Sample Poems by Shannon Borg
Grimsby
This town, after all, is known for fish.
Red clay beaches, reluctant waves.
A smokestack’s white finger.
At dusk, every face is family—the curve
of a chin, crow’s feet on bicycle boys, gray
hair sifted to black. Sunset eyes.
Townies gather at one of two pubs to watch,
drink in the girls in astonishing satin
and heels, hair curled tight, arms
smeared with fishermen’s fingerprints.
I came to this town to drink
with a whelk fisherman with sad, swirled eyes.
He asks me to walk on the beach (the boat leaves
at midnight to dredge the bay’s red floor
for tiny sea pennies). Boardwalk neon ripples
the water. He says: do something you’ll remember
(in this town where your grandfathers strode
in from estates, their greatcoats stiff as bat wings).
We are your ancestors. We want, and what we want
is the same. (The heart is unbuttoned, the soul
unzipped.) Should I keep the boat waiting for the last
outward wave? When I walk to town, I find myself
sitting in a pub with my grandfathers, white hair blown
by salt water, worn hands like shells holding the sea.
The Single Girl’s Guide to Art
I. Unity
On her dress she wears her body. —Blaise Cendrars
Black, black, all black! The essence
of all that is deep, and you have
to have it! We all know the right
tools are essential to any undertaking.
Composed in just the right manner,
a little black dress can take you
anywhere. Nothing to distract the eye
from the body, in pursuit of your true art
lover. And next to you, honey, the tourists
will look like huge colorfields. The latest
liptstick is Venus, the latest shade
for nails is Mars. Perfect for museum day!
II. Balance
A woman must continually watch herself. —John Berger
In line, position yourself near the possible
object of your desire. Pay with plastic,
sign with a flourish. Think of your life
as one well-wrought performance piece,
and be sure to get the little pin; position it
above your breast, on your best side. Always
think ahead! You’ll thank me later—a fabulous
conversation piece, later at the café.
Remember, your entry into his frame must be
oblique, cause tension. Move to the corner
of his eye, but don’t linger, if he is to engage you
in what we will call the gaze.
III. Rhythm
I paint with my prick. —Auguste Renoir
What do you desire in a man? Money,
Looks, or (heaven forbid) Personality?
Determine your sequence in this manner.
For instance, the Renaissance is all good
and fine, but resist the tempting male
nude. We all know the perfect man
is a statue. But what straight man
can truly appreciate this? And stay away
from canvases of war. Narrative is the death
of art; it just goes on and on, and you,
my dear, are not even in that story.
Don’t get me started.
IV. Dominance
Here, nothing but a great thing can happen.
The tall woman becomes taller. —Louis Aragon
As you move through the pure white halls,
think: Sargent, Klimt. Thin fingers, thin forms.
Yes. Judith looks as if she’s dreaming
up some plot, avoiding the painter’s eye.
Follow her gaze. At its end you’ll inevitably find
a man. But beware, if his eyes are big as paintpots,
he’ll cling. Brushwork, gold foil is all he wants.
Now. This is the moment when life becomes
art. Circle the room slowly, mixing your blackness
into his linen (no polyester, of course). If he moves
after you, he’s fascinated. Follows to Picasso?
He might be yours. (Make sure to use protection.)
V. Contrast
The less you resemble us, the more
you are sure to charm. —John Jacques Rousseau
Position yourself, waiflike, in front of a Rothko.
Watch yourself being watched. But for God’s sake,
choose one that goes with your skin! Yellows
wash you out. Green? Too creepy. Red?
Yes, a dark, sensual crimson. You, diagonal,
just outside the frame. Resist time’s constant
passing (a nip here, a tuck there) with the eye’s
endless desire. That’s what art is all about,
of course. You can do it, girls. You are the site
where the eye will stop. Be the object
and the frame. The looking, and the looking
away. Now let’s go. We haven’t got all day!
If Memory Serves
As if regret were in it, and were sacred.
—Robert Frost
And in it, too, was the grubby knot
of your presence. And in it were two blue
tunnels of your eyes. And in it rope and what rope
can do, and a shovel, chuck, chuck, chucking
into the next dark hour. And therefore in it
was Grimsby and a dance with a stranger
when my eyes went out, and then too in it
were the seals on Cleethorpes Beach where my mother
kept coming out of the water, the seals my mother
kept emerging as, and in it were whelk and red clay,
and the red hill in Utah my father clambered as a boy
and the mica he gathered for its glitter
and in it fear of his big horse, his giant horse
Skyhook clopping streamside when red mud flowed
down into it and through until Houston glittered
for me, where my car was a swamp. And in it
the jaws of August’s worst afternoon, the house
and the damp bed on which you and I made love and forgot
over and over as the porch swing swung and creaked
and in it the Swedish pancakes my father made
while I swang, rolled with sweet strawberry, which
is like love is, love, that is, like sweet strawberry,
that song you sang as we cleared
the furniture out and all swang barefoot, drunk,
dressed to kill, and all at once, at that moment,
remembered how all our individual parents died.
And in it, the tick tick tick of summer passing away.
Seven Hours in Glasgow
for Peter
Walking to the bar alone, I asked a man
if he knew which turn to take to the Arches;
he’d just been there, he said, and pointed
behind him, then ran his fingers through his hair.
Along Argyle Street, mannequins in windows dressed
for dinners, eyes locked open, hands cupping space.
In the alley, there was barely enough space
to stand. When my stiff arm pressed against a man
he turned to look at me. We were both dressed
in leather jackets. He turned to look toward the arches
of the old railway station, his slicked-back hair
frozen like the curving rails, his shiny boots pointed.
Inside, the first thing I saw was your hand as you pointed
past me at a flickering screen; I turned to see a space
lit up with hourglass women, red hair
in waves, stillettoed, lipsticked, dancing as a man
sang in a pompadour—his cufflinked wrist arched
over the crowd, an elegant gestured dressed
by the sway of his hip. The band was dressed
Beatles obsessed—Cuban heels, pointed
toes. You stood in the corner under the arches
your mouth mouthing songs lost in the space
between us. I couldn’t enter your room—the doorman
made me wait, so I studied the musicians’ hair—
the attention they paid to their hair
was astonishing. And I felt odd, dressed
as I was in the blue jeans and leather a man
would wear—awkward in black pointed
heels three decades old—there was no space
for the present. Strobes pulsed beneath arches.
They were the shoes of a woman, stiffly arched
like a spine in ecstasy—but my dull hair
was short like a man’s; I didn’t fit in that space
where all the women were dressed
in the bright clothing of capture, nails pointed
at their lips, their earrings, at a tattooed man.
From under arches I watched you, dressed you in the blue
light of my longing, you unaware of my pointed looks,
space I longed to move through, thinking of you as a man.