First show of 2013......
The Bean Runner Poetry Project
at The Bean Runner Cafe, 201 S. Division Street, Peekskill, New York
28 December 2012
17 December 2012
A SNOWY NIGHT IN PEEKSKILL - DANCE PERFORMANCE AT EMBARK @ EMC to BENEFIT FRED'S PANTRY!!!
SAVE THE DATE!!
Saturday 22nd December 2012
A Dance Performance to benefit Fred's Pantry
14 December 2012
03 December 2012
28 November 2012
MAKE IT SNOW IN PEEKSKILL! Saturday 22nd December 2012, Embark at EMC.
Save the date!!!!
 |
3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.
Embark at Energy Movement Center, 925 South Street, Peekskill, NY 10566
26 November 2012
Grasping the Cliff
November PAD Challenge, Day 20. Prompt: Write a "letting go" poem.
you grasp the cliff with grace....
but will let go, in the end.
we all do....so
no shame in that
falling, perhaps, to a
more comfortable place (you
never know, really)
lodged in some crevasse
containing all those earlier losses--
the slow unfolding of a first love,
the origami squares smoothed out,
blank, waiting for your writing, better, truer, now.
the old hunger, too, to throw
coals upon the fire, to hammer
out steel for a new pen,
thick ink lines plowing through white
Gathering Leaves
November PAD challenge, day 20. Write a "gathering" poem.
in brittle circles they dance, their
green gowns changed for brown, wrinkled
past redemption, their dry chattering
echoes, then fades. they have escaped
the rake, the staid brown bags
marked over with text, fat barrels
of summer-canopy crumpled, crammed,
one atop another, so different from
their leafy springing, clear green, graceful
in the air, smooth to the touch,
without blemish, before the assaults
of insects, the buffeting of wind
and rain; they whispered, always,
amongst themselves, the taffeta-rustle
from the wind a great rushing, peppered
with birdsong, less lucky, the others, compressed now, in
stolid brown bags, an army of them
silent, curbside
in brittle circles they dance, their
green gowns changed for brown, wrinkled
past redemption, their dry chattering
echoes, then fades. they have escaped
the rake, the staid brown bags
marked over with text, fat barrels
of summer-canopy crumpled, crammed,
one atop another, so different from
their leafy springing, clear green, graceful
in the air, smooth to the touch,
without blemish, before the assaults
of insects, the buffeting of wind
and rain; they whispered, always,
amongst themselves, the taffeta-rustle
from the wind a great rushing, peppered
with birdsong, less lucky, the others, compressed now, in
stolid brown bags, an army of them
silent, curbside
Fortune, Circular
November PAD challenge, day 19. Prompt: Write a "wheel" poem.
so fortune spins and we with
her, her gauzy scarves and
sequin-spangles fascinate as a circus
does a child, full of sound
and sparkle at the highest
point, contrasting with the
stalls yet to be mucked out
tied to the wheel, we
rise and fall, the rattle,
relentless, turning to the words
that echo back to us under that
tinted sky of painted stars
torn, sometimes, limb from limb,
the sinews split at her turning,
as if a spit well-greased
with thick malevolence, the
careless, random riving of soul
from body, dearest wishes catapulted,
pale and shriveled, upon the ash heap
so fortune spins and we with
her, her gauzy scarves and
sequin-spangles fascinate as a circus
does a child, full of sound
and sparkle at the highest
point, contrasting with the
stalls yet to be mucked out
tied to the wheel, we
rise and fall, the rattle,
relentless, turning to the words
that echo back to us under that
tinted sky of painted stars
torn, sometimes, limb from limb,
the sinews split at her turning,
as if a spit well-greased
with thick malevolence, the
careless, random riving of soul
from body, dearest wishes catapulted,
pale and shriveled, upon the ash heap
How to Go On, Regardless
November PAD Challenge, Day 17. Prompt: "How to _________"
easier said than done, that,
after the crepe has been
packed away, the papers in
thick beige and black notarized and
filed at the courthouse
the sun still rises and sets,
ticking away hours, memory-thick,
a stew of all those long-ago
days, though unevenly seasoned
still, nourishing enough
to give you the strength to
slap your soles against the sidewalk,
walking, always, towards some uncertain end
easier said than done, that,
after the crepe has been
packed away, the papers in
thick beige and black notarized and
filed at the courthouse
the sun still rises and sets,
ticking away hours, memory-thick,
a stew of all those long-ago
days, though unevenly seasoned
still, nourishing enough
to give you the strength to
slap your soles against the sidewalk,
walking, always, towards some uncertain end
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Poetry Reading (Music, too!!!)
Really looking forward to this event.......
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Poetry Reading (Music, too!!)
Saturday 15th December 2012
(Part of the Peekskill BID "Pub Crawl")
Poetry, music, holiday cheer!!! ;- )
Join us!!!
8:00 p.m.
EMBARK @ ENERGY MOVEMENT CENTER
925 South Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
EMBARK Peekskill -- Performing and Literary Arts
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Poetry Reading (Music, too!!)
Saturday 15th December 2012
(Part of the Peekskill BID "Pub Crawl")
Poetry, music, holiday cheer!!! ;- )
Join us!!!
8:00 p.m.
EMBARK @ ENERGY MOVEMENT CENTER
925 South Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
EMBARK Peekskill -- Performing and Literary Arts
19 November 2012
BEAN RUNNER POETRY PROJECT, Thursday, 6th December!!!!
6th December 2012
The Bean Runner Cafe
201 S. Division Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
914-737-1701
16 November 2012
The Last, First....
November PAD Challenge, Day 16. Prompt: Write a "last line first" poem.
so that was the end of it, after
all the speeches were exhaled to
the air, candle-brightened, the
room was dark and silent, alone
with the spiders, the cracks in
the plaster hidden by curtains, the
rosy glow drained like the
blood from her cheeks that
August day, the last first, the
first last again, the words
careening, circular, through her brainpan
so that was the end of it, after
all the speeches were exhaled to
the air, candle-brightened, the
room was dark and silent, alone
with the spiders, the cracks in
the plaster hidden by curtains, the
rosy glow drained like the
blood from her cheeks that
August day, the last first, the
first last again, the words
careening, circular, through her brainpan
I'll Give You Mine For......
November PAD Challenge, Day 15. Prompt: Write a "tradeoff" poem.
here, I'll give you my tired eyes
in exchange for sleep--string them
on a golden chain and wear them
as you will
the soul-sigh too, escaping my lips--
take that in exchange for a
moment of peace, hold it with
parted fingers, a fleshy cage
for a fluttering, birdlike, that
once exhaled, is no more
here, I'll give you my tired eyes
in exchange for sleep--string them
on a golden chain and wear them
as you will
the soul-sigh too, escaping my lips--
take that in exchange for a
moment of peace, hold it with
parted fingers, a fleshy cage
for a fluttering, birdlike, that
once exhaled, is no more
Insect in Amber
November PAD Challenge, Day 14. Prompt: Write a "stuck" poem.
oh, yes, the fine cream colored
journal pages are blank, the covers
careful geometries of green, black,
red
reproach one, the
black pens, too, slim missiles, lie
by their side, yet to discharge their
thick shots peppering the sky
no inky bullet points, striving,
strident, on the page, no
curlicues of decorative braid,
no animal killed and caught,
framed on the page for
all to see
these squat pens going dry in the
drawer, beside powdery cubes
of lavender sachet,
stuck, as if an insect in a
jar of cold cream, as if
frozen in amber,
accidentally preserved for
your glancing eyes
oh, yes, the fine cream colored
journal pages are blank, the covers
careful geometries of green, black,
red
reproach one, the
black pens, too, slim missiles, lie
by their side, yet to discharge their
thick shots peppering the sky
no inky bullet points, striving,
strident, on the page, no
curlicues of decorative braid,
no animal killed and caught,
framed on the page for
all to see
these squat pens going dry in the
drawer, beside powdery cubes
of lavender sachet,
stuck, as if an insect in a
jar of cold cream, as if
frozen in amber,
accidentally preserved for
your glancing eyes
Crowding the Mouth With Sweetness
November PAD Challenge, Day 13. Prompt: Write a "recipe" poem.
one part patience
two parts endurance
one part, again, of
understanding--
mix them well and
leave them to warm
in the sun
see what will
sprout. will these
vines bear fruit? will
they embrace you in
midsummer, crowding
your mouth with
sweetness?
one part patience
two parts endurance
one part, again, of
understanding--
mix them well and
leave them to warm
in the sun
see what will
sprout. will these
vines bear fruit? will
they embrace you in
midsummer, crowding
your mouth with
sweetness?
