For David E. Oprava
Waiting
for time and god
to show me,
it is all the same
in the end.
Here, without regret,
man quietly steals
all the words
from my mouth.
Sweet morsels lifted,
tip of tongue
emptied onto a passing
universe, deconstructed.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Monday, November 8, 2010
Dies Illa
(after Tammy Foster Brewer)
Yes, I was HER—
that girl stuffed into a mold
too small, her mind convinced
her expanse greater than the plains.
I lived a double life (life). The secret
second binging on food with room lock latched.
The contraband of my desire slowly rotting
under
the bed .
It would go down easy at first,
a slow trickle and burn like a first kiss
that turns to bite you bloody in the end; I’d
force it in then, damage done, to bury it into
a stomach s t r e t c h e d to limit. The void
still gapping in the dusk of teenage summers.
There I am naked with the mirror
my enemy; shadows mock flesh and curve.
Mouth full.
Tears avenge cheeks
with hate
found in every inch of reflection.
Breasts uneven (imperfect)
Arms doughy (imperfect)
Waist full and hips thick (imperfect)
Legs less than feminine (imperfect)
I am unrecognizable.
There are several shades of disgust
gathering on my tongue, none of which would stand
up for me if called upon. They’d laugh outside
courtroom doors, snide and perfectly jaded, feeding
the illusion of perfect to me one dainty morsel at a time.
When it is all swallowed (soul and all)
and the Lacrimosa is on its final string,
I cover up my discretions and pretend to be normal.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Yes, I was HER—
that girl stuffed into a mold
too small, her mind convinced
her expanse greater than the plains.
I lived a double life (life). The secret
second binging on food with room lock latched.
The contraband of my desire slowly rotting
under
the bed .
It would go down easy at first,
a slow trickle and burn like a first kiss
that turns to bite you bloody in the end; I’d
force it in then, damage done, to bury it into
a stomach s t r e t c h e d to limit. The void
still gapping in the dusk of teenage summers.
There I am naked with the mirror
my enemy; shadows mock flesh and curve.
Mouth full.
Tears avenge cheeks
with hate
found in every inch of reflection.
Breasts uneven (imperfect)
Arms doughy (imperfect)
Waist full and hips thick (imperfect)
Legs less than feminine (imperfect)
I am unrecognizable.
There are several shades of disgust
gathering on my tongue, none of which would stand
up for me if called upon. They’d laugh outside
courtroom doors, snide and perfectly jaded, feeding
the illusion of perfect to me one dainty morsel at a time.
When it is all swallowed (soul and all)
and the Lacrimosa is on its final string,
I cover up my discretions and pretend to be normal.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Sunday, November 7, 2010
My mother always warned me
For Mark Hartenbach
I.
You are a secret
kept under a shell,
the magician’s three-card
folly giving everything, but nothing;
marks on the page as close as one will ever get.
II.
Your body poses a calculated confidence,
more intellect driven than ego ridden,
but my mother always warned me,
the bigger the bark, the smaller the man.
III.
You reek of ebb and flow,
a stream of consciousness
making jagged ripples in the lake’s glass,
only reaching dry land once in several moons,
a solitary boatman without oars,
cynicism and defense easy on the tongue.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
I.
You are a secret
kept under a shell,
the magician’s three-card
folly giving everything, but nothing;
marks on the page as close as one will ever get.
II.
Your body poses a calculated confidence,
more intellect driven than ego ridden,
but my mother always warned me,
the bigger the bark, the smaller the man.
III.
You reek of ebb and flow,
a stream of consciousness
making jagged ripples in the lake’s glass,
only reaching dry land once in several moons,
a solitary boatman without oars,
cynicism and defense easy on the tongue.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Bathymetric (Building a Tsunami)
For Dan
Hot water illuminates invisible
markings on my rib bones
left by the grip of your hands.
There is a faint outline of your lips
on the pink swell of my breast
and a silver-shadowed trail as your tongue
leads you to worlds unknown.
It is the heat that raises the memory,
my arms taut behind me, gripping thighs
as if my life depends upon it; hips thrusting
forward and hair disheveled while you
elevate me in soft flickering light.
