Poetry Holiday Grab Bag NYC

Francesca Marais, Tom Pennacchini, and Mary Durocher

Poetry

December 11, 2021

New York City Poems

By Francesca Marais

Shortchanged 5th Ave Blues

his hands stroke the warm brass

as his fingers orchestrate a sultry

numbah

the dehydrated leaves now Halloween orange

begin to confetti from the trees

next door Central Park playing piper

to the stoopers moochers

MET and museum enthused

while their arms whip for their phones

his lips purse into harmonies that could

put a snake to bed

the stoopers crowd the staircase

and passersby confetti change

over a hat

his posture adjusts in an

I-will-not-be-reduced-to-a-dollar

New York at his feet

unexpectant and lifted, his crowd’s

mouths speak a quiet breeze

they envision a viral uncovering of

new-found-New-York-jazz-man

his image doubled in vivo and

Insta-televised on the latest iPhone

zooming in from the top staircase

the musician now a 45 degree bend

dipping into his well of history

he kneels into a crescendo

the cameras, magnets gravitate

the musician towards them and

the shot is reeled in

our jazz man’s pursed hum frowns

even though the melodies

sing a joy from his youth and of

deep love for his woman his family

his city

the hat

begs to be seized and another

phone captures the blistering

synthesized tunes

we envision a 10k following

discovering uncovered ground

jazz a new beat only found

in the city where

everyone comes to eat

his back turns and we lose

the portrait but his pain is there

his clasping fingers pressing

into it with another sound and

his eyes hover over his

shortchanged hat

A warm bowl of kitchari to teach you to sit still

Dieting is the second highest

contribution to consumerism.

Go figure...

but unlike the rest of the

21 day programs and elimination of

this, that, and try a keto diet,

fast intermittently, give up eating

while-you’re-at-it diets, fads.

This is a lifestyle, humbling me

with its rice and grains

ingraining memories of the warming

meals grandmothers’ hands made,

waking a sleeping me by crowing cock

somewhere on some farm

far away from these concrete slabs.

The slow rush to greet the hidden sun

behind haze over the Hudson, united me

to my thoughts of hunger

for something deeper

a meal nor my tastebuds couldn’t

distinguish - cheese,

honey, chocolate, not even gum,

no.

Not even wine crossed my mind

as I moved slowly

in the race to transform

my mind and body.

Given up on the demon and

angel trumpeting in my ears

as I chugged a beer or shut the alarm

or ate a cookie after a bowl of

salad.

I gave thanks for the bowl

of kitchari more deeply,

in wonderment.

I obsessed with the floating

notes of a jubilant spice market.

Hail melted

down my cheeks as

my nose caught a whiff of the warm

bowl of kitchari.

I heard the angel speak to the

demon asking when I’d grab

for a slab or a pint.

My hands fidgeted with anything

they could find to quieten the noise,

and I laughed alone outside myself

recognizing the fixation for more

movement in and around me.

Beside myself with wet face and

stuffed mouth; I thought

mad or suffering withdrawals

was I, but

just realised all the

channels were turned on

with the volume maximized.

born again.

Times Square

Beams on the empty streets

I don’t even recognize

The echoing of the sparse yellow cab

In the distance, honking

Barren sidewalks where

I walk down directionless,

No one around to shuffle past,

Bumping in to remind me

That time waits for no one in this city

Where everyone comes to eat.

How long has it been since

your birds were able to sing? Since

The fish jumped out of the East River

To come up for air? Since your skies

Weren’t shadowed by the remnants of

Congested roads on the Holland-Tunnel

Or Washington Bridge, trying to make it

To work on time or back home for dinner?

Since I didn’t need to scream

in conversation to my friend next to

Me on the subway? Like you, Manhattan

With your surging energy,

I survived on Laughing Man coffee to

Fuel me from my day job

To my effervescent East Village -

Williamsburg parades, only

Sleeping to sober its memory

Like you Manhattan, I thrived in the

Spaces foreign minds like mine connected

Overlooking the New York skyline at a

Limited pop-up happy hour venue,

Recalling the names of the ten

New faces while swimming in the

Tiki themed cocktail menu I’ve consumed

I need the noise to drive me so I don’t have to find what ignites me And potentially fail at it without even having tried

I need the noise to drive me so I don’t need to face that I came Here without purpose

And you’ve worn me out

I need the noise to drive me so I don’t feel lonely

Is that how you feel? Now that all the Peters

Who called you home, have left now?

