 |
| CONTENTS |
In memoriam of the leaf, moonstone, brioche, marvel, uplifting, skagit, gaze, lily, bobbing, habit, dance, scansion, origin, muscles, quick and slow muse, Adrienne Rich (1929-2012).
Mary Meriam, Editor
December, 2012
ISSUE 6 - MUSE
In memoriam of the leaf, moonstone, brioche, marvel, uplifting, skagit, gaze, lily, bobbing, habit, dance, scansion, origin, muscles, quick and slow muse, Adrienne Rich (1929-2012).
Mary Meriam, Editor
December, 2012
ISSUE 6 - MUSE - CONTENTS
| POETRY | ART |
|
JOY LADIN Letter to Joy JESSICA MASON MCFADDEN A Moonstone, by Your Sighing RISA DENENBERG No one to blame About a poem JOAN ANNSFIRE Across the Table ROSE KELLEHER On the Suicide of a Moroccan Girl Forced to Marry Her Rapist ANN TWEEDY place setting swimming through history SHAWNDRA MILLER Freeze Warning, April 10 RICK MULLIN Recital LAURA SMITH When I Used to Like Books UCHE OGBUJI Obscured Sunshine MEREDITH BERGMANN Recovering NICK JARVIS Reading About Poetry (whilst thinking about girls) SUSAN DE SOLA Still Life with Strawberries (Adriaen Coorte, 1705) JEAN SIRIUS City Women CAROLYN BOLL Terpsichore Two-step (I love to foxtrot with you) VARIOUS POETS The Goblin Bee |
THOMAS THORNYCROFT (JEAN SIRIUS) Statue of Boudicca (1902) JO DAVIDSON (ANOMALOUS_A) Gertrude Stein (1923) ALLYSON MITCHELL Big Trubs (2004) HARRIET HOSMER (PAUL LOWRY) Daphne (1854) MEREDITH & MICHAEL BERGMANN Memorial for September 11th (2011) EMMA STEBBINS (EMILIO GUERRA) Angel of the Waters (1873) ANNE WHITNEY Lady Godiva (1861-1864) SUSAN RODGERS Sky Catchers (2006) GEORGE SEGAL (JEAN SIRIUS) Gay Liberation Monument (1980) GEORGE SEGAL (ROBERT GIARD) Gay Liberation Monument (1980) DIANE TANCHAK Irena Klepfisz and Judy Waterman (2012) RADCLYFFE HALL photographer unknown (1880-1943) ADRIAEN COORTE Still Life with Strawberries (1705) NIKI DE SAINT PHALLE (JEWELLE GOMEZ) Les Trois Graces (1999) SIOBHAN LIDDELL Untitled (2011) PATRICIA CRONIN Memorial to a Marriage (2002) |
Joy Ladin
Letter to Joy
Even now that I pass myself off as you, I remain the residue
of the lifetime of depression
that still feels true, nourishing, familial,
bringing me coffee in the morning, singing me bedtime songs.
Out of the goodness of your heart, you catalog the discrepancies
between your account of life and mine,
my mistaking of pain for treasure, the beauty of death
for the beauty you represent, the beauty that includes the beauty of ending
because it never ends, the music you make of suffering
for some parlor-magic forgery of Heaven.
You seem more amused than angry
as you lead me through mountains
where death is the commonest tree
and you play like sunlight over everything I see:
shadows, stains, ditches and streams,
a fold in a leaf, a clearing.
Joy Ladin, Gottesman Professor of English at Yeshiva University, is the author of six books of poetry, including recently-published The Definition of Joy, Forward Fives Award winner Coming to Life, and Lambda Literary Award finalist Transmigration. Her memoir, Through the Door of Life: A Jewish Journey Between Genders was published in March by U. of Wisconsin Press. Her poems and essays have been widely published, and have recently appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Parnassus, Educe, New Haven Review, Bodies of Work, Belladona*, and Stone Highway Review.
Even now that I pass myself off as you, I remain the residue
of the lifetime of depression
that still feels true, nourishing, familial,
bringing me coffee in the morning, singing me bedtime songs.
Out of the goodness of your heart, you catalog the discrepancies
between your account of life and mine,
my mistaking of pain for treasure, the beauty of death
for the beauty you represent, the beauty that includes the beauty of ending
because it never ends, the music you make of suffering
for some parlor-magic forgery of Heaven.
You seem more amused than angry
as you lead me through mountains
where death is the commonest tree
and you play like sunlight over everything I see:
shadows, stains, ditches and streams,
a fold in a leaf, a clearing.
Joy Ladin, Gottesman Professor of English at Yeshiva University, is the author of six books of poetry, including recently-published The Definition of Joy, Forward Fives Award winner Coming to Life, and Lambda Literary Award finalist Transmigration. Her memoir, Through the Door of Life: A Jewish Journey Between Genders was published in March by U. of Wisconsin Press. Her poems and essays have been widely published, and have recently appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Parnassus, Educe, New Haven Review, Bodies of Work, Belladona*, and Stone Highway Review.
Thomas Thornycroft
Thomas Thornycroft, Statue of Boudicca, near Westminster Bridge in London (1902) Photo by Jean Sirius © 2003
Jessica Mason McFadden
A Moonstone, by Your Sighing
I’m a rabbit on the outside,
one that fits in your hand,
one that caresses you
in your stroking.
I’m several layers of velveteen
while you circle your digits,
while you slide and glide
with your stroking.
I’m all silk and fluff,
you will turn me inside,
you will turn me inside out
by your stroking.
I’m a rabbit on the outside,
one with fragile bones,
one that places its paws
in your sighing.
I’m several layers of velveteen
while you swirl through me,
while you set us free of life
with your sighing.
I’m all fluff and silk,
you will find my center,
you will find a moonstone
by your sighing.
Jessica Mason McFadden is working toward an M.A., as a first-year graduate student, teaching assistant, and Writing Center consultant in the Department of English and Journalism at Western Illinois University. Her poems have appeared in Women's Voices Journal, Read These Lips, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Breadcrumb Scabs, Spinozablue Electronic Journal of the Arts, Sinister Wisdom, The Countess of Flatbroke’s Treasury of Poems (Basic Me), Adanna, and Saltwater Quarterly. Her first book of poetry is forthcoming with Saltfire Press.
I’m a rabbit on the outside,
one that fits in your hand,
one that caresses you
in your stroking.
I’m several layers of velveteen
while you circle your digits,
while you slide and glide
with your stroking.
