Five poems by Karen Little

Free poetry, life, mood, poetry, Uncategorized, women writing, writing

I am not a silent poet

The morning after

I explain everything while you’re sleeping;
how I got lost by the river, how the banks were
slippery as eels, how time slipped away, yet
got caught in the weeds at the same time. How
the hooting of owls hypnotized me. How the boat
called me on board; the turbulent water, the throb
of the engine lulled me to sleep.

I was alone, no one touched me, I wasn’t afraid.

When you wake, before I say anything, you assure me
you’d like to tear the lies right out of my throat.  I’m
delicately removing splinters, the needle still hot
from the flame. I feel like the rabbit’s foot dangling
from your key chain, the one you shake in my face. Not
lucky; more like severed, more, loss mixed with shame.

..

Fame

On the first day she learned not to wear underwear
or tight jeans: they mark…

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Issue Eighteen

art, Free poetry, magazine, poetry, Uncategorized, writing

Fab online magazine. My artwork happens to be on the cover 🙂

Riggwelter

Welcome to the eighteenth issue! Riggwelter keeps rolling on. This issue contains work from: Christy Alexander Hallberg, Caris Allen, Rosco Baldini, Stephen Briseño, Alyssa Ciamp, Geraldine Clarkson, Rachael Clyne, Jude Cowan Montague, Jessica Siobhan Frank, Samuel T. Franklin, Alison Gibson, Marissa Glover, Fiona Goggin, L. Mari Harris, Emily Harrison, Deborah Harvey, Seanín Hughes, Helen Kay, Kevin Latimer, Janice Leagra, Gayle Ledbetter Newby, Karen Little, Eleanor Mae, Brian Martin, Dan McKeon, Victoria Nordlund, James Northern, Robert Okaji, James Owens, Theresa Reagan, Bethany Rivers, Kelli Simpson, Gerri Stewart and Grace Velee and is edited by Amy Kinsman.

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Angelica

Free poetry, life, poetry, Uncategorized, women writing, writing

Today I have a poem up on Atrium Poetry. I would highly recommend reading and submitting work to this fabulous online magazine….

Angelica

The Inheritance of Loss afforded him
opportunity to leave her. The Other Hand
was saved for us, shaped how she raised us.
Intimacy meant getting close enough
to have our blocks knocked off. The Great Beast
was tucked behind curtains or under blankets.
Slaughterhouse fueled my nightmares; her
choosing from curtains of meat at Snapes’s
while I gazed at meringues next door in Burton’s.
Topped with angelica, I knew they were reserved
for The Most Beautiful Woman in Town.

Karen Little trained as a dancer and a fine artist. She is widely published as a poet in the UK and further afield.

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13 Ways of Looking at Beetles

poetry

Beetles know that a huge percentage of erections aren’t caused by desire,
so that standing on top of a skyscraper is to be astride a city built from fear.

6 beetles watching 2 women fight are reluctant to pull them apart,
beause this is what the movies tell them they’ve been waiting for all their lives.

A beetle realises the danger of releasing himself onto an abject world
where people tightly cork their pleasures in bottles in case they ever need to get them off the shelf.

A beetle likes the cold and empty solitude of vodka.The woman prefers the warmth of frothy beer.His afternoon face is scratching her, his tongue, all muscle, is a dead weight. A lump of meat that he moves slowly.

A beetle measures time seeing soap shrink in the dish,and already wants to dress her in yum-yum yellow, before lowering her into shark-infested waters.

In Italy, a beetle shoots at a woman for taking a bunch of grapes from his vineyard, then, laughing, opens his truck door to her and drives all night to Poggi Bonsi, where beetles follow her in packs when she ventures out alone.

A beetle realises he is growing old when, amongst the collection of guns and knives stored under his sofa,he finds one he used to use  to cut the telephone cords in women’s flats.

A beetle gets a pram for his 21st birthday and does 2 clumsy things for his son: knits a cardigan with two, too long sleeves, and carves a wooden horse.

A beetle stands in his Formica kitchen, the pinnacle of his achievement, plastic wood pushed into all the scars and scuffs of his embedded temper.

A beetle leaves a woman instructions for her working day: Dear Slave, spoke-shave the wagon wheel,strip the chairs,stain the grain on John Cleese’s table,Love Master.

A beetle’s neckerchief gets caught in the belt-sander,and he escapes strangling only because it’s made of silk.

Without balls, the beetle wears the tightest briefs,though he still jiggles the change in his jeans pocket as a substitute. He is not sorry to lose that cock which can no longer smirk at him.

A beetle is unsure of how to deal with her “fuck me” heels.He fantasises her marching among an army of  long, slender legs, some of them grazed from kneeling down in front of him.
But he doesn’t know if he wants her to press the heel into his chest, or fall over herself getting away from him.

First published in Lockjaw Magazine. http://www.lockjawmagazine.com/vol1/13