You are free from entertaining a story

Your trees can now breathe.

Burnt stub

“Talana,”

That was the name of our team

And I was maybe six or seven,

Bending over to tighten the laces

On my “takkies.”

Butterflies cocooned in my insides

As my head cocked on

My marks.

My crouch reversed into a stance and

Like a precursor to victory

I recognized you -

Round eyeglasses, wide toothy smile.

Your eyes beamed through the lenses

As my shuffle galloped

Your arms outstretched in

Praise and pride

Like a bet won on an unassuming

Thoroughbred to make first place

- I dove

Into your embrace.

Putting down the trophy

Quickly,

You lit a cigarette between

Your fingers, pursed your lips and

Drew, gazing out the left eye

While I attempted to move

A life sized white knight into the

Black hole space now laced

With traces of smoke you

Left behind from

your box of Champions.

House = school team names used for student body participation in sports, etc. in South Africa

Takkies = local term for sneakers, trainers, running shoes

Wanderlust.

A hint of adventure

Remedies her cooling heart;

A lioness watching its prey

She makes no mistake

In her advance

And lands

Right

Where

She

Mus

ter

Still a 1980 American Citizen Dream

Thank you, America, for teaching me

About a dream and the extents

That I will go to achieve it

Finer things and fickle

To my heart’s deepest desire

To roam the deserted parts of the globe

Away from humdrum in the machine

You gave new meaning to sex and longevity

And harmonized notions of romance, modern romance

A silk film on screen I wear in the sweltering summer heat of the west

And inner cities you’ve reared

The colour of my skin giving me new meaning

The identity I already thought was confusing melted deeper

Into the pot of your vague appropriations

Friendships old renewed after decades

Learning progress through due process

Without it you WILL NOT SUCCEED

An undying gambit

A gamble on a dream

But most of all

My mother who shook her own world

To make it here

Battling institution and reverse racism

Support by the hour for your dollar

Scrubs on since 1980

That brought her all the way here

And still she won’t do it

But maybe one day she will

But begs why you’ve been so

Harsh and fang baring

To someone who’s supported your dream

Since before I was born

New York City Poems

By Tom Pennacchini

A Bay Wolf in the Apartment of Eagles

Come the dawning
Regardless of mood
I like
To take some moments
To
cut
the
Rug
in the morn light of my room

dip
move
vibe and shimmy
I do the spasmodic
To the
Radio

Amusing me self
And digging
The reflection of my Moves as
Silhouetted
in the Van Gogh prints
On my walls

Oh yeah
I Got It
A Rock’n’roll kid
from
Get to Gone

It's my
Days
Dawn

and

Regardless of mood
This is my private morning
Clarion Call
and my
Free Flying
Fuck It All

Lone Folkie

There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot ‘in and holler’ in.

I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style

nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse

yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.

His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/

You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style

Shine on

Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams
oh community of outcasts
Art in the essence with no need
for product or commodity
Convivial souls rabid rebels minds afire
Provincetown dunes Christmas Eve
Greenwich Village the 20's to the 50's
Innocent fervent glass of beer cafeteria a quarter
Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams!

Winged Ones

Bustling old fella dashing biddly bop by dressed to the nines
with briefcase stuffed under his arm equipped with fixed maniacal grin jabbering to himself while confirming his expressions
to an equally jazzed and jaunty westie he calls Ralph trailing exuberantly behind
lets me know
that there are actually still some living beings out there
to learn from

Narcissus Stereo

Whenever I am in a roomful of actors (christ don't ask) I am buffeted and overwhelmed by waves of nausea
for some truly baffling reason they identify as artists but never discuss art
they do however love to dither on politics and dish presidents oh and
movies natch but Rembrandt or Brueghel nahhhh

They are ostensibly interpreters of script but never discuss literature excepting Shakespeare which they have been dutifully schooled upon
(what the fuck - - art and ... school?)

shame can be a necessity (we're people after all)

where's the sense of it?