Grocery Lists
November PAD Challenge, Day 13. Prompt: Write a "letter" poem.
my dear, you did not
understand, my thin and
pleading words were
all for your good, the
sun rising and
setting a distraction
counting stars my new
occupation, collecting tears
in wide-mouthed jars,
writing out grocery lists,
the buy-one-get-one free
topping the list, storing up
for the future and
hoping these few lines
will find you
well
I am yours
always
my dear, you did not
understand, my thin and
pleading words were
all for your good, the
sun rising and
setting a distraction
counting stars my new
occupation, collecting tears
in wide-mouthed jars,
writing out grocery lists,
the buy-one-get-one free
topping the list, storing up
for the future and
hoping these few lines
will find you
well
I am yours
always
Erasure
November PAD Challenge, Day 12. Prompt: Write about a piece of technology that does not exist but should.
to erase those hurtful words, yes,
this would cover with white noise
those exploding parts of speech
sailing across the room to pit
the walls, black, forbidding, a
soiling that cannot be whitewashed
or papered over, looked upon with
sinking shame in the days that
follow, chewing the tongue to shreds
to erase those hurtful words, yes,
this would cover with white noise
those exploding parts of speech
sailing across the room to pit
the walls, black, forbidding, a
soiling that cannot be whitewashed
or papered over, looked upon with
sinking shame in the days that
follow, chewing the tongue to shreds
Arms to Embrace You
November PAD Challenge, Day 11. Prompt: Write a poem from the perspective of a Veteran.
goodbye, my two fair
friends, the ends of
me that once I did
dance with
no more
yet
there are still
my arms
to embrace you
goodbye, my two fair
friends, the ends of
me that once I did
dance with
no more
yet
there are still
my arms
to embrace you
Tintreach agus Tornach
November PAD Challenge, Day 10. Prompt: A "foreign word" poem.
tintreach agus tornach, the lightning
and thunder torn from your
fingertips sears the fields,
wreckage left in your wake,
heaped up piles of driftwood, the
morning after the storm, your
breath broke me into splinters, each
a needle I would use
to sew new garments, hand-dyed,
written over with prayers and
supplications
terrifying breaths, tintreach agus tornach,
shaking the ground, your bright
illuminations show the
shuddering scenes, the cowering creatures
clinging to their hallows
tintreach agus tornach, the lightning
and thunder torn from your
fingertips sears the fields,
wreckage left in your wake,
heaped up piles of driftwood, the
morning after the storm, your
breath broke me into splinters, each
a needle I would use
to sew new garments, hand-dyed,
written over with prayers and
supplications
terrifying breaths, tintreach agus tornach,
shaking the ground, your bright
illuminations show the
shuddering scenes, the cowering creatures
clinging to their hallows
Night Watching
November PAD Challenge, Day 9. Prompt: Write a "when he's gone" poem.
when he's gone she clock-watches,
a sullen student of timetables,
every silver minute of each golden
hour, calculating the time away
from her side, the slow embrace
of dawn yet to come, the eggs slipped
into hissing fat crackling back, sliding
onto a plate, the atmosphere thick with
coffee and the music of teaspoons still
in the future
another quarter-hour past and
her face stares back from the
pane of inky black, searching for a single light,
quickly turning to straighten the shoeboxes,
the quilt too, the field of blue/white/blue/white/blue
white atop the bed, geometries of
angled folds, origami layers folding
and unfolding, turned down again
when he's gone she clock-watches,
a sullen student of timetables,
every silver minute of each golden
hour, calculating the time away
from her side, the slow embrace
of dawn yet to come, the eggs slipped
into hissing fat crackling back, sliding
onto a plate, the atmosphere thick with
coffee and the music of teaspoons still
in the future
another quarter-hour past and
her face stares back from the
pane of inky black, searching for a single light,
quickly turning to straighten the shoeboxes,
the quilt too, the field of blue/white/blue/white/blue
white atop the bed, geometries of
angled folds, origami layers folding
and unfolding, turned down again
Paradise Untold
November PAD Challenge, Day 8. Prompt: "Talk back to a dead poet."
what words of her own might
she have written
were she not your eyes?
face to the fire, writing down
your hellish visions, the
hounds at the door, the
light fallen to the depths--
what brimstone may have
singed her heart-desire?
in patient script she wrote
your words, dutiful daughter,
unforgotten
what words of her own might
she have written
were she not your eyes?
face to the fire, writing down
your hellish visions, the
hounds at the door, the
light fallen to the depths--
what brimstone may have
singed her heart-desire?
in patient script she wrote
your words, dutiful daughter,
unforgotten
We Go In Circles
November PAD Challenge, Day 7 - Prompt: Write a "circular" poem.
we go in circles; the road curves
to the curve of your hand, the
lock of hair that curls against the
child's cheek, whorls of gold and
red intertwined as the thinspun
wires that make the twinned
rings we wear, the road
sloping back to where we were
before
the walk is tree-shaded, the
brittle leaves a-skitter in the
wind the only sound as we
walk our circular way, back
to the beginning, that rose
gold sun rising over our heads,
perfect, burning, circle
we go in circles; the road curves
to the curve of your hand, the
lock of hair that curls against the
child's cheek, whorls of gold and
red intertwined as the thinspun
wires that make the twinned
rings we wear, the road
sloping back to where we were
before
the walk is tree-shaded, the
brittle leaves a-skitter in the
wind the only sound as we
walk our circular way, back
to the beginning, that rose
gold sun rising over our heads,
perfect, burning, circle
11 November 2012
Daily Bread
we
have the windex for
that
glass ceiling and
though
we may not tread
a
crystal stair
we
see clearly.
from
hob of hearth, to
microwave
oven, we are the heat
at
the center of the
kitchen,
grinding grain into
flour,
dreams into written-out
realities
mixing,
with the spoon of
self-assurance,
the dough
that
will rise, impervious to
death,
disappointment, slighting-speech
rising,
in the face of all
resistance,
to their fullest
forms,
sliced for sustenance,
this,
her daily bread
After the Noise is Over: A War Poem
some
days there was
cabbage
soup or a
potato,
other days,
nothing
we
rose from the rubble,
from
beneath basements,
(the
big guns blackened, now, but cold,
after
their red-hot efforts)
one
wraith reaches for
another,
stumbling
and
where is my
husband,
my brothers,
mother
and father,
my
baby of three weeks
the
sky, stretching grey, above,
strangely
quiet now,
holds
no answers
landscape,
man-made mountain of
broken
stones, wind threading
through
emptied building-shells,
winding
through empty-paned spaces,
(no
longer curtain-framed)
irregular
forms casting their
shadows,
the whine of
the
wind says
they
are
no
more, no more, no more
08 November 2012
Making Her Hands Work
November PAD Challenge: Prompt Day 6: "Write a 'Left' poem and/or a 'Right' poem."