It is the heat that sews the sound of your voice
into my skin in the darkness of these nights.
We connect like tender filaments in thin glass,
joined tentatively, transferring arced energy.
We've become inventors and explorers
sailing in the ocean of uncertainty, words
you know so much about, and each
with sights set on lands and time of snow
where the imprints of our bodies
make angels in the powder and the drawback
no less impressive when glaciers fall into warm seas.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Hot water illuminates invisible
markings on my rib bones
left by the grip of your hands.
There is a faint outline of your lips
on the pink swell of my breast
and a silver-shadowed trail as your tongue
leads you to worlds unknown.
It is the heat that raises the memory,
my arms taut behind me, gripping thighs
as if my life depends upon it; hips thrusting
forward and hair disheveled while you
elevate me in soft flickering light.
It is the heat that sews the sound of your voice
into my skin in the darkness of these nights.
We connect like tender filaments in thin glass,
joined tentatively, transferring arced energy.
We've become inventors and explorers
sailing in the ocean of uncertainty, words
you know so much about, and each
with sights set on lands and time of snow
where the imprints of our bodies
make angels in the powder and the drawback
no less impressive when glaciers fall into warm seas.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Pariaman, no more
For Sumatra
The mosque’s minaret
has succumbed to the earth
as she swallows whole
villages in her muddy mouth.
A great underground
t h u n d e r erupts cascades
of rock and thick mud,
envelops a wedding party
at the foothills of the bride’s
childhood home. Her most
precious union sealed in darkness,
her unborn children, myths once again.
Those that still roam find
hands petrified up from the land
like human plants searching
for sun. The dead are carved
from clay by villagers, culled
today only to be replaced
from whence they came
with a prayer for the sending.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
The mosque’s minaret
has succumbed to the earth
as she swallows whole
villages in her muddy mouth.
A great underground
t h u n d e r erupts cascades
of rock and thick mud,
envelops a wedding party
at the foothills of the bride’s
childhood home. Her most
precious union sealed in darkness,
her unborn children, myths once again.
Those that still roam find
hands petrified up from the land
like human plants searching
for sun. The dead are carved
from clay by villagers, culled
today only to be replaced
from whence they came
with a prayer for the sending.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
The place we connect with the earth
I sit fascinated by the tenderness
in his voice as he speaks, imbibing
the curve of a woman's foot
with languid fantasy.
the arch is ivory silk
with feathered creases
to be lost in
His language a confabulation of hushed
words that lick all the angles turned
by her heel hanging over the bed's edge;
his smile overwhelms me.
heart strings plucked
with the simple curl
of her painted pink toes
Pleasure hangs on his lips like an epoch,
hands caress the solid air as if her foot
existed beneath his delicate fingers, as if
he could smell the jasmine lotion on her skin.
I slide my striped sock
over ankle, toe and heel.
I want him to tell my soul
what
matters.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
in his voice as he speaks, imbibing
the curve of a woman's foot
with languid fantasy.
the arch is ivory silk
with feathered creases
to be lost in
His language a confabulation of hushed
words that lick all the angles turned
by her heel hanging over the bed's edge;
his smile overwhelms me.
heart strings plucked
with the simple curl
of her painted pink toes
Pleasure hangs on his lips like an epoch,
hands caress the solid air as if her foot
existed beneath his delicate fingers, as if
he could smell the jasmine lotion on her skin.
I slide my striped sock
over ankle, toe and heel.
I want him to tell my soul
what
matters.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
White Noise
What does one do when haunted
by the white noise of your body?
Long hours alone with riffled papers,
fingers tapping lightly on the desk,
a heaved sigh at banality and its
mere existence in the world.
Each sound laden with its own emotional
consequence and reference that is not
easily distilled; the process
of evaporation requiring more heat
than this chill will consent to.
The whisper the pencil makes
moving dutifully across the page
is an act of love; it captures
the abstract notion in amber
to be discovered in a farther place
and time, but not here, not now,
and all that is spoken about luck
boils down to how far your heart
is willing to open and for how long.
There is no luck in love, only change
and discovery and rekindled fires.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
by the white noise of your body?