I’m all silk and fluff,
you will turn me inside,
you will turn me inside out
by your stroking.
I’m a rabbit on the outside,
one with fragile bones,
one that places its paws
in your sighing.
I’m several layers of velveteen
while you swirl through me,
while you set us free of life
with your sighing.
I’m all fluff and silk,
you will find my center,
you will find a moonstone
by your sighing.
Jessica Mason McFadden is working toward an M.A., as a first-year graduate student, teaching assistant, and Writing Center consultant in the Department of English and Journalism at Western Illinois University. Her poems have appeared in Women's Voices Journal, Read These Lips, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Breadcrumb Scabs, Spinozablue Electronic Journal of the Arts, Sinister Wisdom, The Countess of Flatbroke’s Treasury of Poems (Basic Me), Adanna, and Saltwater Quarterly. Her first book of poetry is forthcoming with Saltfire Press.
Risa Denenberg
No one to blame
I drove through a snowstorm, flouting safe passage.
You turned me away when I rapped at the gate.
I did it for love.
No, I did it for cash, what coins can procure.
In torrents of rain on an uneven highway.
I did it for need.
The car aquaplaned, skated the median.
I survived the smash and other misfortunes.
I did it to chastise.
Not sure why I did it. You never saw me.
Perhaps showing off, wanting you to love back.
I did it for spite.
I did it for brioche, but settled for donuts.
I basked in the thrill of your perfect hash browns.
I did it for breakfast.
I did it for wisdom, the kind you can’t buy.
The risks seemed worth it. I held your hand tight.
I did it for sex.
Or the promise of sex. Recklessly sideswiped,
I spun out on ice. I did it for you. No,
I did it for free.
About a poem
To read a poem
is to know nothing.
Even when I scour obscurities
my ignorance appalls and punctures
these bloated air sacs of mind.
I would spend the rest of my days
in the company of poems, or perhaps, choose one
to dismember, gnaw at, get drunk with,
until it wears me down to gristle.
I’m getting old now and go early
to bed. My poem tags along,
recounts deftly that we have suffered deeply together
and then sometimes,
we have sex.
Risa Denenberg is an aging hippie currently living in the Pacific Northwest. She earns her keep as a nurse practitioner and spends the rest of her time reading poetry. Her chapbook, what we owe each other, is forthcoming this Fall from The Lives You Touch Publications.
I drove through a snowstorm, flouting safe passage.
You turned me away when I rapped at the gate.
I did it for love.
No, I did it for cash, what coins can procure.
In torrents of rain on an uneven highway.
I did it for need.
The car aquaplaned, skated the median.
I survived the smash and other misfortunes.
I did it to chastise.
Not sure why I did it. You never saw me.
Perhaps showing off, wanting you to love back.
I did it for spite.
I did it for brioche, but settled for donuts.
I basked in the thrill of your perfect hash browns.
I did it for breakfast.
I did it for wisdom, the kind you can’t buy.
The risks seemed worth it. I held your hand tight.
I did it for sex.
Or the promise of sex. Recklessly sideswiped,
I spun out on ice. I did it for you. No,
I did it for free.
About a poem
To read a poem
is to know nothing.
Even when I scour obscurities
my ignorance appalls and punctures
these bloated air sacs of mind.
I would spend the rest of my days
in the company of poems, or perhaps, choose one
to dismember, gnaw at, get drunk with,
until it wears me down to gristle.
I’m getting old now and go early
to bed. My poem tags along,
recounts deftly that we have suffered deeply together
and then sometimes,
we have sex.
Risa Denenberg is an aging hippie currently living in the Pacific Northwest. She earns her keep as a nurse practitioner and spends the rest of her time reading poetry. Her chapbook, what we owe each other, is forthcoming this Fall from The Lives You Touch Publications.
Allyson Mitchell
Allyson Mitchell, Big Trubs (2004)
Media: wood, styrofoam, glass, borg, plastic, textiles.
Dimensions: height 10x width 4' length 4.5'
Joan Annsfire
Across the Table
the hours,
we sat in a cafe, in the sun
writing treatises, discussing
changes in the wording, changes in the air,
the electric energy of ideas,
a huge banner unfurling into the
boundless space
of our vision.
I remember,
the distinctive rhythm of your voice,
your powerful current of energy,
the understated music
of your quiet listening.
later,
I replayed such simple motions:
your pen tapping against the table,
your fingers moving around the rim of a glass,
I imagined touching your shoulder
but being less than brave
my actions did not flow as easily
as the words that took shape
on blank paper.
now,
it seems strange
to have kept a special place
for time passed so uneventfully.
a day like any other,
full of opportunities
lost or squandered.
looking back,
I marvel
that the world did not pause
and hold its breath
in those years when life was fast and dense
and as close as I have come
to flying.
Joan Annsfire is a longtime political activist and writer. She writes poetry, memoir, short stories, and non-fiction. Her home is in Berkeley, California. She blogs at lavenderjoan.blogspot.com.
the hours,
we sat in a cafe, in the sun
writing treatises, discussing
changes in the wording, changes in the air,
the electric energy of ideas,
a huge banner unfurling into the
boundless space
of our vision.
I remember,
the distinctive rhythm of your voice,
your powerful current of energy,
the understated music
of your quiet listening.
later,
I replayed such simple motions:
your pen tapping against the table,
your fingers moving around the rim of a glass,
I imagined touching your shoulder
but being less than brave
my actions did not flow as easily
as the words that took shape
on blank paper.
now,
it seems strange
to have kept a special place
for time passed so uneventfully.
a day like any other,
full of opportunities
lost or squandered.
looking back,
I marvel
that the world did not pause
and hold its breath
in those years when life was fast and dense
and as close as I have come
to flying.
Joan Annsfire is a longtime political activist and writer. She writes poetry, memoir, short stories, and non-fiction. Her home is in Berkeley, California. She blogs at lavenderjoan.blogspot.com.
Rose Kelleher
On the Suicide of a Moroccan Girl Forced to Marry Her Rapist
After the first life, there is no other.
She is not robed in glory.
Death by rat poison is not majestic.
No soul-recycling, barley-haired earth mother
makes her story
ultimately uplifting and poetic.
She was not just someone’s daughter.
She had a name:
Amina Filali. She was more
important than a drop of water
and not the same
as all the rest who came before.
What happened, there is no undoing
and no redeeming.
Her misery wasn’t mystical,
and spring’s continued self-renewing
can’t give it meaning.
Let it be unacceptable.
