rhymes with...

October 14th, 2010

You can't write poetry on the computer.

Quentin Tarantino

A poet has to tell people he's a poet. If you don't, they don't know.

Gregory Corso


For sale: poems written especially for you by a crack team of poets. $4/poem. Guaranteed to rhyme. Supply your name and some detail from your life that has nothing to do with either the fruit or the colour orange and we'll send you a poem. Box 99.
Mark it on your calendars: October 28th - The Return of Uncle Glennie. Creepy stories at ATOMIC., The attic of 167 Logan Avenue. Doors will open at 7:00PM. Stories: 7:30- 8:00PM; 9:00- 9:30PM. Doors will be locked during Uncle Glennie's reading. It is cold, bring a sweater. Knock three times at ground level to be considered for entry.
I like dropping things. Do you like dropping things? pennies, lint balls (co-incidentally my nickname in high school), twist ties, aglets, those little plastic twirly things that you used to have to put in the centre of old 45 records so they would fit on the spindle, anvils, etc. Wanna get together and drop stuff? Lenny. Box 298.
Available once again: Hugh Briss's ground breaking monograph on the great French love poet, Charles Roche-Bobois (see center column), Cupid's Arrows Miss Their Mark. $5. Box 330.
For sale: Facebook page. Hardly used. No friends, likes or dislikes, events, photos etc. Like new. $75 OBO. Box 13.
For rent: log cabin. $200/week this season (October to December) located on the banks of the lovely Lachine Canal in Montreal. Should love unusual smells and people. Box 44.
Tired of reading old poetry? Want the latest most up to date poetry? Why not sign on for our new online service? We will provide live fees of actual poets as they write their actual poems. You are guaranteed poems that have been written within the last hour! Visit our website for details. We are Poetry RFN!

The Mystery of the Lost Lenore

Listen to Part Seventy-Seven

Click on the picture. (3:27)

Or start from the beginning.



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4 Poems by

Sally Kind

God's Gift to Women

      If you are that,

       (as you suppose
        yourself to be)

      then he
        or she,

      as the case
            may be) is

           either strapped
                for cash
                  (as I once was)

            or is

      the original misogynist.

         I hate
                     gag gifts.

Somebody loves you?

   Borrow a crowbar
        (or I'll lend you one).

   Pry open that
        wallet of yours

   and buy yourself
                  a mirror.

   Then you'll have someone
             who finds you

   endlessly fascinating
             and you can

   leave me

                the hell alone.

Found Wanting

      I have tried
      to please you,

      at great
      to myself,

      at last

Upon reflection after the passing of the storm:

      Why is it that
         I thought
            I needed

      to let you get
         inside me,
            that I

            to spread
               myself open
                  for you?

         with your drool
      on the pillow
               beside me,

      I wonder why
         I desired

           a ridiculous thing

2 1/2 Poems by

Charles Roche-Bobois

A study in color (singular)

      The river is brown,
      its earthen banks are brown,
      the overhanging trees
      are brown,
      the squirrel, whose staring
      expectant eyes are brown,
      is brown.

A Prose Poem

I am an enigma to myself. My most obvious movements are unknown to me. My motivations are glimpsed out of an eye's corner through a delicate screen of webs woven by enormous foreign spiders in a dimly lit room on an early fall evening. I ponder them but am availess in this, my most urgent quest. I am a seeker after my own truth, which must be, the truth of the world. A world gone mad.

Ah, the women. Have they known me? They have seemed to. Their delicate hands wielding the cutting utensils that have not quite cut through the opaquening web of manufactured deception. My night cries have revealed all to them. Or so it seems.

But what of Mama? They are imitators, shades of her surely, but with thinner legs and things not fit for the eyes of Greek kings. Their softnesses unravel me and I am left alone with my confusion. It follows me from my bed and into the kitchen while I make a sandwich. A dog barks somewhere at midnight.

I am out of mayonnaise. Again.

The Moment

      I seized

                  my glimpse

                        of you

      from the corner

                  of my good


      just as

                  you began

                        your crossing

      of the room

                  in which

                        we both were

      for a moment


                        night . . .

3 Pomes by

Parker Fysche

Whatever's Larger Than a Hamlet

         Oh what a rogue
             and peasant slave
                 am I.

         But what
             does that
                     make you?

Peculiar love

   So many nights
         have I longed
      for your warm caresses,
         your loving embrace
      and the soft touch
         of your sweet,
      gentle hands
         upon the inside
               of my
                  left elbow.

      That's a bit odd
            isn't it?

Planning Ahead

   The pigeons soar
   (their wings like vs)
   eastward with the wind,
   it seems happily.

   But when they struggle home
   against it,
   will they curse
   (under pigeon breath)
   their shortsightedness?


Edible Ennui

by Martin Issing

      With something less (1)
      than my usual (2)
      I construct (3)
      this newest (4) sandwich

      Bread, meat (5)
      cheese, pickle,
      it's all there and
      in the right
      proportion (6).

      but somehow
      this epicurean (7)
      delicacy featuring (8)
      pressed meat (9)
      leaves me cold (10).

      I need(11)
      to fix that oven(12).

(1)The poet establishes a sad, smirky tone with this figure of speech.
(2)Indicates that the poet is usually enthusiastic (tho' I doubt it).
(3) The heavy verb shows just how much effort this is taking.
(4) Obviously the last in a long series of sandwiches.
(5) Beginning with the vaguest of references the poet tantalises us and raises the question what meat? What kind of meat? It is an angst ridden question for us.
(6) Despite fulfilling all the sandwichental requirements it fails to satisfy. So like life.
(7) The word is clearly out of place in describing a sandwich. The poet's choice of it indicates that he is either an erudite and clever soul who is but exploring the woes of the underclass or possibly a gassy windbag.
(8) A delightful movie reference.
(9) Finally our suspense about the meat is relieved.
(10) There is a delicious double meaning here that will soon be obvious
(11) In the final lines the intense desperation of the poet is turned up a notch.
(12) Only in this very last line is it revealed that the poet is in fact an appliance repair man.