31 December 2011
Poems published in "Clapboard House"
Several poems published in "Clapboard House" including:
Page Turner (Can One Trust the Narrator?)
Fleetwood Bridge
Artifacts
Lost and Found Again
and
Garland
Many thanks to "Clapboard House" for featuring these poems of mine on their website! Check them out at:
http://clapboardhouse.wordpress.com/poetry/maryann-mccarra-fitzpatrick/
15 December 2011
Announcing -- "Ramblings" Just published!!!!
Via Toni-Ann Caserta Buckley, whose son, Jesse, has just published his first volume of poetry........
Ramblings
Authored by Jesse Ruben Buckley III
This book is the result of years of thoughts, ideas, and ramblings of a self-described
imaginative-scientist-author-poet who taught himself to read around the age of two.
A light read, that contains surprising insight into the world of the young through the eyes of a highly gifted child.
It is highly recommended to parents, teachers, and anyone who share in the wonderment of a child.
Publication Date:Dec 10 2011
ISBN/EAN13:1468040219 / 9781468040210
Page Count:78
Binding Type:US Trade
PaperTrim Size:6" x 9"
Language:English
Color:Black and White
Related Categories:Poetry / General
Ramblings
Authored by Jesse Ruben Buckley III
This book is the result of years of thoughts, ideas, and ramblings of a self-described
imaginative-scientist-author-poet who taught himself to read around the age of two.
A light read, that contains surprising insight into the world of the young through the eyes of a highly gifted child.
It is highly recommended to parents, teachers, and anyone who share in the wonderment of a child.
Publication Date:Dec 10 2011
ISBN/EAN13:1468040219 / 9781468040210
Page Count:78
Binding Type:US Trade
PaperTrim Size:6" x 9"
Language:English
Color:Black and White
Related Categories:Poetry / General
22 November 2011
Poem, "Transfer" published on The Mom Egg website
http://www.themomegg.com
Poem: "Transfer" published online on the "Vox Mom" page of The Mom Egg website.....check it out!
http://www.themomegg.com/themomegg/Blog/Entries/2011/11/20_VOX_MOM__Mary_Ann_McCarra__Transfer.html
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Home About Current Issue Back Issues Blog Events Links Shop Donate Submit Contact
Transfer
by Mary Ann McCarra
transfer, held damply in her
hand, the snow melting
where her cap (nearly)
met her coat, her scarf
left where (behind), shed
like the skin of a snake,
useless as an escape tool,
however jauntily it was wrapped,
the pantone color the blue
of a Mediterranean summer
once seen in a postcard, the
demarcation of blue and
white wavering beneath her eyes
and her feet ache, now, in the
warmth of the bus, the slow
thawing an agony she distracts
herself from by repeating one
line, then the next, as
regular as the telephone
poles she passes, one, then
another, the marking points
of distance, as chatter
rises and falls the bus
creaks in protest, the
recirculation of exhaust, thick
and tarry, makes her
drowse...
so many miles to go, on her way
to a new habitat
02 November 2011
McCarra/Poetry will be syndicated on the website "Before It's News"
03 September 2011
Lacrime
the jars are lined up on his windowsill,
swelling, so, with her tears, from that first
morning, so blue-skied we did not think
of the crowds, ash-white, ghostlike, streaming
through the streets as alarums wailed and we all
--held our breath--these deaths, so unlike
any others, graved upon our minds, the shapes,
too, of their forms, falling from the sky,
angels touching earth as cats fought over
scraps in an alley and the accordion pleats
of her greywool skirt fell open to reveal...what...she
will not tell--the tolling of the bells takes
her mind to another place, that field of blue
and black, the pipes cry, over and again the
flags unfurl, and the tears that would
fill an ocean, an ocean, wet her hands
once again, the floor unsteady beneath her
feet, fingers trembling to their tips, and
she, undone entirely, unmoored, floats
from the ninety-seventh floor to rest upon a
common curb, sepulchral white, smoke-
dusted, stunned, walking away, away, forever
away--and still, there. His hands thread
through her hair still, she feels it so.
22 August 2011
McCarra/Poetry reading, via "Podsnack"
<b>http://www.podsnack.com/playlists/5a20a34196d7daa6fdc3284bfa945333
Click on the title of this post to hear the reading recorded on 22nd August 2011.....
Poetry reading: "Calculations (Summer)" -- "In Summer" -- "Eclipse" -- "Telling the Bees" -- "Doughboy" -- "Make Haste" -- "Taxonomy" -- "Painting" -- "Ever-Expanding America" -- "Torch Song"
Cheers,
MaryAnn
Click on the title of this post to hear the reading recorded on 22nd August 2011.....
Poetry reading: "Calculations (Summer)" -- "In Summer" -- "Eclipse" -- "Telling the Bees" -- "Doughboy" -- "Make Haste" -- "Taxonomy" -- "Painting" -- "Ever-Expanding America" -- "Torch Song"
Cheers,
MaryAnn
18 August 2011
Painting
a bright sunny butter-yellow for
the kitchen, then, and
an apple-red for the
reading room
she counts the paint pots off
in her head, two, four, six,
imagining prising their lids off to
reveal the thickcream of
colors stirred with a
ruler, spread with roller,
daubed with brush, to
create that distinct
palette, the warmth and
cool reflecting back through
all the seasons as they pass
(as they will pass)
from the white hoar-frost of
winter to the new-green of
spring, the gold-red of
fall, the parched brown, too,
of summer lawns, new-mowed, as
the children call, each to
each, she listens to their
voices, seeking to single out
her own
the kitchen, then, and
an apple-red for the
reading room
she counts the paint pots off
in her head, two, four, six,
imagining prising their lids off to
reveal the thickcream of
colors stirred with a
ruler, spread with roller,
daubed with brush, to
create that distinct
palette, the warmth and
cool reflecting back through
all the seasons as they pass
(as they will pass)
from the white hoar-frost of
winter to the new-green of
spring, the gold-red of
fall, the parched brown, too,
of summer lawns, new-mowed, as
the children call, each to
each, she listens to their
voices, seeking to single out
her own
Ever-Expanding America
ever-expanding America, yes,
we'll see the USA in your
Chevrolet, sky blue, reflecting
all our tomorrows, ticked
off on her fingers, halfway
between sleep and wakefulness
as she tries to discern how
many colors your irises are
comprised of, surprising how
they change in the light, with
your temper, too,
mid-afternoon now, she packs
and repacks, discarding this
and that for other, more
practical items, the compass,
the light, the water, the
oil, hoping they will last these
next dark nights
we'll see the USA in your
Chevrolet, sky blue, reflecting
all our tomorrows, ticked
off on her fingers, halfway
between sleep and wakefulness
as she tries to discern how
many colors your irises are
comprised of, surprising how
they change in the light, with
your temper, too,
mid-afternoon now, she packs
and repacks, discarding this
and that for other, more
practical items, the compass,
the light, the water, the
oil, hoping they will last these
next dark nights
Torch Song
two embers burning beneath
the kitchen window, smoke
redolent of tobacco and
days long past slip in, unwanted
but not unnoticed
and Winston tastes good, like
a cigarette should, and
there go the two of them,
twinned lights as they
murmer, murmer (of what?)
...too far to hear
and lights flash on and
off as a neighbor walks
past, unshrouding them for
just a moment,
a sudden exposure, then
dark again, those twin
torches coupled in darkness
the kitchen window, smoke
redolent of tobacco and
days long past slip in, unwanted
but not unnoticed
and Winston tastes good, like
a cigarette should, and
there go the two of them,
twinned lights as they
murmer, murmer (of what?)
...too far to hear
and lights flash on and
off as a neighbor walks
past, unshrouding them for
just a moment,
a sudden exposure, then
dark again, those twin
torches coupled in darkness
17 August 2011
Poem, "Butterfly, Loch Avon" forthcoming in "Torrid Literature"
MaryAnn's poem, "Butterfly, Loch Avon" -- which first appeared on this blog -- will be published in both the online and print editions of the April 2012 issue of "Torrid Literature."
Click on the title of this blog post to check out their website and submission information.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
"Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" -- the first anthology to feature the work of Mount Vernon, NY poets......
http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Beats-Four-Square-Miles/dp/1453778047/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1313632879&sr=1-1
Before you know it it will be time to draw up your lists for holiday gift-giving....
What better gift than the very first anthology to feature the work of Mount Vernon, NY poets?? Truly a unique volume!!
Before you know it it will be time to draw up your lists for holiday gift-giving....
What better gift than the very first anthology to feature the work of Mount Vernon, NY poets?? Truly a unique volume!!
11 August 2011
Next meeting of the Mount Vernon Writers Network
http://www.mountvernonpubliclibrary.org/
The next meeting of the Mount Vernon Writers Network will be held at the Mount Vernon Public Library on Thursday 18th August 2011 from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m..
Come and share your writing in a welcoming atmosphere!!
The Mount Vernon Public Library is located at:
28 South First Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY 10550
Telephone: 914-668-1840
Closest MetroNorth Station: Mount Vernon East.
03 July 2011
Poem "Boarding the Black Dog" published in the Mount Vernon Inquirer
http://www.mvinquirer.com/past_issues.htm
Poem, "Boarding the Black Dog" published in the July 2011 edition of the Mount Vernon Inquirer.
Click the title of this blog post to read it online or read it on this blog.....
Cheers,
MaryAnn
Poem, "Boarding the Black Dog" published in the July 2011 edition of the Mount Vernon Inquirer.
Click the title of this blog post to read it online or read it on this blog.....
Cheers,
MaryAnn
02 July 2011
Two poems published in "Thick With Conviction"
http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/thickwithconviction/mccarra.html
Two poems, "Building Blocks" and "Crazed Cup" published in the online poetry journal Thick With Conviction.
Click on the link above to read these and the other poems featured in the June 2011 issue.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
Two poems, "Building Blocks" and "Crazed Cup" published in the online poetry journal Thick With Conviction.
Click on the link above to read these and the other poems featured in the June 2011 issue.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
01 July 2011
Make Haste....
make haste with swift
alacrity, on to the
chipped Corelle, the
Johnson Brothers, a single
polished nail in rosy
peach reflecting the light
back, small gold globe,
mass of electrons, ever
humming
super-vitrified Dudson,
Duraline, stacked rounds
straining the shelf to
the breaking point
gripping plate-edge as
water and soap-froth
shears off in sheets down
the abyss of the drain, that
single eye staring back, that
dark mouth through which
small scraps may fall,
accidental offerings to
the kitchen gods who,
turning a blind eye, allow
the rice to scorch as
the custard turns to
scrambled eggs....
super-vitrified, twice-
fired, unlike the Limoges
A Lanternier, France, with
faded flowers: rose, carnation,
scalloped gold,
Arklow FINE BONE CHINA (in capital
letters, if you please)
or pale-pink Colelough,
gold-scrolled, made in
England, or the Paragon
with the hollyhocks....
sealing away the odd ends
of vegetables and
beef overtopped with potato,
plastic, then foil, destined
for a late lunch, standing
up, mid-kitchen, ear cocked for
the ring of the telephone
alacrity, on to the
chipped Corelle, the
Johnson Brothers, a single
polished nail in rosy
peach reflecting the light
back, small gold globe,
mass of electrons, ever
humming
super-vitrified Dudson,
Duraline, stacked rounds
straining the shelf to
the breaking point
gripping plate-edge as
water and soap-froth
shears off in sheets down
the abyss of the drain, that
single eye staring back, that
dark mouth through which
small scraps may fall,
accidental offerings to
the kitchen gods who,
turning a blind eye, allow
the rice to scorch as
the custard turns to
scrambled eggs....
super-vitrified, twice-
fired, unlike the Limoges
A Lanternier, France, with
faded flowers: rose, carnation,
scalloped gold,
Arklow FINE BONE CHINA (in capital
letters, if you please)
or pale-pink Colelough,
gold-scrolled, made in
England, or the Paragon
with the hollyhocks....
sealing away the odd ends
of vegetables and
beef overtopped with potato,
plastic, then foil, destined
for a late lunch, standing
up, mid-kitchen, ear cocked for
the ring of the telephone
Taxonomy
grouped and regrouped, the
orders and suborders, the
genus, divisions, as
white sheets flap in the
wind, awaiting
starched corners
each clade and domain,
these flightless bipeds
basking in self-created
glory on their pavingstones
phylum, class, and legion,
must keep their order,
red and black-ink lined,
so clear as to cut
orders and suborders, the
genus, divisions, as
white sheets flap in the
wind, awaiting
starched corners
each clade and domain,
these flightless bipeds
basking in self-created
glory on their pavingstones
phylum, class, and legion,
must keep their order,
red and black-ink lined,
so clear as to cut
25 June 2011
Some Summer programs at the Mount Vernon Public Library!!!!!
Contact the library for more information!!!
Mount Vernon Public Library
28 South 1st Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY 10550
914-668-1840
http://www.mountvernonpubliclibrary.org/home
24 June 2011
Winter Day -- Their Album "Acceptance"
Click on the title of this blog post if you're interested in downloading "Acceptance."
http://www.mediafire.com/?i29de93f74nc1vz
John Emery of Winter Day, a poetry/spoken word/acoustic collective sent me a link (which I will try to post here!) for their new album "Acceptance" -- which includes the following tracks:
1. The Love We Leave
2. Despair I Wrote
3. Seasons Change
4. Old Home
5. Time to Let Go
6. Portrait
I really liked the cover art on the album, which was sent to me as a JPEG, but, unfortunately, I wasn't able to reproduce it here.
Winter Day is on Facebook. Check them out....
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.mediafire.com/?i29de93f74nc1vz
John Emery of Winter Day, a poetry/spoken word/acoustic collective sent me a link (which I will try to post here!) for their new album "Acceptance" -- which includes the following tracks:
1. The Love We Leave
2. Despair I Wrote
3. Seasons Change
4. Old Home
5. Time to Let Go
6. Portrait
I really liked the cover art on the album, which was sent to me as a JPEG, but, unfortunately, I wasn't able to reproduce it here.
