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
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
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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"
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