Jeff Tigchelaar
Why won’t you be real with us?
they asked. And what he didn’t say
was: I’ve got two tons of smog in my heart
and every now and then I shave
my face into a half-moustache
and stay inside the house a few days
A Piping Plover’s Throat He’s Not
(for N.)
He hates poems
that list nice things: new bar
of soap, say.
Saddle-stitched chapbook.
Teakwood.
Vespers.
A piping plover’s throat.
He’s not
telling what
he loves―
or whether, for that matter,
he likes poems
of any sort.
Or birds
or baths
or especially
foxglove.
He makes his exits
early and often.
He makes his eggs the same way
and adds Tabasco.
Ours Was the Best-Dressed Scarecrow
We still have no idea where he got the Gucci suits.
Steadfast ― and stately: that was our Henry.
He wore a dapper hat, tipped down to hide his eyes.
He always was discreet when it came to female callers.
At times we’d hear him whistling in the wind.
We asked him politely not to smoke those cigarettes.
Last night our Henry ascended in flames.
We shudder when we think
of what could happen next.
There were never crows here in the first place.
But who are we to say he hadn’t kept it that way?
Jeff Tigchelaar’s poems appear or are forthcoming in or on Best New Poets 2011, Tar River Poetry, Court Green, Grist, Hunger Mountain, Pleiades, North American Review, Rhino, Southeast Review, Verse Daily, and Fjords.
Return to November 2012 Edition
they asked. And what he didn’t say
was: I’ve got two tons of smog in my heart
and every now and then I shave
my face into a half-moustache
and stay inside the house a few days
A Piping Plover’s Throat He’s Not
(for N.)
He hates poems
that list nice things: new bar
of soap, say.
Saddle-stitched chapbook.
Teakwood.
Vespers.
A piping plover’s throat.
He’s not
telling what
he loves―
or whether, for that matter,
he likes poems
of any sort.
Or birds
or baths
or especially
foxglove.
He makes his exits
early and often.
He makes his eggs the same way
and adds Tabasco.
Ours Was the Best-Dressed Scarecrow
We still have no idea where he got the Gucci suits.
Steadfast ― and stately: that was our Henry.
He wore a dapper hat, tipped down to hide his eyes.
He always was discreet when it came to female callers.
At times we’d hear him whistling in the wind.
We asked him politely not to smoke those cigarettes.
Last night our Henry ascended in flames.
We shudder when we think
of what could happen next.
There were never crows here in the first place.
But who are we to say he hadn’t kept it that way?
Jeff Tigchelaar’s poems appear or are forthcoming in or on Best New Poets 2011, Tar River Poetry, Court Green, Grist, Hunger Mountain, Pleiades, North American Review, Rhino, Southeast Review, Verse Daily, and Fjords.
Return to November 2012 Edition