from left to right they fumble in
early dawn, first rubbing sleep
from her eyes, then turning the
bluegasflames high under the kettle,
these remembered movements
second nature now.
finest tools, fleshy tapers
varnish-tipped in crimson,
tapping, impatiently, on the table
when, when will it start,
the rise and swell of noise,
the tides washing through the
day, the electric hum interrupted
by buzzing, then
silence
from left-to-right they execute
the daily tasks looming always
before her eyes, the threads woven, unwoven,
tied off, finally, in knots
from left to right they fumble in
early dawn, first rubbing sleep
from her eyes, then turning the
bluegasflames high under the kettle,
these remembered movements
second nature now.
finest tools, fleshy tapers
varnish-tipped in crimson,
tapping, impatiently, on the table
when, when will it start,
the rise and swell of noise,
the tides washing through the
day, the electric hum interrupted
by buzzing, then
silence
from left-to-right they execute
the daily tasks looming always
before her eyes, the threads woven, unwoven,
tied off, finally, in knots
Message Waiting
November PAD Challenge: Day 5 Prompt: Write a "text message" poem.
too cold here and you?
can't complain, but we'll need milk.
love you, love you too
too cold here and you?
can't complain, but we'll need milk.
love you, love you too
Just Beneath the Winter Woolens
November PAD Challenge: Day 4 Prompt: Take the phrase "Just Beneath" add a word, and make that the title of your poem.
just beneath the winter woolens, paired
gloves in brown and black, tight-knit
hats to ward off cold, fat wool worked
with needles, cabled, plain-knit too,
striped, eminently irreproachable in
their staid practicality
is a pink silk dress, gossamer-thin,
lighter than a nightgown, a whisper of fabric with
jewelled buttons, hem
heel-snagged, not yet repaired,
waiting, patiently, to be worn again
on the eve of a new year
just beneath the winter woolens, paired
gloves in brown and black, tight-knit
hats to ward off cold, fat wool worked
with needles, cabled, plain-knit too,
striped, eminently irreproachable in
their staid practicality
is a pink silk dress, gossamer-thin,
lighter than a nightgown, a whisper of fabric with
jewelled buttons, hem
heel-snagged, not yet repaired,
waiting, patiently, to be worn again
on the eve of a new year
Artful Architecture
November PAD Challenge: Day 3 Prompt: A "poem that scares you."
they are in groups, in serried
ranks, tough as any soldier,
impenetrable in their armor of
ten-dollar-words and random
obscurities thrown in for good measure
trailing across the page--so
artfully, the letters have
their own private architecture,
and I've not got the price
of admission, my fingers poking
through the holes in my trouser-pockets,
grasping for the sense of the thing
beyond leaded glass windows
and historical markers just-polished,
their vowels and consonants at
war, proudly unintelligible, reluctant
to open the door to such a
plain-speaker
they are in groups, in serried
ranks, tough as any soldier,
impenetrable in their armor of
ten-dollar-words and random
obscurities thrown in for good measure
trailing across the page--so
artfully, the letters have
their own private architecture,
and I've not got the price
of admission, my fingers poking
through the holes in my trouser-pockets,
grasping for the sense of the thing
beyond leaded glass windows
and historical markers just-polished,
their vowels and consonants at
war, proudly unintelligible, reluctant
to open the door to such a
plain-speaker
Cookie-Moon
November PAD Challenge: Day 2 prompt: A "full moon" poem.
not a cookie-moon, but a
silver round, lacy white stone
glimpsed behind a lattice of
trees, irregular, veins against
the sky, wind-threaded,
taffeta-loud.
pie-face, blank of features,
betraying nothing, no eyes to
blink, no mouth to smile
(or snarl), no cheeks to
flush red and fade, only
jagged white, the sterile
plain for the planting of flags
pulling and pushing the water,
roiling up around our ears,
drawing blood, tearing one from
another, hazy pearl, fat
with irrationality, loosed from
a setting of stars
not a cookie-moon, but a
silver round, lacy white stone
glimpsed behind a lattice of
trees, irregular, veins against
the sky, wind-threaded,
taffeta-loud.
pie-face, blank of features,
betraying nothing, no eyes to
blink, no mouth to smile
(or snarl), no cheeks to
flush red and fade, only
jagged white, the sterile
plain for the planting of flags
pulling and pushing the water,
roiling up around our ears,
drawing blood, tearing one from
another, hazy pearl, fat
with irrationality, loosed from
a setting of stars
Striking the Box
November PAD Challenge: Day one prompt: A "matches" poem.
striking the box, the flame
leaps out to color the
darkness, blue, yellow, sulfur
sputtering to fire, sheltered
by one hand, coaxing the
kindling to spark into fire
that will warm us, warm
the animals off, cook
our food, this essential
element, flaring up, casting
shadows, the embers banked
rubybright
striking the box, the flame
leaps out to color the
darkness, blue, yellow, sulfur
sputtering to fire, sheltered
by one hand, coaxing the
kindling to spark into fire
that will warm us, warm
the animals off, cook
our food, this essential
element, flaring up, casting
shadows, the embers banked
rubybright
23 October 2012
Poetry Workshop & Open Mic, Bean Runner Cafe, 1st November 2012, Peekskill, NY
The Bean Runner Cafe
BEAN RUNNER POETRY PROJECT
Thursday 1st November
Doors open at 5:45 p.m.
Workshop and Open Mic sign-up 6:45 p.m.
Open Mic 7:00 p.m.
FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC!
(Donations accepted and appreciated.)
BEAN RUNNER POETRY PROJECT
Thursday 1st November
Doors open at 5:45 p.m.
Workshop and Open Mic sign-up 6:45 p.m.
Open Mic 7:00 p.m.
FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC!
(Donations accepted and appreciated.)
http://www.beanrunnercafe.com
The Bean Runner Cafe
201 S. Division Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
914.737.1701
13 October 2012
Poetry Reading, via SNACKTOOLS, 13th October 2012
http://share.snacktools.com/A7ACFC86AED/azuf653p
Audio reading.....13th October 2012
Night Time--Blue Shirts, Scorched--Continental Drift--Thick With Superstition--Land of the Badger Warren--Spring-Operated Woman.
Audio reading.....13th October 2012
Night Time--Blue Shirts, Scorched--Continental Drift--Thick With Superstition--Land of the Badger Warren--Spring-Operated Woman.
12 October 2012
04 October 2012
Read these, tonight, at the BEAN RUNNER CAFE in PEEKSKILL, NY.....
The next open mic will be Thursday the 1st of November.......
201 S. Division Street, Peekskill, NY 10566
Bean Runner Cafe
Self-Made Man
be still and know that you are loved
unlike any other
the trees, joining branches over the
road, make a canopy of green leaves
for her to walk beneath
detritus placed out on the curb
The next open mic will be Thursday the 1st of November.......
