Poetry — November 7, 2017 14:59 — 0 Comments

Four Poems – Heikki Huotari


I specify a gender then I’m on a treadmill then I’m asked to
solve a language puzzle then I swing my right arm less
dramatically as this will free up left-lobe brain space. My
horizon rises and my face is not a blade. I separate permission
from forgiveness, scatter, gather, scatter, gather. When we’re
correlated, equidistant, neither of us is to blame.



Who would have supposed there would be in this Xanadu an
unexploited algorithm or an unused rule of thumb? When
your domain is multiply connected, bounded by some ovals
that you’re on the outside of, you’ll relegate placidity to ponds.
You’ll go without me to the Casbah or you’ll go without my
graven image.



Don’t doubt my altitude and leave me there to right myself O
balcony, O potted plant, O feet beneath. Of waters, two are
bodies, rages wave to me and I would be a beacon.

Now it’s catch and release in a conjured kitchen and the peach
slice slithers off the fork and back into the can. The first
approximation to a mother’s heart is disyllabic and that we are
twins displayed the same promotes us both.



It’s the end of time but not cicadas. Now extrapolating, my
right-hand man and I have grammar, manners. Presupposing
closure, we won’t be denied. This ritual seems natural to all
who are included.

Now the internet reveals to me the recipe for soup de jour and
I say moderation in some things and when an undertaker says
my attitude is bad there’s no anemic music I won’t moonwalk
to, so show me to my red-eye flight and, in the right, I’ll bite
off neither more nor less than I can chew.


​Heikki Huotari is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems appear in numerous journals, recently in The Journal and The Penn Review, he's the winner of the 2016 Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. Forthcoming books will be published by Lynx House, Willow Springs and After The Pause.​

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney