Stacy Lynn Mar is a confessional poet who also enjoys collage art, tasty coffee drinks and chick lit novels. She has been published widely in small press, some litarary magazines including All Things Girl, LIT UP Magazine, and The Beat. Stacy is also the author of five collections of poetry and is founder of a small publishing press, Muse Cafe Publications. Despite what her mother says, Stacy thinks it's perfectly fine to talk to strangers so you can find her at www.stacylynnmar.com
Two Poems (June 20, 2010. Issue 18.)
Today, Like Everyday
Regular white paper
Serves the purpose
Of Yesterday’s landing strip,
A juxtaposition of stories,
Words of the wise,
Ramblings of the lonely.
I am the yesterday woman,
A rear wheel push
Into the opposite direction,
A fading away of short shorts
In the renewed-urban-girl way.
I eye the bookish lesbians
On the corner of third street,
Stone slab of a library bench
Where I will join that wild group
Of unshaven arm pits
And black, plastic-framed reading glasses,
Four sets of eyes spying
The quick mishaps of Jane Eyre.
Built men in hard hats
Are working on renovations
To the historical “downtown” next door,
They eye the shape of my ass
As I walk by,
Noting how well my hips
Fit into the curving slope
Of my swift step.
Men who praise Bush
And the conservative slumber
Of white wing porn,
I flip them the finger
And they stop staring.
A review of the previous
Brings my mind back
To last summer,
Pretty boys on San Fran beach
And the wilting hammock
In an old man’s backyard.
How I imagined I was sixteen
As I careened those streets
Of quick cemented concrete
To a cul-de-sac off Wolf Road,
A neighborhood diverse
In trees and people.
I wished to be a native girl
Of Iran or Cambodia,
Fresh to this country and seeking dreams
On a street-side book sale
Off a strip in River West Plaza
Where exotic poets in wide-brimmed hats
And heavy accents
Would bid their time
For a chance to catch my eye.
Awaiting a Revolution
Business is slow tonight
At the Red Wheel Dinner,
Middle-age waitresses in black pants,
Their pockets full of straws,
Shuffle to each new customer,
A little too giddy to ramble off
Today’s “fresh cooked” special.
I’m not having anything but coffee,
And now it’s turned cold,
A half-eaten chocolate pastry
On a blue-chipped dish
Swims in the grease
Of it’s better days.
I look out the window,
Spying the sky,
Half-eroded of shining stars,
And think of Boston.
I imagine my fingers tracing
The contours of it’s many-museum statues,
Strong, impeccable, and famously portrayed
Like a heart attack or a bad romance,
And I think of all those dead artists,
Did they know which piece was best?
From some ancient jukebox
In a far corner Bob Dylan
Begins to sing “Lay Lady Lay”
And I almost wish he were here now,
Quick psychic of the seventies
In a leather jacket,
Seasoned of the swimming years of decades,
The folk music, war, rock and roll,
Born of the late fifties
When women were graduating
From poodle dresses straight into
Tiny box houses with perfect kitchens.
I bet Bob Dylan knows everything,
How to never say never,
When to take the rollers from your hair,
The price that is really right,
How to pet your friends, and which ones,
Even which bestseller to read before it’s written.
“Would you like a refill before we close?”
A Betty White look-alike
In twisted fingernails and a
Burnt-on-the-bottom coffee pot
Is twisting her neck at odd angles
To catch a glimpse of my notebook’s contents.
And for the first time in a long while
I suddenly miss the artist hands
Of my ex-lover,
I miss his twenty page screen plays,
The talks about his mother,
Long debates on the death of Jack Kerouac
And the phone calls
That sometimes never come.
I tip the waitress
And walk home in the rain,
Shoes seeping water amongst the mud holes,
My resolve swimming with their strings.
(May 20, 2010. Issue 17. Letter Poetry Contest Honorable Mention!)
Love, I am afraid this situation is not
Quite fitting enough to sustain me anymore.
A romantic fasting of sorts,
Two empty kisses come morning
and a tender promise on every other full moon.
And have you been picking flowers
Or has the perfume of another girl
Slipped it’s way onto the skin of your neck?
I just thought I should give breath to my thoughts,
And make you aware this whole ordeal
Has not gone unappreciated.
I have loved all those long nights,
The love-me-not’s that tied my belly
Into one great hope of something bigger than us two.
I have gone under the blankets on a winter night,
To massage your skin, caressing the sweat
Of your manhood, a musk you’ve smeared
So deeply into my pores it is irremovable.
But something otherworldly is nudging me now,
The grandmother of my yesterday is hauling me
Onto her back by my best boot straps.
She says this is unfitting, says as long as I wear
Her eyes, she won’t stand seeing you
Steal what’s left of my youth.
A burning sensation has prickled it’s way
Along the edge of my spine, and the marrow rises,
Straighter than it’s ever been, I stand.
Something outside of us is closing,
I look backward and realize it’s a door
I never noticed, it stood so still,
And we were never quiet enough for such silent agility.
I leave you now, and the house that pretended
To be my home, all your black mold in the shower.
I realize I am leaving with only a car load of books,
And clothes, a box of shoes and old notes.
I have left for you the pieces of my past,
The rocking chair we never sat in
And the armoire that mostly stored your socks,
The Christmas tree of my first marriage,
And the memories under the bed
In the pink cardboard box.
They contain the love we shared,
So maybe one day you can share it
With your daughter, the one you always wanted,
The one we never had.