Long hours alone with riffled papers,
fingers tapping lightly on the desk,
a heaved sigh at banality and its
mere existence in the world.
Each sound laden with its own emotional
consequence and reference that is not
easily distilled; the process
of evaporation requiring more heat
than this chill will consent to.
The whisper the pencil makes
moving dutifully across the page
is an act of love; it captures
the abstract notion in amber
to be discovered in a farther place
and time, but not here, not now,
and all that is spoken about luck
boils down to how far your heart
is willing to open and for how long.
There is no luck in love, only change
and discovery and rekindled fires.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Pan/dora
Skylight angled at forty-five
degrees, restless moon
haunting the rims of wood
sparkling off kitchen steel
and everyday glass,
awaiting a simple gesture.
The
cupboard
opens
and closes to something
magical and romantic, a ripe
Pandora's box without
the stardust and chaos,
but with leaned words
laced in fragrant pollens.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
degrees, restless moon
haunting the rims of wood
sparkling off kitchen steel
and everyday glass,
awaiting a simple gesture.
The
cupboard
opens
and closes to something
magical and romantic, a ripe
Pandora's box without
the stardust and chaos,
but with leaned words
laced in fragrant pollens.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Dan tian
The old Chinese woman
does Qigong on the sidewalk
that slopes downward
like a gentle rolling hill.
She is a graceful crane
with a shock of white hair
and face stolid in morning light.
I stand by the mailbox
listening to the voice from her radio
give instruction in Mandarin
between the crackles of airwave
silence. There was a time
when my feet were planted
in grass, unwavering and calm.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
does Qigong on the sidewalk
that slopes downward
like a gentle rolling hill.
She is a graceful crane
with a shock of white hair
and face stolid in morning light.
I stand by the mailbox
listening to the voice from her radio
give instruction in Mandarin
between the crackles of airwave
silence. There was a time
when my feet were planted
in grass, unwavering and calm.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Chasing Tales
I have found many four-leaf clovers
on the banks of this dyke.
The creek never rises high enough
to prove its worth, and maybe,
we are lucky for that; this land
was once burdened with floods.
It is hard to think here, as if nature
won’t allow it amidst water tumbling
over rocks; the sounds of fall crickets;
birds calling out for saving. Monarchs
and Paper Whites dance against
this unusually blue day while ruby
dragonflies hum like ghosts. But the city
is not too far off, its sounds ply
into this bubble I have built around me—
enough to distract me; I think of how sad
your voice was on the phone, solitary and distant.
You reassure me it is not the state of us,
only life in general. Your head full of reasoning—
trying to sort your place in the world,
running ragged in a circle as only philosophy can do.
I tell you we might never really know why.
You say it must be out there somewhere.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Red Fez, Small Press Editors Edition
on the banks of this dyke.
The creek never rises high enough
to prove its worth, and maybe,
we are lucky for that; this land
was once burdened with floods.
It is hard to think here, as if nature
won’t allow it amidst water tumbling
over rocks; the sounds of fall crickets;
birds calling out for saving. Monarchs
and Paper Whites dance against
this unusually blue day while ruby
dragonflies hum like ghosts. But the city
is not too far off, its sounds ply
into this bubble I have built around me—
enough to distract me; I think of how sad
your voice was on the phone, solitary and distant.
You reassure me it is not the state of us,
only life in general. Your head full of reasoning—
trying to sort your place in the world,
running ragged in a circle as only philosophy can do.
I tell you we might never really know why.
You say it must be out there somewhere.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Red Fez, Small Press Editors Edition
My Town
My town has given up
on God and Love,
in that order.
The shelves at the thrift
store are filled with lost
affection, lost inspiration.
Their pockets fill deep
with trinkets and baubles
worn with the age of many owners
and they believe it will mask
despair in the face of a failing
community. We covet false
promises like gold in my town.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published in Alligator Stew (print) 12/09
on God and Love,
in that order.
The shelves at the thrift
store are filled with lost
affection, lost inspiration.
Their pockets fill deep
with trinkets and baubles
worn with the age of many owners
and they believe it will mask
despair in the face of a failing
community. We covet false
promises like gold in my town.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published in Alligator Stew (print) 12/09
The Folk House
I.