Rose Kelleher was born in the Year of the Dragon, on the Feast of the Holy Rosary. She's killed a million trees, all for a Bundle o' Tinder.
After the first life, there is no other.
She is not robed in glory.
Death by rat poison is not majestic.
No soul-recycling, barley-haired earth mother
makes her story
ultimately uplifting and poetic.
She was not just someone’s daughter.
She had a name:
Amina Filali. She was more
important than a drop of water
and not the same
as all the rest who came before.
What happened, there is no undoing
and no redeeming.
Her misery wasn’t mystical,
and spring’s continued self-renewing
can’t give it meaning.
Let it be unacceptable.
Rose Kelleher was born in the Year of the Dragon, on the Feast of the Holy Rosary. She's killed a million trees, all for a Bundle o' Tinder.
Ann Tweedy
place setting
i crave the comfort of unpolished
granite, especially the thin, domed tablets.
the dead do not ask me to understand
their torment. never have they
slammed my doors or spun my hanging
plants to show their presence.
when the seemingly endless plots
stretch from all sides—a compact city
emptied of activity—the stillness
waiting within feels pleasant.
even in rio, the cemetery with its huge
above-ground stone coffins, its trellis
vines and jesus statues, embraced like a
warm cousin. i could carry my pink glow,
my painful vocabulary, my yellowed hair
and be not familiar, but welcome.
remember: no matter where you go
or stay, no matter how many closed faces
you must plead with in a lifetime,
finally a door will open
swimming through history
i. the truckee and the skagit
ankle-deep in summertime, the truckee
lets you climb down and taste it,
but the wide, deep skagit
demands a firmer commitment.
ii. learning the skagit
at home, when i'm getting more
than a glimpse through a car window,
i'm walking the dike
above the skagit, kingly or queenly,
the way dutch farmers devised it.
glancing, these downstream waters
look still as a painting, linger in one spot,
yet the whole mass rushes.
but once, upstream in early
december, i watched the last chum
undulate in slow motion, their bodies
ripped by so many rocks
in their against-current trek
that blood streaked them. only
a few swam; the rest floated. the sight
made the toil of sisyphus
look easy. another time, i saw the tiny
nearly finless body of a juvenile
barely larger than a tadpole, stranded
on the beach at deception pass.
the silver body throbbed at the gill
while the oversized eye stared upward.
when i cupped the fingerling in my hands
to throw it back to sea, it flopped
down to escape me.
still, all my looking makes
just a drop next to the hours
i sit and write brief after brief
to keep more water in the banks
during the months when the skagit
is lowest or negotiate day in,
day out for salmon to have more water
to spawn and rear in, only to find myself
lost and cut off. i long to squish
my fingers and toes in mud or throw
my body headlong into current.
what wisdoms and strengths would the river
feed me if i could let myself go?
but how to face the great surge of life,
bearing effort that may come to nothing?
iii. visiting the truckee
yesterday, remembering all this, i climbed
down to the truckee. here and there, logs made
crevices where adult fish could build redds.
i lay on a rock and let the river tug my feet
feeling how easily it could crush my unnimble
body on the rocks. i peered at the little pools
along the sides of the banks, and saw how the sun
shining through slower ripples
made a pulsing snakeskin pattern. i thought of the newly
hatched fry who might shelter there
except that—thanks to the dam and other
interference—the lahontan cutthroat
who ruled these reaches were killed off
more than sixty years ago.
now, stocked trout and ghosts swim here.
Ann Tweedy loves traveling, especially the strangeness of being an outsider in a tiny town and the disorientation of exploring foreign countries. She's shy but relishes the rush of doing the things that scare her. While in law school, she studied poetry writing with Robert Hass. She currently teaches law at Hamline University in St. Paul. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, including Rattle, Clackamas Literary Review, and Wisconsin Review, and she has been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net Award. She also has read in New York City, San Francisco, Seattle, Minneapolis, and elsewhere. tcCreativePress of Los Angeles published her chapbook in 2010.
i crave the comfort of unpolished
granite, especially the thin, domed tablets.
the dead do not ask me to understand
their torment. never have they
slammed my doors or spun my hanging
plants to show their presence.
when the seemingly endless plots
stretch from all sides—a compact city
emptied of activity—the stillness
waiting within feels pleasant.
even in rio, the cemetery with its huge
above-ground stone coffins, its trellis
vines and jesus statues, embraced like a
warm cousin. i could carry my pink glow,
my painful vocabulary, my yellowed hair
and be not familiar, but welcome.
remember: no matter where you go
or stay, no matter how many closed faces
you must plead with in a lifetime,
finally a door will open
swimming through history
i. the truckee and the skagit
ankle-deep in summertime, the truckee
lets you climb down and taste it,
but the wide, deep skagit
demands a firmer commitment.
ii. learning the skagit
at home, when i'm getting more
than a glimpse through a car window,
i'm walking the dike
above the skagit, kingly or queenly,
the way dutch farmers devised it.
glancing, these downstream waters
look still as a painting, linger in one spot,
yet the whole mass rushes.
but once, upstream in early
december, i watched the last chum
undulate in slow motion, their bodies
ripped by so many rocks
in their against-current trek
that blood streaked them. only
a few swam; the rest floated. the sight
made the toil of sisyphus
look easy. another time, i saw the tiny
nearly finless body of a juvenile
barely larger than a tadpole, stranded
on the beach at deception pass.
the silver body throbbed at the gill
while the oversized eye stared upward.
when i cupped the fingerling in my hands
to throw it back to sea, it flopped
down to escape me.
still, all my looking makes
just a drop next to the hours
i sit and write brief after brief
to keep more water in the banks
during the months when the skagit
is lowest or negotiate day in,
day out for salmon to have more water
to spawn and rear in, only to find myself
lost and cut off. i long to squish
my fingers and toes in mud or throw
my body headlong into current.
what wisdoms and strengths would the river
feed me if i could let myself go?
but how to face the great surge of life,
bearing effort that may come to nothing?
iii. visiting the truckee
yesterday, remembering all this, i climbed
down to the truckee. here and there, logs made
crevices where adult fish could build redds.
i lay on a rock and let the river tug my feet
feeling how easily it could crush my unnimble
body on the rocks. i peered at the little pools
along the sides of the banks, and saw how the sun
shining through slower ripples
made a pulsing snakeskin pattern. i thought of the newly
hatched fry who might shelter there
except that—thanks to the dam and other
interference—the lahontan cutthroat
who ruled these reaches were killed off
more than sixty years ago.
now, stocked trout and ghosts swim here.
