Sample Poems
from A Verse Map of Vancouver
Down one at The Nat
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world
- from “Ode to Sadness” by Pablo Neruda
The ballpark shines,
this blue world an ode
to Neruda’s odes -
newsprint
and baseball
caps, salty socks
and watermelon
grins - the glistenings
of summer.
The pitcher bows,
bat ripples, white ball
bounces into the
artichoke-
green outfield, nestles
in its gloved heart.
The red earth before
second base springs
up, dugouts clear -
the finely ironed
infield trampled
under glinting spikes.
We stand as one,
wave in the breeze,
spit black
watermelon-seed
words
which spill
like beautiful tears
over this city.
from Child of Saturday
Viciously in our throats
- Accra Hearts of Oak v. Ashanti Gold, Tema Sports Stadium
So close to this man
fevered and screaming
at the refs, the coaches,
the players (especially poor
Owu, the opposition’s keeper)
and now at the police officers
with their slick black batons
he is screaming at them
for blocking his view and
as he screams they swagger
towards us and more of us
join in until the whole
section is shouting and
they finally back off
though someone near us
throws an empty bottle
which nearly hits its mark
and we feel suddenly close
to a certain kind of death (a
stubborn form of life throbbing
viciously in our throats)
as the police officers walk
to the side, batons swinging
casually, and the keeper drops
the ball off his foot and away –
Previously published in The Dalhousie Review (87, 3)
from splattered earth
i’d studied mao
i was ready for mao
but from town to town
mao lived only in faded
wall murals and the throng
of chinese voices chanted for
yao yao yao
their giant who
dunked as easily
as other men yawned
he filled posters and t-shirts and
playgrounds of tiny men and boys
stretching for the rebound
and when i visited mao’s
gelatinous skeleton perched
in tiananmen square i planned
on apologizing for what we’d done
for james naismith
and growth hormones
and the market economy
but something in the way
his jellyfish jowls drooped
from his plastic face made
me think that he’d probably
get a kick out of watching
a half-a-billion comrades
cutting down the lane, faking
the pass, dunking as easily
as other men yawn.
Some of my poems that have been published online are linked from my Biography page.
Poems also appear sporadically on my blog.
Photos Copyright © 2008 Marta Taylor