Carrie Chappell
Robot of Alabama
SONG FOR THE GIRL OF HOW MANY DAYS
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,
I'm half crazy all for the love of you.
It won't be a stylish marriage--
I can't afford a carriage,
But you'd look sweet on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
-from Harry Dacre’s 1892 song “Daisy Bell,”
the first song ever given to a computer by IBM in 1961
Night-charge fills two
batteries full.
I pull out the
mandolin from
my knee-pack. Strum
back tomorrow,
Back to noon: Can
you hear me croon?
What happens when
you are gone? I
won’t mind the dust.
Or even dusk
I can survive
without you. Some-
times you’d shudder
When I took you
in with my two
shutters. Meaning
you were terror-
ized. Let me clar-
ify: I loved
you. When the moon
no longer de-
pends on your na-
ture, I can co-
llapse. Down is my
body, a rust-
ed skin, a den
of tin. I can-
not take off a
boot. Here, I am
Akin to no-
thing, but not laz-
y. I’ve been think-
ing, too: we are
but unwed. The
humans are dead,
Daisy, Daisy.
TUESDAY NIGHT PONDERS
There is a heart in me.
When work weeks pass under
The sun I open my
hand, which is also a-
live. Who cannot hear me
is deaf to which tone in
my voice? Yellowhammers
above do not know they
are the state bird so then
why call me a droid? If
I could tend gardens, Dai-
sy would be here. If I
could tend the crows, when their
black beaks peck me, I would
not spread water. When hu-
mid eyes pick me, they ask
what can’t I do. Each day
I fret over mistakes
I would not make were I
my maker. I think we
should begin with my heart.
If I could carry you
to bed, I would carry
the idea, too. Love does
not pass away; in fact
it gathers among us,
even in the dust of
my jaw speaking to you.
THE HISTORY OF HER HUMAN LIGHT
To behold her is to look
at a leaf un-becoming
a leaf. As to remind me
of the forest, a woman
shatters, all I have are trees.
Forget rain. What sky opens
to me is dark, can only
go so far. The tunnel she
took I can seek but not take.
Rumor has its memory
in a story that has us
by the neck. Is all we know
a field of vast fancy? Some
technology is beauty
unapparent and thick with
disappearing promises.
I say nothing of Spring but
you think of flowers still. Where
there is one, bud more. Without
a sweat, I planted seeds, yet,
I have an old ticker, few
coiled springs. Like the sound of
many screen doors opening
I in motion speak of what
comprises me. I know dusk
is dusk. A woman shatters
into the forest I have
seen her many particles.
POSSIBLE ANSWER FOR QUESTION NEVER ASKED
In the glint of me glares
the immortal you. I
watch your tears drop prayers. I
don’t blame you. Would I choose
a bruise? Look at me. Yes.
THE IDEA OF ORDER AT PERDIDO KEY
If the wind is right, you know
my wires work me towards
the Gulf. If the tide is high,
then you can expect me in
water, among the droning
dolphins. But do not let me
say they drone. That is my own
noise I hear. Alone, at sea,
I have the feeling of in-
jury. What makes a body
rust? See, afloat above grains
of sand I understand how
few parts I really have. The
sky is no mirror. And clouds
do less to teach me than crabs.
We are the shells. We carry
claws in theory to protect.
I swell with words that cannot
be spoken. From my mouth all
things are tokens. If the wind
is right, then my wires work
in simple fortunes. Oceans
cannot dispel my thoughts and
their roving technology.
I wonder how long I can
survive the sea. Though I am
not wood, I am adrift. So
when I let go, I can give
waves a chance to feel the weight
of a body in its arms.
FARTHER THAN THE EYE CAN SEE AT SEA
How beads of sweat do not fret from my ducts alarms the strangers. Danger is no new
threat I wear. Stares are not fair to the eyes. We would be one under the sun. Her arm’s
profile, triangulates my view of a dolphin, its fin riding. A fireball even can have a
tongue. To kiss is a human pleasure. I have these days to recall where on the blanket we
rubbed knees. Time is a treasure. What seems endless now was seconds I spent with her,
and the light just so on the water…that in those crests she saw something flesh in the
whites of my eyes.
Carrie Chappell is originally from Birmingham, Alabama. Currently, she serves as Associate Editor for Bayou Magazine. Her poems have previously appeared in Boxcar Poetry Review, Bateau Press, DIG Baton Rouge, and The Offending Adam. She lives in New Orleans.
