3 poems by Michael Igoe: “Bright Eyes” “Fun Lovers” “Bible Story”

Antique 1860-80 Ecclesiastical Bible Study Chart, Adam, Eve, Satan, Grim  Reaper by OldBeaverAntiques on Etsy https://ww… | Biblical art, Adam and eve,  Spiritual art

Bright Eyes

The first one in open water                                                                                                                                    patrols the lonesome beach.                                                                                                                                                                 Grateful for stillness                                                                                                                                                to serve as the filter                                                                                                                                                           held in nimble hands.                                                                                                                                                             The inescapable skies                                                                                                                                                              above muddy reaches                                                                                                                                                                                 found rooted in sands.                                                                                                                                                                       Four winds can’t obey                                                                                                                                                       the ton of deadweight                                                                                                                                                                  that calls itself human.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              To have and to hold                                                                                                                                                                     without distractions.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Taking off my jacket                                                                                                                                                      I find my house keys.                                                                                                                                                                                       The new kid sold                                                                                                                                                                his lures and tackle.                                                                                                                                                                    Box tops will buy them                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    if you sink on one knee.     

Fun Lovers                

I grasped finally                                                                                                                                                          when I last ate                                                                                                                                   valentine candy.                                                                                                                                                   In its heart shape,                                                                                                                                        with tender script.                                                                                                                                                                The blue one                                                                                                                                             dyes wombs                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         of new friends.                                                                                                                                                                          The same ones,                                                                                                                                          I at first adored.                                                                                                                                                                                    Then it turned out,                                                                                                                                                              they’re friends like                                                                                                                                                         stooges or footmen.                                                                                                                                                                                           Reaping the same,                                                                                                                                                as we always have                                                                                                                                                                    we watch together                                                                                                                                                                incipient breathing.                                                                                                                                                           We waited to see ourselves                                                                                                                                            over by the coffee machine.                                                                                                                                                                             Dropping poker chips                                                                                                                                 after losing everything.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              We can’t quite place                                                                                                                                   all the young dudes.                                                                                                                                 They wear No. 2 clothes,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        at the evening pony rides.     

 Bible Story              

We popped a bubble,                                                                                                                                      it made us wide eyed.                                                                                                                                                        Soon we’re dead set                                                                                                                                against every slander                                                                                                                                                   Adam and Eve,                                                                                                                                      willingly precede,                                                                                                                                                          in separate gardens.                                                                                                                                              They remain blessed                                                                                                                                        by a stoplight’s peril.                                                                                                                                                   They smile the smile,                                                                                                                                            belonging to winners.                                                                                                                                                              Our hero of the moment,                                                                                                                                                   is restrained in his efforts                                                                                                                       he mimics only cool ones;                                                                                                                                                                                            he thinks he’ll hit the target.       

Bio:  Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.                                                                         
                                                                                                            

3 new poems by Michael Igoe : “The Way of A Hero” “Tunnel Vision” & “Human Intervention”

The Way of A Hero

Certain castes tend to agree                                                                                                                     to own a certain anonymity.                                                                                                                     Though its lessons may sag                                                                                                                           it continues outlining plans.                                                                                                                                It no longer ages,                                                                                                                                               it plays all things                                                                                                                                                                         closer to the vest.                                                                                                                                                     Not extreme,                                                                                                                                            nor exuberant.                                                                                                                                They got that spirit                                                                                                                                                  of cautious departure                                                                                                                              from an ill lit corridor.    

Tunnel Vision 

Using glass eyes                                                                                                                                                    you fill the roles                                                                                                                                                                                             of  missing eyes.                                                                                                                                                                         Both will be judged                                                                                                                                                                                                           by rhythmic method                                                                                                                                                     in older swan songs.                                                                                                                                   Songs of Adam,                                                                                                                                           those from Eve.                                                                                                                                                                One precedes another                                                                                                                               in two separate gardens.                                                                                                                                  We made a decision                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     completely dead set                                                                                                                                               against their slander.    