Ann Tweedy loves traveling, especially the strangeness of being an outsider in a tiny town and the disorientation of exploring foreign countries. She's shy but relishes the rush of doing the things that scare her. While in law school, she studied poetry writing with Robert Hass. She currently teaches law at Hamline University in St. Paul. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, including Rattle, Clackamas Literary Review, and Wisconsin Review, and she has been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net Award. She also has read in New York City, San Francisco, Seattle, Minneapolis, and elsewhere. tcCreativePress of Los Angeles published her chapbook in 2010.
Shawndra Miller
Freeze Warning, April 10
All day I have hunkered indoors, moving words about on a screen,
twiddling through papers—while outside Life
springs forth in its calamitous way, shedding pollen, fur, seeds,
feathers, petals, petiole and leaf:
making way for more Life and more.
As evening sinks into blue splendor I walk the neighborhood,
my dog springing just shy of the end of the leash.
The wind has February teeth, but everywhere is soft Ireland green.
I pass the boy playing a solitary game of hoops.
His bare limbs are an elbow jabbed straight into the throat
of Freeze Warning. He angles under the basket, lets one fly,
showboating for the trees or, perhaps, for an unseen father’s appraisal.
His mother’s newly planted beds are shrouded for the night,
buds veiled under frayed sheets dotted with counterfeit blossoms.
I turn toward home, tugging my wool cap
lower over my ears. On the corner
Roseanne is tending to her cottage garden. (Inside I quail;
I have been afraid of her eyes
ever since my crime of indifference 13 years ago—police cars
at her house, back door kicked in, me on my porch pretending
not to notice—now I expect her gaze to cut me.) So here
she is on the sidewalk, shears drooping to the earth,
holding an armful of burgundy blooms,
and I say, “Are those peonies? This early! They’re gorgeous,”
meeting their velvet faces more easily than hers, and she tells me
about her adored tree peony, which flowers early every year.
“And they smell so good.” She holds
the bouquet out, inviting my lean and whiff. (Like cardamom, citrus, soil,
a bite to my nostrils.) We talk about Freeze Warning, about nature
running ahead of the season, about the coming night, a threat
to the tenderest plants, but on our faces are smiles, and we shrug:
What can you do? Walking home with feet stirring pale dogwood petals,
maple samaras, strings of yellow oak pollen, I leave
a carapace of my own in pieces on the street: pieces weightless enough
to be scoured away by the cold wind of Freeze Warning.
Mennonite by birth, mystic by nature, Shawndra Miller is a writer and community organizer who lives in Indianapolis. She is coauthor of Sudden Spirit: A Book of Holy Moments and is currently working on a nonfiction book about community resilience. Her work has appeared in Edible Indy, Indiana Living Green, Kiwanis Magazine, and Angie’s List Magazine's green building issue.
All day I have hunkered indoors, moving words about on a screen,
twiddling through papers—while outside Life
springs forth in its calamitous way, shedding pollen, fur, seeds,
feathers, petals, petiole and leaf:
making way for more Life and more.
As evening sinks into blue splendor I walk the neighborhood,
my dog springing just shy of the end of the leash.
The wind has February teeth, but everywhere is soft Ireland green.
I pass the boy playing a solitary game of hoops.
His bare limbs are an elbow jabbed straight into the throat
of Freeze Warning. He angles under the basket, lets one fly,
showboating for the trees or, perhaps, for an unseen father’s appraisal.
His mother’s newly planted beds are shrouded for the night,
buds veiled under frayed sheets dotted with counterfeit blossoms.
I turn toward home, tugging my wool cap
lower over my ears. On the corner
Roseanne is tending to her cottage garden. (Inside I quail;
I have been afraid of her eyes
ever since my crime of indifference 13 years ago—police cars
at her house, back door kicked in, me on my porch pretending
not to notice—now I expect her gaze to cut me.) So here
she is on the sidewalk, shears drooping to the earth,
holding an armful of burgundy blooms,
and I say, “Are those peonies? This early! They’re gorgeous,”
meeting their velvet faces more easily than hers, and she tells me
about her adored tree peony, which flowers early every year.
“And they smell so good.” She holds
the bouquet out, inviting my lean and whiff. (Like cardamom, citrus, soil,
a bite to my nostrils.) We talk about Freeze Warning, about nature
running ahead of the season, about the coming night, a threat
to the tenderest plants, but on our faces are smiles, and we shrug:
What can you do? Walking home with feet stirring pale dogwood petals,
maple samaras, strings of yellow oak pollen, I leave
a carapace of my own in pieces on the street: pieces weightless enough
to be scoured away by the cold wind of Freeze Warning.
Mennonite by birth, mystic by nature, Shawndra Miller is a writer and community organizer who lives in Indianapolis. She is coauthor of Sudden Spirit: A Book of Holy Moments and is currently working on a nonfiction book about community resilience. Her work has appeared in Edible Indy, Indiana Living Green, Kiwanis Magazine, and Angie’s List Magazine's green building issue.
Rick Mullin
Recital
One cloud like an adamant balloon ship
came in over Branchport, scudding toward
the bluff, a spacious blue-gray change of weather.
It sprinkled on the Esperanza Mansion,
challenging the map of lily fronds
that mirrored in the lake all afternoon
like Queen Anne’s lace. A scow that rolled to cover
half the sky with something like a welcome
dread advanced as I stood in recital
underneath a silver maple on the lawn.
“Three perfect days” she’d sighed and sipped her wine
before abandoning her wicker throne
dead-center on the lofting grass to take a nap
above the tree where I had come to read aloud.
Keuka Lake, August 8, 2012
Rick Mullin’s poetry has appeared in journals including Measure, American Arts Quarterly, Ep;phany, Envoi, and The Flea. His epic poem, Soutine, was published earlier this year by Dos Madres Press, Loveland, Ohio. His book-length poem, Huncke, was published in 2010 by Seven Towers, Dublin. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, was published in 2008 by the Modern Metrics imprint of Exot Books, New York City. Another chapbook, The Stones Jones Canzones, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
One cloud like an adamant balloon ship
came in over Branchport, scudding toward
the bluff, a spacious blue-gray change of weather.
It sprinkled on the Esperanza Mansion,
challenging the map of lily fronds
that mirrored in the lake all afternoon
like Queen Anne’s lace. A scow that rolled to cover
half the sky with something like a welcome
dread advanced as I stood in recital
underneath a silver maple on the lawn.
“Three perfect days” she’d sighed and sipped her wine
before abandoning her wicker throne
dead-center on the lofting grass to take a nap
above the tree where I had come to read aloud.
