three poems and a pop quiz

q. shenaynay

Wow. What hip and happenin' speed poets you all turned out to be! So what did I tell you... whipping out a pedal-to-the-metal poem like that was pretty fun, now wasn't it? Might just have to do it again this week. Like at a red light or something. Hoo boy. Why not?

You people are cool - did we ever tell you that?

We got the five poems we asked for and some to spare, so here are the first three we whipped out, as promised. And because the fun just never ends here at the Beehive, you get to guess who wrote what! (If you've read any of the poems we've posted here before, this should not be excessively puzzling.)


The correct order of authorship of the following three poems is:
a. Fa, Beatrice, QS
b. QS, Fa, Beatrice
c. Fa, QS, Beatrice
d. Beatrice, QS, Fa
e. Wislawa Szymborska, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Joni Mitchell


Dallas to Graham

Pastures roll
and I unfold
drinking space
breathing green
upon green

All my missing clouds are here
every race and creed of them --
They say
they fled the metal
piercing their space
in that place I am leaving behind,
fled the counterfeit canopy
that daily dims their aerie carnival
and mine --
exiled, to explode here
in this rapture of rumbling dance
and white breath.

Air, my love! they cry to me
and gasping,
I sing alto

Dance, my love! they sing,
and I try
but my bones cry --

I need water
deep rocking water
water wide and full of fleeing clouds
at play;
water
to slip and laugh and sing
to my brittle bones
soon
before they return to dust.


The Paper Beckons

Sloshing around in big rubber boots
clumsy lumberjack hands--
you fell stands of words
and ride them down the swift river
swift cold river
churning with monsters-- see the teeth
snap around your ankles? that one
dines on split infinitives, this one
prefers run-on sentences,
but they're all hungry.
Your lumberjack boots fill with water
your calloused lumberjack hands grip
the slipping words for dear life
rushing whirling
tumble rolling
colliding jamming uncontrollable
headstrong
words.


Hide Behind the Moon

Little girl can’t handle a knife
Little boy shouldn’t see too many guns
But turn on the news
Then turn it right off
Cover your eyes
Cause all you’re gonna see
Is a bunch of little boys
Who can’t handle their power

We’ve got to separate,
Call a time out
Go hide behind the moon

Call out the bands
All the lonely altos
They’ve all got to comprehend
The mess we’re all in

The blood of the fugitives
Covers our lies
Covers our footprints in shame

I’m not saying we’re stardust
I’m not saying we’re golden
But we’ve got to get back
Get back what we were
before we saw