What would a grown woman do?
She’d tug off an earring
when the phone rang, drop it to the desk

for the clatter and roll. You’d hear
in this the ice, tangling in the glass;
in her voice, low on the line, the drink

being poured. All night awake,
I heard its fruity murmur of disease
and cure. I heard the sweet word “sleep,”

which made me thirstier. Did I say it,
or did you? And will I learn
to wave the drink with a goodbye wrist

in conversation, toss it off all bracelet-bare
like more small talk about a small affair?
To begin, I’ll claim what I want

is small: the childish hand
of a dream to smooth me over,
a cold sip of water in bed,

your one kiss, never again.
I’ll claim I was a girl before this gin,
then beg you for another.

Deborah Garrison

I spent over 25 years playing and making a living on the internet, I love the web, but the web is a critical condition. Big corporations, social media, mass media are killing the web. Reading Jeff Jarvis’s The Web We Weave, I was hoping to find a solution to resuscitate the web. Unfortunately that won’t happen if big corporations, social media, and mass media keep milking the web to maximize their profits. I am not convinced.

First I was born and it was tough on Mom.
Dad felt left out. There’s much I can’t recall.
I seethed my way to speech and said a lot
of things: some were deemed cute. I was so small
my likely chance was growth, and so I grew.
Long days in school I filled, like a spring creek,
with boredom. Sex I discovered soon
enough, I now think. Sweet misery!

There’s not enough room in a poem so curt
to get me out of adolescence, yet
I’m nearing fifty with a limp, and dread
the way the dead get tacked up like a cord
of wood. Not much of a story, is it?
The life that matter’s not the one I’ve led.

William Matthews

Quốc Bảo’s 9 Bài Ru is a series of nine songs titled “Ru” (Lull). On the record, the melodies are melancholy and the lyrics are alluring. On the page, Quốc Bảo’s words become poetry. Through minimal arrangements, Nguyên Hà, Phạm Hoài Nam, and June Nguyễn had done an excellent job of telling his stories with their captivating vocals. Through typography, however, readers get the direct experience from his words. They don’t have to follow the singers. They can read at their own pace and draw their own stories through the rain, the storm, and the lover. For the lyrics, I chose Jean-Baptiste Morizo’s NaN Tragedy, specifically the italic type because it sings. For display text, I settled on Robert Leuschke’s Love Light for its swelling cursiveness. Enjoy 9 poems of “Ru.”

To a Favorite Granddaughter

Never love a simple lad;
Guard against the wise;
Shun a timid youth, and sad;
Hide from haunted eyes.

Never hold your heart in pain
For an evil-doer;
Never flip it down the lane
To a gifted wooer.

Never love a loving son;
Nor a sheep astray;
Gather up your skirts and run
From a wistful way.

Never give away a tear;
Never toss and pine…
Should you heed my words, my dear,
You’re no blood of mine!

Healed

Oh, when I threw my heart away
The year was at its fall.
I saw my dear, the other day,
Beside a flowering wall.
And this was all I had to say:
“I thought that he was tall!”

Superfluous Advice

Should they whisper false of you,
Never trouble to deny;
Should the words they speak be true,
Weep and storm and swear they lie.

Afternoon

When I am old and comforted
And done with this desire,
With Memory to share my bed,
And Peace to share my fire.

I’ll fold my hair in scalloped bands
Beneath my laundered cap;
And watch my cool and fragile hands
Lie light upon my lap.

And I will wear a spriggéd gown
With lace to kiss my throat.
I’ll draw my curtains to the town, A
nd him a purring note.

And I’ll forget the way of tears,
And rock, and stir my tea.
But oh, I wish those blesséd years
Were further than they be!

Swan Song

First you are hot,
Then you are cold;
And the best you have got
Is the fact you’re old.
Labor and hoard,
Worry and wed;
And the biggest reward
Is to die in bed.
A long time to sweat,
A little while to shiver
Is all you will get—
Where’s the nearest river?

Dorothy Parker

People cannot
Learn in schools
The truth about
The traffic rules,

Or gauge the temper
Of a cop
And when to steal
A light, or stop,

Or swiftly shift
From gear to gear
To save collision
In the rear.

My chassis was
Designed for speed,
My engine does
Its stuff at need,

My brakes are new
And working fine,
I could skid close
To the danger line,

But with safe margins
I’m content—
I hate to get
My mudguard bent!

Angela Cypher

George Mason University is under attack. If you have any affiliation with Mason, support our president and protect our university. Stand with us.

I sleep, thou sleepest
It sleeps—
A dream that nobody
Keeps.

We wake, you wake
They wake;
A desperate
Mistake.

A dream is pure
And mural,
While living life
Is plural,

And three or four—
Dimensional,
With number and tense
Declensional.

So then I try
To live
In the
Infinitive,

To love, to learn
To die.
No heroine
Am I,

But the subjunctive
Mood
Still offers something
Good—

So, might I, if I,
Should I
By chance, perhaps,
And could I,

Dispense with “if”
And “maybe”—
I’d have a black-eyed
Baby.

Angela Cypher

Reminiscent

When I consider how my life is spent,
I hardly ever repent.

On Ice-Breaking

Candy
Is dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.

Veracious

Purity
Is obscurity.

Helpful

A good way to forget today’s sorrows
Is by thinking hard about tomorrow’s.

Ogden Nash

Each year I have to take the dreadful mandatory IT security training. It’s 40 minutes long interactive video. Luckily, it provides a pre-test to determine how much I already know. I got a perfect score within 15 minutes thanks to AI. I only had to watch a few minutes of the intro and the conclusion. I don’t use AI too often, but this is an exception.