Keuka Lake, August 8, 2012
Rick Mullin’s poetry has appeared in journals including Measure, American Arts Quarterly, Ep;phany, Envoi, and The Flea. His epic poem, Soutine, was published earlier this year by Dos Madres Press, Loveland, Ohio. His book-length poem, Huncke, was published in 2010 by Seven Towers, Dublin. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, was published in 2008 by the Modern Metrics imprint of Exot Books, New York City. Another chapbook, The Stones Jones Canzones, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
Laura Smith
When I Used to Like Books
Laura Smith is a 2007 graduate from Carlow University in Pittsburgh PA, earning her BA in Creative Writing. Currently, she does administrative work for a Long Term Care Insurance company. In her free time, she writes poetry and has written two children’s novels that she is looking to get published. Her work has appeared in 6 Sentences, Rune Magazine, Voices from the Garage, Falling Star Magazine and Blast Furnace.
| When the gray skies broke and the ice melted, I’d meet the little Ingalls girls by the streams for tadpole catching and dress wading. On more adventurous days, Harriet and I would lay on our bellies on tarred rooftops, scribbling furiously on our 1-subject notebooks, noting every observation, chewing on plastic pen caps through gapped teeth. I’d sit with Angel on clear days, watching Rags play in the dirt or use my best negotiating skills to help Peter coax Fudge out of a tree, refer them both to The Babysitter’s Club for future reference. I’d walk to the mailbox with Lee to drop off a letter to Mr. Henshaw, stopping to admire Old Dan and Little Anne’s latest kill hanging out to dry from the Coleman house. On the way home see Matilda and Charlie try to start a kickball game. Sophie already choosing her BFG to be on her team while James divvies out peach slices covered in Wonka chocolate. Craving a moment of normalcy, the Boxcar children would give me a lift up the mountain where Heidi invited me in for fresh goat’s milk and cheese slabs slid onto thick slices of bread. A side of vegetables from Mary and Dickon’s garden. I’d walk home with Fern returning from her visit with Wilbur and Charlotte, red pig tail bobbing up and down. Stuart Little hitches a ride on her shoulder, anxious to get home before dark. As the light dimmed, the print too dark to see, I’d shut my book for the night. |
Laura Smith is a 2007 graduate from Carlow University in Pittsburgh PA, earning her BA in Creative Writing. Currently, she does administrative work for a Long Term Care Insurance company. In her free time, she writes poetry and has written two children’s novels that she is looking to get published. Her work has appeared in 6 Sentences, Rune Magazine, Voices from the Garage, Falling Star Magazine and Blast Furnace.
George Segal
George Segal, part of the Gay Liberation Monument, Sheridan Square, NYC (1980) Photo by Jean Sirius © 2003
Uche Ogbuji
Obscured Sunshine
O darkling core, O brilliant fringe,
As since these days of missing you
Have brought me sunset less its tinge
Of fire, a darkened vault above
Without its twinklers; creeping through
My mind a hush, recalling love.
But burning bright upon the edge,
These recollections, deasil ghosts:
Our smiles both joined—a kiss; like sedge
In-stream my prickles smoothed, my care
Submerged in draught of verse to toast
Your swagger, laugh, or floating hair;
Irreverent moments poking fun
At Kenpo comrades; naughty stops
By church, or park. My graceful sun
Is never doused in clouds, but sparks
Silver of nun's habit hem, the drops
Gilt in dream-bright eclipse of dark.
Uche Ogbuji was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived, among other places, in Egypt and England before settling near Boulder, Colorado. He is an entrepreneur and computer engineer (trained in Nigeria and the USA), but his abiding passion is poetry. His poems, fusing his native Igbo culture, European classicism, Western American setting, and Hip-Hop style, have appeared in sundry journals. Some recent venues are: The Raintown Review, IthacaLit, Unsplendid, String Poet, Mountain Gazette, YB Poetry, Scree Magazine, OF ZOOS, The Ofi Press, Verse Wisconsin, Victorian Violet and Angle. Uche is editor at Kin Poetry Journal and The Nervous Breakdown.
O darkling core, O brilliant fringe,
As since these days of missing you
Have brought me sunset less its tinge
Of fire, a darkened vault above
Without its twinklers; creeping through
My mind a hush, recalling love.
But burning bright upon the edge,
These recollections, deasil ghosts:
Our smiles both joined—a kiss; like sedge
In-stream my prickles smoothed, my care
Submerged in draught of verse to toast
Your swagger, laugh, or floating hair;
Irreverent moments poking fun
At Kenpo comrades; naughty stops
By church, or park. My graceful sun
Is never doused in clouds, but sparks
Silver of nun's habit hem, the drops
Gilt in dream-bright eclipse of dark.
Uche Ogbuji was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived, among other places, in Egypt and England before settling near Boulder, Colorado. He is an entrepreneur and computer engineer (trained in Nigeria and the USA), but his abiding passion is poetry. His poems, fusing his native Igbo culture, European classicism, Western American setting, and Hip-Hop style, have appeared in sundry journals. Some recent venues are: The Raintown Review, IthacaLit, Unsplendid, String Poet, Mountain Gazette, YB Poetry, Scree Magazine, OF ZOOS, The Ofi Press, Verse Wisconsin, Victorian Violet and Angle. Uche is editor at Kin Poetry Journal and The Nervous Breakdown.
Robert Giard
George Segal, Gay Liberation Monument, Sheridan Square, NYC (1980).
Photo by Robert Giard. Courtesy of the Stephen Bulger Gallery.
Meredith Bergmann
Recovering
Grief, don’t go. You’re almost out the door.
I would not offend—what was I thinking?
Nothing. Finally. In fact, it’s more
a leveling’s begun, instead of sinking.
I must give thanks, and almost missed my chance.
I’d started sewing. Is the noise what’s wrong?
(It’s not as though we all began to dance.)
But look, that couch is hideous! How long
has it been filthy? It needs linen, neat
and tight and beige as an Egyptian shroud.
Then one might sit in comfort and repeat
the history of sorrowing out loud.
Go, goddess. You absolve and you excuse,
but home improvement needs an unstained muse.
Meredith Bergmann is a sculptor and poet. She is currently working on the FDR Hope Memorial for Roosevelt Island, NYC. Pictures of her work may be seen at her website. Her poems, articles, essays, and reviews have appeared in the American Arts Quarterly, Barrow Street, The New Criterion, The New York Review of Art, The Tri Quarterly Review, and Sculpture Review and online at Contemporary Poetry Review, MezzoCammin, PerContra and Umbrella. Her sonnets appear in Judith Dupré’s Full of Grace and the anthology Hot Sonnets. She is poetry editor of American Arts Quarterly and its website.
