearly knowing
and knowing is a deep line—until someone
else within earshot introduces themself.

“Earshot,” too close. Too close to significance
to be an adequate sign, like the violist who
wears a single earring to accommodate her
viola. No daylight between shoulder, ear.
Lord, if you must make me an instrument—
I once wrote, though I no longer remember
the context, the inference—make me that one.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 30

“It’s too bad you were awake for the event.” A poem by Diane Niatum.

The Dice Changer

BY DUANE NIATUM

Raven steals your name for an autumn joke:
buries it along with you under the broadest hemlock
known to squirrel or chipmunk.
He croaks it's too bad you were awake for the event.
He accuses you of boring him
with the same old questions over and over.
You attempt revolt to prove his rattle
is cracked and as britle as his song.

Raven clacks his beak like a trap and hollers
your face is a mask splitting down the middle
and madness has found a home.
All stink and fur dung, the black master
quips you had a chance to flee
but forgot where and what direction.
Now he blurts your pain must jump in the river,
the river thrash like the wind,
the mountain awaken you to the currents of the sea.
Raven hops away and chuckles as the dark chatters,
flips you over to your earth shadow.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 28

“The snake has perfected his skin.” A poem by Bridget Lowe.

Revival

BY BRIDGET LOWE

Here, I am blowing this little stream
of blue vapor into your parted lips.

Here, I am placing my hands on your chest
in an X while my red nails distract

the crowd of impostor lifeguards
closing in. Here is the place to raise

the tent, I can feel it in my bones.
The snake has perfected his skin, he is

ready to be lifted and passed. How
did I do it? The process was messy,

I'd rather not share it, but look, look
at us now. Lemon drops and cherry bombs.

It's the eye of the tiger, went the song
I used to sing in the basement alone.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 27

“Zipper a spine at her back.” A poem by Adrienne Christian.

Portrait of Pink, or Blush

BY ADRIENNE CHRISTIAN

when today at a bistro
an elderly couple in jeans, leather
bomber jackets, and heeled boots
stepped down from their stools
to stand and go home—

him behind her,
his bomber jacket zipper
a spine at her back,
him wrapping on her scarf

the heart-shaped cookie she nibbled
the shape of her mouth,
that cookie, puffy,
with still-soft icing white and rose—

I learned
the anthropology of blush

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 26

“There’s no hurrying the bad guy.” A poem by Mike White.

Death for Bad Guys Tastes Like Candy

which explains why there's no hurrying
the bad guy when he's got the good
guy right where he wants him
sweating under the industrial saw blade
that advances so slowly you wonder
how such a speed setting could ever be
useful in the manufacture of anything
though it's just the thing for the bad
guy who lives to savor the almost
unbearable anticipatory sweetness of
death drawn out to an eternity
of close-ups alternating between two men
(every pipe in the place is steaming) who share
a certain moral fanaticism and a passion
for the pretty ofice girl turned militia-queen
who is just now regaining consciousness
and taking her cue from the swelling
music is maneuvering a giant meathook
onto a giant pendulum and still the bad guy
has time to finish the good guy with the flick
ofa switch but he chooses instead to method-
ically turn and take the meathook full on
with a slo-mo grimace and a long tapering moan
that always means a happy ending

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 25

“I've studied the bloodsport of brothers.” A poem by Jane Zwart.

Jane Zwart

THE AGE OF JOUSTING

I've studied the bloodsport of brothers:
oneupmanship, comeuppance,
the hierarchies of pups and of roosters

made and unmade. And if I haven't met
the twins whose sparring sprawled
as far as war, still I've seen my sons—

how, playing chicken on their high horses,
they turn tauromachian: one a caped tease
and the other brandishing horns.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 24

“Over and over comets narrowly avoid collision.” A poem by Shuntaro Tanikawa.

MUSEUM

A stone axe among others
Quiet on the far side of the glass

The constellations rotate,
Many of us perish,
Many of us are generated,
Over and over comets narrowly avoid collision,
Many dishes are smashed,
Eskimo dogs walk on the South Pole,
Great tombs are raised, east and west,
Collections of poems are dedicated,
And quite recently
They split an atom,
And a president's daughter sang a song . . .
Various things have even happened
Since then.

A stone axe among others
Lies quiet on the far side of the glass

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 24

Yay! Thanks to @bulbregion.bsky.social for featuring 3 poems from my forthcoming collection with Anhinga Press! Link in my bio ❤️

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 23

“I slept before a wall of books.” A poem by Saskia Hamilton.

Zwijgen

BY SASKIA HAMILTON

I slept before a wall of books and they
calmed everything in the room, even
their contents, even me, woken
by the cold and thrill, and still
they said, like the Dutch verb for falling
silent that English has no accommodation for
in the attics and rafters of its intimacies.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 22

“Like every flower, she has a little theory.” A poem by Frank Steele.

Sunflower

BY FRANK STEELE

You're expected to see
only the top, where sky
scrambles bloom, and not
the spindly leg, hairy, fending off
tall, green darkness beneath.
Like every flower, she has a little
theory, and what she thinks
is up. I imagine the long
climb out of the dark
beyond morning glories, day lilies, four o'docks
up there to the dream she keeps
lifting, where it's noon all day.

Maureen Thorson@maureenthorson· Jun 21

“Half monarch, half shadow, the tree aspires.” A poem by Grace Schulman.

Horses on the Grass

BY GRACE SCHULMAN

From the tower window
the moon
draws a silver maple's shadow
across a spangled lawn;
horses
rear, manes lashing the air,
front legs floating.
Half monarch,
half shadow, the tree
aspires to the sky;
one branch, cracked by lightning,
scrapes the earth.
Reflected
on the grass, bent twigs
are curved hooves, galloping
as the moon rises.

Divided it stands
in wholeness, mourning
its victories, praising
the god of trees, the king of horses.

The tree holds souls
in a bark prison
poised like a runner at the starting line—
and bolts free, wildly
pawing the ground those roots lie under.