201 S. Division Street, Peekskill, NY 10566
Bean Runner Cafe
Self-Made Man
be still and know that you are loved
unlike any other
the trees, joining branches over the
road, make a canopy of green leaves
for her to walk beneath
detritus placed out on the curb
for the trashman--Wednesday is
collection day, black bags bulging, larval
in them,
oddments--an alphabet soup of letters, some
errant organs still wrapped in sterile plastic, a
kidney here, a heart there, two eyes (the better
to see you with, my dear, as the old wolf said)
she assembles a whole in half the
time it takes her to walk to Bronxville, the
original reconstituted man, add water and
stir briskly, with your smile lipsticked on
expert, so, at making something from
nothing
looping great strands of DNA around
her fingers, fashioning this self-made
man, the codes catching in her
nails
she'll teach him to talk, too,
a word at a time, til they
totter in a tower of Babel, together,
embracing his newness in her
arms, him, slick against her in
an August thunderstorm,
fleshy, this man of remnants, who,
new-born, looks upon her, pale-eyed,
learns love like an old repetition
of sums sung out from a window
collection day, black bags bulging, larval
in them,
oddments--an alphabet soup of letters, some
errant organs still wrapped in sterile plastic, a
kidney here, a heart there, two eyes (the better
to see you with, my dear, as the old wolf said)
she assembles a whole in half the
time it takes her to walk to Bronxville, the
original reconstituted man, add water and
stir briskly, with your smile lipsticked on
expert, so, at making something from
nothing
looping great strands of DNA around
her fingers, fashioning this self-made
man, the codes catching in her
nails
she'll teach him to talk, too,
a word at a time, til they
totter in a tower of Babel, together,
embracing his newness in her
arms, him, slick against her in
an August thunderstorm,
fleshy, this man of remnants, who,
new-born, looks upon her, pale-eyed,
learns love like an old repetition
of sums sung out from a window
Scarecrows
they crop up, this time of year, on
lawns untroubled by tubers or the
like, pale vestiges of their former,
workaday selves, clad in old clothes
and caps, to scare off the crows....
now, the mass-produced grins mirror
each other, staked in similar clipped
they crop up, this time of year, on
lawns untroubled by tubers or the
like, pale vestiges of their former,
workaday selves, clad in old clothes
and caps, to scare off the crows....
now, the mass-produced grins mirror
each other, staked in similar clipped
suburban lawns, reduced to the
decorative, the false pleat, the
row of buttons designed to catch the eye
crows are nonplussed by such fellows,
storebought, their tags still attached
as they are staked into the ground, a
xerographic, sixth-generation copy of their
sterner cousins, trousers cut to
ribbons in the wind, their aspect
fearsome, clad, as they were, in
the clothes of the dead, the tattered
remnants of a Sunday suit, worn
shiny, cuffs and collar frayed
and crows and candy-gorging goblins alike,
pass them by, unseeing, unafraid
decorative, the false pleat, the
row of buttons designed to catch the eye
crows are nonplussed by such fellows,
storebought, their tags still attached
as they are staked into the ground, a
xerographic, sixth-generation copy of their
sterner cousins, trousers cut to
ribbons in the wind, their aspect
fearsome, clad, as they were, in
the clothes of the dead, the tattered
remnants of a Sunday suit, worn
shiny, cuffs and collar frayed
and crows and candy-gorging goblins alike,
pass them by, unseeing, unafraid
02 October 2012
SECOND CHANCE: A LITERARY EVENT
SECOND CHANCE: A LITERARY EVENT
Saturday, 6th October 2012
3:00 p.m. - 5:30 p.m.
Part of the EMBARK/Peekskill Performing & Literary Arts Festival
Hosted by Ian Berger
Energy Movement Center
925 South Street
Peekskill, NY
Poetry and Prose by local writers!!
A FREE event (donations gratefully accepted)
"WINE & JAM" to follow at the BEALE STREET BARBER SHOP (907 South Street)
5:30 p.m. - 9:00 p.m.
Saturday, 6th October 2012
3:00 p.m. - 5:30 p.m.
Part of the EMBARK/Peekskill Performing & Literary Arts Festival
Hosted by Ian Berger
Energy Movement Center
925 South Street
Peekskill, NY
Poetry and Prose by local writers!!
A FREE event (donations gratefully accepted)
"WINE & JAM" to follow at the BEALE STREET BARBER SHOP (907 South Street)
5:30 p.m. - 9:00 p.m.
01 October 2012
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Performing & Literary Arts Festival, 5th, 6th, and 7th October, Peekskill, NY
EMBARK | PEEKSKILL, Performing & Literary Arts PRESENTS 3 DAYS OF PERFORMANCES - Oct. 5, 6 & 7 in Downtown Peekskill
Embark|Peekskill, Performing & Literary Arts, a not-for-profit coalition of performing and literary artists and companies from Peekskill and surrounding communities will host its second Performing & Literary Arts Festival over the weekend of October 5, 6 & 7. Performances will occur at multiple locations in downtown Peekskill and at Peekskill’s state of the art Middle School Theater. Local presenters include: YCP TheaterWorks, Hand to Mouth Players,Andrea Elam’s Synapse Dance Company,Antonia Arts’ The Wiz Kidz, Mark Sinnis,Raygull, and Matt Norris. Literary offerings will feature Antonia’s South Street Poets and local writers Andrew Acciaro, Cindy Beer-Fouhy,Ian Berger, Patrice Klubnik, MaryAnn McCarra-Fitzpatrick, Natalia Ortega-Brown,Dan Shapiro, Maureen Winzig and Elocin Yrneh.
On Friday, Oct. 5, Teatro SEA, a returning guest company from NYC, will present their award winningbilingual musical, VIVA PINOCHO! A Mexican Pinocchio with Peekskill’s own and returning guest artist Magician Margaret Steele as the opening act on Friday, Oct. 5 at 6:30 pm at Peekskill’s Middle School Theater. Tickets at the door $20 Adults, $10 Kids under 12 or for $12 & $8 when purchased in advance through the Dual Language Program or the Oakside School-PTO (contact: 917-692-2372). Join us at our Festival Opening Night Party featuring Antonia’s South Street Poets and Mary Crescenzo and Friends, featuring David August, Paul Mesches and Brian Delma Taylor.
On Saturday, Oct. 6, Alyssa & Peter Reit of Singing Harp will entertain families with their rendition ofThe Ugly Ducking. Fusion-belly dancer, Chantal Mariani and local dancer/choreographer, Andrea Elam will capture us with their dances followed by our Literary Director Ian Berger’s SECOND CHANCE, an interactive event featuring local writers while local actress/director, Marilyn Heberling,is performing the one woman comedy Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet at Kathleen’s Tea Room. Beale Street Barber Shop will host WINE & JAM with a cool line up of musicians including his owner, singer/songwriter, Mark Sinnis while Dylan’s Cellar and Gleason’s provide wine tasting and pizza sampling. Hand to Mouth Players and YCP TheaterWorks will perform an evening of one acts. The Bitchy Waiter, a returning guest artist, whose hilariously biting blog has landed him a large internet following and a recent spot on the Dr. Phil show, will share his musings with the post-theatre cocktail crowd during Night Cap Variety at the Division Street Grill at 9:00 pm, also featuring, R&B group The Nippy Thieves and storyteller/puppeteer for adults, Sarah W. Young.
On Sunday, Oct. 7, in addition to Hand To Mouth Players, YCP TheaterWorks encore presentation, we are excited to present from NYC new Guest Artist, Willfull Pictures who will amuse us with their one act, O Feel Ya, a spoof on Shakespeare’s Hamlet at EMC. 12 Grapes will host a Cabaret featuring Embark’s Executive Director, actress/singer/director Katie Schmidt Feder’sLonging, Leaving and Loving and dancer Barbara Nadel’s Sounds of Joy: A Tap Cabaret. Join us for our FREE Festival Finale CONCERT on North Division Street featuring The Wiz Kidz, Rising Stars, Chordsmen, G-21 Soul and Brian Delma Taylor & Chaka Ngwenya. Enjoy the theater & music on the showmobile and the restaurants on this Columbus Holiday Weekend!
