Posted in Poetry

Let’s Save the Planet by Sandra Simonds

Just as diamond is not real cubic zirconium

this poem is not really


nor the diamond mouth that I check

nightly against African-mined cell phone

chip minerals to say “I balance you,”

a phrase that opens, originates, accounts

in rotting meat poodle skirts

that resist police officer radar guns

in timed successes

and dress in meaningful meat poodle skirt disguises,

(for the leash, sew on 14 pieces

of sequins)

because the more I say it, the more

likely it will be this poem is a really

a cool African mined Leonardo Dicaprio,

(cut dog ears from off-white

piece of felt) &

(everyone has seen

the hypothetical asteroid hit the hypothetical earth

on YouTube), the orgasm’s crux—

a ripped up high jinks, the creamy

particles of the American housing

market unearthed and then spurting

on fancy clutches of hair

that grow from dead creamed skulls,

that sing cantos from dead diamond

mouths and radiate the new spirit,

in onion sprouts

from their metacarpals cracking

in the outpost’s burial ground.

And just as the organic little girl walks across

a field camp, finds green shoots,

pulls them up for her mama’s soup,

our carbon

is tilted

and nursed in flag

formations to make diamond

flame. Carbon so

cradled and bathed—

how the baby carbon says gaga mama

with its rattle and bonked bones,

miniature fingers and miniature head—

the way we pinpoint carbon,

pressure it into gross abandon,

into adopting a stance

of original rotting

meat poodle skirts, the way we force

carbon to collapse in on itself

like dogs cut out of Sweden,

like Viking ship women back to the asteroid,

whose fingers knit

carbon hills and carbon keeps rolling along

the fault lines, in galactic hissy fits, and then the hills

call their lovers on cell phones

and the digits keep rolling.


Read Sandra Simonds Potty Mouth Interview with Neil de la Flor here.

Sandra Simonds is currently finishing a second full-length collection of poems called Mother was a Tragic Girl which will be published by Cleveland State University Poetry Center in 2012. She is the author of Warsaw Bikini (Bloof Books, 2008), which was a finalist for numerous prizes including the National Poetry Series; she is also the author of several chapbooks including Used White Wife (Grey Book Press, 2009) and The Humble Travelogues of Mr. Ian Worthington, Written from Land & Sea (Cy Gist, 2006). Her poems have been published in many journals such as Poetry, The Believer, the Colorado Review, Fence, the New Orleans Review and Lana Turner. Her Creative Nonfiction has been published in Post Road and other literary journals. She currently lives in Tallahassee, Florida and is an Assistant Professor of English at Thomas University.

Posted in The Potty Mouth Interviews

Sandra Simonds: I Warsaw Her Bikini

Sandra Simonds is the word Wanderer. She uses phrases like “sack of meat”, “I am the stone testicle”, and “a manatee’s big toe” to woo me into her lair. When she gave me her book Warsaw Bikini (Bloof Books, 2008), which was a finalist for numerous prizes including the National Poetry Series, it had a coffee stain on the cover. I thought: wow, this is gonna be good. And it was. Simonds’ poetry is gigantic, gorgeous and, one more g-word, goddamn good. Her words are diamond tiaras and the coal-world from which they came. She’s my new hero and heroin (heroine) in one. She agreed to this Potty Mouth interview on one condition: that I interview her. So, I did, and I’m happy. Enjoy.

Almost Dorothy: What is a poem?

Sandra Simonds: I’m a lyric poet with political, surrealist and, to a lesser degree, narrative tendencies. Let’s just make that clear right now. So, everything that I write here will be what the definition of a poem is to me and the sort of understanding of poetry that I have espoused and admire. There are other poetic traditions; the house of poetry is large and I am not trying to make any claims about poetry in general though I make here a lot of generalizations.

While I was running last week, I thought to myself—passing the little houses and trees and barking dogs and lazy cats and grandmothers and grandfathers and little babies hanging Continue reading “Sandra Simonds: I Warsaw Her Bikini”