Put In Place Out of Place

I have been shut down occasionally vis a vis my mutterances on the street corner and while attempting movement on the frenetic city sidewalks
I like to do it in order to sort of clear a path and in order
to facilitate and free up navigation-
at times I'll say "I gotta do a little bit a that swivel and swerve" - or as I zig and zag out a maneuver - " just the slip n slide" whilst moving and weaving thru the throngs
Other times I'll emit a bit of a shriek

Announce constructive critiques regarding their aptitude for city walking like
"Another dolt - doing the diagonal "! - admonishing the herd - "I am begging for mercy "! "Good heavens - cease and disperse the cluster "!
Their compass clearly needing alignment (my god do they drive like this?) -
Must make sure that shit is correct! I am trying to move freely goddamnit!
"I gotta circumnavigate stone agony"! ... "Becomes imperative "!!
Perhaps I'll be clogged by a stroller
"Nightmare in perpetuity "!
A Yammerer on the phone AND a stroller-
"You know they're out to torture"!!

Then there are the odd times in which I need to be schooled -
One time I was loudly griping about a construction obstruction (it is all over and everywhere) and a yob kinda bloke said " its NY - Stop complaining"...
I readily complied.
Another time I was wading through a crowd announcing, "I know my babies ain't shy" whereof a charming lass turned to me and demurred "How do you know I'm not shy?"
I fluttered - gurgled some kind of non-sequitur before feathering and loping off.
Well perhaps I'm not a confrontational sort but there you have it
just trying...trying to move along.

New York City Poems

By Mary Durocher

Chelsea Hotel #2

A sparrow perches on the subway platform at 36th Ave. I’m alone and waiting for the W train. I can’t keep track of each fallen sparrow. Leonard Cohen wrote that, not you. Wait, no, it’s, I can’t keep track of each fallen robin. The song is about Janis Joplin. In an interview Cohen said he regretted revealing that Joplin was his muse. Mostly because of the song’s reference to her giving him head on the hotel bed. I think being a dead robin is worse.

The sparrow darts off into November’s bleak sky. I can’t keep track of each fallen sparrow. I watch its silhouette shrink and I remember the crows that circled Mt. Haystack’s peak when we went in June. I was Joplin and you were Cohen. I teased you by loudly labeling the crows as an omen. You stared in awe at their formation. I was always too expressive, with my feather boa and unruly locks. You were always too silent, consumed by your meditations.

I don’t know why I envision this. You and I were not notorious lovers. A piss-scented subway platform is not the peak of a mountain. Riding the W train is not being with you. A sparrow is not a robin. Neither of these birds are Janis Joplin.

Naivety

The seer of the Lower East Side

sways on a corner,

crying to New York’s

electric eternity.

Her mascara drips

and cakes into her skin,

black stockings snagged,

her party dress swirls

in the rotten breeze.

Swarms of men,

fresh from their glass houses,

pass her unholy pulpit,

breath hot and sharp

their taunts burst at her feet.

She and I are not similar.

I am an adolescent,

a blurred outline.

She is ablaze and immune,

a myth with a chipped tooth.

When the visionary sees me

she grabs my hands.

Angelic, angelic, angelic.

I yank away.

I reject her now.

I reject her still.

Her shadow is following me

down Orchard Street.

It darts across

walls,

wounded in fury

at my inability to see.

Contributor(s)

Francesca Marais

Francesca Marais, a South African poet, has been writing since the age of thirteen. She attended Arizona State University where she obtained a B.S in Computer and Information Systems, and has taken workshops led by Kelly-Grace Thomas and Kallie Falandays. Francesca explores the world in parts, through pen and paper, and recently launched her first chapbook Emerge, which was recently reviewed by Savvy Verse and Wit (https://savvyverseandwit.com/2021/04/emerge-by-francesca-marais.html).

Francesa's Articles at KGB LitMag

Poetry Holiday Grab Bag NYC

Mary Durocher

Mary Durocher is a poet and writer. She’s a senior at Marymount Manhattan College, where she studies Creative Writing and Journalism. Her work has appeared in The Carson Review, Better Than Starbucks Literary Magazine, and Laid Off NYC. She currently resides in New York and she can usually be found in a coffee shop or park.

Mary's Articles at KGB LitMag

Poetry Holiday Grab Bag NYC

Tom Pennacchini

Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC. He has had poetry published at The Free Poet, Mojave Heart Review, Jalmurra, The Scarlet Leaf, Poems for All, Free Lit Magazine, Backchannels, Loud Coffee Press, Mason Street Journal, Portsmouth Poetry, and the Fictional Cafe.

Tom's Articles at KGB LitMag