See performance schedule for times & venues, ticket prices and the amazing individual and family packages. Many offerings will be FREE of charge. Also, tickets can be purchased individually at the door of each performance or online at brownpapertickets.com (search by PEEKSKILL). For more info, visit www.embarkpeekskill.com or email us at embarkpeekskill@gmail.com or Embark|Peekskill on Facebook.
EMBARK | Peekskill is a coalition of performing and literary artists and community members committed to the establishment and development of a Performing and Literary Arts Center for Peekskill as a home and venue. It is our goal to be a partner and collaborator with artists, arts alliances, and supporters of the arts. EMBARK seeks to encourage understanding of the role the arts play in building community and in celebrating diversity.
30 September 2012
This Thursday!!!! 4th October 2012 at the Bean Runner Cafe in Peekskill, NY
Join us This coming Thursday for the 5th Installment of The Poetry Project...
Thursday Oct. 4th @ The Bean Runner Cafe (201 S. Division St. Peekskill, NY)
Doors Open 5:45PM
Workshop & Open Mic Sign Up: 6:15PM
Open Mic: 7:00 PM
Workshop Facilitated By: Ibrahim Asad Siddiq (aka P.O.E.T)
Open Mic Hosted By: John "Chance" Acevedo
This Months Feature: TBA
Hope To See You There... If You Can't Make It, Tell Someone Who Can :-D
***All Artist Collective Events Are Free & Open To The Public***
Halfway to Ninety
halfway to ninety and grey-haired
dotage, the infants born with
indignant screams, flailing their arms
into hers, pillar of salt dissolved
into a river
soaking the scrubs of
the doctor, down to
the soles of his shoes
silver threaded through brown, the
tapestry woven and rewoven whilst
the ghosts of suitors wait in the
anteroom--they are as air, no
burden upon the household
and where, from here? the road,
though straight, crops up, uneven,
stubborn patches creased and
cracked, though her soles,
her soul, has adapted to it all,
ripping the bandages off at intervals,
ruthless, relentless, without a word.
a room perhaps, of quiet, where
burnished-gold afternoon turns
into slate-blue evening, the
birdsong singing her, finally, to sleep
dotage, the infants born with
indignant screams, flailing their arms
into hers, pillar of salt dissolved
into a river
soaking the scrubs of
the doctor, down to
the soles of his shoes
silver threaded through brown, the
tapestry woven and rewoven whilst
the ghosts of suitors wait in the
anteroom--they are as air, no
burden upon the household
and where, from here? the road,
though straight, crops up, uneven,
stubborn patches creased and
cracked, though her soles,
her soul, has adapted to it all,
ripping the bandages off at intervals,
ruthless, relentless, without a word.
a room perhaps, of quiet, where
burnished-gold afternoon turns
into slate-blue evening, the
birdsong singing her, finally, to sleep
29 September 2012
On Receiving Her Twenty-seventh Rejection Slip From the New Yorker
the envelope slits open easily, as most do.
well. so.
you must go, and write a poem about
hedgehogs, hopefully hedgehogs who know
how to gather blackberries (their eyes glinting
back, fresh and unrelenting) crowding the tin pail,
from which mother will make
comforting puddings in oil-painted Ireland
mend the fence, too, whilst you have
a chance, before the neighbors speak
of it
shred that last renewal notice
and enclosed promotional slips for tote bags and
desk diaries
embossed with the elegant gentleman
who hasn't a whiff of silage about him--
bury 'em deep beneath that stony grey soil....
ah, how the lights dim!
turn up the gas, scald the pot,
and make tea for the both of us
before we're off to bed
well. so.
you must go, and write a poem about
hedgehogs, hopefully hedgehogs who know
how to gather blackberries (their eyes glinting
back, fresh and unrelenting) crowding the tin pail,
from which mother will make
comforting puddings in oil-painted Ireland
mend the fence, too, whilst you have
a chance, before the neighbors speak
of it
shred that last renewal notice
and enclosed promotional slips for tote bags and
desk diaries
embossed with the elegant gentleman
who hasn't a whiff of silage about him--
bury 'em deep beneath that stony grey soil....
ah, how the lights dim!
turn up the gas, scald the pot,
and make tea for the both of us
before we're off to bed
22 September 2012
EMBARK/Peekskill Performing & Literary Arts Festival 2012
Via the "Peekskill Patch" ---
EMBARK | PEEKSKILL, Performing & Literary Arts PRESENTS 3 DAYS OF PERFORMANCES - Oct. 5, 6 & 7 in Downtown Peekskill
Embark|Peekskill, Performing & Literary Arts, a not-for-profit coalition of performing and literary artists and companies from Peekskill and surrounding communities will host its second Performing & Literary Arts Festival over the weekend of October 5, 6 & 7. Performances will occur at multiple locations in downtown Peekskill and at Peekskill’s state of the art Middle School Theater. Local presenters include: YCP TheaterWorks, Hand to Mouth Players,Andrea Elam’s Synapse Dance Company,Antonia Arts’ The Wiz Kidz, Mark Sinnis,Raygull, and Matt Norris. Literary offerings will feature Antonia’s South Street Poets and local writers Andrew Acciaro, Cindy Beer-Fouhy,Ian Berger, Patrice Klubnik, MaryAnn McCarra-Fitzpatrick, Natalia Ortega-Brown,Dan Shapiro, Maureen Winzig and Elocin Yrneh.
On Friday, Oct. 5, Teatro SEA, a returning guest company from NYC, will present their award winningbilingual musical, VIVA PINOCHO! A Mexican Pinocchio with Peekskill’s own and returning guest artist Magician Margaret Steele as the opening act on Friday, Oct. 5 at 6:30 pm at Peekskill’s Middle School Theater. Tickets at the door $20 Adults, $10 Kids under 12 or for $12 & $8 when purchased in advance through the Dual Language Program or the Oakside School-PTO (contact: 917-692-2372). Join us at our Festival Opening Night Party featuring Antonia’s South Street Poets and Mary Crescenzo and Friends, featuring David August, Paul Mesches and Brian Delma Taylor.
On Saturday, Oct. 6, Alyssa & Peter Reit of Singing Harp will entertain families with their rendition ofThe Ugly Ducking. Fusion-belly dancer, Chantal Mariani and local dancer/choreographer, Andrea Elam will capture us with their dances followed by our Literary Director Ian Berger’s SECOND CHANCE, an interactive event featuring local writers while local actress/director, Marilyn Heberling,is performing the one woman comedy Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet at Kathleen’s Tea Room. Beale Street Barber Shop will host WINE & JAM with a cool line up of musicians including his owner, singer/songwriter, Mark Sinnis while Dylan’s Cellar and Gleason’s provide wine tasting and pizza sampling. Hand to Mouth Players and YCP TheaterWorks will perform an evening of one acts. The Bitchy Waiter, a returning guest artist, whose hilariously biting blog has landed him a large internet following and a recent spot on the Dr. Phil show, will share his musings with the post-theatre cocktail crowd during Night Cap Variety at the Division Street Grill at 9:00 pm, also featuring, R&B group The Nippy Thieves and storyteller/puppeteer for adults, Sarah W. Young.
