First Star I See Tonight
It emerges
like a pimple on the night sky’s chin.
Make a wish.
What is there to lose
but time and sanity?
Confess.
What longings billow
your heart’s sails
tonight?
To win a jackpot
other than birth?
Something ample,
right?
Enough to forget
about the cost
of living.
To have a figure fashionable
for the modern age?
To be famous?
To be successful?
To be happy?
To be enough
for them to not walk
out on you?
World peace?
Don’t lie.
For your enemies
to wake as dung beetles?
Yes.
For an ounce
of self-confidence?
For a room
with a clear view
of the singing ocean?
To be young?
To be old?
To be somebody
or anyone else?
To feel loved?
You don’t need much,
do you?
Only
to wake up
to one person pleased
to see you.
Some nights
if you listen with intent,
you can hear humanity’s desires
resound around Venus
and disappear
into the unapproving universe.
Poetics
How to say it?
When forms become overworked
and demand a vacation.
When internal and end rhymes
are sick
to death of each other,
and file for divorce.
When similes are fumbled
with more times
than a cheap escort’s
labia.
When iamb, trochee,
dactyl, and anapest
march off
to die
in the blood-soaked trenches
of a distant war.
When sentimentality steps
from the ledge of a skyscraper.
When metaphors digest
in the iron stomach
of a turkey vulture.
When a rose
is a rose is a rose.
How to say it?
When the heart
no longer cares
to refine itself.
When the soul
is almost out of steam.
When there’s enough
foresight inside of you
to admit that in a hundred
years,
none of this matter
will matter.
How to say it?
When inspiration’s
as ripe and fragrant
as artificial flowers.
When the flash of a rat’s tail
vanishing beneath your bed
holds equal power
to a lightning bolt
splitting apart
a far-away oak tree.
How to say it?
When you are not Blake.
When you are not Shakespeare.
When you are not Keats.
When you are not Wordsworth.
When you are contradicting components
tumbling through this dog-eat-dog cosmos.
How to say it?
When you believe
poetry, like air,
is meant for
all of us.
How to say it?
In your own simple way,
I guess.
Steven Bruce is an award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in magazines and anthologies worldwide. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. Born in the North of England, he now lives and writes full-time in Barcelona.
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