Winter Day is on Facebook. Check them out....
Cheers,
MaryAnn
23 June 2011
REVERBNATION
Click on the title of this blog post to get to MaryAnn's page on the REVERBNATION website!
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.reverbnation.com/maryannmccarra
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.reverbnation.com/maryannmccarra
22 June 2011
Poetry Readings placed on PodSnack
Click on the title of this blog post to get to the PodSnack player....
http://www.podsnack.com/playlists/6f549dc2aadbac7b16b32b172a711603
http://www.podsnack.com/my-playlists/details/6f549dc2aadbac7b16b32b172a711603
The embedded player I had formerly (Podbean) seemed to stop working so I put my MP3 recordings on a PodSnack player. Not difficult at all, thankfully.
Only drawback is that, with the embedded feature, they only allow five recordings on the player (while there are fourteen on my PodSnack page......).
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.podsnack.com/playlists/6f549dc2aadbac7b16b32b172a711603
http://www.podsnack.com/my-playlists/details/6f549dc2aadbac7b16b32b172a711603
The embedded player I had formerly (Podbean) seemed to stop working so I put my MP3 recordings on a PodSnack player. Not difficult at all, thankfully.
Only drawback is that, with the embedded feature, they only allow five recordings on the player (while there are fourteen on my PodSnack page......).
Cheers,
MaryAnn
21 June 2011
Writers' Networking Workshop at the AC-BAW Center for the Arts in Mount Vernon, NY!!!
http://www.acbaw.org/
Click on the title of this blog post to check out the AC-BAW Center for the Arts website!
Writers' Networking Workshop to be held the 4th Thursday of each month. Poetry/Prose Networking Workshop followed by an Open Mic.
6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Hosted by james "jAFa" Fair.
AC-BAW Center for the Arts
128 South 4th Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY
For more information email: james.fair1@verizon.net
Click on the title of this blog post to check out the AC-BAW Center for the Arts website!
Writers' Networking Workshop to be held the 4th Thursday of each month. Poetry/Prose Networking Workshop followed by an Open Mic.
6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Hosted by james "jAFa" Fair.
AC-BAW Center for the Arts
128 South 4th Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY
For more information email: james.fair1@verizon.net
20 June 2011
July/August Meeting Dates -- Mount Vernon Writers' Network -- at the Mount Vernon Public Library!!!
Click on the title of this blog post to check out the Mount Vernon Public Library website!!
The dates and times for the July and August meetings (Workshop followed by Open Mic) are as follows:
Thursday, 21st July, 6:00 p.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Thursday, 18th August, 6:00 p.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Come share your work in a warm and welcoming environment!
Hosted by James "jAFa" Fair, editor of "Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" and Poetry Editor for the Mount Vernon Inquirer newspaper.
Community Room
Mount Vernon Public Library
28 South First Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY 10550
914-668-1840
914-668-1018
(Closest to the Mount Vernon East MetroNorth Station)
http://www.mountvernonpubliclibrary.org/
19 June 2011
Mount Vernon Writer's Network has their own page on Facebook!!! Check it out!!!!
Mount Vernon Writer's Network now has their own page on Facebook!!!
Click on the title of this blog post to bring you to the page (make sure you're logged into Facebook first, though!!).
Stop by and "like" the page.....also....stay tuned for future notifications regarding readings, open mics, and so forth.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mount-Vernon-Writers-Network/232786433413622
Click on the title of this blog post to bring you to the page (make sure you're logged into Facebook first, though!!).
Stop by and "like" the page.....also....stay tuned for future notifications regarding readings, open mics, and so forth.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mount-Vernon-Writers-Network/232786433413622
18 June 2011
Calculations (Summer)
this time-telling on restaurant
napkins--how old was he
when? and how old was she
when? the ink spreading, like
blood, across the white while
the waiter replenishes the glasses
of water, the beading of the
condensation making an ever-
changing map of wetness tamped
by a napkin, the waiter,
pad and pen at the ready
whiteaproned, distracted by a
noise of traffic between the tax
office and the funeral home
and here we are--caught between
death and taxes on this fine
Summer morning, new-born and
already promising the hotness of the
afternoon, scorching our soles, our
souls, as we walk back to the
car, calculating always, the
numbers tottering over, wondering
whether
they will ever add up
napkins--how old was he
when? and how old was she
when? the ink spreading, like
blood, across the white while
the waiter replenishes the glasses
of water, the beading of the
condensation making an ever-
changing map of wetness tamped
by a napkin, the waiter,
pad and pen at the ready
whiteaproned, distracted by a
noise of traffic between the tax
office and the funeral home
and here we are--caught between
death and taxes on this fine
Summer morning, new-born and
already promising the hotness of the
afternoon, scorching our soles, our
souls, as we walk back to the
car, calculating always, the
numbers tottering over, wondering
whether
they will ever add up
Eclipse
blood red moon, eclipsing all others,
over that stony grey soil, the
hardness of it doubling for your
heart, so few words of yours
I have had, and the last
hoarded and made to last like
a prisoner's rations, crumbling into
dust at closer scrutiny, the
meal so coarse and badly
mixed it does not hold a
shape, nor does it satisfy
that wholesome hunger
which slices away, knife upon bone,
and, all the while, the
honeysuckle blooms again into
a thickwarm fug of scent and
her plate is as clean as the
face of the new moon
over that stony grey soil, the
hardness of it doubling for your
heart, so few words of yours
I have had, and the last
hoarded and made to last like
a prisoner's rations, crumbling into
dust at closer scrutiny, the
meal so coarse and badly
mixed it does not hold a
shape, nor does it satisfy
that wholesome hunger
which slices away, knife upon bone,
and, all the while, the
honeysuckle blooms again into
a thickwarm fug of scent and
her plate is as clean as the
face of the new moon
Telling the Bees
telling the bees that he is
dead she hesitates, for a
moment, to stop them in their
ordinary work (that so graces
their table) but this old custom,
one dear to him, she will keep
at this very last, lest they
should decamp for other hives
or, at the worst, die
so, she tells them of his dying,
early that morning, before the
dawn cracked the new day open,
light creeping over the hills
until it could not be dismissed in
favor of that particular rest graced
to caretakers and, telling them,
she feels their very hum
in her blood, the sun noon-high
now, the windows opened, the
priest called for, the clothes
of black pressed and ready, and
still they hum, these engines of
industry, toiling amongst their
thicksweet gold, their summer harvest
dead she hesitates, for a
moment, to stop them in their
ordinary work (that so graces
their table) but this old custom,
one dear to him, she will keep
at this very last, lest they
should decamp for other hives
or, at the worst, die
so, she tells them of his dying,
early that morning, before the
dawn cracked the new day open,
light creeping over the hills
until it could not be dismissed in
favor of that particular rest graced
to caretakers and, telling them,
she feels their very hum
in her blood, the sun noon-high
now, the windows opened, the
priest called for, the clothes
of black pressed and ready, and
still they hum, these engines of
industry, toiling amongst their
thicksweet gold, their summer harvest
Doughboy
cartwheel in a churchyard, the
slow tolling of insects and
the red-white-blue-red-white-blue flash of
bunting tacked, firmly, once
again the strains of Sousa
through the tree limbs and
the doughboy of stone stands,
ever at the ready, his arms
at his side, the names in
type metallic-small,
tarnished, on an obelisk marble-
bordered, the fountain long
since parched dry under the sun, the
trenches dug for flowers are fresh,
awaiting new plantings, the roots to
take hold, tenacious
under the Summer sun
slow tolling of insects and
the red-white-blue-red-white-blue flash of
bunting tacked, firmly, once
again the strains of Sousa
through the tree limbs and
the doughboy of stone stands,
ever at the ready, his arms
at his side, the names in
type metallic-small,
tarnished, on an obelisk marble-
bordered, the fountain long
since parched dry under the sun, the
trenches dug for flowers are fresh,
awaiting new plantings, the roots to
take hold, tenacious
under the Summer sun
16 June 2011
Writing Workshop / Open Mic Saturday 18th June 2011!!!!! Mount Vernon Public Library
This coming Saturday.....18th June 2011.....
Writing workshop / Open Mic
Mount Vernon Public Library
Community Room
28 South First Avenue
Mount Vernon, NY 10550
Telephone: 914-668-1840
(Mount Vernon East MetroNorth Station)
08 June 2011
Poem to appear (online) on the VOX MOM page of The Mom Egg website!
MaryAnn's poem "Transfer" will appear on The Mom Egg website (VOX MOM page) in November 2011.
Click on the title of this post to check out their website!!!
http://www.themomegg.com/themomegg/Home.html
Click on the title of this post to check out their website!!!
http://www.themomegg.com/themomegg/Home.html
04 June 2011
Poems forthcoming in "Thick With Conviction" -- an online magazine of poetry and interviews.
http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/thickwithconviction/
MaryAnn's two poems...."Building Blocks" and "Crazed Cup" will appear in the June 2011 issue of the online poetry magazine Thick With Conviction.
Click on the title of this post to reach the Thick With Conviction website.
MaryAnn's two poems...."Building Blocks" and "Crazed Cup" will appear in the June 2011 issue of the online poetry magazine Thick With Conviction.
Click on the title of this post to reach the Thick With Conviction website.
02 June 2011
Blood Beats in Four Square Miles (Fair, ed.) -- the first anthology of Mount Vernon, NY poets.
Check it out on Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com!!! (Click on the title of this blog post to get to the Amazon.com page featuring this title!!)
"http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Beats-Four-Square-Miles/dp/1453778047/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1307020375&sr=1-1
"Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" -- the very first anthology of Mount Vernon, NY poets!!!
"http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Beats-Four-Square-Miles/dp/1453778047/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1307020375&sr=1-1
"Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" -- the very first anthology of Mount Vernon, NY poets!!!
Cavalier Literary Couture
Poem published-- online-- on the Cavalier Literary Couture website........
http://www.cavalierliterarycouture.com/online/pg1/Bottled/
15 May 2011
13 May 2011
Open Mic!!! Tuesday, 17th May 2011
Open mic!
Yvonne's House of Soul
65 East Prospect Avenue (corner of Park Avenue)
Mount Vernon, NY
$5.00 cover / $10.00 minimum food purchase
6:00 - 8:00 p.m.
Persons wishing to participate need to email or call to register.
10 May 2011
04 May 2011
Tomorrow!!! 5th May 2011, Thursday evening at the Mount Vernon Public Library in Westchester County, New York!!!!!!
Come and share your writing in a warm and welcoming atmosphere!!!!
(Unfortunately, I won't be able to attend this month's meeting, since I am still trying to get over an awful cold....but I heartily suggest that, if you are in the lower Westchester area, this is a great venue for reading your work and networking with other writers!!)
03 May 2011
Thirty Poems/Thirty Days
Transfer
transfer, held damply in her
hand, the snow melting
where her cap (nearly)
met her coat, her scarf
left where (behind), shed
like the skin of a snake,
useless as an escape tool,
however jauntily it was wrapped,
the pantone color the blue
of a Mediterranean summer
once seen in a postcard, the
demarcation of blue and
white wavering beneath her eyes
and her feet ache, now, in the
warmth of the bus, the slow
thawing an agony she distracts
herself from by repeating one
line, then the next, as
regular as the telephone
poles she passes, one, then
another, the marking points
of distance, as chatter
rises and falls the bus
creaks in protest, the
recirculation of exhaust, thick
and tarry, makes her
drowse...
so many miles to go, on her way
to a new habitat
Greetings from...
Seems so long since I saw you
yet it was only yesterday. Arrived
safely, though so tired found it
hard to sleep. Bread so rough
but the air so fresh
and springwater so
cold. I miss you, still,
through all our goodbyes. Be
safe, be still, be mine,
ever, in haste to make the last post,
ever...
Undomesticated Scenery
tipple-topple the silver pan-lids are
clashing cymbals clattering to
the floor, the
milk scorched into a honeycomb
adhering to the bottom of a
pot, while the
dustmice slowly grow, fat and grey,
and four, no, six loads
of laundry sit, obdurate, waiting to be done,
the nose, unwiped, went off
to school, the telephone
rings with news of the
latest accident, but she is
not here to hear it
Gold-Braid Peacock
you are for all time, like the
poverty, death, disease you
breed as you strut, peacock-feathered,
stiffened with gold braid as
volleys of ancient Kalashnikovs
fruitlessly pierce the sky
the blood dripping from your
pure gold taps--does it taste good?
or does it cramp your stomach, like
that of a child crying for cereal while
her mother faints in the sun?
