Emily Vogel has been published in an anthology; Co-Evolution 2:
Shivering Through the Details, with Turtle Ink Press, and,
forthcoming will be published by Salt Hill Press in Syracuse, NY,
and The Edison Review. She is the recipient of second prize for
The Academy of American Poets competition at Binghamton
University. She is a current member of the Ithaca poetry slam
team, and has been invited to participate in the Individual World
Slam in Columbus, Ohio this October. She holds a Bachelor’s
degree in Independent Theatre Studies form Boston University,
and a Master’s degree in English and Theatre Education from
New York University.
Series of Paintings
Within this radius of insufficient explanations,
the strangest of love is a barrel of wine,
an uninhabited apartment somewhere in Brooklyn
with bare walls aside from someone’s leftover nude painting,
or a painting of steam from a pot in a restaurant kitchen
or a radiator in a third floor walk-up
that we have to imagine is rising, and almost wish
we could fall into a daze of hallucination, or a painting
of a stuffed flamingo on a shelf with an arrangement
of framed photographs, or a pile of tires
in a field of grazing cattle, or a confusion of wooden planks
set afire, or a painting of anthropomorphized dogs
playing the seventh perfunctory hand of poker,
or a painting of a tea party, the china etched
with blue flowers, or a painting of one chair too few at a house party
and an ontological bowl of grapes in oil pastel,
or a painting of a man, bent pensively over his paperwork
amidst the dim light of an office lamp,
or a painting of sleeping hillsides on a listless summer night,
the moon half-cradled by a dusky blue, or a painting
of someone screaming on bridge from loneliness,
or an abstract painting that wails across a December night,
or a still photograph, a woman’s hair lashing against her cheek,
and a man, with his hands crossed at the thumbs
in a shape that resembles the wings of an awkward bird
or a rainbow caught in a soap bubble,
or a twinkling of lights caught in camera motion
like a chaotic dance party with poor reception
on a car radio, or an amorous risk that fell out of the front
seat of a car like a night tumbling from excessive drinking,
or a painting of a city we bid farewell to
like a wildflower picked on a day excursion
that flies out the window and returns again
like clouds that hang over the tops of buildings
that we can barely see from the New Jersey Turnpike.
Poet’s Lover Serves Hors D’hourves
I imagine when I finally grow old,
and I’ve begun to accumulate
problems with my bones, I will serve
gouda cheese to a table
of famous male poets.
They will have gathered
on a companionable summer evening
in someplace anachronistic
like a round table at a garden party,
and they will grumble studiously
over their verse
and they will tell me
the gouda cheese is excellent.
Perhaps, avocados will be in season,
and I will prepare avocado and sprout
finger sandwiches for lunch,
and I will ask them
for elaborative rants
about the tulips and hyacinths
that I’ve watered
in my backyard garden shoes.
I will bring trays of cigarettes
and light them for the poets
obsequiously,
and merriment will ensue
as I entertain them
by twirling round and round
in my Bloomingdale’s dress,
that billows like a chromatic
whirl of radiance.
Old Furniture
To think we all that, and in addition,
a bag of clear-eyed marbles,
or an intimate stroll past a strip of wine-houses
and the joyous anarchy of last calls at the bar,
given any reason or chance to pluck a cherry blossom
and tuck it behind the ear, or any excuse at all
to expose the midriff, or reveal, in casual conversation,
the secret thrill of a temperate wind grazing the ankles,
to think there may not have been an appropriate spot
to dig a hole, and bury the exalted treasure chest
of confessional mail, or the reason
any solitary person overindulges in a jug table wine
on Saturday night, barely a lesson to speak of
that deceives like the parameters of time,
hardens like a tray of ice, and returns to us like injured pigeons,
and the litany of excuses, hurled like old furniture
out of a summertime window, that say, “be reasonable,”
good god old friend.
Shivering Through the Details, with Turtle Ink Press, and,
forthcoming will be published by Salt Hill Press in Syracuse, NY,
and The Edison Review. She is the recipient of second prize for
The Academy of American Poets competition at Binghamton
University. She is a current member of the Ithaca poetry slam
team, and has been invited to participate in the Individual World
Slam in Columbus, Ohio this October. She holds a Bachelor’s
degree in Independent Theatre Studies form Boston University,
and a Master’s degree in English and Theatre Education from
New York University.
Series of Paintings
Within this radius of insufficient explanations,
the strangest of love is a barrel of wine,
an uninhabited apartment somewhere in Brooklyn
with bare walls aside from someone’s leftover nude painting,
or a painting of steam from a pot in a restaurant kitchen
or a radiator in a third floor walk-up
that we have to imagine is rising, and almost wish
we could fall into a daze of hallucination, or a painting
of a stuffed flamingo on a shelf with an arrangement
of framed photographs, or a pile of tires
in a field of grazing cattle, or a confusion of wooden planks
set afire, or a painting of anthropomorphized dogs
playing the seventh perfunctory hand of poker,
or a painting of a tea party, the china etched
with blue flowers, or a painting of one chair too few at a house party
and an ontological bowl of grapes in oil pastel,
or a painting of a man, bent pensively over his paperwork
amidst the dim light of an office lamp,
or a painting of sleeping hillsides on a listless summer night,
the moon half-cradled by a dusky blue, or a painting
of someone screaming on bridge from loneliness,
or an abstract painting that wails across a December night,
or a still photograph, a woman’s hair lashing against her cheek,
and a man, with his hands crossed at the thumbs
in a shape that resembles the wings of an awkward bird
or a rainbow caught in a soap bubble,
or a twinkling of lights caught in camera motion
like a chaotic dance party with poor reception
on a car radio, or an amorous risk that fell out of the front
seat of a car like a night tumbling from excessive drinking,
or a painting of a city we bid farewell to
like a wildflower picked on a day excursion
that flies out the window and returns again
like clouds that hang over the tops of buildings
that we can barely see from the New Jersey Turnpike.
Poet’s Lover Serves Hors D’hourves
I imagine when I finally grow old,
and I’ve begun to accumulate
problems with my bones, I will serve
gouda cheese to a table
of famous male poets.
They will have gathered
on a companionable summer evening
in someplace anachronistic
like a round table at a garden party,
and they will grumble studiously
over their verse
and they will tell me
the gouda cheese is excellent.
Perhaps, avocados will be in season,
and I will prepare avocado and sprout
finger sandwiches for lunch,
and I will ask them
for elaborative rants
about the tulips and hyacinths
that I’ve watered
in my backyard garden shoes.
I will bring trays of cigarettes
and light them for the poets
obsequiously,
and merriment will ensue
as I entertain them
by twirling round and round
in my Bloomingdale’s dress,
that billows like a chromatic
whirl of radiance.
Old Furniture
To think we all that, and in addition,
a bag of clear-eyed marbles,
or an intimate stroll past a strip of wine-houses
and the joyous anarchy of last calls at the bar,
given any reason or chance to pluck a cherry blossom
and tuck it behind the ear, or any excuse at all
to expose the midriff, or reveal, in casual conversation,
the secret thrill of a temperate wind grazing the ankles,
to think there may not have been an appropriate spot
to dig a hole, and bury the exalted treasure chest
of confessional mail, or the reason
any solitary person overindulges in a jug table wine
on Saturday night, barely a lesson to speak of
that deceives like the parameters of time,
hardens like a tray of ice, and returns to us like injured pigeons,
and the litany of excuses, hurled like old furniture
out of a summertime window, that say, “be reasonable,”
good god old friend.
Emily Vogel
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