poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Miss Tehran 2009

In Tehran in blood red and skin/ color this morning
and the color of smoke/ watch this woman
as blood comes all over her face/ and she dies
on a computerscreen/street in every city
in the world. Her name means blood
no, that is incorrect/ her name means voice.

Now blood takes her lungs, fills her voice
every computer can see her dying face this morning
you can tell by her eyes and you can tell by the blood
again and again this woman
who is so beautiful/ we pass her on the street/screen in every city
on the screen on my computer on my desk she dies.

In Teheran in blood red and skin/ color she dies
on the news it says her name means voice.
We stand beside her on the street of the desktop city
and she bleeds from her beautiful face. This morning I found a dead woman
on my screen and I don’t know what she said but she said it in blood.

We drink our office coffee, it tastes like blood
on the computers at our desks we watch as she dies
over and over. Maybe this time they will save the woman
but they never do. Even though she is beautiful and her name means voice.
We drink our office coffee and die with her this morning
on computer screens in every city.

Dear dead woman, your city is burning, your city
the world is watching as your lungs fill with blood
you won’t get a funeral so let’s give you a beauty contest this morning
we count you/ we vote for you/ you still die
on this video where you are your country and your name means voice
you are Miss Tehran 2009/ you are the dying woman

you are the beautiful perpetually dying woman
we stand beside you on the street of the desktop city
red blood of voice
red voice of blood.
Look at Miss Tehran 2009 as she dies
on your desk again and again this burning morning.

Her name bleeds voice, this dying woman.
We mourn her this morning in all of the bloody cities.
The revolution flickrs in our electric eyes as Miss Tehran bleeds and dies.

Monday, June 15, 2009


Clove-flavored taffy/ tastes like sweet-salt-smoke/ reminds me of the clove cigarettes
from Indonesia that Marisa offered around/ after everyone had left the backyard
on the night of our wedding/ when we were all drunk on the back porch.

A little boy running down the beach throws a rock/ at you/
reading Nietzsche/ on the blanket beside me./ He must not like Nietzsche, I say.
Emmanuel!/ That was bad! That was very, very bad!/ his mother screams
kicking sand in our sodas as she chases him down the beach.

The little boy running down the beach is not a ghost/ this time.
The little boy running down the beach is not my husband.
You are my husband/ reading/ feet burrowing into the sand/ as a schooner with two masts
floats by and early June is too early/ to swim the ocean in Maine.

Today we are beach flavors/ strawberry, orange and cream,
cotton candy, banana, clove,
key lime pie, garlic and ginger.

I want mouthfuls of ocean.
I want nosefuls of ocean.

Do mermaids eat lobsters?
Can the mermaids hear me singing?

Now we are back at the house on Brackett Street/ and I have all our shells and seaglass
and driftwood/ spread out on the back porch table/ and one big jar/ and the love of my life
is in the kitchen/ scraping barnacles off muscles with a butter knife.

This jar will keep the sea with us. On the table is the camera
with it’s one twist-close eye/ pointed straight up/ hawk-watching.

The cork from last night’s bottle/ 24 pieces of beach glass
a foot of clean, blonde driftwood/ 11 shells
3 rocks and a bag of sand/ the smell

of mussels in garlic comes steaming out of the kitchen
you come/ pick up the best one/ you say, this is the most beautiful rock I have ever seen.
Children ride by/ ringing the bells on their bicycles.

I suck the barnacle cuts on your fingers/the trees in the backyard clap their millions
of leaves/ you put on a record/ the white album/ and sand sails off the porch
onto the green lawn, kept summer-people perfect/ “Only one refused to open!”

You yell./ Wonderful./ These old barnacled-up mussels still have something in them:
the ocean music/ what it refuses
and the tree music of oxygen making.

The mussels are full of pearls.
I swallow them/ thinking they are rocks.
I am too in love with you to care.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

I have to admit I love the title

First of all, ladies and gentleman,
these boats have like 12 people on them

and they're on the ocean for days and weeks at a time
and there's like no space (the T was crowded but bearable)

and the captain was from Winchester too, believe it or not. Massachusetts.
(Get this -- the coxswain is from Winchester!)

Some guy who just wanted to shoot jump shots with me
went and got his shoes. A good day
(except the celtics lost, we're not gonna talk about it)

and i sound nothing like Yeezy.
This song rules.

There was an enormous oil tanker right in the middle of it all,
make it your desktop and you'll be able to get through the offseason.

(This poem is composed of fragments of blogposts from Dave's Blog About Impressive Things)