Darrell Epp
Darrell Epp, Poems
Darrell Epp’s poems have appeared in over 100 magazines. He has done readings and writers' workshops across Wales, England, Canada, and the U.S. He has published three poetry collections: Imaginary Maps, After Hours, and Sinners Dance. Sinners Dance was awarded the City of Hamilton Literary Arts Award. His fourth poetry collection, Mechanical Monkeys, will be published by Mosaic Press next year. Autographed copies of all of his published books are available direct from the author. Find him on Twitter @DarrellEpp. Darrell is also an artist and did the cover for his book of poems, After Hours (shown at bottom of page).
Breeze: Corner of Barton And Emerald
You can stick your head out the back and smell
the decades of iron alloy, rolled or in slabs, that
fathers and sons gave their lives to. steel can be
cruel. now it’s gone, to plastics and to china.
i want to believe in what’s left of the trees. johns
cruise by the girls lounging on the steps of iglesia
pentecostal hispana. tomorrow’s good friday. the
breeze is warm, a gift from the big-hearted tropics.
i’m buzzing, everything’s in motion, a chip bag
rises, hovers, falls. trevor says turn up the bass.
ifrah misses her dad, he died before they could
patch things up. she begs forgiveness of his ghost
when she’s wired and waiting for the last bus home.
humans crave the light and settle for so much less.
come wind! come rain! wash it all away. taste it
and see: the heart of the world mends by breaking.
Fire Ant
walking past the statue of our founding slaver
the gears and cogs inside me keep it down
to a low hum, rise up to a steampunk
clanging screech when we pass the
food basics where bananas are 49
cents a pound because chiquita corp.
propped-up dictators, tore down the
rain forests are here we are: fat yet
still hungry, tied into boy scout knots
over 2 for 1 specials and pension plan
formulae. the beams began to sag,
even the wallpaper grows sinister,
the words of the spell that would
set it all right are long forgotten.
even on holidays fire ants work
so hard, the mass production
tickles the amygdala like a
big brother with a mean streak.
cracked-rearview caliban; air
pregnant with tornadoes. turns
out the old maps got it all wrong!
greenland isn’t nearly that big.
the southern hemisphere got a raw deal.
there’s falling angels everywhere.
Postcard from Babylon
thanks to stupidity and fear’s lonely duet
we can’t have nice things. movie butter
isn’t real butter these days, everything’s
plastered with warning labels and even
my dreams are copyrighted by disney.
you can’t get within 100 feet of noah’s
ark anymore because of all the tourists
hacking off souvenirs for their walls.
got some nice shots with the telephoto
lens but it wasn’t the same. we paved
more ground to alleviate congestion
but it didn’t work, now we just have
more time to fume under glass
and miss the zinnias, the lilacs, the bees.
all those hardworking pollinators
sacrificed to the god of progress—
ever think maybe they just invented
paradise so they could sell all those
‘no trespassing’ signs? the truth was
on no screen nowhere. the truth was
a spy behind enemy lines. the truth
was as welcome as a leper as we
counted up our assets, parceled our
resentments into tiny fabergé boxes.
After Hours
Poetry and cover art by Darrell Epp