Three Poems

Norman "Buzz" Minnick
 About the Writer

Norman "Buzz" Minnick is a poet and playwright. His second full-length collection, Folly, is published by Wind Publications. He is the author of To Taste the Water: Poems (Mid-List Press, 2007) and several chapbook collections including Two for the Cold, a collaborative work with Lawrence Atwood, (Broadside Books, 2000) and The Overreacher (Broadside Books, 1998). He is the editor of Between Water and Song: New Poets for the Twenty-First Century (White Pine Press, 2010). He has not yet written a play. Minnick is not Poet-in-Residence at a university and he has not been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. In fact, he has won no major awards. For news and updates, visit 



When we learned

about the earth in orbit

and began to feel ourselves


standing sideways, our

burdens became lighter.

Then some prankster god


decided to turn the whole

goddamn thing upside

down so that we were


right side up. The sun rose

and set and the moon

followed suit and time went


on and we grew old and

counted our scars while the

weight of ourselves on this world


became too much to bear.

Then we noticed our sagging

breasts, our flaccid pensées…






He is Michelangelo’s David in a Speedo

poised on his toes, back to the pool,

arms outstretched like Jesus at the end of a springboard

that quivers and bounces him into the air.

He folds his body like a fetus and spins in a tight somersault

three times then straightens, reaching toward the water,

arching back so as to enter without a splash, the blue

translucent surface erasing everything

that came before.






                                                   The urge

                                                   to create is a

                                                   nervous tick, the

                                                   more I try to control it

                                                   the more


                                                   it becomes.


          Yet I seem to be the only one bothered by it. And it occurs to me: the ladies are not impressed by my oversized Baudelaire, and my Mallarmé is growing weaker by the day. I don’t even want to talk about my Balzac.

          Writing poems isn’t noble or relevant any more than ships inside bottles or granny’s crochet. And as I treat my subject with scorn a breeze blows through the open window and I hear the creak of my neighbor’s door as she leaves to run to the store.

         Two birds scratch and claw under the gutter. My ability to think has spread thin. I’d rather be with my neighbor in the checkout lane holding a twelve-pack and looking at the tabloids debating if the world really will end this time, and if Nostradamus could be right, and if that really is Christ’s face in the flames over Baghdad. Her daughter and her daughter’s friend are on the porch giggling over something in a glossy magazine.


                                                   I can almost smell

                                                   the ads of perfume

                                                   in that magazine.


                                                   I want to know what

                                                   they are laughing about.


                                                   Les parfumes, les couleurs et

                                                   les sons se répondent and the

                                                   goddamn birds

                                                   are still scratching and

                                                   clawing under the gutter.