Rusted bars creak when your right hand pushes open the gate,
your other, warm and firm in the valley of my back; a gentleman
of the first degree. The gesture at once quickens my heart.
We laugh nervously in the long, dark corridor with its catacomb
silence, and my clicking heels on the Spanish tile ring loud.
The walls rough beneath my fingers, an earthen Braille,
its beauty only grasped in this temporary blindness.
The tunnel opens easily into a courtyard, wooden trellis crowned
and dripping with wisteria, the color reminds me of the lilac still in my hair,
plucked deviously from a stranger's tree, when you said you'd never smelled it.
II.
I listen to the lilt of your voice making small talk, letting you go on,
knowing very well that you hate it, but you sense it will draw me out into this night;
this first mingling in the world without being caught inside the box.
We smoke, inhaling deep the clouded sky heavy with complaint,
the flower’s mixed perfumes, the chatter of friends, and the lingering smell
of our excitement, still fresh on the skin. I look up as the first drops descend,
the stars distant memories tonight; my life changes with each breath,
so fast I am spinning, and then all is quiet: your voice, the city, the people,
and I catch you watching me, smile spreading like a disease.
III.
You let me hold your hand beneath the table, the room lit
with white Christmas strands around the makeshift stage
and the whisper of coup de foudre taking my breath by surprise.
Closer, fire dances in votives by way of ghosts let in
through the high window, making kaleidoscope women behind
the soft brown bottles of Weston's, sweating rings onto the tabletop,
as the singer's voice shocks the air around us all.
We are captured in the church of his piano,
his voice the heaven we can't bring ourselves to believe exists,
and when he reaches the pinnacle, there is silence.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Writer's Bloc, Issue 6, 12/09
Rusted bars creak when your right hand pushes open the gate,
your other, warm and firm in the valley of my back; a gentleman
of the first degree. The gesture at once quickens my heart.
We laugh nervously in the long, dark corridor with its catacomb
silence, and my clicking heels on the Spanish tile ring loud.
The walls rough beneath my fingers, an earthen Braille,
its beauty only grasped in this temporary blindness.
The tunnel opens easily into a courtyard, wooden trellis crowned
and dripping with wisteria, the color reminds me of the lilac still in my hair,
plucked deviously from a stranger's tree, when you said you'd never smelled it.
II.
I listen to the lilt of your voice making small talk, letting you go on,
knowing very well that you hate it, but you sense it will draw me out into this night;
this first mingling in the world without being caught inside the box.
We smoke, inhaling deep the clouded sky heavy with complaint,
the flower’s mixed perfumes, the chatter of friends, and the lingering smell
of our excitement, still fresh on the skin. I look up as the first drops descend,
the stars distant memories tonight; my life changes with each breath,
so fast I am spinning, and then all is quiet: your voice, the city, the people,
and I catch you watching me, smile spreading like a disease.
III.
You let me hold your hand beneath the table, the room lit
with white Christmas strands around the makeshift stage
and the whisper of coup de foudre taking my breath by surprise.
Closer, fire dances in votives by way of ghosts let in
through the high window, making kaleidoscope women behind
the soft brown bottles of Weston's, sweating rings onto the tabletop,
as the singer's voice shocks the air around us all.
We are captured in the church of his piano,
his voice the heaven we can't bring ourselves to believe exists,
and when he reaches the pinnacle, there is silence.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Writer's Bloc, Issue 6, 12/09
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Quiet Learning Curve by Aleathia Drehmer and Dan Provost
Aleathia Drehmer and Dan Provost’s shared collection of poetry called “A Quiet Learning Curve” published by Rank Stranger Press is now available to order. This book is 48 pages of poetry that dips into each person’s quiet moments of thinking and astute observations of the world. It is sometimes somber and then funny, contemplative and silently optimistic.
The book is perfect bound and costs $10. Shipping in the USA is $2 and shipping for most international destinations is $4. Ordering information is as follows:
To order a book from Aleathia Drehmer—
Send $10 plus shipping as well concealed cash, check, or money order to:
Aleathia Drehmer
PO Box 282
Painted Post, NY 14870
or for Pay Pal go to “send money” and use the email windwitch27@yahoo.com (please be sure to include a shipping address and the word “curve”)
To order a book from Dan Provost—
Send $10 plus shipping as well concealed cash, check, or money order to:
Dan Provost
14 Watson Ave
Worcester, MA 01606
(PayPal account information available upon request)
Thank you for your interest and your support.