Deckle-Edged Invitation
time to make hay while
the sun shines, or else (ah,
you'll wear dead men's clothes
yet) aged and hungry,
incline upside a wall, whilst
the banquet goes on
behind leaded windows, the
tickets, deckle-edged, some-
how missed your mail-
box, amongst the pleading
four-color advertisements, glossy-
sharp, great for bookmarks
Don't Weaken, Dig Your Heels In
easier than you think, to bite
off the matter with a brittle
smile, regardless of how
she has been assailed, know
that her heels will grind them-
selves into the earth before
she gives way and topples,
crushing you, at the last--
beware, beware, any who
would persecute her children--the
lovely reeds swaying in the wind--may
they be bedevilled by an itch
they cannot scratch
before the maw of the earth opens up
to enclose them
Three Years, Six Months, Two Days
what if his words were more honest,
honest, more, his words she
was honest, too, much more
than he
it goes in circles, he she, he she,
heshe, shehe, heshe, it was it
was it was
and then it was not
and that is the pity of the
thing, him raising his hands
in exasperation, herself
curdling, sour under
the sun, box of remnants shoved
into her hands, flatfooted on
a Summer sidewalk
Slicing Fruit
all is in readiness, the curtains
pulled to permit the first light
of Spring in, as she, green-gowned,
slices fruit and counts the
bright slashes of silver marking
the cloth, mirrors reflecting the
face of the sun, the brightness,
the long-hoped-for, the prodigal
returned home, her hair in
pincurls, the lining of her cases
ripped out, time to celebrate indeed
5:50 p.m. to Fleetwood
the day done, the noose of
the tie loosened, the crack
of a can opening, homeward they
go, this one working on a
crossword, the other ripping out
an article sssssssst from a
magazine, another TALKING TOO
LOUD on their cell phone
click click click click down
the aisle
tickets, please, tickets
the doors open to humid air,
honeysuckle-thick
another day done
another to come
Nil Desperandum
never, again, look into the distance
and see--nothing
there is always--something, however small,
microscopic, that wants your
brushstroke touch, in spite of their
unknowing eyes, blinkered,
the tongues dumb with fear, the
staccato fingers on the thigh,
nil desperandum, never, never
draw the shades down so fully
you cannot still see a sliver of
the sun, the common gold bar,
some currency to hold in your heart
when all else is bankrupt, a string
of goose eggs fading into infinity
Maybe It Was Simply Sleight of Hand
Maybe it was simply sleight of hand
that made the potato-peelings,
still gritty with soil from their
unearthing, turn to silk ribbons
slipping through her fingers, the
coppery skins of onions amber
jewels--she felt the coolness of
them against her cheek before
cutting into their flesh, always
looking for the blooms crowding
through manure, spinning straw
into gold
under the eyes of
the gentleman and lady on the
tin biscuit-barrel, himself in
perpetual supplication, herself,
hesitant always,
in his hand a small
packet of letters, ribbon-tied,
a vine of flowers snaking
down her lap, fleshily
pink
Corset
there's no whalebone, yet, she's
found, strong enough to make her hold
to a form, so, take all your
madsong madrigals, your
hexameter hemming and hawing,
stifling her breathing, corseted
into an hourglass? Never!
but to be held fast by
your arms--oh, yes, to
that she would agree, the
reforming of her form, too,
.....most agreeable...
so stuff the terza rima,
the capolito, too, into the
casserole dish and freely
form your hand to hers,
unformed, unmade, together
It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You
never easy, that ship rocking on
the ocean and all her various
treasures upon it, anxiously awaiting news
of shoring, safe, hand held
aloft to test for favorable winds,
eyes searching out clear skies,
the crow an ill-omen, croaking
as it flies north, over the
stables, the broken syllables she
scratches out in two columns,
given, received, the multi-
colored bill of lading bright
as the jewel of a bruise that graces
her arm.
in dark-dim, the wooden chair,
the wine poured out and she, again,
a queen beside you, candle-bright
Boarding the Black Dog
the black dog must go, that much
is certain--but when? His ebon
eyes implore, wide as the twinnned
cups of tea she pours, hot, dark as
a night without moon or fireflies to
light the way
old, familiar head, nuzzling her lap,
snapping up the bits of bacon falling
from her table, baring his teeth, the
color of ancient ivory, in a grin so sly
she shudders,
turning her face to the wall
still, he will join her later, in bed,
nipping at her ankles, while she
tries, in vain, to sleep--he turns,
turns, turns, and settles himself
squarely upon her chest.
In the morning, so tired, even
draughts of coffee will not wake her,
and she stumbles, from chair to
street to market aisle, and
he dogs her heels, tearing her stockings,
she hears the clicking of his nails until,
and with such relief,
off, to his kennel, away he goes
Light, Squared
lights from Broadway, park-
bordered, reflect your profile as you
grip the steering wheel and peer
upwards at the traffic lights,
triune brights under a curtain
of rain
your lovely bones casting their
long shadows still, the
spare movement across the
stage and October and
burning, always again and
ever the light streams
through windows, many-paned,
trees turned to gold, again, again, again
oh, not knowing and yet
knowing, the voices, always,
carrying through the clear air,
an echo of memory when night gives way to day,
sun glinting on copper domes green-smithied
Framed and Mounted
still life in greys and blacks before
dawn turns to day and all the
multitude of things to be
accomplished, somehow, in that
short space of time, the tints vivid,
the bloodred marbled white while the
endpapers of a forgotten book,
still, life, the still life of
grey, black, somehow underexposed,
beneath quilted covers, the halftones
she flips through absentmindedly,
wishing for the rosy fruits,
tinted gold at their edges, cupped
in porcelain metal-banded, the
feathers of an errant fowl
scattered beneath them so
carelessly
Ancestor Worship
we leap from the shoulders of those
who came before
names, in black/white, black/white
each thin column a multitude of
multitudes, towering babel
St. George, Perserverence, Alhambra,
Junius, Stephen Whitney
Sarah Mitchelson, James Morrison, Mary
Flynn, Ann Doyle, Bridget Cullen,
Michael Costello, Patrick Maguire....
(Ireland, country to which they belong,
United States, country they intend to inhabit.)
so many more
leaving one shore for another
where know-nothing copperplate script protests
for "the amplest protection to
Protestant Interests" and
No Irish Need Apply
built up from stone streets, the
ward boss and his nightingale,
the bricklayer and the
cook, the ironworker reaching,
always, for the heavens
for them set out the bread,
thickly buttered, tea,
lamb cutlets, uisce
beatha and pipes of
fine tobacco
Like Fireworks
like fireworks that July evening
exploding in waves, again, waves, shuddering across the skies,
black otherwise, bereft of stars, then
moon hidden by fog and your
hand in mine, it seemed, for all
eternity--ah, the scattered grey
stones shall speak yet, the earth
spade-riven to make a mouth
wetly black, all-devouring
Sky-blue Cadillac
blanket of snow tucked across the
highway and you, and I, in a
dream together, you, in that
sky-blue Cadillac, ever the
American optimist, me, simply
wishing for warm feet
and--love you--yes I did, with
the whiteness of the snow, the
blueness of the eye that first
beheld you
until I woke, word-weighted, weary,
tired to the bone, diagramming
your sentences endlessly
Bottled
send me a quilt, to keep me warm in Coventry,
some light novels, too, the better
to while away the time with
until you join me here.
amber-bottled, the curling note
of scrawling script, goes on:
bring firewood, too, and some tea,
a kettle and some cups
to break the morning, long before
the sun slips down and I
sleep again in the shade and
some news of you, too,
and a red lipstick, blue undertoned, a
flint for fire, writing paper and
more bottles, please, there is
so much more I want to say,
counting the leaves of ivy until
I see you next
Wedding Cake
perhaps, after all was said
and done, a simple affair
would have been best,
bereft of flowers garlanding the
aisles, the crisp linens shrouding
the tables, the reckoning
as long as a hospital bill, and
me in ivory and you in black,
perfectly topping that multi-
tiered confection of sugar,
butter, eggs, flour, royal and
almond icing, surely a cake to be
dreamt upon, sliced with a
serrated blade, placed into
tiny boxes, white, beribboned
Museum Piece
only one, that's true, of him
rising and setting like the
sun, brilliant as the hilt
beyond the glass they both saw
that rainy November afternoon.
changing her feathers, fair to
fowl, to suit his naturalist's
eye, never-quite-achieving
the correct plumage so that
she, too, could be stuffed
and held for all time behind
glass, pretty picture-postcard,
buy it, for a pittance, before hitting the stones
of the street, rain slicked so,
so fast, fast, he drove, the
glove box thick-ticketed, pumpkin-orange, lean-jawed,
blue-eyed, whittling her down to size,
the ivory figure, ancient, knotty
talisman reclining in perpetuity on
the brocaded floral plains of historical
furnishings, neatly tagged,
catalogued in black and white
Calendar Blues
be still and quit fretting at
the years, increasing, one by
one, until they are counted
in decades, each amber
bead containing those reflections
mirrored back, held for all
time in that honeyed
thickness, she heard him
before she saw him, love
coming in at the ears
the hoar-frost has not
reached his chin, the
journey still not done, and
he, in her eyes, as
young as he ever was
Pared-down Prayer
to keep calm, carrying on, in spite
of--what??
no matter--herewith
some small supplication for the
barest of necessaries--clean
food, drink, shelter, safety from harm,
freedom from want and fear
peace in sleep, satisfaction in
our various labors and
all else will follow,
sure as night trails after
day
Rocking-Horse Winner
falling, along with the leaves, unbridled,
golden, keys a-jingle in her
pocket, walking up, up, up,
above the skies, the rocking-horse
set in motion once more, winning
another trifecta on Riverdale Avenue, the
betting slips of the losers littering the
curb, along with cigarette
stubs and brown bottles halved,
angrily, in the dark, their
lovely necks so handy to hold,
hers, bowed over books, more
so, and still the golden
leaves fall, and fall, and fall,
leaving their imprints, wet, upon
the walk
Above the Fold
the leader, black on cream (or,
perhaps, black on salmon-pink)
surmounts the letters-to-the-
editor, the sidebar on the facing
page, featuring a low-backed gown in
velvet, the mannequin's face
turned, coyly, from us--not so
on the page of editorials--
with full force they bleat and bray, neigh,
sometimes in unison, more often not,
bellowing
........
the printer's devil and the pressmen
in their squared paper hats amidst
the thrum, thrum, thrum of paper
and metal mixed, the din
they speak above, their dulcet
tones a better music still
In the Midst of You
in the midst of him,
stopping to remember all those
afternoons color-coded by ticket-
stubs, their falling, an accidental
rainbow, from her wallet, the
films, museums, they frequented, smiling
as he stole a kiss just
out of sight of the security guard
minding the old masters while
he walked with his young....
eyes, that is what drew her
to you, those eyes staring
through her like an x-ray,
irradiating her dreams
until they glowed
Empty Bowl
the empty bowl, already scraped
clean of the few grains that were
left, the sheen of the groats, the
oats, a dampness on the crockery,
and how am to live without you by my side,
arms and belly empty, a
scarecrow scratching at the
windowpane, counting the bowls
stacked upon the dresser?
Resurgam
resurging like the green shoots pushing
through black, always reaching for
heaven, so, too, I reach for you,
best and brightest of all men
I feel you still, in common streets,
in pews of churches too, you linger long
in and about me, wreathing your
fingers, always, through my hair.
in this short space not enough
time or length to list your fairnesses,
shining, sunlike, on these poor
shoots, seeking only your attentions,
a breath or two of yours to warm
them, blossoms aborning, adorning you only
After Leaving Here
after leaving here we had such a
time of it, I can't tell you,
what with missed connections
and luggage lost and the
coffee scalding my tongue so that
I could hardly speak, but I managed, somehow....
longing, so, for a surcease of
our travelling, pillar to post,
wandering, years, in this desert of
thought, the papers crumbling, yellow,
in her hands, the words twisted,
torn to pack the
china, hands inkstained with
the latest of linguistics, the
eager and ambitious words wrapping
a tired-out teakettle
rest. home. bed.
transfer, held damply in her
hand, the snow melting
where her cap (nearly)
met her coat, her scarf
left where (behind), shed
like the skin of a snake,
useless as an escape tool,
however jauntily it was wrapped,
the pantone color the blue
of a Mediterranean summer
once seen in a postcard, the
demarcation of blue and
white wavering beneath her eyes
and her feet ache, now, in the
warmth of the bus, the slow
thawing an agony she distracts
herself from by repeating one
line, then the next, as
regular as the telephone
poles she passes, one, then
another, the marking points
of distance, as chatter
rises and falls the bus
creaks in protest, the
recirculation of exhaust, thick
and tarry, makes her
drowse...
so many miles to go, on her way
to a new habitat
Greetings from...
Seems so long since I saw you
yet it was only yesterday. Arrived
safely, though so tired found it
hard to sleep. Bread so rough
but the air so fresh
and springwater so
cold. I miss you, still,
through all our goodbyes. Be
safe, be still, be mine,
ever, in haste to make the last post,
ever...
Undomesticated Scenery
tipple-topple the silver pan-lids are
clashing cymbals clattering to
the floor, the
milk scorched into a honeycomb
adhering to the bottom of a
pot, while the
dustmice slowly grow, fat and grey,
and four, no, six loads
of laundry sit, obdurate, waiting to be done,
the nose, unwiped, went off
to school, the telephone
rings with news of the
latest accident, but she is
not here to hear it
Gold-Braid Peacock
you are for all time, like the
poverty, death, disease you
breed as you strut, peacock-feathered,
stiffened with gold braid as
volleys of ancient Kalashnikovs
fruitlessly pierce the sky
the blood dripping from your
pure gold taps--does it taste good?
or does it cramp your stomach, like
that of a child crying for cereal while
her mother faints in the sun?