Grief, don’t go. You’re almost out the door.
I would not offend—what was I thinking?
Nothing. Finally. In fact, it’s more
a leveling’s begun, instead of sinking.
I must give thanks, and almost missed my chance.
I’d started sewing. Is the noise what’s wrong?
(It’s not as though we all began to dance.)
But look, that couch is hideous! How long
has it been filthy? It needs linen, neat
and tight and beige as an Egyptian shroud.
Then one might sit in comfort and repeat
the history of sorrowing out loud.
Go, goddess. You absolve and you excuse,
but home improvement needs an unstained muse.
Meredith Bergmann is a sculptor and poet. She is currently working on the FDR Hope Memorial for Roosevelt Island, NYC. Pictures of her work may be seen at her website. Her poems, articles, essays, and reviews have appeared in the American Arts Quarterly, Barrow Street, The New Criterion, The New York Review of Art, The Tri Quarterly Review, and Sculpture Review and online at Contemporary Poetry Review, MezzoCammin, PerContra and Umbrella. Her sonnets appear in Judith Dupré’s Full of Grace and the anthology Hot Sonnets. She is poetry editor of American Arts Quarterly and its website.
Nick Jarvis
Reading About Poetry (whilst thinking about girls)
I’m squeezing alliteration
out of her gluteus
maximus, medius, and minimus
until they are oozing
with assonance.
I’m licking the ligature ‘ash’ off
her lobulus auriculæ,
and when I
open her bra (
that she bought at the market)
I find iambic areolae
flitTING aCROSS my BRAIN
punctuated at periods with
mammary papilla.
I break the ekthesis
by placing my eisthesis on
the mon pubis
and there’s a reason
for my caesura
before the, clitoris;
I’m balanced
on the
precipice
of the
prepuce.
I can’t help but notice
the litterae notabiliores of
Labia Majora, or
the complexity of
virgula/vulva,
while I’m
BUSily GATHering SENsuous
dactyls, singing
madrigals in a
labia minora, and
desperately hoping
each scansion will
sanction my distraction.
Since graduating in 2010, Nick Jarvis has been performing poetry and running workshops on writing and trans* identities in venues around the UK, where he lives (rather nomadically at present). He has recently been published in Inc. Magazine, The Poetry Advent Calendar, and The Parabola Project. More info available here.
I’m squeezing alliteration
out of her gluteus
maximus, medius, and minimus
until they are oozing
with assonance.
I’m licking the ligature ‘ash’ off
her lobulus auriculæ,
and when I
open her bra (
that she bought at the market)
I find iambic areolae
flitTING aCROSS my BRAIN
punctuated at periods with
mammary papilla.
I break the ekthesis
by placing my eisthesis on
the mon pubis
and there’s a reason
for my caesura
before the, clitoris;
I’m balanced
on the
precipice
of the
prepuce.
I can’t help but notice
the litterae notabiliores of
Labia Majora, or
the complexity of
virgula/vulva,
while I’m
BUSily GATHering SENsuous
dactyls, singing
madrigals in a
labia minora, and
desperately hoping
each scansion will
sanction my distraction.
Since graduating in 2010, Nick Jarvis has been performing poetry and running workshops on writing and trans* identities in venues around the UK, where he lives (rather nomadically at present). He has recently been published in Inc. Magazine, The Poetry Advent Calendar, and The Parabola Project. More info available here.
Susan de Sola
Still Life with Strawberries (Adriaen Coorte, 1705)
Coorte painted them on paper, pasted to a panel,
white points of seeds on red and fleshly beds;
slim stems rise against a dark they channel
and issue pontifical flower heads.
The blooms hold light as though pulsing the hour,
the small white petals of the strawberry flower.
A berry-stem bends and points, an armature
bowing obeisance to Coorte’s signature
as if it knows that below, tabled on stone,
down where both flower and painter wend,
an image of engraving makes them his alone;
he holds their origin, imprimatur, end.
Susan de Sola’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Hopkins Review, American Arts Quarterly, Measure, River Styx, The Raintown Review, Tilt-a-Whirl, Light Quarterly, Per Contra, Fringe Magazine, The New Verse News and Ambit, among other venues. She holds a Ph.D. in English and American literature from The Johns Hopkins University, and has published scholarly essays as Susan de Sola Rodstein. She is a David Reid Poetry Translation Prize winner. She lives near Amsterdam with her family.
Coorte painted them on paper, pasted to a panel,
white points of seeds on red and fleshly beds;
slim stems rise against a dark they channel
and issue pontifical flower heads.
The blooms hold light as though pulsing the hour,
the small white petals of the strawberry flower.
A berry-stem bends and points, an armature
bowing obeisance to Coorte’s signature
as if it knows that below, tabled on stone,
down where both flower and painter wend,
an image of engraving makes them his alone;
he holds their origin, imprimatur, end.
Susan de Sola’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Hopkins Review, American Arts Quarterly, Measure, River Styx, The Raintown Review, Tilt-a-Whirl, Light Quarterly, Per Contra, Fringe Magazine, The New Verse News and Ambit, among other venues. She holds a Ph.D. in English and American literature from The Johns Hopkins University, and has published scholarly essays as Susan de Sola Rodstein. She is a David Reid Poetry Translation Prize winner. She lives near Amsterdam with her family.
Jean Sirius
City Women
The woman who spends an hour
every morning with her makeup
and her mirror is my sister.
The sister who can bear abuse
from her male boss is my friend.
I see us on the streets, faces set
to endure, and I see we do,
in pieces and in pain; we hold
our anger down with muscles
and a will that would rattle the world,
turned elsewhere. The fat woman
who makes her own clothes and takes
too much space on the bus is my lover.
Jean Sirius is *this* close to being eligible for Medicare (just before they gut it, naturally). She keeps a garden and bakes bread, which would astonish the people she went to high school with.
The woman who spends an hour
every morning with her makeup
and her mirror is my sister.
The sister who can bear abuse
from her male boss is my friend.
I see us on the streets, faces set
to endure, and I see we do,
in pieces and in pain; we hold
our anger down with muscles
and a will that would rattle the world,
turned elsewhere. The fat woman
who makes her own clothes and takes
too much space on the bus is my lover.
