Steven Tran

Senses and Notes


Remembering Bourdaloue in Slices of Pears

Louis Bourdaloue did not invent
Tart Bourdaloue, his namesake
It was a Parisian pâtissier 
on Rue Bourdaloue
a century later 
who toiled over the recipe 
for centuries of pâtissiers
to muse on variations 
of apples, apricots and pears. 

Bourdaloue was Jesuit of his Age   
I wonder 
if he minds being remembered as 
a tart
not a cathedral 
I wonder if the pâtissiers who toiled
mind being glossed over 
as footnotes 

Certainly
my name will never be a cathedral 
a tart
a footnote 
though I’ve toiled and mused 

Mine is a worthy variation 
Bartlett pears 
poached in sweet cardamom, vanilla, rum
each slice fanned out as a clock 
on frangipane 
baked to golden brown 
a delicate shake  
of powder sugar

My tart glitters 
and soon will disappear  
while Bourdaloue remains. 



Princess Imogen on my Bed (Lessons on Desiring)

She sleeps 
silent and fatal 

I play Iachimo 
who 
looks on and teeters between 	   	
               lust 
                              and violence 

He suits me well, sort of
I’m quite natural at scheming  
Vengeful 
                    in iambic pentameter? 
                                                            even better

I must desire her  
Breathe her in
                                 deeply
                                                   convincingly
at least for 3 minutes
so Teacher won’t hassle me for 
another failed attempt 

Desire her deeply
Think imaginary reality    
Teacher eggs me on

Peer into her lids
Her veins 
bend the flame of the candle 
Her blood 
draws you in

I look at Imogen 
at the foot of the bed
She’s a scarf
I picked up at the Dollar Tree 
twisted to a fabulous “S”
the way women like to sleep  
when they seduce men 
I imagine 

Lean in, Teacher says 
so I lean 
imagine 
her eyes glow violet 
underneath

Another failed attempt?
Loving isn’t too easy
for me 

Desire is my nemesis 
                                      but desiring 
will be mastered.  



Steam Treatment

I sit topless on a bench
Towel-twisted, south of the mid-line
Preened for seduction  
Wound up as a cigarette 
For the flick

You stroll in, bear chest 
Eyeing me 
For a lazy second  
Only to look away 
As if I was dead wood  
Your glance wandering over    
To that bundle of long legs   
With soft Nordic eyes   

I guess I must be unworthy meat 
Stamped as round cut  
In this game of heat selection 

But old man, you trail Darwin’s curve 
Your beetle eyes 
Unable to trace my beauty 
On your sand

You won’t decipher this body 
Wrapped in steam 
Bronze skin from the Mekong 
Jungle eyes you’ll never peer into

Steven Tran is a poet, actor, and playwright based in Pasadena, California. He has been writing poetry since 2016. His recent play, Mayor Julie, was showcased at the Santa Monica Playhouse in East West Players’ 10 x 9 x 8 at the Binge Fringe Festival in October 2021.

 
 

previous page     contents     next page