Deckle-Edged Invitation
time to make hay while
the sun shines, or else (ah,
you'll wear dead men's clothes
yet) aged and hungry,
incline upside a wall, whilst
the banquet goes on
behind leaded windows, the
tickets, deckle-edged, some-
how missed your mail-
box, amongst the pleading
four-color advertisements, glossy-
sharp, great for bookmarks
Don't Weaken, Dig Your Heels In
easier than you think, to bite
off the matter with a brittle
smile, regardless of how
she has been assailed, know
that her heels will grind them-
selves into the earth before
she gives way and topples,
crushing you, at the last--
beware, beware, any who
would persecute her children--the
lovely reeds swaying in the wind--may
they be bedevilled by an itch
they cannot scratch
before the maw of the earth opens up
to enclose them
Three Years, Six Months, Two Days
what if his words were more honest,
honest, more, his words she
was honest, too, much more
than he
it goes in circles, he she, he she,
heshe, shehe, heshe, it was it
was it was
and then it was not
and that is the pity of the
thing, him raising his hands
in exasperation, herself
curdling, sour under
the sun, box of remnants shoved
into her hands, flatfooted on
a Summer sidewalk
Slicing Fruit
all is in readiness, the curtains
pulled to permit the first light
of Spring in, as she, green-gowned,
slices fruit and counts the
bright slashes of silver marking
the cloth, mirrors reflecting the
face of the sun, the brightness,
the long-hoped-for, the prodigal
returned home, her hair in
pincurls, the lining of her cases
ripped out, time to celebrate indeed
5:50 p.m. to Fleetwood
the day done, the noose of
the tie loosened, the crack
of a can opening, homeward they
go, this one working on a
crossword, the other ripping out
an article sssssssst from a
magazine, another TALKING TOO
LOUD on their cell phone
click click click click down
the aisle
tickets, please, tickets
the doors open to humid air,
honeysuckle-thick
another day done
another to come
Nil Desperandum
never, again, look into the distance
and see--nothing
there is always--something, however small,
microscopic, that wants your
brushstroke touch, in spite of their
unknowing eyes, blinkered,
the tongues dumb with fear, the
staccato fingers on the thigh,
nil desperandum, never, never
draw the shades down so fully
you cannot still see a sliver of
the sun, the common gold bar,
some currency to hold in your heart
when all else is bankrupt, a string
of goose eggs fading into infinity
Maybe It Was Simply Sleight of Hand
Maybe it was simply sleight of hand
that made the potato-peelings,
still gritty with soil from their
unearthing, turn to silk ribbons
slipping through her fingers, the
coppery skins of onions amber
jewels--she felt the coolness of
them against her cheek before
cutting into their flesh, always
looking for the blooms crowding
through manure, spinning straw
into gold
under the eyes of
the gentleman and lady on the
tin biscuit-barrel, himself in
perpetual supplication, herself,
hesitant always,
in his hand a small
packet of letters, ribbon-tied,
a vine of flowers snaking
down her lap, fleshily
pink
Corset
there's no whalebone, yet, she's
found, strong enough to make her hold
to a form, so, take all your
madsong madrigals, your
hexameter hemming and hawing,
stifling her breathing, corseted
into an hourglass? Never!
but to be held fast by
your arms--oh, yes, to
that she would agree, the
reforming of her form, too,
.....most agreeable...
so stuff the terza rima,
the capolito, too, into the
casserole dish and freely
form your hand to hers,
unformed, unmade, together
It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You
never easy, that ship rocking on
the ocean and all her various
treasures upon it, anxiously awaiting news
of shoring, safe, hand held
aloft to test for favorable winds,
eyes searching out clear skies,
the crow an ill-omen, croaking
as it flies north, over the
stables, the broken syllables she
scratches out in two columns,
given, received, the multi-
colored bill of lading bright
as the jewel of a bruise that graces
her arm.
in dark-dim, the wooden chair,
the wine poured out and she, again,
a queen beside you, candle-bright
Boarding the Black Dog
the black dog must go, that much
is certain--but when? His ebon
eyes implore, wide as the twinnned
cups of tea she pours, hot, dark as
a night without moon or fireflies to
light the way
old, familiar head, nuzzling her lap,
snapping up the bits of bacon falling
from her table, baring his teeth, the
color of ancient ivory, in a grin so sly
she shudders,
turning her face to the wall
still, he will join her later, in bed,
nipping at her ankles, while she
tries, in vain, to sleep--he turns,
turns, turns, and settles himself
squarely upon her chest.
In the morning, so tired, even
draughts of coffee will not wake her,
and she stumbles, from chair to
street to market aisle, and
he dogs her heels, tearing her stockings,
she hears the clicking of his nails until,
and with such relief,
off, to his kennel, away he goes
Light, Squared
lights from Broadway, park-
bordered, reflect your profile as you
grip the steering wheel and peer
upwards at the traffic lights,
triune brights under a curtain
of rain
your lovely bones casting their
long shadows still, the
spare movement across the
stage and October and
burning, always again and
ever the light streams
through windows, many-paned,
trees turned to gold, again, again, again
oh, not knowing and yet
knowing, the voices, always,
carrying through the clear air,
an echo of memory when night gives way to day,
sun glinting on copper domes green-smithied
Framed and Mounted
still life in greys and blacks before
dawn turns to day and all the
multitude of things to be
accomplished, somehow, in that
short space of time, the tints vivid,
the bloodred marbled white while the
endpapers of a forgotten book,
still, life, the still life of
grey, black, somehow underexposed,
beneath quilted covers, the halftones
she flips through absentmindedly,
wishing for the rosy fruits,
tinted gold at their edges, cupped
in porcelain metal-banded, the
feathers of an errant fowl
scattered beneath them so
carelessly
Ancestor Worship
we leap from the shoulders of those
who came before
names, in black/white, black/white
each thin column a multitude of
multitudes, towering babel
St. George, Perserverence, Alhambra,
Junius, Stephen Whitney
Sarah Mitchelson, James Morrison, Mary
Flynn, Ann Doyle, Bridget Cullen,
Michael Costello, Patrick Maguire....
(Ireland, country to which they belong,
United States, country they intend to inhabit.)
so many more
leaving one shore for another
where know-nothing copperplate script protests
for "the amplest protection to
Protestant Interests" and
No Irish Need Apply
built up from stone streets, the
ward boss and his nightingale,
the bricklayer and the
cook, the ironworker reaching,
always, for the heavens
for them set out the bread,
thickly buttered, tea,
lamb cutlets, uisce
beatha and pipes of
fine tobacco
Like Fireworks
like fireworks that July evening
exploding in waves, again, waves, shuddering across the skies,
black otherwise, bereft of stars, then
moon hidden by fog and your
hand in mine, it seemed, for all
eternity--ah, the scattered grey
stones shall speak yet, the earth
spade-riven to make a mouth
wetly black, all-devouring
Sky-blue Cadillac
blanket of snow tucked across the
highway and you, and I, in a
dream together, you, in that
sky-blue Cadillac, ever the
American optimist, me, simply
wishing for warm feet
and--love you--yes I did, with
the whiteness of the snow, the
blueness of the eye that first
beheld you
until I woke, word-weighted, weary,
tired to the bone, diagramming
your sentences endlessly
Bottled
send me a quilt, to keep me warm in Coventry,
some light novels, too, the better
to while away the time with
until you join me here.
amber-bottled, the curling note
of scrawling script, goes on:
bring firewood, too, and some tea,
a kettle and some cups
to break the morning, long before
the sun slips down and I
sleep again in the shade and
some news of you, too,
and a red lipstick, blue undertoned, a
flint for fire, writing paper and
more bottles, please, there is
so much more I want to say,
counting the leaves of ivy until
I see you next
Wedding Cake
perhaps, after all was said
and done, a simple affair
would have been best,
bereft of flowers garlanding the
aisles, the crisp linens shrouding
the tables, the reckoning
as long as a hospital bill, and
me in ivory and you in black,
perfectly topping that multi-
tiered confection of sugar,
butter, eggs, flour, royal and
almond icing, surely a cake to be
dreamt upon, sliced with a
serrated blade, placed into
tiny boxes, white, beribboned
Museum Piece
only one, that's true, of him
rising and setting like the
sun, brilliant as the hilt
beyond the glass they both saw
that rainy November afternoon.
changing her feathers, fair to
fowl, to suit his naturalist's
eye, never-quite-achieving
the correct plumage so that
she, too, could be stuffed
and held for all time behind
glass, pretty picture-postcard,
buy it, for a pittance, before hitting the stones
of the street, rain slicked so,
so fast, fast, he drove, the
glove box thick-ticketed, pumpkin-orange, lean-jawed,
blue-eyed, whittling her down to size,
the ivory figure, ancient, knotty
talisman reclining in perpetuity on
the brocaded floral plains of historical
furnishings, neatly tagged,
catalogued in black and white
Calendar Blues
be still and quit fretting at
the years, increasing, one by
one, until they are counted
in decades, each amber
bead containing those reflections
mirrored back, held for all
time in that honeyed
thickness, she heard him
before she saw him, love
coming in at the ears
the hoar-frost has not
reached his chin, the
journey still not done, and
he, in her eyes, as
young as he ever was
Pared-down Prayer
to keep calm, carrying on, in spite
of--what??
no matter--herewith
some small supplication for the
barest of necessaries--clean
food, drink, shelter, safety from harm,
freedom from want and fear
peace in sleep, satisfaction in
our various labors and
all else will follow,
sure as night trails after
day
Rocking-Horse Winner
falling, along with the leaves, unbridled,
golden, keys a-jingle in her
pocket, walking up, up, up,
above the skies, the rocking-horse
set in motion once more, winning
another trifecta on Riverdale Avenue, the
betting slips of the losers littering the
curb, along with cigarette
stubs and brown bottles halved,
angrily, in the dark, their
lovely necks so handy to hold,
hers, bowed over books, more
so, and still the golden
leaves fall, and fall, and fall,
leaving their imprints, wet, upon
the walk
Above the Fold
the leader, black on cream (or,
perhaps, black on salmon-pink)
surmounts the letters-to-the-
editor, the sidebar on the facing
page, featuring a low-backed gown in
velvet, the mannequin's face
turned, coyly, from us--not so
on the page of editorials--
with full force they bleat and bray, neigh,
sometimes in unison, more often not,
bellowing
........
the printer's devil and the pressmen
in their squared paper hats amidst
the thrum, thrum, thrum of paper
and metal mixed, the din
they speak above, their dulcet
tones a better music still
In the Midst of You
in the midst of him,
stopping to remember all those
afternoons color-coded by ticket-
stubs, their falling, an accidental
rainbow, from her wallet, the
films, museums, they frequented, smiling
as he stole a kiss just
out of sight of the security guard
minding the old masters while
he walked with his young....
eyes, that is what drew her
to you, those eyes staring
through her like an x-ray,
irradiating her dreams
until they glowed
Empty Bowl
the empty bowl, already scraped
clean of the few grains that were
left, the sheen of the groats, the
oats, a dampness on the crockery,
and how am to live without you by my side,
arms and belly empty, a
scarecrow scratching at the
windowpane, counting the bowls
stacked upon the dresser?
Resurgam
resurging like the green shoots pushing
through black, always reaching for
heaven, so, too, I reach for you,
best and brightest of all men
I feel you still, in common streets,
in pews of churches too, you linger long
in and about me, wreathing your
fingers, always, through my hair.
in this short space not enough
time or length to list your fairnesses,
shining, sunlike, on these poor
shoots, seeking only your attentions,
a breath or two of yours to warm
them, blossoms aborning, adorning you only
After Leaving Here
after leaving here we had such a
time of it, I can't tell you,
what with missed connections
and luggage lost and the
coffee scalding my tongue so that
I could hardly speak, but I managed, somehow....
longing, so, for a surcease of
our travelling, pillar to post,
wandering, years, in this desert of
thought, the papers crumbling, yellow,
in her hands, the words twisted,
torn to pack the
china, hands inkstained with
the latest of linguistics, the
eager and ambitious words wrapping
a tired-out teakettle
rest. home. bed.
30 April 2011
Travelling
Day 30 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "after leaving here"
after leaving here we had such a
time of it, I can't tell you,
what with missed connections
and luggage lost and the
coffee scalding my tongue so that
I could hardly speak, but I managed, somehow....
longing, so, for a surcease of
our travelling, pillar to post,
wandering, years, in this desert of
thought, the papers crumbling, yellow,
in her hands, the words twisted,
torn to pack the
china, hands inkstained with
the latest of linguistics, the
eager and ambitious words wrapping
a tired-out teakettle
rest. home. bed.
after leaving here we had such a
time of it, I can't tell you,
what with missed connections
and luggage lost and the
coffee scalding my tongue so that
I could hardly speak, but I managed, somehow....
longing, so, for a surcease of
our travelling, pillar to post,
wandering, years, in this desert of
thought, the papers crumbling, yellow,
in her hands, the words twisted,
torn to pack the
china, hands inkstained with
the latest of linguistics, the
eager and ambitious words wrapping
a tired-out teakettle
rest. home. bed.
Resurgam
Day 29 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "Write an ode."
resurging like the green shoots pushing
through black, always reaching for
heaven, so, too, I reach for you,
best and brightest of all men
I feel you still, in common streets,
in pews of churches too, you linger long
in and about me, wreathing your
fingers, always, through my hair.
in this short space not enough
time or length to list your fairnesses,
shining, sunlike, on these poor
shoots, seeking only your attentions,
a breath or two of yours to warm
them, blossoms aborning, adorning you only
resurging like the green shoots pushing
through black, always reaching for
heaven, so, too, I reach for you,
best and brightest of all men
I feel you still, in common streets,
in pews of churches too, you linger long
in and about me, wreathing your
fingers, always, through my hair.
in this short space not enough
time or length to list your fairnesses,
shining, sunlike, on these poor
shoots, seeking only your attentions,
a breath or two of yours to warm
them, blossoms aborning, adorning you only
Empty Bowl
Day 28 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "World without something else--a person, place, or thing."
the empty bowl, already scraped
clean of the few grains that were
left, the sheen of the groats, the
oats, a dampness on the crockery,
and how am to live without you by my side,
arms and belly empty, a
scarecrow scratching at the
windowpane, counting the bowls
stacked upon the dresser?
the empty bowl, already scraped
clean of the few grains that were
left, the sheen of the groats, the
oats, a dampness on the crockery,
and how am to live without you by my side,
arms and belly empty, a
scarecrow scratching at the
windowpane, counting the bowls
stacked upon the dresser?