On Sunday, Oct. 7, in addition to Hand To Mouth Players, YCP TheaterWorks encore presentation, we are excited to present from NYC new Guest Artist, Willfull Pictures who will amuse us with their one act, O Feel Ya, a spoof on Shakespeare’s Hamlet at EMC. 12 Grapes will host a Cabaret featuring Embark’s Executive Director, actress/singer/director Katie Schmidt Feder’sLonging, Leaving and Loving and dancer Barbara Nadel’s Sounds of Joy: A Tap Cabaret. Join us for our FREE Festival Finale CONCERT on North Division Street featuring The Wiz Kidz, Rising Stars, Chordsmen, G-21 Soul and Brian Delma Taylor & Chaka Ngwenya. Enjoy the theater & music on the showmobile and the restaurants on this Columbus Holiday Weekend!
See performance schedule for times & venues, ticket prices and the amazing individual and family packages. Many offerings will be FREE of charge. Also, tickets can be purchased individually at the door of each performance or online at brownpapertickets.com (search by PEEKSKILL). For more info, visit www.embarkpeekskill.com or email us at embarkpeekskill@gmail.com or Embark|Peekskill on Facebook.
EMBARK | Peekskill is a coalition of performing and literary artists and community members committed to the establishment and development of a Performing and Literary Arts Center for Peekskill as a home and venue. It is our goal to be a partner and collaborator with artists, arts alliances, and supporters of the arts. EMBARK seeks to encourage understanding of the role the arts play in building community and in celebrating diversity.
16 September 2012
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Performing and Literary Arts Festival 2012, 5th, 6th, and 7th October.
EMBARK/Peekskill - Performing and Literary Arts Festival
5th, 6th, and 7th October 2012
Venues: Energy Movement Center, Peekskill Middle School, Division Street Grill, Beale Street Barbershop, Kathleen's Tea Room, 12 Grapes, City of Peekskill Showmobile on North Division Street.
For FULL FESTIVAL CALENDAR visit http://www.embarkpeekskill.com
Many FREE performances. Festival PACKAGES available!!
Tickets at the door venues have limited seating.....reservations: http://www.brownpapertickets.com
Available 20th September.
Contacts: embarkpeekskill@gmail.com or 347-453-3182
http://www.embarkpeekskill.com
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Performing and Literary Arts Festival
11 September 2012
http://www.indiegogo.com/thefreeartproject
The Free Art Project......
Bringing poetry to the people....
Click on the link to support this very worthy cause. Every little bit helps!! ;- )
The Free Art Project......
Bringing poetry to the people....
Click on the link to support this very worthy cause. Every little bit helps!! ;- )
04 September 2012
Thursday the 6th of September......
The BeanRunner Poetry Project -- First Thursday of Each Month
Poetry Writing Workshop: 6:00 p.m. to 6:45 p.m.
Poetry Open Mic: 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.
BeanRunner Cafe
201 South Division Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
914-737-1701
http://www.beanrunnercafe.com/test/index.php#
http://www.beanrunnercafe.com/test/index.php#
The BeanRunner Poetry Project -- First Thursday of Each Month
Poetry Writing Workshop: 6:00 p.m. to 6:45 p.m.
Poetry Open Mic: 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.
BeanRunner Cafe
201 South Division Street
Peekskill, NY 10566
914-737-1701
http://www.beanrunnercafe.com/test/index.php#
01 September 2012
Reading on 6th October 2012 at the EMBARK/PEEKSKILL Festival!!!
EMBARK/PEEKSKILL -- Festival -- October 5th, 6th, and 7th
Very pleased to have been invited to read on Saturday the 6th of October at the Energy Movement Center, located at 925 South Street, in Peekskill, NY.
Our Writers, 4:00 p.m. to 5:30 p.m., hosted by Mr. Ian Berger (FREE EVENT) at the Energy Movement Center followed by Wine and Jam at 5:30 p.m., featuring local musicians, wine tasting by Dylan's Cellar, and pizza sampling by Gleason's to be held at Beale Street Barbershop, 907 South Street, Peekskill, NY.
Check out the website: Embark/Peekskill 2012 for a full listing of events!!!
http://www.embarkpeekskill.com/#festival
http://www.embarkpeekskill.com/#festival
Very pleased to have been invited to read on Saturday the 6th of October at the Energy Movement Center, located at 925 South Street, in Peekskill, NY.
Our Writers, 4:00 p.m. to 5:30 p.m., hosted by Mr. Ian Berger (FREE EVENT) at the Energy Movement Center followed by Wine and Jam at 5:30 p.m., featuring local musicians, wine tasting by Dylan's Cellar, and pizza sampling by Gleason's to be held at Beale Street Barbershop, 907 South Street, Peekskill, NY.
Check out the website: Embark/Peekskill 2012 for a full listing of events!!!
http://www.embarkpeekskill.com/#festival
http://www.embarkpeekskill.com/#festival
12 July 2012
Dream of America
I dream of America and
all those neon nights of
flashing ATMs and off-duty
taxis speeding past us
meanwhile, we seek freedom
from want and fear, to worship
as we please (or not at all)
and to write our own story
amidst those acres of corn and
soybeans stretching as far as
the eye can see, scratching it
out on sidewalks, chalking it
down on the playgrounds, scripting it
down on the sloping driveways as
the sun falls and the fireflies
blink out their morse code
into the inkyblack preceding
silvery dawn and another day
heatscorched
all those neon nights of
flashing ATMs and off-duty
taxis speeding past us
meanwhile, we seek freedom
from want and fear, to worship
as we please (or not at all)
and to write our own story
amidst those acres of corn and
soybeans stretching as far as
the eye can see, scratching it
out on sidewalks, chalking it
down on the playgrounds, scripting it
down on the sloping driveways as
the sun falls and the fireflies
blink out their morse code
into the inkyblack preceding
silvery dawn and another day
heatscorched
Night-Time
this fabric frayed at the edges,
the binding worn, the
floral plain faded from
washings and dryings
this common comfort folded
and placed next to
the stack of new towels, jewel-bright,
magazine-layout fresh
echos of the sickroom, the
anxious nights waiting for
the fever to break, minutes
turning to hours waiting for a
word, for ordinary hunger
to return, like a lost friend,
familiar, who you happily feed
but, before that, the measuring of
medicine with quavering hands,
squinting at text too-small-almost-
to-read, the temperature-taking and
the wordless prayer, in every breath,
that all will be well
the binding worn, the
floral plain faded from
washings and dryings
this common comfort folded
and placed next to
the stack of new towels, jewel-bright,
magazine-layout fresh
echos of the sickroom, the
anxious nights waiting for
the fever to break, minutes
turning to hours waiting for a
word, for ordinary hunger
to return, like a lost friend,
familiar, who you happily feed
but, before that, the measuring of
medicine with quavering hands,
squinting at text too-small-almost-
to-read, the temperature-taking and
the wordless prayer, in every breath,
that all will be well
Blue Shirts, Scorched
the woman in the rock changes
in the seasons--now you see her
face in profile, then again she
disappears beyond a curtain
of greenery, shading her from
the sun, giving refuge to animals
of all ilk, glittering eyes watching
all as they come and go, eating
and being eaten, hatching out their
young, feeding the same, evading
those predators who would consume
one
war on her and the pike comes out.
immovable stone, stolid, unblastable
rock, reaching down to the molten
centre of the earth, giving her
that heat to warm others, to
warn others
the blue shirts, scorched, top
the bonfire, flames riddling
the rubbish while the printed
word looks on in silent paragraphs
and the seasons change, and
she does too, her aspect changing
with the coursing of the sun
in the seasons--now you see her
face in profile, then again she
disappears beyond a curtain
of greenery, shading her from
the sun, giving refuge to animals
of all ilk, glittering eyes watching
all as they come and go, eating
and being eaten, hatching out their
young, feeding the same, evading
those predators who would consume
one
war on her and the pike comes out.
