NOT AS SWEET
This one is not as sweet
As the one before it
I was taken in by its good looks
The rich green color
The dark and perfect striping
I thumped it
Sniffed it
Weighed it in my hand
And then I took it home
With the first cut
The signs of heartbreak were there
Thick, tough and resistant to my instruments
It fought the quartering
Railed against separation from the rind
Exacted revenge by making me the fool
Tissue paper flesh should be discarded
But I am hungrily devoted
To the bland watery chunks
Tasteless and diluted as they may be
To partake is to be the same
Fighting the seduction of inviting aroma
And the whispers that outside pretty
Means the inside is just as
Because you know when they get together
They don’t always tell the truth
No
This one is not as sweet
As the one before it
And even knowing that
I sprinkle the sugar
And devour it anyway
LEFT TO HIS OWN DEVICES
The lawnmower, the blender, the VCR,
The radio, the camera, the engine in the car,
A mechanical attention,
Would take him far
Spirited away by the reel-to-reel hum
Introverted they said, crazy said some
Fever passed on from father to son
She lied to him when she said he was the best
And after she never answered his text
The IPOD, the IPAD, the laptop keys
All interest lost in the birds and the bees
The room, the space, the secret stash,
Parents short on love provide plenty of cash
No friends, no prospects, riding the mist
A new world to inhabit became his wish
Real flesh, real life, is just too hard
No benefits discovered
In dropping his guard
With no competition for his number of wins
Fantasy is reality yet again
Screen words declare him the ultimate of all
Inside he can make many more fall
With nothing else to do
On this side of the frame
They will all find it easy
To remember
His name
Eyes closed
Racked it once
And entered the game
CHILDTHINK
In the faint chalk outline of another day’s game
Played hopscotch with Daddy’s keys
Defiant I let the streetlights go out
And did not go home on time
Had to have one more palm slap
On the tetherball winding fast and faster
And then coming unwound
Calmed by the completeness of the cycle
Cheated to get to the middle
Of the pink Hostess cupcake
I know my priorities
New glasses hurt my nose
Lose them on purpose
I am diabolical
Cod liver oil and cocoa butter
Come off me in waves of scent
She says I smell like outside
Was not supposed to go to bad Carl’s stinky house
Relieved she can’t smell that
Perfect newspaper creases
Line the garbage can
I play with a full deck
Of cards in my bike wheel spokes
My engine hums
I commandeer the window
In the backseat filled with sisters
On the trip down south
We are baptized by the swamp cooler
Through the wound in the Redwood tree at Yosemite
Then to Disneyland for the shadow profile picture
We were all black that time
Sugar tries to overpower the chemical taste
Of the well water
In the Louisiana Kool Aid
Thirst ignores the danger as mosquitoes feast
Protected while wearing my mother’s shoes
On the virgin bus ride
Best friend rituals created
We ate sunflower seeds and drank Pepsi
Watched Roller Derby
We do not analyze silences
Dialed random phone numbers
Shocking strangers with adult words
Safe in anonymity
The bullies chase me home
Counting on my PF Flyers to save my life
Rescued by the laughing lady
At the San Francisco beach
Mimicking her mirth as I get away
SOMEWHERE BACK THERE
Somewhere
Back there
I see your rigid back
as you face the sink
your anxieties framed
by the flower filled window
And he is
Yelling at you
While you scramble the dishes
Immersed in that Palmolive green silt
Your hands vibrate
With a fury
That makes
The bubbles float aimlessly
And burst in the kitchen air
Just like a birthday party
In the twilight zone
Even though
When we were somewhere
back there
My other self knew you could feel
The rescuing lure of the
Peaceful garden just
on the other side of the glass
We were held in place
By the stronger grip
Of the inside scary real
Somewhere back there
You did not want me to
be
there
I could not leave you
Alone in the deafening screech
Unsettling the walls
Enough to make
The colors fall back
Hurling the vivid embroidery
Just beyond our reach
Sometimes the somewhere
Back there
Becomes the here and now
Where the smell of that liquid
That threatened to suffocate
And could not nourish the flowers
Calls forth the reminders
Of that and other times
Like that time
Somewhere
Back there
Somewhere
Back there
I wish that we had
Opened that window
Tiptoed on the sunbeam
into the garden
Where we might have prayed
Among the glory of the colors
that he
Would turn his wrath
On his own demons
descending into the green swirl
of the sickly-sweet bath
And be washed
Sheryl’s conversation with Douglas Cole
What inspired you to start writing poetry?
As I often tell people, my imagination has always been my best friend, and she sees most things in poetry and prose. Sometimes this comes from a need to not see things the way they really are, to see them as they could be, or to squarely face a reality. My inspiration to write comes from a foundation built inside a family of readers. Reading takes one to places they would not otherwise go and in ways they may not otherwise visualize and when you see it, it becomes reachable, and imagination makes it tangible. Once your imagination grabs it, what you write can be infinite in poetry, you are free. Poetry has always been the way I have indulged my imagination the most, and the way I have documented my memories, good or bad, in the poetic ways they deserved. Even in my novel, Betrayal on the Bayou, the narrative has a strong poetic influence.
Which poets have influenced you? And what did you learn about the process and the forms of poetry from the poets you love?
I love Sonia Sanchez, Maya Angelou, and e.e. cummings, to name a few. For me they all have a unique form of expression, celebration and communication that is lyrical and deep. The kind of poetry that makes you sit up in your chair and acknowledge its touch. What I learned from these poets is that I can write anything I want in any form I want. I do not write to form. I write to inspiration, real or imagined. I am a poet on the prowl…I see poetry everywhere.
What would you say is the poet’s place in the world today?
I see the poet as the embedded ambassador for presenting an imaginative, meaningful and artful point of view for everything that inspires their poetic voice. It has never been enough to have things displayed in a plain and pedestrian way. The poet provides eternal documentation of the ways of looking at the world that provoke thought and sometimes, reconsideration of recalcitrant views. Poetry can make you think. And think again. Poetry can change your mind. Poetry never dies. Poetry can promote peace.
Award-winning author and Pushcart Prize nominee SHERYL J. BIZE-BOUTTE is an Oakland multidisciplinary writer whose autobiographical and fictional short story collections, along with her lyrical and stunning poetry, artfully succeed in getting across deeper meanings about the politics of race and economics without breaking out of the narrative. Her writing has been variously described as “rich in vivid imagery,” “incredible,” and “great contributions to literature.” Her first novel, Betrayal on the Bayou, was published in June 2020 and a poetry collection she has written with her daughter Dr. Angela M. Boutte, titled No Poetry No Peace, was published in August 2020. Her in progress novel first chapter, “The Burden Keeper,” was the 2021 fiction category winner for the San Francisco Writers Conference writing contest anthology. An inaugural Oakland Poet Laureate runner-up, she is also a popular literary reader, presenter, storyteller, curator, and emcee for local events. WWW.SHERYLJBIZE-BOUTTE.COM
Blue Citadel is a column by Douglas Cole (Washington, USA). Novelist, poet, professor and translator.
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