In the Midst of You
Day 27 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "In the (blank) of (blank)"
in the midst of him,
stopping to remember all those
afternoons color-coded by ticket-
stubs, their falling, an accidental
rainbow, from her wallet, the
films, museums, they frequented, smiling
as he stole a kiss just
out of sight of the security guard
minding the old masters while
he walked with his young....
eyes, that is what drew her
to you, those eyes staring
through her like an x-ray,
irradiating her dreams
until they glowed
in the midst of him,
stopping to remember all those
afternoons color-coded by ticket-
stubs, their falling, an accidental
rainbow, from her wallet, the
films, museums, they frequented, smiling
as he stole a kiss just
out of sight of the security guard
minding the old masters while
he walked with his young....
eyes, that is what drew her
to you, those eyes staring
through her like an x-ray,
irradiating her dreams
until they glowed
26 April 2011
Above the Fold
Day 26 PAD Challenge. Write a "leader" poem or a "follower" poem.
the leader, black on cream (or,
perhaps, black on salmon-pink)
surmounts the letters-to-the-
editor, the sidebar on the facing
page, featuring a low-backed gown in
velvet, the mannequin's face
turned, coyly, from us--not so
on the page of editorials--
with full force they bleat and bray, neigh,
sometimes in unison, more often not,
bellowing
........
the printer's devil and the pressmen
in their squared paper hats amidst
the thrum, thrum, thrum of paper
and metal mixed, the din
they speak above, their dulcet
tones a better music still
the leader, black on cream (or,
perhaps, black on salmon-pink)
surmounts the letters-to-the-
editor, the sidebar on the facing
page, featuring a low-backed gown in
velvet, the mannequin's face
turned, coyly, from us--not so
on the page of editorials--
with full force they bleat and bray, neigh,
sometimes in unison, more often not,
bellowing
........
the printer's devil and the pressmen
in their squared paper hats amidst
the thrum, thrum, thrum of paper
and metal mixed, the din
they speak above, their dulcet
tones a better music still
25 April 2011
Rocking-Horse Winner
Day 25 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "falling" poem.
falling, along with the leaves, unbridled,
golden, keys a-jingle in her
pocket, walking up, up, up,
above the skies, the rocking-horse
set in motion once more, winning
another trifecta on Riverdale Avenue, the
betting slips of the losers littering the
curb, along with cigarette
stubs and brown bottles halved,
angrily, in the dark, their
lovely necks so handy to hold,
hers, bowed over books, more
so, and still the golden
leaves fall, and fall, and fall,
leaving their imprints, wet, upon
the walk
falling, along with the leaves, unbridled,
golden, keys a-jingle in her
pocket, walking up, up, up,
above the skies, the rocking-horse
set in motion once more, winning
another trifecta on Riverdale Avenue, the
betting slips of the losers littering the
curb, along with cigarette
stubs and brown bottles halved,
angrily, in the dark, their
lovely necks so handy to hold,
hers, bowed over books, more
so, and still the golden
leaves fall, and fall, and fall,
leaving their imprints, wet, upon
the walk
Pared-down Prayer
Day 24 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "prayer" poem.
to keep calm, carrying on, in spite
of--what??
no matter--herewith
some small supplication for the
barest of necessaries--clean
food, drink, shelter, safety from harm,
freedom from want and fear
peace in sleep, satisfaction in
our various labors and
all else will follow,
sure as night trails after
day
to keep calm, carrying on, in spite
of--what??
no matter--herewith
some small supplication for the
barest of necessaries--clean
food, drink, shelter, safety from harm,
freedom from want and fear
peace in sleep, satisfaction in
our various labors and
all else will follow,
sure as night trails after
day
Calendar Blues
Day 23 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "quit what you're doing" poem.
be still and quit fretting at
the years, increasing, one by
one, until they are counted
in decades, each amber
bead containing those reflections
mirrored back, held for all
time in that honeyed
thickness, she heard him
before she saw him, love
coming in at the ears
the hoar-frost has not
reached his chin, the
journey still not done, and
he, in her eyes, as
young as he ever was
be still and quit fretting at
the years, increasing, one by
one, until they are counted
in decades, each amber
bead containing those reflections
mirrored back, held for all
time in that honeyed
thickness, she heard him
before she saw him, love
coming in at the ears
the hoar-frost has not
reached his chin, the
journey still not done, and
he, in her eyes, as
young as he ever was
23 April 2011
Museum Piece
Day 22 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "Only one in the world" poem.
only one, that's true, of him
rising and setting like the
sun, brilliant as the hilt
beyond the glass they both saw
that rainy November afternoon.
changing her feathers, fair to
fowl, to suit his naturalist's
eye, never-quite-achieving
the correct plumage so that
she, too, could be stuffed
and held for all time behind
glass, pretty picture-postcard,
buy it, for a pittance, before hitting the stones
of the street, rain slicked so,
so fast, fast, he drove, the
glove box thick-ticketed, pumpkin-orange, lean-jawed,
blue-eyed, whittling her down to size,
the ivory figure, ancient, knotty
talisman reclining in perpetuity on
the brocaded floral plains of historical
furnishings, neatly tagged,
catalogued in black and white
only one, that's true, of him
rising and setting like the
sun, brilliant as the hilt
beyond the glass they both saw
that rainy November afternoon.
changing her feathers, fair to
fowl, to suit his naturalist's
eye, never-quite-achieving
the correct plumage so that
she, too, could be stuffed
and held for all time behind
glass, pretty picture-postcard,
buy it, for a pittance, before hitting the stones
of the street, rain slicked so,
so fast, fast, he drove, the
glove box thick-ticketed, pumpkin-orange, lean-jawed,
blue-eyed, whittling her down to size,
the ivory figure, ancient, knotty
talisman reclining in perpetuity on
the brocaded floral plains of historical
furnishings, neatly tagged,
catalogued in black and white
21 April 2011
Wedding Cake
Day 21, PAD Challenge. A "second thoughts" poem.
perhaps, after all was said
and done, a simple affair
would have been best,
bereft of flowers garlanding the
aisles, the crisp linens shrouding
the tables, the reckoning
as long as a hospital bill, and
me in ivory and you in black,
perfectly topping that multi-
tiered confection of sugar,
butter, eggs, flour, royal and
almond icing, surely a cake to be
dreamt upon, sliced with a
serrated blade, placed into
tiny boxes, white, beribboned
perhaps, after all was said
and done, a simple affair
would have been best,
bereft of flowers garlanding the
aisles, the crisp linens shrouding
the tables, the reckoning
as long as a hospital bill, and
me in ivory and you in black,
perfectly topping that multi-
tiered confection of sugar,
butter, eggs, flour, royal and
almond icing, surely a cake to be
dreamt upon, sliced with a
serrated blade, placed into
tiny boxes, white, beribboned
Bottled
Day 20, PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "message in a bottle" poem.
send me a quilt, to keep me warm in Coventry,
some light novels, too, the better
to while away the time with
until you join me here.
amber-bottled, the curling note
of scrawling script, goes on:
bring firewood, too, and some tea,
a kettle and some cups
to break the morning, long before
the sun slips down and I
sleep again in the shade and
some news of you, too,
and a red lipstick, blue undertoned, a
flint for fire, writing paper and
more bottles, please, there is
so much more I want to say,
counting the leaves of ivy until
I see you next
send me a quilt, to keep me warm in Coventry,
some light novels, too, the better
to while away the time with
until you join me here.
amber-bottled, the curling note
of scrawling script, goes on:
bring firewood, too, and some tea,
a kettle and some cups
to break the morning, long before
the sun slips down and I
sleep again in the shade and
some news of you, too,
and a red lipstick, blue undertoned, a
flint for fire, writing paper and
more bottles, please, there is
so much more I want to say,
counting the leaves of ivy until
I see you next
19 April 2011
Sky-blue Cadillac
Day 19 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "love" poem or an "anti-love" poem.
blanket of snow tucked across the
highway and you, and I, in a
dream together, you, in that
sky-blue Cadillac, ever the
American optimist, me, simply
wishing for warm feet
and--love you--yes I did, with
the whiteness of the snow, the
blueness of the eye that first
beheld you
until I woke, word-weighted, weary,
tired to the bone, diagramming
your sentences endlessly
blanket of snow tucked across the
highway and you, and I, in a
dream together, you, in that
sky-blue Cadillac, ever the
American optimist, me, simply
wishing for warm feet
and--love you--yes I did, with
the whiteness of the snow, the
blueness of the eye that first
beheld you
until I woke, word-weighted, weary,
tired to the bone, diagramming
your sentences endlessly
Fireworks
Day 18 PAD Challenge. Prompt: "Like (blank)."
like fireworks that July evening
exploding in waves, again, waves, shuddering across the skies,
black otherwise, bereft of stars, then
moon hidden by fog and your
hand in mine, it seemed, for all
eternity--ah, the scattered grey
stones shall speak yet, the earth
spade-riven to make a mouth
wetly black, all-devouring
like fireworks that July evening
exploding in waves, again, waves, shuddering across the skies,
black otherwise, bereft of stars, then
moon hidden by fog and your
hand in mine, it seemed, for all
eternity--ah, the scattered grey
stones shall speak yet, the earth
spade-riven to make a mouth
wetly black, all-devouring
17 April 2011
Ancestor Worship
Day 17 of the PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "big picture" poem.
we leap from the shoulders of those
who came before
names, in black/white, black/white
each thin column a multitude of
multitudes, towering babel
St. George, Perserverence, Alhambra,
Junius, Stephen Whitney
Sarah Mitchelson, James Morrison, Mary
Flynn, Ann Doyle, Bridget Cullen,
Michael Costello, Patrick Maguire....
(Ireland, country to which they belong,
United States, country they intend to inhabit.)
so many more
leaving one shore for another
where know-nothing copperplate script protests
for "the amplest protection to
Protestant Interests" and
No Irish Need Apply
built up from stone streets, the
ward boss and his nightingale,
the bricklayer and the
cook, the ironworker reaching,
always, for the heavens
for them set out the bread,
thickly buttered, tea,
lamb cutlets, uisce
beatha and pipes of
fine tobacco
we leap from the shoulders of those
who came before
names, in black/white, black/white
each thin column a multitude of
multitudes, towering babel
St. George, Perserverence, Alhambra,
Junius, Stephen Whitney
Sarah Mitchelson, James Morrison, Mary
Flynn, Ann Doyle, Bridget Cullen,
Michael Costello, Patrick Maguire....
(Ireland, country to which they belong,
United States, country they intend to inhabit.)
so many more
leaving one shore for another
where know-nothing copperplate script protests
for "the amplest protection to
Protestant Interests" and
No Irish Need Apply
built up from stone streets, the
ward boss and his nightingale,
the bricklayer and the
cook, the ironworker reaching,
always, for the heavens
for them set out the bread,
thickly buttered, tea,
lamb cutlets, uisce
beatha and pipes of
fine tobacco
16 April 2011
Framed and Mounted
Day 16 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "snapshot" poem.
still life in greys and blacks before
dawn turns to day and all the
multitude of things to be
accomplished, somehow, in that
short space of time, the tints vivid,
the bloodred marbled white while the
endpapers of a forgotten book,
still, life, the still life of
grey, black, somehow underexposed,
beneath quilted covers, the halftones
she flips through absentmindedly,
wishing for the rosy fruits,
tinted gold at their edges, cupped
in porcelain metal-banded, the
feathers of an errant fowl
scattered beneath them so
carelessly
still life in greys and blacks before
dawn turns to day and all the
multitude of things to be
accomplished, somehow, in that
short space of time, the tints vivid,
the bloodred marbled white while the
endpapers of a forgotten book,
still, life, the still life of
grey, black, somehow underexposed,
beneath quilted covers, the halftones
she flips through absentmindedly,
wishing for the rosy fruits,
tinted gold at their edges, cupped
in porcelain metal-banded, the
feathers of an errant fowl
scattered beneath them so
carelessly
15 April 2011
Light, Squared
Day 15 PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "profile" poem.
lights from Broadway, park-
bordered, reflect your profile as you
grip the steering wheel and peer
upwards at the traffic lights,
triune brights under a curtain
of rain
your lovely bones casting their
long shadows still, the
spare movement across the
stage and October and
burning, always again and
ever the light streams
through windows, many-paned,
trees turned to gold, again, again, again
oh, not knowing and yet
knowing, the voices, always,
carrying through the clear air,
an echo of memory when night gives way to day,
sun glinting on copper domes green-smithied
lights from Broadway, park-
bordered, reflect your profile as you
grip the steering wheel and peer
upwards at the traffic lights,
triune brights under a curtain
of rain
your lovely bones casting their
long shadows still, the
spare movement across the
stage and October and
burning, always again and
ever the light streams
through windows, many-paned,
trees turned to gold, again, again, again
oh, not knowing and yet
knowing, the voices, always,
carrying through the clear air,
an echo of memory when night gives way to day,
sun glinting on copper domes green-smithied
14 April 2011
Boarding the Black Dog
PAD Challenge, Day 14. Prompt: A "none of your business" poem.
the black dog must go, that much
is certain--but when? His ebon
eyes implore, wide as the twinned
cups of tea she pours, hot, dark as
a night without moon or fireflies to
light the way
old, familiar head, nuzzling her lap,
snapping up the bits of bacon falling
from her table, baring his teeth, the
color of ancient ivory, in a grin so sly
she shudders,
turning her face to the wall
still, he will join her later, in bed,
nipping at her ankles, while she
tries, in vain, to sleep--he turns,
turns, turns, and settles himself
squarely upon her chest.
In the morning, so tired, even
draughts of coffee will not wake her,
and she stumbles, from chair to
street to market aisle, and
he dogs her heels, tearing her stockings,
she hears the clicking of his nails until,
and with such relief,
off, to his kennel, away he goes
the black dog must go, that much
is certain--but when? His ebon
eyes implore, wide as the twinned
cups of tea she pours, hot, dark as
a night without moon or fireflies to
light the way
old, familiar head, nuzzling her lap,
snapping up the bits of bacon falling
from her table, baring his teeth, the
color of ancient ivory, in a grin so sly
she shudders,
turning her face to the wall
still, he will join her later, in bed,
nipping at her ankles, while she
tries, in vain, to sleep--he turns,
turns, turns, and settles himself
squarely upon her chest.