immovable stone, stolid, unblastable
rock, reaching down to the molten
centre of the earth, giving her
that heat to warm others, to
warn others
the blue shirts, scorched, top
the bonfire, flames riddling
the rubbish while the printed
word looks on in silent paragraphs
and the seasons change, and
she does too, her aspect changing
with the coursing of the sun
Continental Drift
this continental drift, as
inevitable as ice cream on
a summer day, the
creamy beads dripping down
their fingers
at the very last, the door
slammed an exclamation
mark to end the sentence
counted out in years, the
papery-thick greeting cards
standing at attention
on the mantel
the spines of his books
still unbroken, smooth to
the touch, some others, better read,
titles obscured to the eye
she counts them, one, two, three,
then loses track and must
start again, anew
inevitable as ice cream on
a summer day, the
creamy beads dripping down
their fingers
at the very last, the door
slammed an exclamation
mark to end the sentence
counted out in years, the
papery-thick greeting cards
standing at attention
on the mantel
the spines of his books
still unbroken, smooth to
the touch, some others, better read,
titles obscured to the eye
she counts them, one, two, three,
then loses track and must
start again, anew
Thick With Superstition
pleatings of color upon color,
glossy-thick, along with fishwrappers
printed black/white/black/white/
black/white
[while the ribbon, red, around
her wrist, daily wards off
the evil eye, and she, thick with
superstition, goes on]
local rows, in white and black
are more to her interest, the gate
hanging, broken-hinged,
the fence unmended, some squabble
over the marking of an acre
through which she walks at night,
trip, trippingly, the stars her only
light until she finds another mouth and
he, hers
let anyone talk across her? Oh no. She will be
speaking, speaking, speaking
long after they are all weighed down
by that stony grey soil
glossy-thick, along with fishwrappers
printed black/white/black/white/
black/white
[while the ribbon, red, around
her wrist, daily wards off
the evil eye, and she, thick with
superstition, goes on]
local rows, in white and black
are more to her interest, the gate
hanging, broken-hinged,
the fence unmended, some squabble
over the marking of an acre
through which she walks at night,
trip, trippingly, the stars her only
light until she finds another mouth and
he, hers
let anyone talk across her? Oh no. She will be
speaking, speaking, speaking
long after they are all weighed down
by that stony grey soil
Land of the Badger Warren
in the land of the badger warren, Sunday-
that day of rest- is now spent in the
shopping centre
while he flies home to dollybird and
the four chickens
her sleep shattered (a pleasant dream, too) by
a telephone call from Honduras
now, her business her own,
twisting the sheets round, round,
round, then packing them flat, the
words already written upon them
and Big Ned still stinks of
silage after all these years, the
moldy odor of it never quite
gone from his boots
No post on Sunday (or shall we
call it the mail?) the circulars
slip, slipping from her fingers to
the rubbish bin below
that day of rest- is now spent in the
shopping centre
while he flies home to dollybird and
the four chickens
her sleep shattered (a pleasant dream, too) by
a telephone call from Honduras
now, her business her own,
twisting the sheets round, round,
round, then packing them flat, the
words already written upon them
and Big Ned still stinks of
silage after all these years, the
moldy odor of it never quite
gone from his boots
No post on Sunday (or shall we
call it the mail?) the circulars
slip, slipping from her fingers to
the rubbish bin below
Spring-Operated Woman
see her there?
she's the original (never-to-be-duplicated)
spring-operated woman, the
copper coils tight-wound to give her
that extra, unexpected bounce to
her step as she clears the rough-hewn stumps,
puddles of muck, and the occasional corpse
blocking her way
well-schooled in the science of
beauty, too, aided by white-coated
armies and their squat jars,
dab, dab, daub, lest
you become a drab, lipstick feathering
out, a peacock's tail (quick! avert
the eyes and seek out younger, more
supple
flesh)
wind her up and see her go-go-go,
hand-lettered sign (SPECIAL COFFEE 50 CENTS) brings
her to the shop of the darkeyed man
pouring silver, like a river, into her
outstretched hand
she's the original (never-to-be-duplicated)
spring-operated woman, the
copper coils tight-wound to give her
that extra, unexpected bounce to
her step as she clears the rough-hewn stumps,
puddles of muck, and the occasional corpse
blocking her way
well-schooled in the science of
beauty, too, aided by white-coated
armies and their squat jars,
dab, dab, daub, lest
you become a drab, lipstick feathering
out, a peacock's tail (quick! avert
the eyes and seek out younger, more
supple
flesh)
wind her up and see her go-go-go,
hand-lettered sign (SPECIAL COFFEE 50 CENTS) brings
her to the shop of the darkeyed man
pouring silver, like a river, into her
outstretched hand
Cutting Romaine Into Ribbons
no time like the present, she thinks,
cutting romaine into green ribbons
clinging to the white inside of the
bowl, damp from being just-washed,
her hands perpetually wet, it seems,
and her face to the fire, stoking
those coals to produce plate after
plate proffered at table, the
jumble of silver made a pretty sound,
like bells it was, as she dropped
them on the cloth, the blade of
the knife mirroring back two eyes
two hands, two ears, a mouth,
close-pared fingernails that peel
the protective seal from the ketchup,
screwing the lid back on tight, tight
the bell sound brings her back, back to
the black night under the stars, the
vigil over, walking home the long
way, the taste of the open air upon her tongue
cutting romaine into green ribbons
clinging to the white inside of the
bowl, damp from being just-washed,
her hands perpetually wet, it seems,
and her face to the fire, stoking
those coals to produce plate after
plate proffered at table, the
jumble of silver made a pretty sound,
like bells it was, as she dropped
them on the cloth, the blade of
the knife mirroring back two eyes
two hands, two ears, a mouth,
close-pared fingernails that peel
the protective seal from the ketchup,
screwing the lid back on tight, tight
the bell sound brings her back, back to
the black night under the stars, the
vigil over, walking home the long
way, the taste of the open air upon her tongue
20 May 2012
09 May 2012
Poetry Reading, Sat. 12th May, 3:00 p.m. - 5:00 p.m., BeanRunner Cafe, Peekskill, NY
BeanRunner Cafe
201 South Division Street
Peekskill, NY
914-737-1701
Saturday
May 12
3:00 pm
to
5:00 pm
Poetry Reading and Book Signing
with Mervyn Taylor, Margo Stever
Mervyn Taylor is a Trinidad-born poet, dividing his time between Brooklyn, NY and his island home. He has taught at Bronx Community College, The New School and in NYC public schools, and is the author of four books of poetry: An Island of His Own (1992), The Goat (1999), Gone Away (2006), and No Back Door (2010), recipient of the Paterson Award for Sustained Literary Achievement. Taylor can be heard reading on an audio collection, Road Clear, accompanied by renowned bassist David Williams.
Margo Taft Stever, an award-winning poet, is author of THE HUDSON LINE (Main Street Rag, 2012). Her first book, Frozen Spring (2002), was the winner of the Mid-List Press First Series Award for Poetry, and her chapbook, Reading the Night Sky, won the 1996 Riverstone Poetry Chapbook Competition. She is founder of The Hudson Valley Writers' Center and the founding editor of the Center's small press imprint, Slapering Hol Press.
Books for purchase, poets will sign after the reading.
