Archives for posts with tag: pop art

by Adelle Foley

An infectious smile
Tapping out daily Haiku
Pretty good figure

IMAGE: “Mona Lisa” by Dean Russo. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Adelle Foley is a retirement administrator, an arts activist, and a writer of haiku. Her column, “High Street Neighborhood News,” appears monthly in The MacArthur Metro. Her poems have appeared in various magazines, in textbooks, and in Columbia University Press’s internet database, the Columbia Granger’s World of Poetry. Along the Bloodline is her first book-length collection. Beat poet Michael McClure writes, “Adelle Foley’s haikus show us humanity. Their vitality and imagination shine from her compassion; from seeing things as they truly are.” Visit her online at

by Eddie Stewart

My body is a bear heavy and ready to hibernate.
My arms are so stretchable they can stretch up to ten miles.
My head is a red balloon being lifted into the air flying high.
My feet are motors running through the icy cold sea.
My teeth are bigger and sharper than a great white shark’s.
My hands are exit signs saying, “Back off or I’ll strike.”

IMAGE: “Exit” by Ed Ruscha (1990).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Eddie Stewart is a student at Marcus Garvey Academy in Detroit, Michigan. His poem was written as part of the InsideOut Literary Arts Project of Detroit.

by Angela La Voie

Most of the lines are curvy, even with angles of limbs, energy,
except for the nose I get from my mother’s mother.
It’s small and straight, just flares at the end.

I like to hold my spine straight,
shoulders back and down, but even then
there’s that curve at the spine’s base.

You’ll more often find me smiling than frowning.
Often I’ve worn my blonde locks in a bob,
but look better with my hair shoulder-length.

Days find me bent at my cherry desk
forming questions about the graphite strappy sandals
I wore dancing in New York, a bowl of green apples, or

the human condition. I compose questions;
my pen, my computer—they deliver poems, essays,
meanderings. I write less often at night.

You might draw me with my two dogs,
black and tan, both convinced my chief purpose
is to rub their chests, pat their bellies.

You might draw my feet pressing the sand
at the sea’s edge, or callused and blistered from hiking.
These feet, they once climbed a 14er.

So many poses from which to choose,
there’s me, standing on a step,
tilting slightly up to kiss my husband at eye level.

What I relish most about me now:
my capacity for love and the sparkly knowing look
that’s followed me in pictures since girlhood.

That might run a bit sappy; I wouldn’t risk that
when younger. But that was before I understood
life’s wealth, that the rest is just pleasure.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Often I begin a poem with a line or an image that’s been following me. I proceed from that impulse until I find what the poem is about it. Then I create a shape, find the rhythm, remove the clutter. After that, I allow some time to find what’s missing and build texture.

IMAGE: “Shoe bright, shoe light, first shoe I’ve seen tonight” by Andy Warhol (1955).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A former journalist, Angela La Voie’s stories have been published in The Chicago Sun-Times, Detroit Free Press, The Dallas Morning News, on, and elsewhere. She is an MFA candidate in creative nonfiction and poetry at Antioch University Los Angeles. Recent essays have appeared in Skirt! magazine and Catharsis Journal.

(After Adam Zagajewski)
by Linda Pastan

I am child to no one, mother to a few,
wife for the long haul.
On fall days I am happy
with my dying brethren, the leaves,
but in spring my head aches
from the flowery scents.
My husband fills a room with Mozart
which I turn off, embracing
the silence as if it were an empty page
waiting for me alone to fill it.
He digs in the black earth
with his bare hands. I scrub it
from the creases of his skin, longing
for the kind of perfection
that happens in books.
My house is my only heaven.
A red dog sleeps at my feet, dreaming
of the manic wings of flushed birds.
As the road shortens ahead of me
I look over my shoulder
to where it curves back
to childhood, its white line
bisecting the real and the imagined
the way the ridgepole of the spine
divides the two parts of the body, leaving
the soft belly in the center
vulnerable to anything.
As for my country, it blunders along
as well intentioned as Eve choosing
cider and windfalls, oblivious
to the famine soon to come.
I stir pots, bury my face in books, or hold
a telephone to my ear as if its cord
were the umbilicus of the world
whose voices still whisper to me
even after they have left their bodies.

SOURCE: Poetry (October 1997).

IMAGE: “Ohhh…Alright…” by Roy Lichtenstein (1964). In November 2010, “Ohhh…Alright…” sold for $42.6 million during an auction at Christie’s in New York.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Linda Pastan has published a dozen books of poetry and a number of essays. Her awards include the Dylan Thomas Award, a Pushcart Prize, the Alice Fay di Castagnola Award (Poetry Society of America), the Bess Hokin Prize (Poetry Magazine), the 1986 Maurice English Poetry Award (for A Fraction of Darkness), the Charity Randall Citation of the International Poetry Forum, and the 2003 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Two of her collections of poems were nominated for the National Book Award and one for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. From 1991–1995, she was Poet Laureate of Maryland.

contemporary literature, one (excerpt)
by Charles Bukowski

…I saw some newspapers
on the floor
I was out of writing
had long ago hocked 
my typewriter
I noticed that 
each page of the
newspaper had a wide white
margin around the 
I had a pencil
I picked up a 
newspaper and with
the pencil stub
I began to write words 
on the edge
sitting in the doorway
freezing in the moonlight
so that I could
I wrote in pencil 
on all the edges 
of all the newspapers 
in that shack…

SOURCE:“contemporary literature, one” appears in Charles Bukowski‘s collection Dangling in the Tournefortia (1981), available at

IMAGE: “Pop Art Bukowski” by Terry Collett. Prints and cards available at

by John Milton (1608-1674)

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,

Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her

The flowery May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;

Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing,

Thus we salute thee with our early song,

And welcome thee, and wish thee long.


Painting: “Flowers” by Andy Warhol (1970)