Tuesday, May 31

Tuesday Treat!

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20913

What To Do About Sharks
by Vivian Shipley

1. If a hammerhead or a great white makes waves during your workshop or poetry reading, don't flap your elbows or slap at it with rolled manuscripts. Sharks thrive on visual stimulation.

2. Blow out candles. Ease away from the podium, and wait at least ten minutes before going for a light switch. Join hands to keep karma with the other poets. It's okay to recite poems you memorized in fifth grade, Joyce Kilmer, in desperation, even Longfellow.

3. Rule of thumb: it's a shark not a dolphin if it is slamming about the room, hugging, blowing air kisses. Performers, sharks are almost all instinct and no brain. Without a sense of occasion, they'll crash any gig, underwater or not, from Madagascar to Malibu.

4. Being eyed by a shark can be exasperating, but don't rush or shift from foot to foot to induce motion sickness. Sharks are immune. They are, however, dyslexic. Flash cover quotes, prize-winning poems directly in front of both eyes. Better yet—stop reading. Pull your new hardback from a knapsack, and if the shark noses you with repeated sharp jabs, hit it on the snout.

5. If all else fails, sharks have a keen sense of hearing. Sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic at the top of your lungs. Sharks have short attention spans, get bored, leave if there is no open mike. So, swing into another verse: Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

Tuesday, May 17

Tuesday Treat

A Non-Christian on Sunday
by Amy Gerstler

Now we heathens have the town to ourselves.
We lie around, munching award-winning pickles
and hunks of coarse, seeded bread smeared
with soft, sweet cheese. The streets seem
deserted, as if Godzilla had been sighted
on the horizon, kicking down skyscrapers
and flattening cabs. Only two people
are lined up to see a popular movie
in which the good guy and the bad guy trade
faces. Churches burst into song. Trees wish
for a big wind. Burnt bacon and domestic tension
scent the air. So do whiffs of lawn mower exhaust
mixed with the colorless blood of clipped hedges.
For whatever's about to come crashing down
on our heads, be it bliss-filled or heinous,
make us grateful, OK? Hints of the savior's
flavor buzz on our tongues, like crumbs
of a sleeping pill shaped like a snowflake.