201 South Division Street
Peekskill, NY
914-737-1701
Saturday
May 12
3:00 pm
to
5:00 pm
Poetry Reading and Book Signing
with Mervyn Taylor, Margo Stever
Mervyn Taylor is a Trinidad-born poet, dividing his time between Brooklyn, NY and his island home. He has taught at Bronx Community College, The New School and in NYC public schools, and is the author of four books of poetry: An Island of His Own (1992), The Goat (1999), Gone Away (2006), and No Back Door (2010), recipient of the Paterson Award for Sustained Literary Achievement. Taylor can be heard reading on an audio collection, Road Clear, accompanied by renowned bassist David Williams.
Margo Taft Stever, an award-winning poet, is author of THE HUDSON LINE (Main Street Rag, 2012). Her first book, Frozen Spring (2002), was the winner of the Mid-List Press First Series Award for Poetry, and her chapbook, Reading the Night Sky, won the 1996 Riverstone Poetry Chapbook Competition. She is founder of The Hudson Valley Writers' Center and the founding editor of the Center's small press imprint, Slapering Hol Press.
Books for purchase, poets will sign after the reading.
05 May 2012
Finalist in the 40th Annual Poetry Contest held by the Town of Greenburgh, NY
Many thanks to the Arts and Culture Committee of the Town of Greenburgh, New York for selecting me as one of the finalists in their 40th Annual Poetry Contest!!!
03 May 2012
26 February 2012
07 February 2012
"Metropolitan Diary" e-book now available on the Amazon.com website!!
MaryAnn's new e-book "Metropolitan Diary" is now available as a Kindle e-book on the Amazon.com website. Check it out!!
Only .99 cents....great value for money!
Cheers,
MaryAnn
http://www.amazon.com/Metropolitan-Diary-ebook/dp/B0076NHGL0/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1328664177&sr=1-3
http://www.amazon.com
01 February 2012
"Break Room" published in the February 2012 issue of Chronogram magazine
MaryAnn's poem, "Break Room" appears on page 69 of the February issue of Chronogram magazine.
http://issuu.com/chronogram/docs/chronogram_0212?mode=embed&layout=http%3A%2F%2Fskin.issuu.com%2Fv%2Flight%2Flayout.xml&showFlipBtn
Read Chronogram magazine online, by clicking on the link to their website (see list of links to the lower right of this page).
http://www/chronogram.com
27 January 2012
Publication forthcoming in "Chronogram" -- February 2012
MaryAnn's poem, "Break Room" will appear in the February 2012 issue of Chronogram magazine. It is distributed widely in the Hudson Valley, NY area....and one may subscribe as well....
Check them out online at:
http://www.chronogram.com
Chronogram is the Mid-Hudson magazine of events and ideas, featuring arts, culture and spirit, all year long. Get 12 monthly issues delivered to your door for $60 (US).
314 Wall Street
Kingston, NY 12401
24 January 2012
Slipknot
and do not go from me she said,
and do not go from me though
the days tick off quick as a
metronome
she wraps her hands around his
throat, arranging his scarf
until it winds, blue-grey, snaking, below the
slate of his eyes, lash-fringed black
last night she dreamt he
died, and, with him, her heart,
lost like a balloon into the
blank copybook sheet above
the Grand Concourse, dissolved
as in a salt-sea, a bird-speck
against grey and
no one to be called at all
and do not go from me though
the days tick off quick as a
metronome
she wraps her hands around his
throat, arranging his scarf
until it winds, blue-grey, snaking, below the
slate of his eyes, lash-fringed black
last night she dreamt he
died, and, with him, her heart,
lost like a balloon into the
blank copybook sheet above
the Grand Concourse, dissolved
as in a salt-sea, a bird-speck
against grey and
no one to be called at all
Crockery
those stolid matrons, beef
to the heel, arranging their
crockery, pensive at a
certain sound or the
gold bars of light falling, crossways,
striping the carpet, finally fading
as the car door slams, hollow, and
eyes, onion-stung, survey
the dinner upon that field
of flowers, bluebells here, then
hollyhocks, then poppies bleeding
to the edge of the plate
marked with a pattern-name
and date, twice-fired, vitrified
to withstand the heat and the
damage of cutlery clattering, the
accidental touch in the kitchen, too,
as the moon rises up, a single,
unblinking eye
espying the bones, sucked dry of their marrow,
piled high, scraps and leavings of
another day gone past
to the heel, arranging their
crockery, pensive at a
certain sound or the
gold bars of light falling, crossways,
striping the carpet, finally fading
as the car door slams, hollow, and
eyes, onion-stung, survey
the dinner upon that field
of flowers, bluebells here, then
hollyhocks, then poppies bleeding
to the edge of the plate
marked with a pattern-name
and date, twice-fired, vitrified
to withstand the heat and the
damage of cutlery clattering, the
accidental touch in the kitchen, too,
as the moon rises up, a single,
unblinking eye
espying the bones, sucked dry of their marrow,
piled high, scraps and leavings of
another day gone past
Renovations
this heat drains him--she is surprised
to hear him say--yet she has her
own catalogue of ills, those
nights spent sleepless, gazing upon
the bright-numeraled clock, counting the hours until
we dash, again, into the fray, empty-
handed, naked as newborns
the strands of silver, too, brushed at
dawn, the knees that ache upon ascending
a stairwell, migraine tablets grasped
as curtains are drawn tightly together
so time hurries on and we are
not as we were in those
fondly remembered
days and evenings past
one hand scours away while the
other builds up, always laying a
new foundation or a
fresh coat of paint,
addressing the damages done by
time weathering on--he winks at
us and smiles--
he has seen it all before
to hear him say--yet she has her
own catalogue of ills, those
nights spent sleepless, gazing upon
the bright-numeraled clock, counting the hours until
we dash, again, into the fray, empty-
handed, naked as newborns
the strands of silver, too, brushed at
dawn, the knees that ache upon ascending
a stairwell, migraine tablets grasped
as curtains are drawn tightly together
so time hurries on and we are
not as we were in those
fondly remembered
days and evenings past
one hand scours away while the
other builds up, always laying a
new foundation or a
fresh coat of paint,
addressing the damages done by
time weathering on--he winks at
us and smiles--
he has seen it all before
Arcadian Days
immortal past, unfolded like
the origami from his
pockets, those squares, rectangles,
triangles of white, wordthick,
insulating him from the cold,
his love hanging like a lei
around his neck, between them
the blossoms yellow, sickly sweet,
an old memory pressed
between the sheets
of a volume left in her mailbox, the
note post-dated while
icicle-teeth, jagged, hang down from
the eaves as if to consume her whole,
blood, brain and gristle
three automobiles, tarpshrouded, in
blue, black, tan, flap, flap, in the
sudden breath of wind strained through tree-
limbs, morse code of heat ticking up
from the furnace, a red sky tonight
their arms entwined now, as roots overgrown
thick with moss, velvet green, his gloved
hand in hers, twisting her ring, the circle
broken by stones mined in those
carefully-footnoted arcadian days
the origami from his
pockets, those squares, rectangles,
triangles of white, wordthick,
insulating him from the cold,
his love hanging like a lei
around his neck, between them
the blossoms yellow, sickly sweet,
an old memory pressed
between the sheets
of a volume left in her mailbox, the
note post-dated while
icicle-teeth, jagged, hang down from
the eaves as if to consume her whole,
blood, brain and gristle
three automobiles, tarpshrouded, in
blue, black, tan, flap, flap, in the
sudden breath of wind strained through tree-
limbs, morse code of heat ticking up
from the furnace, a red sky tonight
their arms entwined now, as roots overgrown
thick with moss, velvet green, his gloved
hand in hers, twisting her ring, the circle
broken by stones mined in those
carefully-footnoted arcadian days
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