In the morning, so tired, even
draughts of coffee will not wake her,
and she stumbles, from chair to
street to market aisle, and
he dogs her heels, tearing her stockings,
she hears the clicking of his nails until,
and with such relief,
off, to his kennel, away he goes
13 April 2011
It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You
Day 13, PAD Challenge. Prompt: "remember an old relationship."
never easy, that ship rocking on
the ocean and all her various
treasures upon it, anxiously awaiting news
of shoring, safe, hand held
aloft to test for favorable winds,
eyes searching out clear skies,
the crow an ill-omen, croaking
as it flies north, over the
stables, the broken syllables she
scratches out in two columns,
given, received, the multi-
colored bill of lading bright
as the jewel of a bruise that graces
her arm.
in dark-dim, the wooden chair,
the wine poured out and she, again,
a queen beside you, candle-bright
never easy, that ship rocking on
the ocean and all her various
treasures upon it, anxiously awaiting news
of shoring, safe, hand held
aloft to test for favorable winds,
eyes searching out clear skies,
the crow an ill-omen, croaking
as it flies north, over the
stables, the broken syllables she
scratches out in two columns,
given, received, the multi-
colored bill of lading bright
as the jewel of a bruise that graces
her arm.
in dark-dim, the wooden chair,
the wine poured out and she, again,
a queen beside you, candle-bright
12 April 2011
Corset
Day 12, PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "form" or "anti-form" poem.
there's no whalebone, yet, she's
found, strong enough to make her hold
to a form, so, take all your
madsong madrigals, your
hexameter hemming and hawing,
stifling her breathing, corseted
into an hourglass? Never!
but to be held fast by
your arms--oh, yes, to
that she would agree, the
reforming of her form, too,
.....most agreeable...
so stuff the terza rima,
the capitolo, too, into the
casserole dish and freely
form your hand to hers,
unformed, unmade, together
there's no whalebone, yet, she's
found, strong enough to make her hold
to a form, so, take all your
madsong madrigals, your
hexameter hemming and hawing,
stifling her breathing, corseted
into an hourglass? Never!
but to be held fast by
your arms--oh, yes, to
that she would agree, the
reforming of her form, too,
.....most agreeable...
so stuff the terza rima,
the capitolo, too, into the
casserole dish and freely
form your hand to hers,
unformed, unmade, together
11 April 2011
Maybe it Was Simply Sleight of Hand
Day 10, PAD Challenge: Prompt: "Maybe (blank)"
Maybe it was simply sleight of hand
that made the potato-peelings,
still gritty with soil from their
unearthing, turn to silk ribbons
slipping through her fingers, the
coppery skins of onions amber
jewels--she felt the coolness of
them against her cheek before
cutting into their flesh, always
looking for the blooms crowding
through manure, spinning straw
into gold
under the eyes of
the gentleman and lady on the
tin biscuit-barrel, himself in
perpetual supplication, herself,
hesitant always,
in his hand a small
packet of letters, ribbon-tied,
a vine of flowers snaking
down her lap, fleshily
pink
Maybe it was simply sleight of hand
that made the potato-peelings,
still gritty with soil from their
unearthing, turn to silk ribbons
slipping through her fingers, the
coppery skins of onions amber
jewels--she felt the coolness of
them against her cheek before
cutting into their flesh, always
looking for the blooms crowding
through manure, spinning straw
into gold
under the eyes of
the gentleman and lady on the
tin biscuit-barrel, himself in
perpetual supplication, herself,
hesitant always,
in his hand a small
packet of letters, ribbon-tied,
a vine of flowers snaking
down her lap, fleshily
pink
10 April 2011
Nil Desperandum
Day 10, PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "never again" poem.
never, again, look into the distance
and see--nothing
there is always--something, however small,
microscopic, that wants your
brushstroke touch, in spite of their
unknowing eyes, blinkered,
the tongues dumb with fear, the
staccato fingers on the thigh,
nil desperandum, never, never
draw the shades down so fully
you cannot still see a sliver of
the sun, the common gold bar,
some currency to hold in your heart
when all else is bankrupt, a string
of goose eggs fading into infinity
never, again, look into the distance
and see--nothing
there is always--something, however small,
microscopic, that wants your
brushstroke touch, in spite of their
unknowing eyes, blinkered,
the tongues dumb with fear, the
staccato fingers on the thigh,
nil desperandum, never, never
draw the shades down so fully
you cannot still see a sliver of
the sun, the common gold bar,
some currency to hold in your heart
when all else is bankrupt, a string
of goose eggs fading into infinity
09 April 2011
5:50 p.m. to Fleetwood
Day 9, PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "time of day" poem.
the day done, the noose of
the tie loosened, the crack
of a can opening, homeward they
go, this one working on a
crossword, the other ripping out
an article sssssssst from a
magazine, another TALKING TOO
LOUD on their cell phone
click click click click down
the aisle
tickets, please, tickets
the doors open to humid air,
honeysuckle-thick
another day done
another to come
the day done, the noose of
the tie loosened, the crack
of a can opening, homeward they
go, this one working on a
crossword, the other ripping out
an article sssssssst from a
magazine, another TALKING TOO
LOUD on their cell phone
click click click click down
the aisle
tickets, please, tickets
the doors open to humid air,
honeysuckle-thick
another day done
another to come
08 April 2011
Slicing Fruit
Day 8, PAD Challenge. Prompt: A "ready to celebrate" poem.
all is in readiness, the curtains
pulled to permit the first light
of Spring in, as she, green-gowned,
slices fruit and counts the
bright slashes of silver marking
the cloth, mirrors reflecting the
face of the sun, the brightness,
the long-hoped-for, the prodigal
returned home, her hair in
pincurls, the lining of her cases
ripped out, time to celebrate indeed
all is in readiness, the curtains
pulled to permit the first light
of Spring in, as she, green-gowned,
slices fruit and counts the
bright slashes of silver marking
the cloth, mirrors reflecting the
face of the sun, the brightness,
the long-hoped-for, the prodigal
returned home, her hair in
pincurls, the lining of her cases
ripped out, time to celebrate indeed
07 April 2011
Three Years, Six Months, Two Days
Day 7, PAD Challenge. Prompt a "what if" poem.
what if his words were more honest,
honest, more, his words she
was honest, too, much more
than he
it goes in circles, he she, he she,
heshe, shehe, heshe, it was it
was it was
and then it was not
and that is the pity of the
thing, him raising his hands
in exasperation, herself
curdling, sour under
the sun, box of remnants shoved
into her hands, flatfooted on
a Summer sidewalk
what if his words were more honest,
honest, more, his words she
was honest, too, much more
than he
it goes in circles, he she, he she,
heshe, shehe, heshe, it was it
was it was
and then it was not
and that is the pity of the
thing, him raising his hands
in exasperation, herself
curdling, sour under
the sun, box of remnants shoved
into her hands, flatfooted on
a Summer sidewalk
Don't Weaken, Dig Your Heels In
Day 6, PAD Challenge. Prompt: "Don't (blank), (blank)"
easier than you think, to bite
off the matter with a brittle
smile, regardless of how
she has been assailed, know
that her heels will grind them-
selves into the earth before
she gives way and topples,
crushing you, at the last--
beware, beware, any who
would persecute her children--the
lovely reeds swaying in the wind--may
they be bedevilled by an itch
they cannot scratch
before the maw of the earth opens up
to enclose them
easier than you think, to bite
off the matter with a brittle
smile, regardless of how
she has been assailed, know
that her heels will grind them-
selves into the earth before
she gives way and topples,
crushing you, at the last--
beware, beware, any who
would persecute her children--the
lovely reeds swaying in the wind--may
they be bedevilled by an itch
they cannot scratch
before the maw of the earth opens up
to enclose them
05 April 2011
Deckle-Edged Invitation
Day 5, PAD Challenge. Prompt: write a "serious" poem.
time to make hay while
the sun shines, or else (ah,
you'll wear dead men's clothes
yet) aged and hungry,
incline upside a wall, whilst
the banquet goes on
behind leaded windows, the
tickets, deckle-edged, some-
how missed your mail-
box, amongst the pleading
four-color advertisements, glossy-
sharp, great for bookmarks
time to make hay while
the sun shines, or else (ah,
you'll wear dead men's clothes
yet) aged and hungry,
incline upside a wall, whilst
the banquet goes on
behind leaded windows, the
tickets, deckle-edged, some-
how missed your mail-
box, amongst the pleading
four-color advertisements, glossy-
sharp, great for bookmarks
04 April 2011
Gold-Braid Peacock
Day 4, PAD challenge. Prompt: "pick a type of person and write a poem about him/her."
you are for all time, like the
poverty, death, disease you
breed as you strut, peacock-feathered,
stiffened with gold braid as
volleys of ancient Kalashnikovs
fruitlessly pierce the sky
the blood dripping from your
pure gold taps--does it taste good?
or does it cramp your stomach, like
that of a child crying for cereal while
her mother faints in the sun?
you are for all time, like the
poverty, death, disease you
breed as you strut, peacock-feathered,
stiffened with gold braid as
volleys of ancient Kalashnikovs
fruitlessly pierce the sky
the blood dripping from your
pure gold taps--does it taste good?
or does it cramp your stomach, like
that of a child crying for cereal while
her mother faints in the sun?
03 April 2011
Undomesticated Scenery
Day 3, PAD challenge. Prompt: "imagine the world without you."
tipple-topple the silver pan-lids are
clashing cymbals clattering to
the floor, the
milk scorched into a honeycomb
adhering to the bottom of a
pot, while the
dustmice slowly grow, fat and grey,
and four, no, six loads
of laundry sit, obdurate, waiting to be done,
the nose, unwiped, went off
to school, the telephone
rings with news of the
latest accident, but she is
not here to hear it
tipple-topple the silver pan-lids are
clashing cymbals clattering to
the floor, the
milk scorched into a honeycomb
adhering to the bottom of a
pot, while the
dustmice slowly grow, fat and grey,
and four, no, six loads
of laundry sit, obdurate, waiting to be done,
the nose, unwiped, went off
to school, the telephone
rings with news of the
latest accident, but she is
not here to hear it
02 April 2011
Greetings from....
Day 2 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "postcard" poem.
Seems so long since I saw you
yet it was only yesterday. Arrived
safely, though so tired found it
hard to sleep. Bread so rough
but the air so fresh
and springwater so
cold. I miss you, still,
through all our goodbyes. Be
safe, be still, be mine,
ever, in haste to make the last post,
ever...
Seems so long since I saw you
yet it was only yesterday. Arrived
safely, though so tired found it
hard to sleep. Bread so rough
but the air so fresh
and springwater so
cold. I miss you, still,
through all our goodbyes. Be
safe, be still, be mine,
ever, in haste to make the last post,
ever...
01 April 2011
Transfer
PAD Challenge, Day 1 prompt: a "what got you here" poem.
transfer, held damply in her
hand, the snow melting
where her cap (nearly)
met her coat, her scarf
left where (behind), shed
like the skin of a snake,
useless as an escape tool,
however jauntily it was wrapped,
the pantone color the blue
of a Mediterranean summer
once seen in a postcard, the
demarcation of blue and
white wavering beneath her eyes
and her feet ache, now, in the
warmth of the bus, the slow
thawing an agony she distracts
herself from by repeating one
line, then the next, as
regular as the telephone
poles she passes, one, then
another, the marking points
of distance, as chatter
rises and falls the bus
creaks in protest, the
recirculation of exhaust, thick
and tarry, makes her
drowse...
so many miles to go, on her way
to a new habitat
transfer, held damply in her
hand, the snow melting
where her cap (nearly)
met her coat, her scarf
left where (behind), shed
like the skin of a snake,
useless as an escape tool,
however jauntily it was wrapped,
the pantone color the blue
of a Mediterranean summer
once seen in a postcard, the
demarcation of blue and
white wavering beneath her eyes
and her feet ache, now, in the
warmth of the bus, the slow
thawing an agony she distracts
herself from by repeating one
line, then the next, as
regular as the telephone
poles she passes, one, then
another, the marking points
of distance, as chatter
rises and falls the bus
creaks in protest, the
recirculation of exhaust, thick
and tarry, makes her
drowse...
so many miles to go, on her way
to a new habitat
27 March 2011
Letters of Transit
lugubrious lady in her
chinchilla coat strides down
the avenue, her
past life neatly labeled,
tied into
tight little parcels
with the shiny-sheen of
embroidery thread twisting/untwisting
the ends fanned out
like her hair on the pillow
that August afternoon as
the sun crept across
the floor in solid gold bars
until there was
no more
and dark
then one ivory ankle
stepping into a taxi,
then another
and the bells rang out ever,
for ever
ever
the pink cloud tree on Birch Street
due to burst again soon and she,
waiting with a wandering eye in
constancy, nonetheless, the
soles of her shoes
papered over, thick
with words, tripping over the
manhole cover (Bingham and
Taylor) in CAPITAL LETTERS
the cup of tea, overfull,
slopping into the saucer, the hieroglyphic
letters tied, safe,
slipped into a handbag as she
passes by a lantern-jawed Dick Tracy
chatting into his two-way wristwatch
his letters, the
book and volume
trembled from her hands to
keep company with the pocket comb
and the mirror
how d'you do?
how d'you do indeed?
good night, dear lady, good night,
good night, good night
the door is barred,
we'll venture forth
no more to speak
our words, thicksweet
chinchilla coat strides down
the avenue, her
past life neatly labeled,
tied into
tight little parcels
with the shiny-sheen of
embroidery thread twisting/untwisting
the ends fanned out
like her hair on the pillow
that August afternoon as
the sun crept across
the floor in solid gold bars
until there was
no more
and dark
then one ivory ankle
stepping into a taxi,
then another
and the bells rang out ever,
for ever
ever
the pink cloud tree on Birch Street
due to burst again soon and she,
waiting with a wandering eye in
constancy, nonetheless, the
soles of her shoes
papered over, thick
with words, tripping over the
manhole cover (Bingham and
Taylor) in CAPITAL LETTERS
the cup of tea, overfull,
slopping into the saucer, the hieroglyphic
letters tied, safe,
slipped into a handbag as she
passes by a lantern-jawed Dick Tracy
chatting into his two-way wristwatch
his letters, the
book and volume
trembled from her hands to
keep company with the pocket comb
and the mirror
how d'you do?
how d'you do indeed?
good night, dear lady, good night,
good night, good night
the door is barred,
we'll venture forth
no more to speak
our words, thicksweet
26 March 2011
Venn Diagram
coffee colored the rings were, the words
bleared over, sugary wet, corralled
in their neat columns, jumbled one atop
the other
intersecting to make a chain, ring upon
ring, binding the words, black upon white,
beneath them, the familiar dictionary
read out by rote each morning in staid
sentences--and will the circle
be unbroken?
