Beyond Nepotism


We rarely publish poetry here at KtB, but this week one of our own (which is to say me, Laurel Snyder, the person typing this) has released a book of poems.  A book of poems called, “The Myth of the Simple Machines”.

And because a few of these poems are kinda relig-ish, and because such poetry doesn’t always appeal to the straight-up lit-blog crowd, and because I can

I’m reprinting a few of the poems here, now, for your poetical pleasure.  I’d like to believe they’re in keeping with the spirit of KtB, but then, I’d like to believe in general…


In the Kitchen

God clacks his spoon
against his bowl,
his bowl against his table,
and his table against
the yellow walls of his house.

God’s impatient or just
keeping time.

The soup isn’t hot enough yet,
so he waits, writes his name
on a yellowing cookbook
where the dust is thick and moist.
He writes “God.”

God’s a sloppy housewife.
He sits on the counter,
stares at his slippers,
watches the pot of soup
until it boils on the stove.

It smells like cabbage and turns the day
into what God calls “supper.”

God reaches for the salt and thinks
about his dreams, how they’re full
of other people, other things.
God tears into the bread and it feels
nice, close against his fingers.

He finds his teacup cracked
and whimpers. He can fix it
but it will still have been broken.
God pulls the teacup to his belly
and holds it there, hard.

He says to the room,
“Look! Something might happen.”

(this poem first appeared in Parlorgames magazine)




And this earth was once
Confused and tangled
And darkness.

And God called to the light,
Day! And to the dark
He called, Night!

And suddenly, he saw giant
God-fingers making shapes
Through the murk.

And God called
To the fingers and to
The things they felt.

And in the white room
A man watches his hands
Beat and bruise a thing.

And he relents and breathes
Into the white room, and sees
That the thing is now just that.

And so he calls to the thing
And the moment and the air
Hovering in the room. Thing!

And then again he calls,
Clearly and flatly: Time of Death: 12:32
He calls to the time.

And elsewhere, Our Father who art-
You fucking whore you fucking slut-
I think We’ll call you Emma-

And elsewhere, I will-
My body which will be given up for you-
My name is X and I’m an alcoholic-


Nobody can say word
Is not the nature
of saying.  What we are.

(This poem first appeared in the Iowa Review)