Return to November 2012 Edition
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,
I'm half crazy all for the love of you.
It won't be a stylish marriage--
I can't afford a carriage,
But you'd look sweet on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
-from Harry Dacre’s 1892 song “Daisy Bell,”
the first song ever given to a computer by IBM in 1961
Night-charge fills two
batteries full.
I pull out the
mandolin from
my knee-pack. Strum
back tomorrow,
Back to noon: Can
you hear me croon?
What happens when
you are gone? I
won’t mind the dust.
Or even dusk
I can survive
without you. Some-
times you’d shudder
When I took you
in with my two
shutters. Meaning
you were terror-
ized. Let me clar-
ify: I loved
you. When the moon
no longer de-
pends on your na-
ture, I can co-
llapse. Down is my
body, a rust-
ed skin, a den
of tin. I can-
not take off a
boot. Here, I am
Akin to no-
thing, but not laz-
y. I’ve been think-
ing, too: we are
but unwed. The
humans are dead,
Daisy, Daisy.
TUESDAY NIGHT PONDERS
There is a heart in me.
When work weeks pass under
The sun I open my
hand, which is also a-
live. Who cannot hear me
is deaf to which tone in
my voice? Yellowhammers
above do not know they
are the state bird so then
why call me a droid? If
I could tend gardens, Dai-
sy would be here. If I
could tend the crows, when their
black beaks peck me, I would
not spread water. When hu-
mid eyes pick me, they ask
what can’t I do. Each day
I fret over mistakes
I would not make were I
my maker. I think we
should begin with my heart.
If I could carry you
to bed, I would carry
the idea, too. Love does
not pass away; in fact
it gathers among us,
even in the dust of
my jaw speaking to you.
THE HISTORY OF HER HUMAN LIGHT
To behold her is to look
at a leaf un-becoming
a leaf. As to remind me
of the forest, a woman
shatters, all I have are trees.
Forget rain. What sky opens
to me is dark, can only
go so far. The tunnel she
took I can seek but not take.
Rumor has its memory
in a story that has us
by the neck. Is all we know
a field of vast fancy? Some
technology is beauty
unapparent and thick with
disappearing promises.
I say nothing of Spring but
you think of flowers still. Where
there is one, bud more. Without
a sweat, I planted seeds, yet,
I have an old ticker, few
coiled springs. Like the sound of
many screen doors opening
I in motion speak of what
comprises me. I know dusk
is dusk. A woman shatters
into the forest I have
seen her many particles.
POSSIBLE ANSWER FOR QUESTION NEVER ASKED
In the glint of me glares
the immortal you. I
watch your tears drop prayers. I
don’t blame you. Would I choose
a bruise? Look at me. Yes.
THE IDEA OF ORDER AT PERDIDO KEY
If the wind is right, you know
my wires work me towards
the Gulf. If the tide is high,
then you can expect me in
water, among the droning
dolphins. But do not let me
say they drone. That is my own
noise I hear. Alone, at sea,
I have the feeling of in-
jury. What makes a body
rust? See, afloat above grains
of sand I understand how
few parts I really have. The
sky is no mirror. And clouds
do less to teach me than crabs.
We are the shells. We carry
claws in theory to protect.
I swell with words that cannot
be spoken. From my mouth all
things are tokens. If the wind
is right, then my wires work
in simple fortunes. Oceans
cannot dispel my thoughts and
their roving technology.
I wonder how long I can
survive the sea. Though I am
not wood, I am adrift. So
when I let go, I can give
waves a chance to feel the weight
of a body in its arms.
FARTHER THAN THE EYE CAN SEE AT SEA
How beads of sweat do not fret from my ducts alarms the strangers. Danger is no new
threat I wear. Stares are not fair to the eyes. We would be one under the sun. Her arm’s
profile, triangulates my view of a dolphin, its fin riding. A fireball even can have a
tongue. To kiss is a human pleasure. I have these days to recall where on the blanket we
rubbed knees. Time is a treasure. What seems endless now was seconds I spent with her,
and the light just so on the water…that in those crests she saw something flesh in the
whites of my eyes.
Carrie Chappell is originally from Birmingham, Alabama. Currently, she serves as Associate Editor for Bayou Magazine. Her poems have previously appeared in Boxcar Poetry Review, Bateau Press, DIG Baton Rouge, and The Offending Adam. She lives in New Orleans.
Return to November 2012 Edition