Jean Sirius is *this* close to being eligible for Medicare (just before they gut it, naturally). She keeps a garden and bakes bread, which would astonish the people she went to high school with.
Carolyn Boll
Terpsichore Two-step (I love to foxtrot with you)
and
slow
slow
quick quick
slow
slow quick quick
slow and quick
slow slow
slower
slow
and
slower
slower
quick quick slow
slow slow
quick
and slow
and slow
and slow
quick quick slow and quick and quick quick slow and
quick quick quick and slow and
slow and slow and slow and slow
and quick and slow and quick and quick and quick and slow and quick and quick and
slow
slow
slow
and quick
and slow and
quick and quick and
slow
slow
slow and quick
and slow
slow slow slow and
quick and quick
and
slow
slow
slow and quick
and slow
slow
slow
quick and quick
and
slow
slow
quick quick
slow
slow
and
slow slow
quick quick
slow
and
slow
and
Carolyn Boll is a dancer who fell in love with words. After over twenty years of dance training, performing and choreographing she fell in love with a woman, fell out of love with “being seen but not heard”, and began an enduring love affair with the sound, depth, rhythm and play inherent in each. And. Every. Word. She has presented her writing at Studio XX’s Les Femmes Branchées soirees, and the Hurley’s Pub and The Yellow Door Poetry and Prose events in Montreal, Canada, and as part of a poetry and dance collaboration with writer and dancer Darla Johnson in Austin, Texas. Carolyn coaches and writes for performers, writers, and visual artists and lives in the village of Pointe-Claire, Quebec with her wife Sue.
and
slow
slow
quick quick
slow
slow quick quick
slow and quick
slow slow
slower
slow
and
slower
slower
quick quick slow
slow slow
quick
and slow
and slow
and slow
quick quick slow and quick and quick quick slow and
quick quick quick and slow and
slow and slow and slow and slow
and quick and slow and quick and quick and quick and slow and quick and quick and
slow
slow
slow
and quick
and slow and
quick and quick and
slow
slow
slow and quick
and slow
slow slow slow and
quick and quick
and
slow
slow
slow and quick
and slow
slow
slow
quick and quick
and
slow
slow
quick quick
slow
slow
and
slow slow
quick quick
slow
and
slow
and
Carolyn Boll is a dancer who fell in love with words. After over twenty years of dance training, performing and choreographing she fell in love with a woman, fell out of love with “being seen but not heard”, and began an enduring love affair with the sound, depth, rhythm and play inherent in each. And. Every. Word. She has presented her writing at Studio XX’s Les Femmes Branchées soirees, and the Hurley’s Pub and The Yellow Door Poetry and Prose events in Montreal, Canada, and as part of a poetry and dance collaboration with writer and dancer Darla Johnson in Austin, Texas. Carolyn coaches and writes for performers, writers, and visual artists and lives in the village of Pointe-Claire, Quebec with her wife Sue.
The Goblin Bee
511
Emily Dickinson (1830 -1886)
If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls —
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse —
If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.
If certain, when this life was out —
That your's and mine, should be-
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity —
But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee —
That will not state — it's sting.
The Letter
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly’s legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my curtained window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
Song for a Lady
Anne Sexton (1928 -1974)
On the day of breasts and small hips
the window pocked with bad rain,
rain coming on like a minister,
we coupled, so sane and insane.
We lay like spoons while the sinister
rain dropped like flies on our lips
and our glad eyes and our small hips.
“The room is so cold with rain,” you said
and you, feminine you, with your flower
said novenas to my ankles and elbows.
You are a national product and power.
Oh my swan, my drudge, my dear wooly rose,
even a notary would notarize our bed
as you knead me and I rise like bread.
The Rainy Summer
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
There’s much afoot in heaven and earth this year;
The winds hunt up the sun, hunt up the moon,
Trouble the dubious dawn, hasten the drear
Height of a threatening noon.
No breath of boughs, no breath of leaves, of fronds,
May linger or grow warm; the trees are loud;
The forest, rooted, tosses in her bonds,
And strains against the cloud.
No scents may pause within the garden-fold;
The rifled flowers are cold as ocean-shells;
Bees, humming in the storm, carry their cold
Wild honey to cold cells.
Statue
Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
Alone in the dusk with you
while music by Ravel washes over us
and I clasp you in my arms,
your cool white plaster face
is warm against my stubbled cheek
and your arms seem to tremble.
Are you troubled, emotionally troubled?
What things we have heard together!
and afterwards, most of all, what you tell me
of artistic modesty. Your waist feels rough,
rough as the skin that keeps us apart
from each other. I shall be nude
against you, close as we can come.
Absence
Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)
Sometimes I know the way
You walk, up over the bay;
It is a wind from the far sea
That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.
Or in this garden when the breeze
Touches my trees
To stir their dreaming shadows on the grass
I see you pass.
In sheltered beds, the heart of every rose
Serenely sleeps tonight. As shut as those
Your guarded heart; as safe as they from the beat, beat
Of hooves that tread dropped roses in the street.
Turn never again
On these eyes blind with a wild rain
Your eyes; they were stars to me.—
There are things stars may not see.
But call, call, and though Christ stands
Still with scarred hands
Over my mouth, I must answer. So
I will come—He shall let me go!
The Green Notebook
Jane Cooper (1924-2007)
There are 64 panes in each window of the Harrisville church
where we sit listening to a late Haydn quartet. Near the ceiling clouds
build up, slowly brightening, then disperse, till the evening sky
glistens like the pink inside of a shell over uncropped grass,
over a few slant graves.
At Sargent Pond the hollows are the color of strong tea.
Looking down you can see decomposed weeds and the muscular bronze and green
stems of some water lilies. Out there on the float
three figures hang between water and air, the heat breathes them, they no longer speak.
It is a seamless July afternoon.
Nameless. Slowly gathering. . . . It seems I am on the edge
of discovering the green notebook containing all the poems of my life,
I mean the ones I never wrote. The meadow turns intensely green.
The notebook is under my fingers. I read. My companions read.
Now thunder joins in, scurry of leaves.
A Triolet
Angelina Weld Grimke (1880-1958)
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
On an April day;
Close we stood beneath a tree,
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
Shining sweet and wistfully,
Wet and yet quite gay;
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
On an April day.
A Night in June
Sarah Orne Jewett (1849-1909)
The starlight from one clear, bright star,
The moonlight, faint and white
From the little moon, low in the sky,
Shone in my face on the hill, where I
Have thought of you to-night.