Sincerely,
Aleathia Drehmer and Dan Provost
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Interstate
The sky is rains starlings
in maize flecks and iridescent
ebony cascade with wings s p a n n e d and diving
Kama
kazi
from verdant rectangles, hinged on steel arms.
Signs mislead us, driving into
twilighted spring winds
feeling devoured
like fat worms after rains, flesh
and grit pierced with golden barbs, easily.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
It is only one pebble tossed
For Amelia
The matriarch died in a flooding
of the world; she ruled
hearts and faces into
sunbeams,
molded the consciousness of children
in her disappointment,
fixed tears under shy smiles
with the smell from her blouse
as they buried faces
into it.
A child calls out, “I
can’t breathe” and we know
the psalm of her heart washes over
engorged banks of rivers,
night merging
lost dreams of others,
collecting its own story on the journey.
Release,
and again into the torrents
of blackness,
fireflies light the way
over muddy waters.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Thinking of Sea Trees at Sunset
Small white pills
trick the body out of her fertility--give her false impressions
of eggs growing life,
cells dividing from the combination
of double helix DNA
swimming in the heat of her core.
Breasts swell forming a mother's cleft,
the weight of them
an implication to nourish;
muscles relax through the hips
anticipating the burden of travel
from one world to another.
And sleep covets her entirely
to protect them both from transformation,
building bones and lashes and teeth;
fingers sprouting like blades of grass;
heart beating as if a hiccup,
no more than a flutter beneath the skin.
Then the last pill, small and blue,
laughs heartily at this joke of creation,
the simplistic human need to populate,
and undergo masterpieces
of flesh and magic.
Life
falls
down
in the gravity of death,
held firm in its change,
and what's left is a river of vermilion
between supple thighs.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
Lost Identity (after Paul Blackburn)
that prove to be more
valuable
than money and fame.
Time spent choosing braided ropes
of morality and conviction,
the core
that holds a personality erect
wears thinner with age,
morphs into a larger
meaning
loved ones rarely understand.
Pride is on the line and vulnerable,
so thin and trepidacious-ly
walked
that we don’t know how it will ever recover.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
By the Tail
of a situation gone wrong—
body filled with sleeping pills,
Morphine and Motrin, enough
to stop organs in their tracks;
arms laden with horse
on a late night death ride
into the blackest sky she’d ever see.
30 minutes down, rocking
in the arms of Grim, kissed
by his poisonous tongue when she
sees the pin-prick lights cascading
into beaming fluorescent floods.
Faces around her bleed awe
at what they have returned,
an unwilling body and a brain
left to a fate worse than death,
worse than the life she was leaving.
Time steals sinew and fat
until she is little more than the living
dead with pinched blue eyes
perpetually angry and frightened,
teeth gnashing involuntarily, limbs
contracted like bird wings.
She is alive in a wasting body,
a prisoner of her own design,
and I want to take her picture
to show my daughter what happens
when the devil has you by the tail;
when you think you are invincible,
only to realize there is no such thing.
There is only luck, and luck run dry.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
A letter to a real friend
It is hard to take the truth
delivered at point blank range
like a bullet ripping through
the
3rd
I
even harder to hold back defenses
boiling beneath the surface,
sharp-toothed and hungry.
My disappointment,
dipped
in self-pity on the end of her blunt
t
i
p
p
e
d sword,
lets me know I have spent too long
in the land of the deaf with all that ego
stuffed between my ears, that above all else,
I stopped listening and therefore stopped learning.
Sometimes,
it is hard to take the truth.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
Surfeited
Morning found me
in a round of alarms
each softer than the last
with gray
light through window-
pain, cloud trails white
as jasmine petals
tucked behind
ear and smile. Form
rising; flesh warmed in
cotton given no hope
of imitating
previous nor
replicating
the future.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Counterexample Poetics 12/09
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