Tuesday, May 15, 2012 at 06:30PM
Joshua Stuyvesant was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides there. Besides being a poet, he is also a screenwriter, playwright, filmmaker, and painter. This is the first time his poetry has seen publication.
Another Vain Poet
Einstein sat in a swivel chair and said
books would be forgotten. Kubrick rarely
spoke a joke without peering over the rim
of his glasses. And then Renoir--the women
he painted adored every one of his commands.
I’ve walked and walked through the desert
and only gained a mouthful of sand. If a thin
man told me Chaucer dawdled with a captured
feather in his studio, I’d remember his name.
I whisper: be less loud. Be Thoreau. My words
have said, “Wasn’t there a man who figured
he’d never be quoted?” They are happy
to stay sand in a mouth--reluctant to be
feathers in a wind. Go. Find ears to pray.
Your Love of Old
We’ve happened in front of a vintage sink
that you simply adore with its hourglass
stand and bronze, shelled accents. We already
have a sink. This antique store boasts a saddle
that sat under Wyatt Earp’s ass. You use
the word rococo a lot. You sit on every
victorian-schmictorian chair. You kiss
me with your forehead so I flip through playboys
from the sixties. You look young in old mirrors.
I say I’m going outside for a smoke but instead
stand behind glass and watch you sniff old
bottles and rub leather against you cheek.
Outside, the dust hasn’t even settled while
we’re being buried under the musk of it all.