Ian Ganassi
2 poems
**
You Got to Move
It makes more sense if you cheat on the maps.
The fool’s cap was tall and looked like a prickly pear.
A pattern of thorns comes with that particular gift wrap.
A strange bird was singing in a familiar spirit.
How many clocks do we need to know it’s time?
To walk the walk and talk the talk is to fear it.
How many men named John does it take to reveal the real?
Who climbed the mountain wearing a heavy crown.
He was neither a man of cotton nor a man of steel.
More momentum than a train, catching bullets in his teeth.
But even he can’t save us now that the age has caught
Up with us. Does it take a president to lay a wreath?
It hardly mattered whether the shoe was sinistra or dextra,
Plastic or glass. To start at the beginning was
A beginning. Give yourself something nice, a little extra.
To feel comfortable in one’s skin is a major feat.
But one does get second chances, even an infinite number.
On the dance floor certain figures never missed a beat.
Not much was stirring at the bottom of the glass.
A giant pocket watch was chasing me downhill from here.
Hill and dale, Chip ‘n Dale, get off your ass.
The society gig was mainly sitting for one’s portrait.
The dog kept wagging, the cat kept purring, for no apparent
Reason. In the hall of mirrors the amusement was distortion.
**
What It is Meant to Mean
Somehow the point of the Exacto knife got a little bent.
Mr. Kent stepped into a phone booth
And called his mother on Krypton.
Just think of all the Saturdays that are coming,
All the reasons for an ice cream Sunday.
“Stay off the phone during thunderstorms,” she warned.
“This glass is half empty,” he replied.
His ingenuousness was disingenuous.
If the shoe doesn’t fit don’t sweat it,
Like a pipe joint.
A pinstripe suit trundled down the hall
With its fuse lit
Like an ambulatory cannon ball.
He offered the bear a lollipop.
He was the first to know you are always in for a rude awakening.
The curb was slightly higher than he remembered.
And why not? Isn’t this a free country?
A happy hour? A well-adjusted misfit?
Steel yourself, fire your nerves
Like high-density porcelain.
Anguish is never in fashion.
**
return to sawbuck 3.4
**
Ian Ganassi's poetry, prose and translations have appeared in numerous journals, including American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, New England Review, Octopus, Caesura and The Journal. He works as a percussionist and high school teacher in New Haven, Connecticut.
**
You Got to Move
It makes more sense if you cheat on the maps.
The fool’s cap was tall and looked like a prickly pear.
A pattern of thorns comes with that particular gift wrap.
A strange bird was singing in a familiar spirit.
How many clocks do we need to know it’s time?
To walk the walk and talk the talk is to fear it.
How many men named John does it take to reveal the real?
Who climbed the mountain wearing a heavy crown.
He was neither a man of cotton nor a man of steel.
More momentum than a train, catching bullets in his teeth.
But even he can’t save us now that the age has caught
Up with us. Does it take a president to lay a wreath?
It hardly mattered whether the shoe was sinistra or dextra,
Plastic or glass. To start at the beginning was
A beginning. Give yourself something nice, a little extra.
To feel comfortable in one’s skin is a major feat.
But one does get second chances, even an infinite number.
On the dance floor certain figures never missed a beat.
Not much was stirring at the bottom of the glass.
A giant pocket watch was chasing me downhill from here.
Hill and dale, Chip ‘n Dale, get off your ass.
The society gig was mainly sitting for one’s portrait.
The dog kept wagging, the cat kept purring, for no apparent
Reason. In the hall of mirrors the amusement was distortion.
**
What It is Meant to Mean
Somehow the point of the Exacto knife got a little bent.
Mr. Kent stepped into a phone booth
And called his mother on Krypton.
Just think of all the Saturdays that are coming,
All the reasons for an ice cream Sunday.
“Stay off the phone during thunderstorms,” she warned.
“This glass is half empty,” he replied.
His ingenuousness was disingenuous.
If the shoe doesn’t fit don’t sweat it,
Like a pipe joint.
A pinstripe suit trundled down the hall
With its fuse lit
Like an ambulatory cannon ball.
He offered the bear a lollipop.
He was the first to know you are always in for a rude awakening.
The curb was slightly higher than he remembered.
And why not? Isn’t this a free country?
A happy hour? A well-adjusted misfit?
Steel yourself, fire your nerves
Like high-density porcelain.
Anguish is never in fashion.
**
return to sawbuck 3.4
**
Ian Ganassi's poetry, prose and translations have appeared in numerous journals, including American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, New England Review, Octopus, Caesura and The Journal. He works as a percussionist and high school teacher in New Haven, Connecticut.
Labels: 3.4, ian ganassi, winter 2009/2010