........
He shows, with a flourish, the silver
rings which become one, then two, then
three, then one again, tossed to
the heavens above where they disappear,
finally, into black
.........
smoothing the paper out beneath the
coffee cups twinned and blue, above the fold,
remembering Kilroy and that last pair
of dry socks
as white smoke rises from the
chimney across the road, the
highway disappearing long past
squared wires of a screen to
keep things out, keep things in, the
errant flowerpot crashed to
muddy sherds upon the floor
bleared over, sugary wet, corralled
in their neat columns, jumbled one atop
the other
intersecting to make a chain, ring upon
ring, binding the words, black upon white,
beneath them, the familiar dictionary
read out by rote each morning in staid
sentences--and will the circle
be unbroken?
........
He shows, with a flourish, the silver
rings which become one, then two, then
three, then one again, tossed to
the heavens above where they disappear,
finally, into black
.........
smoothing the paper out beneath the
coffee cups twinned and blue, above the fold,
remembering Kilroy and that last pair
of dry socks
as white smoke rises from the
chimney across the road, the
highway disappearing long past
squared wires of a screen to
keep things out, keep things in, the
errant flowerpot crashed to
muddy sherds upon the floor
Sweeping, Blue, Red, Green.....
swell and rise of tumult,
street-loud, under the ceiling,
she tries to mop it up with
sponges and soft words
to no avail, dancing with
the broom, short strokes
dragged against the nap
of the carpet, blue, red, green,
blue, red, green again, the
one last stubborn thread (a
strand from a scarf?) immovable,
immutable, curved into a question
mark she marks and goes on
her way
street-loud, under the ceiling,
she tries to mop it up with
sponges and soft words
to no avail, dancing with
the broom, short strokes
dragged against the nap
of the carpet, blue, red, green,
blue, red, green again, the
one last stubborn thread (a
strand from a scarf?) immovable,
immutable, curved into a question
mark she marks and goes on
her way
Bread of Haste
crumbling the bread of haste
into a bowl of vegetable soup
she does not think of forty
long years--or even forty days--
but of the forty-eight hours
before calm comes to rest,
blue upon her shoulders, like a
old friend or lover, the
touch familiar, light as a
scarf rounding her neck, the
stretch of silence, silk-glimmering,
held, only for a moment
between her teeth
into a bowl of vegetable soup
she does not think of forty
long years--or even forty days--
but of the forty-eight hours
before calm comes to rest,
blue upon her shoulders, like a
old friend or lover, the
touch familiar, light as a
scarf rounding her neck, the
stretch of silence, silk-glimmering,
held, only for a moment
between her teeth
24 March 2011
OBSOLETE! Magazine Issue # 3 Now Available!!!!
Quarterly, $12.00
To subscribe:
OBSOLETE!
P.O. Box 72
Victor, IA 52347
obmag@feral-tech.com
19 March 2011
Briars
She speaks into the wind where words are lost,
wandering, so, the well-worn paths others trod,
distracted, tendrils tumbled down accost
her eyes, blinded so, her soles rough-shod,
yet she goes on, having escaped the wolf.
Still, the thorns catch at her clothes,
strangely disarranged, espying the hoof
of the boar running before her, loathes
the loss of words into the whirling wind,
so many children lost, her hand,
scratched by thorns, so cold, pinned
to her heart for warmth, seeking a land
where winds will cease and she can rest
in the safe surety of her own nest.
wandering, so, the well-worn paths others trod,
distracted, tendrils tumbled down accost
her eyes, blinded so, her soles rough-shod,
yet she goes on, having escaped the wolf.
Still, the thorns catch at her clothes,
strangely disarranged, espying the hoof
of the boar running before her, loathes
the loss of words into the whirling wind,
so many children lost, her hand,
scratched by thorns, so cold, pinned
to her heart for warmth, seeking a land
where winds will cease and she can rest
in the safe surety of her own nest.
Bedroom Arrangement
the warmth from the screen that
has so replaced the fire very
nearly touches her fingertips as
she rearranges the items on
a bureau-top: silver tie bar, loose
coins, gap-toothed comb, a crumpled
post-it bearing a telephone
number, the shoehorn fashioned of
mock tortoiseshell, furniture, staid
and squat, cherry-stained,
replete with socks and suchlike,
the blinds too thin to
keep the light out entirely,
and, moored down, so,
by heavy furniture, she
seeks some warmth, for a
moment, and then, sleep
has so replaced the fire very
nearly touches her fingertips as
she rearranges the items on
a bureau-top: silver tie bar, loose
coins, gap-toothed comb, a crumpled
post-it bearing a telephone
number, the shoehorn fashioned of
mock tortoiseshell, furniture, staid
and squat, cherry-stained,
replete with socks and suchlike,
the blinds too thin to
keep the light out entirely,
and, moored down, so,
by heavy furniture, she
seeks some warmth, for a
moment, and then, sleep
Building Blocks
sans hands and feet,
perpetually walking across his
diamond of yellow bright
black bordered, featureless,
suspended, forever, in
signage
the blocks, too, have fallen
together so that they read:
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin...
before they are gathered up
in awkward handfuls to be
thrown back into the
toybox
still the carpets to be cleaned,
the dividing lines of the tiles
abraded with bleach and
water, the errant
marks of pencil smoothed
off a wall, the accidental
erased with a
heavy hand, heavier heart
perpetually walking across his
diamond of yellow bright
black bordered, featureless,
suspended, forever, in
signage
the blocks, too, have fallen
together so that they read:
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin...
before they are gathered up
in awkward handfuls to be
thrown back into the
toybox
still the carpets to be cleaned,
the dividing lines of the tiles
abraded with bleach and
water, the errant
marks of pencil smoothed
off a wall, the accidental
erased with a
heavy hand, heavier heart
15 March 2011
08 March 2011
Networking Workshop for Poets and Writers at the Mount Vernon Public Library on the evening of 17th March!!!
Date: Thursday, 17th March 2011
Time: 6:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Place: Mount Vernon Public Library Community Room
Address: 28 South 1st Avenue, Mount Vernon, NY 10550
Telephone: 914.668.1840
06 March 2011
Contemporary Literary Horizon.....two poems translated into Romanian for the Jan.-Feb. 2011 issue.
MARY ANN MCCARRA
FITZPATRICK
(STATELE UNITE)
PAGE-TURNER (CAN ONE TRUST THE NARRATOR?)
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
SEVEN-OH-FIVE
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
ÎNTOARCE PAGINA
(NE PUTEM ÎNCREDE ÎN NARATOR?)
învelită în piele, ea întoarce
prima pagină albă să vadă
frontispiciul în tuşe scurte de cerneală
imperceptibil ascunse de hartia
ca o foiţă , colţul de sus
mototolit de parcă ultimul cititor
a închis cartea
cu o mână nerăbdătoare (sau grăbită)
ultimele două pagini, imprimate în
culorile unui păun, spirale de roşu, albastru,
verde contopindu-se într-un tot
plin ca o plăcintă de Crăciun
dând pagina, trecând peste
inevitabila dedicaţie (nu adresata ei,
desigur) cugetând la
iniţialele criptice delimitate
atât de limpede de puncte
primul capitol a fost de dragoste,
melasa în straturi groase pe degete,
linsă, ce gust delicios a avut,
aşa dulce
nepricepută la a ghici,
pagina lipsă din cuprins
o contrariază, şi ne putem oare
încrede vreodata
în narator?
nu, şi astfel întoarce
foile bej, cautând o legenda
pe care s-o înteleagă,
negru ca tăciunele, pe care
să o poată străbate. dar. nu.
aşezată la loc pe raft
ultima şi la cheremul
oamenilor de la mutări.
OF, ŞAPTE ŞI CINCI
Şapte şi cinci şi OF
minutele trec şi, vai,
ciorapul ăsta e deja agăţat (pe unde-o FI
celălalt?) iar dincolo ceainicul
dă în clocot, scoţând aburi de parcă
ar vrea să alimenteze
întreaga casa şi
fir-ar să fie, unde-mi sunt cheile, sigur
le-am lăsat în cuier
lângă uşă,
tic, tic, tic dublând ecoul
toc, toc, tocănitului
pantofilor grăbiti pe podea
(prea târziu acum să-mi fac griji
pentru zgomot) înşfăcând
geanta apoi
în grabă–pe scară-în beznă,
mai pregatită ca oricând
(hotărâtă mereu să fie mai bună:
femeia graţioasa cu pas agale
zărită în depărtare)
Traducere de Aura Mircea
MTTLC, anul II, Universitatea din Bucureşti
FITZPATRICK
(STATELE UNITE)
PAGE-TURNER (CAN ONE TRUST THE NARRATOR?)
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
SEVEN-OH-FIVE
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
ÎNTOARCE PAGINA
(NE PUTEM ÎNCREDE ÎN NARATOR?)
învelită în piele, ea întoarce
prima pagină albă să vadă
frontispiciul în tuşe scurte de cerneală
imperceptibil ascunse de hartia
ca o foiţă , colţul de sus
mototolit de parcă ultimul cititor
a închis cartea
cu o mână nerăbdătoare (sau grăbită)
ultimele două pagini, imprimate în
culorile unui păun, spirale de roşu, albastru,
verde contopindu-se într-un tot
plin ca o plăcintă de Crăciun
dând pagina, trecând peste
inevitabila dedicaţie (nu adresata ei,
desigur) cugetând la
iniţialele criptice delimitate
atât de limpede de puncte
primul capitol a fost de dragoste,
melasa în straturi groase pe degete,
linsă, ce gust delicios a avut,
aşa dulce
nepricepută la a ghici,
pagina lipsă din cuprins
o contrariază, şi ne putem oare
încrede vreodata
în narator?
nu, şi astfel întoarce
foile bej, cautând o legenda
pe care s-o înteleagă,
negru ca tăciunele, pe care
să o poată străbate. dar. nu.
aşezată la loc pe raft
ultima şi la cheremul
oamenilor de la mutări.
OF, ŞAPTE ŞI CINCI
Şapte şi cinci şi OF
minutele trec şi, vai,
ciorapul ăsta e deja agăţat (pe unde-o FI
celălalt?) iar dincolo ceainicul
dă în clocot, scoţând aburi de parcă
ar vrea să alimenteze
întreaga casa şi
fir-ar să fie, unde-mi sunt cheile, sigur
le-am lăsat în cuier
lângă uşă,
tic, tic, tic dublând ecoul
toc, toc, tocănitului
pantofilor grăbiti pe podea
(prea târziu acum să-mi fac griji
pentru zgomot) înşfăcând
geanta apoi
în grabă–pe scară-în beznă,
mai pregatită ca oricând
(hotărâtă mereu să fie mai bună:
femeia graţioasa cu pas agale
zărită în depărtare)
Traducere de Aura Mircea
MTTLC, anul II, Universitatea din Bucureşti
Mount Vernon Inquirer article, March 2011 issue.....available now!!!
An article appears in the March 2011 issue of the Mount Vernon Inquirer regarding last month's poetry reading at the Mount Vernon Public Library.
The paper is available for subscription ($34.00) yearly.
The Mount Vernon Inquirer
P.O. Box 458
Mount Vernon, NY 10551-0458
http://www.mvinquirer.com/
Mr. Joe Parisi, Editor and Publisher.
The paper is available for subscription ($34.00) yearly.
The Mount Vernon Inquirer
P.O. Box 458
Mount Vernon, NY 10551-0458
http://www.mvinquirer.com/
Mr. Joe Parisi, Editor and Publisher.
27 February 2011
Poems appearing in Issue No. 3 of Obsolete Magazine.
Two of MaryAnn's poems "Break Room" and "Three Roads Converge" -- which first appeared on this blog -- will be published in Issue No. 3 of Obsolete Magazine.
Quarterly (Four issues per year) $12.00 (includes postage and handling).
From their blog: http://obsoletemag.blogspot.com
"Obsolete Magazine is a quarterly tabloid publication in the tradition of the International Times, OZ, The East Village Other, The Berkely Barb, The Chicago Seed, The Whole Earth Catalog, PUNK!, and other great underground rags of days past....."
Quarterly (Four issues per year) $12.00 (includes postage and handling).
From their blog: http://obsoletemag.blogspot.com
"Obsolete Magazine is a quarterly tabloid publication in the tradition of the International Times, OZ, The East Village Other, The Berkely Barb, The Chicago Seed, The Whole Earth Catalog, PUNK!, and other great underground rags of days past....."
25 February 2011
Contemporary Literary Horizon, Jan.-Feb. 2011 Issue.
http://contemporaryhorizon.blogspot.com/
Some poems published in the Jan.-Feb. issue of Contemporary Literary Horizon!!
