Chad Parenteau has lived and worked in the Boston area for over a dozen years.  He is the current host of Jack Powers’ Stone Soup Poetry reading series, held every Monday night from 8-10 at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery.  His poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies including French Connections: A Gathering of Franco-American Poets.  His most recent chapbook is Discarded: Poems for My Apartments from Cervena Barva Press.

First in a Series

For Sheryl

 

The woman who cuts my hair

when you’d rather keep it long

told me once, to be more difficult,

that she and her boyfriend

never discuss old soul mates—even in passing—

unaware that she was condemning

our first week of phone calls,

as we validated to each other

why we had chosen to be alone,

before scrambling for a shared time and place.

 

Also condemned was my thesis of poems

you asked to read, a hardbound summary

of my life’s expectations

before they were overwhelmed that first night

as I ran to and from payphones

to call your cellular, only yards apart

but wanting to pinpoint the latitude and longitude

of our meeting spot

so I could flag it with a rose.

 

Famous poems can be read

like unearthed crimes long gotten away with.

Unpublished, they are the 6:00 news piece

that airs long after the gun runs out of smoke.

After showing you my credentials, almost forgetting

the endless female references,

you were kind, deemed me bitter

and funny.

 

Still cautious, you asked if I planned

to write about you with equal tact.

I almost asked you then,

what would you do to be in my thoughts

enough for that to happen?

Neither question fair at the time,

best unanswered by words, at least then.

 

A week before your birthday,

waiting for you to fetch me from the station,

I open my sketchbook of words

and think, deadlines are good,

as I write in anticipation

of you snooping while I sleep.

 

You asked for a poem, and before

you asked if I loved you, liked your children,

wanted to move from Boston .

In poetry, they are all the exact same question

I’ll continue to answer

with each new white sheet.

Ask me if you should expect a change of mind,

and I’ll say no, just a better draft

we are both happy with

for each moment.

  

 

 

Gathering

To Simon Schattner

 

If a poet falls and no one bothers to call

and tell the rest of us, was he really here?

 

Your time of death estimated, we search

for your date of birth like the police

tearing through a homeless man’s bag.

 

Your family has already claimed you,

taken you home.  Luckily, they throw us

scraps of fact, anecdote.  There will be closure

only after we’ve pried the door open again.

 

At your memorial, your recorded voice seems

muffled, behind closet doors with your poems,

your harmonica, taken back to New York .

Will they be ever put to use again?

 

The older poets speak, at race with their words

hoping their recitations outlast them—even by minutes—

drinking in hopes of finishing quicker.

 

In this way, immortality can be faked.  However,

their lines for you are sweat-stained whispers,

the words long having placed and gone home.

 

Selfish as it is, this gathering is for all of us.

We might not get another chance.

 

 

 

Lonely People Haiku  

 

Lonely people could

teach rats to do tricks if you

just show them how.  Please?

 

Lonely people write

sonnets to their bowls of fruit,

omit oranges.

 

Lonely people take

off their clothes and face mirrors

just so they can laugh.

 

Lonely people will

go look for presents under

the town Christmas tree.

 

Lonely people buy

second hand sweaters, hoping

they haven't been washed.

 

Lonely people rent,

afraid even their movies

won't want to commit.

 

Lonely people give

their haikus to exes—or

no one, if they're smart.

 

Lonely people still

write love poems as if to prove

that they learned nothing.

Visit his blog for information at http://freakmachinepress.blogspot.com

Visit the Stone Soup website at http://stonesouppoetry.blogspot.com