There was just the last of the sunset left,
Pale-yellow in the west,
And a sleepy bobolink flew by,
And dropped into its nest;
And the field was full of daisies,
That nodded, and waved, and bowed;
The wind was so little it could not play
At once with all the crowd,
And the daisies bowed to the star and moon,
And I called you once aloud.
The nearest daisies looked at me
Because they heard me call;
And they told each other what I had said,
Though they did not hear it all.
And I stood there wishing for you,
All alone on the hill;
While far below were the fields asleep,
And above, the sky so still.
In the twilight the daisies were busy,
And they nodded and looked around
At each other, and bowed to begin a dance;
But their feet never moved from the ground.
Oh, the little wind blew, and I watched them
Till I felt like a daisy, too;
And more kept blooming, it seemed to me;
And they knew I thought of you.
The star went higher, and the moon grew bright,
And the sunset was almost lost,
And the trees below looked black as the night,
But the daisies were white like frost;
And the mountains so far, and so blue by day,
Looked dark against the west,
So grave and still in their solemn gloom,
And the world was all at rest.
But the daisies nodded and looked at me,
And still they bowed and played;
Like children in church, they were merry still,
And why should they be afraid?
I looked up at the hills and down at the fields
All dim with shadows, dear;
Then looked at the sky, and I hid my face,
For its light grew strangely clear.
The flowers were so white that they dazzled me,
And the wind blew against my face;
And the stars seemed nearer than lights below,
While I stood in that lonely place.
Emily Dickinson (1830 -1886)
If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls —
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse —
If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.
If certain, when this life was out —
That your's and mine, should be-
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity —
But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee —
That will not state — it's sting.
The Letter
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly’s legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my curtained window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
Song for a Lady
Anne Sexton (1928 -1974)
On the day of breasts and small hips
the window pocked with bad rain,
rain coming on like a minister,
we coupled, so sane and insane.
We lay like spoons while the sinister
rain dropped like flies on our lips
and our glad eyes and our small hips.
“The room is so cold with rain,” you said
and you, feminine you, with your flower
said novenas to my ankles and elbows.
You are a national product and power.
Oh my swan, my drudge, my dear wooly rose,
even a notary would notarize our bed
as you knead me and I rise like bread.
The Rainy Summer
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
There’s much afoot in heaven and earth this year;
The winds hunt up the sun, hunt up the moon,
Trouble the dubious dawn, hasten the drear
Height of a threatening noon.
No breath of boughs, no breath of leaves, of fronds,
May linger or grow warm; the trees are loud;
The forest, rooted, tosses in her bonds,
And strains against the cloud.
No scents may pause within the garden-fold;
The rifled flowers are cold as ocean-shells;
Bees, humming in the storm, carry their cold
Wild honey to cold cells.
Statue
Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
Alone in the dusk with you
while music by Ravel washes over us
and I clasp you in my arms,
your cool white plaster face
is warm against my stubbled cheek
and your arms seem to tremble.
Are you troubled, emotionally troubled?
What things we have heard together!
and afterwards, most of all, what you tell me
of artistic modesty. Your waist feels rough,
rough as the skin that keeps us apart
from each other. I shall be nude
against you, close as we can come.
Absence
Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)
Sometimes I know the way
You walk, up over the bay;
It is a wind from the far sea
That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.
Or in this garden when the breeze
Touches my trees
To stir their dreaming shadows on the grass
I see you pass.
In sheltered beds, the heart of every rose
Serenely sleeps tonight. As shut as those
Your guarded heart; as safe as they from the beat, beat
Of hooves that tread dropped roses in the street.
Turn never again
On these eyes blind with a wild rain
Your eyes; they were stars to me.—
There are things stars may not see.
But call, call, and though Christ stands
Still with scarred hands
Over my mouth, I must answer. So
I will come—He shall let me go!
The Green Notebook
Jane Cooper (1924-2007)
There are 64 panes in each window of the Harrisville church
where we sit listening to a late Haydn quartet. Near the ceiling clouds
build up, slowly brightening, then disperse, till the evening sky
glistens like the pink inside of a shell over uncropped grass,
over a few slant graves.
At Sargent Pond the hollows are the color of strong tea.
Looking down you can see decomposed weeds and the muscular bronze and green
stems of some water lilies. Out there on the float
three figures hang between water and air, the heat breathes them, they no longer speak.
It is a seamless July afternoon.
Nameless. Slowly gathering. . . . It seems I am on the edge
of discovering the green notebook containing all the poems of my life,
I mean the ones I never wrote. The meadow turns intensely green.
The notebook is under my fingers. I read. My companions read.
Now thunder joins in, scurry of leaves.
A Triolet
Angelina Weld Grimke (1880-1958)
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
On an April day;
Close we stood beneath a tree,
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
Shining sweet and wistfully,
Wet and yet quite gay;
Molly raised shy eyes to me,
On an April day.
A Night in June
Sarah Orne Jewett (1849-1909)
The starlight from one clear, bright star,
The moonlight, faint and white
From the little moon, low in the sky,
Shone in my face on the hill, where I
Have thought of you to-night.
There was just the last of the sunset left,
Pale-yellow in the west,
And a sleepy bobolink flew by,
And dropped into its nest;
And the field was full of daisies,
That nodded, and waved, and bowed;
The wind was so little it could not play
At once with all the crowd,
And the daisies bowed to the star and moon,
And I called you once aloud.
The nearest daisies looked at me
Because they heard me call;
And they told each other what I had said,
Though they did not hear it all.
And I stood there wishing for you,
All alone on the hill;
While far below were the fields asleep,
And above, the sky so still.
In the twilight the daisies were busy,
And they nodded and looked around
At each other, and bowed to begin a dance;
But their feet never moved from the ground.
Oh, the little wind blew, and I watched them
Till I felt like a daisy, too;
And more kept blooming, it seemed to me;
And they knew I thought of you.
The star went higher, and the moon grew bright,
And the sunset was almost lost,
And the trees below looked black as the night,
But the daisies were white like frost;
And the mountains so far, and so blue by day,
Looked dark against the west,
So grave and still in their solemn gloom,
And the world was all at rest.
But the daisies nodded and looked at me,
And still they bowed and played;
Like children in church, they were merry still,
And why should they be afraid?
I looked up at the hills and down at the fields
All dim with shadows, dear;
Then looked at the sky, and I hid my face,
For its light grew strangely clear.
The flowers were so white that they dazzled me,
And the wind blew against my face;
And the stars seemed nearer than lights below,
While I stood in that lonely place.
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