Human Intervention

As you entered,                                                                                                                                       you were saying,                                                                                                                                      “We carry baggage                                                                                                                                                from the living years.”                                                                                                                                It’s the meaning                                                                                                                                                      of living in sin.                                                                                                                                                You know I am the one                                                                                                                                                                                             who gave you a cornet.                                                                                                                          But it’s been ages                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      since you played it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  You stored in a crate                                                                                                                                       with the grease guns.                                                                                                                                                        Marked as property                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       of the Christ Child.                                                                                                                                          Its later posed in secret                                                                                                                                 alongside a steel guitar.         

  A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe 
          
 Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.                                                              

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

with Michael Igoe:

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Michael: I started writing at about 15 or 16. I had little interest until then, I was encouraged by a musician buddy to do this. What I was reading was mostly trashy detective stories and horror, sci-fi.

Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?

Michael: A lot of what I see and hear is contemporary work- Joy Harjo, Jericho Brown. I still revere the beat poets, especially Corso and Ginberg. Surrealism, Dada, and Symbolists are about as far back as I go. I’ve heard that “an artist is true to the times.” So be it.

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing? Have any travels away from home influence your work?

Michael: I grew up on the South Side of Chicago which is a pretty fabled place for childhood. It definitely had a great influence, at one point I spent a lot of time portraying neighborhoods and people in them.

Q4: What do you consider the most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far?

Michael: I have a few favorites from my own work. One of them is in that great anthology, Avalanches in Poetry

Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?

Michael: I think because of the way I was brought up I shied away from identifying myself as an artist. It happened by default.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Michael: I study Tai Chi and it has aided me immensely.

Q7: Any recent or forthcoming projects you’d like to promote?

Michael: No! I send out submissions; that’s all. I write for the people I’m with.

Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from one of your poems or others/Favorite artwork?

Michael: “Nighthawks” the Hopper painting. I had a reproduction on the wall at college.

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Michael: I have to say the late Allen Ginsberg. I corresponded with him for 2 years. I showed up at his Institute in Boulder and met up with him again when he read at Harvard.

Links:

2 new Poems by Michael Igoe : Think of It As Fire & Subdue

Poems from Anthologies & new poems from Michael Igoe

Poems by Michael Igoe : “In Certain Climates” & “Elliptical”

2 new poems by Michael Igoe :”Inborn” & “Funeral Lilies”

2 Poems False Prophet & Violet Contact by Michael Igoe

Twitter: @MichaelIgoe5

https://www.dustpoetry.co.uk/post/lake-tomahawk-by-michael-igoe

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/01/three-poems-by-michael-igoe.html

https://thepoetryquestion.com/2019/10/30/tpq5-michael-igoe/

https://www.sledgehammerlit.com/post/brass-monkey-by-michael-igoe

https://idleink.org/2020/04/04/origin-by-michael-igoe/

https://ephemeralelegies.com/2020/05/25/thin-disguise-by-michael-igoe/

2 new Poems by Michael Igoe : Think of It As Fire & Subdue

person using white disposable lighter

Think Of it as Fire

In an everyday season,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      I am the everready one                                                                                                                                                 to foster blank children.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Made out of spare parts:                                                                                                                         Venus as the little coach                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     who fashions them in mist.                                                                                                                                                      The sense of dread descends                                                                                                                                                       when they continue thriving.                        

Subdue                  

A rise insea level                                                                                                                                         provides the clue                                                                                                                              to what I missed.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          A routine discovery,                                                                                                                                    serving weightlessly                                                                                                                                   as due compensation.                                                                                                                                      For an angry era                                                                                                                                      spent in squalor                                                                                                                                      cutting new teeth.                                                                                                                                                 Badness lends meaning,                                                                                                                      to events an angel incurs.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Laughing, falling, failing,                                                                                                                                         in courageous retaliation.          

 Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.      

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe