Two Poets Cross at the Tuff Bean Cafe

I’ve collaborated with my good friend Basilike Pappa on the poem below. Visit her lovely blog Silent Hour to see more of her work.

Two Poets Cross at the Tuff Bean Cafe

“Let’s try this again,” said he.
“What’s there to gain?” said she.

“I could buy you a coffee,” said he.
“And lead to catastrophe?” said she.

“Look,” said he. “I’m sorry about the other day.”
“Good,” said she. “Then I’ll take a cafe au lait.”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants,” said he.
“I like a man who knows when he’s wrong,” said she.

“Shall we sit and talk it out?” said he.
“You read my thoughts out loud,” said she.

“I still feel your hand across my cheek,” said he.
“As do I the marks of your critique,” said she.

“But I like your style, your rhythm, your voice in verse,” said he.
“Then I suppose I like your choice of words,” said she.

“You know,” said he. “I’d love to rhyme you line for line.”
“That so?” said she. “You couldn’t keep up if you tried.”

 

by Basilike Pappa & Ryan Dowling

Poem and Story published in The Rockford Review

My story “Inertia” has won 1st place in The Rockford Review’s Energy Prose Contest.

In addition to this, they will be publishing my poem “Ode to a River Boulder” in their 2017 Winter-Spring edition.

On a side note, I have recently joined the Rockford Writer’s Guild. Once a month they hold meetings open to the public and free of charge. If you happen to live in or around the Northern Illinois area, I’d encourage you to stop by and share your work. For more information click here.

 

 

Love Sonnet X

Love Sonnet X
after Pablo Neruda

And there was one woman who stole into me singing,
who manipulated hearts into zips of lightning
that zigged all over the village and dizzied our people,
leaving cigarette ash and car accidents

in her wake, spitting pearls at the poor, waging
war in one hand and love in the other, many-sided
but pure—a force tailored to my weakness,
a force I could not resist because it resisted me.

No temple bell raised the sun upon her printed face,
and by evening the sky had turned its page.
I called her Muse, and the metal of her laughter

returned to the bells. I called her Joan of Arc
and broke her armor. I called her by her name, Love,
because she was only a woman, like you.

by Ryan Dowling

“How To Become A Monster” on The Drabble

Many thanks to The Drabble for accepting my piece “How To Become A Monster”

How To Become A Monster

I used to get my kicks scaring kids on Halloween.

Leaping from the bushes, I’d roar behind a mask and swing an axe left and right. I’d send the little monsters screaming down the street.

Well, most of the time.

Then came a boy who didn’t even flinch between his Frankenstein bolts. Instead, he extended the twisted branch of his arm—his real arm—at the end of which was a crooked hand with three crooked fingers. He took a Reese’s from the bowl.

“Thank you,” he said.

How do I say this?

I just wasn’t myself anymore.

 

by Ryan Dowling

Love Sonnet IX

Love Sonnet IX
after Pablo Neruda

Love, I am such a central flame, loving solitude
and the way she drives me with her big eyes,
and the violin she burns at the bottom of my well
that fills the stones with your sound of horses.

I thought that together we could be this solitary pain,
one loneliness: a sort of flower on the moon,
drilling its white into our childhood’s windows,
into our entire planet of two people.

But I know you better: seeking love in loud circles
of liars, piling your hair on the slow genitals
of earth, afraid because I have placed this one star

in the palm of your universe: even so, I forgive you.
You could not know what it is to be so alone.
You could not know what it is to be so in love.

by Ryan Dowling

Love Sonnet VIII

Love Sonnet VIII
after Pablo Neruda

Nirvana rose through the roots of my legs
and I raised my arms like Heaven’s branches
to offer all gods the fruit of my contempt,
for how could I bear eternity without you, love?

Forsaken, I dove back into that mortal sea
on which I’d left you burning, my Gloria of fire;
for Heaven fizzled like that first cry of sulfur
and Nirvana was but a laughing mouthful of ash.

And I’d follow no religion save the tongued valley
between the mice-bitten hills of your breasts,
and I’d map all the rivers of my life by your veins

until I discovered your shawled heart’s robin,
and I’d rip you from the fetch of the dark,
and we’d fly—two flames—into a single world.

by Ryan Dowling