Some poems published in the Jan.-Feb. issue of Contemporary Literary Horizon!!
09 February 2011
01 February 2011
Crazed Cup
under the sink they are,
lined up, the forgotten
carafes, skewers for a
barbeque, behind a jumble
of flowerpots, paintpots, coffee-
and-teapots, the held-onto-
just-in-case, the broken
vessel, chipped, who might
just do in a pinch, and
thankful, too, we'll be, not
having that easy habit of
discarding others, the broken,
the imperfect, the slightly
cracked,
the crazing on an old cup a
map of all those days gone by
long forgotten, along with
their random imperfections,
dwarfed by the blazing of the sun,
remembering how hot it was....
lined up, the forgotten
carafes, skewers for a
barbeque, behind a jumble
of flowerpots, paintpots, coffee-
and-teapots, the held-onto-
just-in-case, the broken
vessel, chipped, who might
just do in a pinch, and
thankful, too, we'll be, not
having that easy habit of
discarding others, the broken,
the imperfect, the slightly
cracked,
the crazing on an old cup a
map of all those days gone by
long forgotten, along with
their random imperfections,
dwarfed by the blazing of the sun,
remembering how hot it was....
A Cat and A King
because the mind can be
convinced of anything at 3:58
a.m. she clings more tightly
than ever to sleep, anxious for
the dawn to set things to rights, the
towels folded for the laundry, the
coffee made and the
black dog sent on his way
without a bone to gnaw upon. And
peace falls upon the house
(momentarily), all the small
noises scrabbling inside the walls
a sort of unspeech to the unpeople
lingering about in all their
transitory glory, a housemaid
passing by a duchess (and to
be sure, a cat may look at
a king)
convinced of anything at 3:58
a.m. she clings more tightly
than ever to sleep, anxious for
the dawn to set things to rights, the
towels folded for the laundry, the
coffee made and the
black dog sent on his way
without a bone to gnaw upon. And
peace falls upon the house
(momentarily), all the small
noises scrabbling inside the walls
a sort of unspeech to the unpeople
lingering about in all their
transitory glory, a housemaid
passing by a duchess (and to
be sure, a cat may look at
a king)
Shipping Forecast
there is no connection,
no threading tissue,
between one and another,
no bother, as the dinner
gets done, chop-a-block,
in staccato steps, a
puzzle of paint-by-numbers,
ketchup-red, steak sauce-brown,
grainy-golden mustard, a dollop
of it on the spoon about to
be dashed into the sauce for the fish
with one fine wrist-movement (ah,
if all things could be so--
definite and sure)
saving her voice for after
dinner, when the clatter of
silverware straight into
the sink has faded, the
shipping forecast predicting
only minor squalls
and so
to bed
no threading tissue,
between one and another,
no bother, as the dinner
gets done, chop-a-block,
in staccato steps, a
puzzle of paint-by-numbers,
ketchup-red, steak sauce-brown,
grainy-golden mustard, a dollop
of it on the spoon about to
be dashed into the sauce for the fish
with one fine wrist-movement (ah,
if all things could be so--
definite and sure)
saving her voice for after
dinner, when the clatter of
silverware straight into
the sink has faded, the
shipping forecast predicting
only minor squalls
and so
to bed
Hitchcock's Blond Women
Hitchcock's blond women forever
frame-frozen: on a train, in a
shower, in a boat, on horseback
not always
having more fun
especially when:
hanging off national monuments,
being repeatedly stabbed, bird-beak
pecked, or
stringently psychoanalysed by
their husband (even if he is
Sean Connery)
better, so, to be
brunette!
frame-frozen: on a train, in a
shower, in a boat, on horseback
not always
having more fun
especially when:
hanging off national monuments,
being repeatedly stabbed, bird-beak
pecked, or
stringently psychoanalysed by
their husband (even if he is
Sean Connery)
better, so, to be
brunette!
Dervish
dervish whirls around the
pastel plain of the carpet
where lambs gambol,
eternally leaping over
that next hillock
turn, turn, turn, turn and
stop
on to pacing, pace, pace, pace,
pace, pace then
Stop
then to screaming, the arc rising
up and up, the
incredible crescendo of it
breaks with a bite upon
his hand,
stop
STOP
pastel plain of the carpet
where lambs gambol,
eternally leaping over
that next hillock
turn, turn, turn, turn and
stop
on to pacing, pace, pace, pace,
pace, pace then
Stop
then to screaming, the arc rising
up and up, the
incredible crescendo of it
breaks with a bite upon
his hand,
stop
STOP
24 January 2011
22 January 2011
Costello's
what she loved about you was
the way you folded the
daily news and set it aside
when you looked at her, the
seven-and-seven in his hand
and Thurber's comic dogs
still capering on the wall for
all eternity, barely held at
bay by dowagers made of
curlicues, staid witnesses to
long-ago afternoons, the
ink fresh upon the paper,
words still unread
the way you folded the
daily news and set it aside
when you looked at her, the
seven-and-seven in his hand
and Thurber's comic dogs
still capering on the wall for
all eternity, barely held at
bay by dowagers made of
curlicues, staid witnesses to
long-ago afternoons, the
ink fresh upon the paper,
words still unread
Because You Never Know
because you never know
what you might find--
keep your bag open to
receive those unwitting gifts
falling from heaven
heavy as rocks, weighty as
oranges arranged in a
pyramid, or, equally,
cardboard boxes, squared
and brown, at repose
in the closet, the accidental
words seeping from them like
jam from the jar, the
stickiness forcing you
to contemplate how it was
they were strung, one after
another, those pearls grafting
each to each, phrases awkward
as a foal, yet, somehow,
standing on their own
what you might find--
keep your bag open to
receive those unwitting gifts
falling from heaven
heavy as rocks, weighty as
oranges arranged in a
pyramid, or, equally,
cardboard boxes, squared
and brown, at repose
in the closet, the accidental
words seeping from them like
jam from the jar, the
stickiness forcing you
to contemplate how it was
they were strung, one after
another, those pearls grafting
each to each, phrases awkward
as a foal, yet, somehow,
standing on their own
Keys
the only contstant, change, the
sureness of the seasons we
mark off on the calendar, careful
in our commemorations of those
unmarked dates, your birthday,
the driving rain that stopped
our shopping, the first and
last speeches graved on
the tablets of our memories,
dredged back to first-freshness
by a taste, a smell, a look,
the grey color of the sky before
snow, the particular groovings in
the cut of a key, cold in
the hand, the sound of it turning
an echo of others
sureness of the seasons we
mark off on the calendar, careful
in our commemorations of those
unmarked dates, your birthday,
the driving rain that stopped
our shopping, the first and
last speeches graved on
the tablets of our memories,
dredged back to first-freshness
by a taste, a smell, a look,
the grey color of the sky before
snow, the particular groovings in
the cut of a key, cold in
the hand, the sound of it turning
an echo of others
New Eden
yes, to be sure, the other
side of the fence has
attractions, the magazine layout
cropping out the compost, the
chipping of the brickwork, some
less than sightly branches,
leaning, sickly, to the ground,
the chorus of sparrows waking one
from rest
....until all appears as a
new eden, the apples hanging,
rosy, on the tree, the sheen
of the page, pretty impossibilities,
still, so pretty to survey
side of the fence has
attractions, the magazine layout
cropping out the compost, the
chipping of the brickwork, some
less than sightly branches,
leaning, sickly, to the ground,
the chorus of sparrows waking one
from rest
....until all appears as a
new eden, the apples hanging,
rosy, on the tree, the sheen
of the page, pretty impossibilities,
still, so pretty to survey
Confectionary
the selection box of sweets,
each sweet word of yours coated
with high-grade confectionary, laced
over with script in darker
chocolate, thick with
corn syrup and chemicals, the
rainbow tints of candied
creams, gussied up with red
foil and cellophane wrappers
morse code of chocolates: sweets
for the sweet--a hundred
corny valentine's day jokes in
sugary reverberation
til the last mouthful is
swallowed down
each sweet word of yours coated
with high-grade confectionary, laced
over with script in darker
chocolate, thick with
corn syrup and chemicals, the
rainbow tints of candied
creams, gussied up with red
foil and cellophane wrappers
morse code of chocolates: sweets
for the sweet--a hundred
corny valentine's day jokes in
sugary reverberation
til the last mouthful is
swallowed down
18 January 2011
Reading at the Blue Door Gallery, Yonkers, NY
MaryAnn -- and others -- will be reading at the Blue Door Gallery's "Open Mic" in Yonkers, NY on Sunday 23rd January.
Location: Blue Door Gallery, 13 Riverdale Avenue (between Main and Hudson), Yonkers, New York.
Time: 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.
There is no charge, but they do say that contributions will be appreciated.
For more information: 914-375-5100
Email: info@bluedoorgallery.org
Location: Blue Door Gallery, 13 Riverdale Avenue (between Main and Hudson), Yonkers, New York.
Time: 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.
There is no charge, but they do say that contributions will be appreciated.
For more information: 914-375-5100
Email: info@bluedoorgallery.org
13 January 2011
Receipts
here is the receipt for it
all, the paying out, the
words spoken, the words written,
the stamps licked, the books
bought (and read), the men loved (and
lost, too) the hundred thousand
tiny remembrances written down in
desk diaries: today I did, today I
went, the shoes for a
wedding, christening, burial (check
their heels for signs of wear) the
receipt for all consumed, the tea,
bread, butter, meat, vegetables
the time, too, consumed in blocks of hours,
eight hours, two hours, the commuting
hours of rain streaking down the
train windows and the collective sigh
when, stalled and darkened, newspapers
rustle in unison......we shall not
have this time back, it evaporates
as steam from the pot, as if it
never were
all, the paying out, the
words spoken, the words written,
the stamps licked, the books
bought (and read), the men loved (and
lost, too) the hundred thousand
tiny remembrances written down in
desk diaries: today I did, today I
went, the shoes for a
wedding, christening, burial (check
their heels for signs of wear) the
receipt for all consumed, the tea,
bread, butter, meat, vegetables
the time, too, consumed in blocks of hours,
eight hours, two hours, the commuting
hours of rain streaking down the
train windows and the collective sigh
when, stalled and darkened, newspapers
rustle in unison......we shall not
have this time back, it evaporates
as steam from the pot, as if it
never were
Hot Coffee
it will come to that
and better to face it
with force than to take
that other line,
pale, dreading
that telephone call or
this encounter, the
awkwardness of wooden blocks
as I stumble, thick-soled,
towards you, a pot of coffee
in my (hospitable) hands
better, so, to bite off the
matter with a smile,
after all the revisions,
indecisions, to drive a
stake through the heart
of the thing, looming large
in your mind, no greater
than a gnat
and better to face it
with force than to take
that other line,
pale, dreading
that telephone call or
this encounter, the
awkwardness of wooden blocks
as I stumble, thick-soled,
towards you, a pot of coffee
in my (hospitable) hands
better, so, to bite off the
matter with a smile,
after all the revisions,
indecisions, to drive a
stake through the heart
of the thing, looming large
in your mind, no greater
than a gnat
Last Chances
grasping, with the tips
of her fingernails to that
last, imagined chance, she
has the sensation she is
floating slightly above the
ground, so focused she is
on that long held ideal,
the elusive, eluding, winking
wolf who passes her in the
hallway, nips at her heels,
scratches at her door, then,
just as suddenly, gone.
missing his warmth, the
bulk of him, his eyes, but
not his tearing teeth, his
scratching nails
and last chances going the
same way as lost prayers,
written out and used as a
marker in a recipe book
of her fingernails to that
last, imagined chance, she
has the sensation she is
floating slightly above the
ground, so focused she is
on that long held ideal,
the elusive, eluding, winking
wolf who passes her in the
hallway, nips at her heels,
scratches at her door, then,
just as suddenly, gone.
missing his warmth, the
bulk of him, his eyes, but
not his tearing teeth, his
scratching nails
and last chances going the
same way as lost prayers,
written out and used as a
marker in a recipe book
Break Room
this day we mark, not so
different from all the
rest, yet it has candles, and
cake, and plastic goblets
of cheap champagne so harsh
it burns the throat, the
cake a slab of flour, butter,
sugar, eggs overlaid with
thickwhite cream graced with
fragile roses crushed by a
spork (no forks being
available) in the dim dark
of the break room, the
sad coffee-colored carpet
fraying under our feet and
she lifts her glass, yes, before
returning to struggle with the
copier, thrusting her hands
deep into the warmth of
the machinery to retrieve the
paper folded, fanlike, between
the rollers
different from all the
rest, yet it has candles, and
cake, and plastic goblets
of cheap champagne so harsh
it burns the throat, the
cake a slab of flour, butter,
sugar, eggs overlaid with
thickwhite cream graced with
fragile roses crushed by a
spork (no forks being
available) in the dim dark
of the break room, the
sad coffee-colored carpet
fraying under our feet and
she lifts her glass, yes, before
returning to struggle with the
copier, thrusting her hands
deep into the warmth of
the machinery to retrieve the
paper folded, fanlike, between
the rollers
Blueprints
to find the way out
is not so hard, the
blueprints having been kept
handy by the previous
owner, the markings on
the wood, beneath the
plaster, easily spotted
by your x-ray eyes--
and what will you do,
when free? what
indeed......his list, marked
out in curious characters, is
a mystery even to him,
the long riddle of his life
a scarf placed this way
and that, to ward off
the cold from around
the corner
is not so hard, the
blueprints having been kept
handy by the previous
owner, the markings on
the wood, beneath the
plaster, easily spotted
by your x-ray eyes--
and what will you do,
when free? what
indeed......his list, marked
out in curious characters, is
a mystery even to him,
the long riddle of his life
a scarf placed this way
and that, to ward off
the cold from around
the corner
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