The Clutch by Ayla Rogers

The Clutch by Ayla Rogers

When they ask me

Why I write so many poems,

I talk about the impermanence of man.

It was soon after my brother died,

A fine summer’s eve,

Streetlamps glowing.

A sat on a sooty curb

Outside a well-loved venue,

But the doorman was as deaf

As the ears of the drummer inside,

And everyone just standing there.

No one jumped or shouted,

And not a heart beat

And the speakers blared endless ballads

For departed singers.

I sat on a sooty curb

Wrought with stubborn romanticism, bitter fugue

Of blue and yellow bottles

And channeled my love

Into the clutch of my life’s manuscript,

The only vice that would receive me.  

                                                                                                                                                           

Poem of the Day: When I Am Asked BY LISEL MUELLER When I am asked    how I began writing poems,    I talk about the indifference of nature.    It was soon after my mother died,    a brilliant June day,    everything blooming.    I sat on a gray stone bench    in a lovingly planted garden,    but the day lilies were as deaf    as the ears of drunken sleepers    and the roses curved inward.    Nothing was black or broken    and not a leaf fell    and the sun blared endless commercials    for summer holidays.    I sat on a gray stone bench    ringed with the ingenue faces    of pink and white impatiens    and placed my grief    in the mouth of language,    the only thing that would grieve with me.