Posts tagged ‘2018’

Friday, 3 February 2023

Another Time and Place Where We Might Belong by Brian Obiri-Asare

in this divided city, a black man
passing you by in the street usually nods –
a way of opening up another time
and place where we might belong.
and in this divided city, there are
those tough days you want to forget
what it is like living here, that as hard
as you struggle to find new roots
is almost as hard as you struggled to leave.

you return a black man’s nod today because
you have decided to blame colonialism
and whiteism and capitalism. how else could
it be that in this divided city you feel so black
and so blue? and since you returned his nod today
you might be able to shed lonely tears tonight,
at least there’s a possibility of healing in that.
and then you wouldn’t have to admit it, not yet,
not to yourself, that real healing
will only be possible once we shift
some essential part of our being.

From: https://foame.org/home/article/another-time-and-place-where-we-might-belong/

Date: 2018

By: Brian Obiri-Asare (19??- )

Wednesday, 11 January 2023

Ghost-Bird by Paul McMahon

     – for Kieran McMahon

The feathers
of a snatched bird

still in the shape
of its living form

floating in the air
like the exhaled breath

of an invisible
breather

*

the last shadow

cast the moment
the bird was taken,

showing
its presence,

its absence.

From: https://www.poetryireland.ie/publications/poetry-ireland-review/online-archive/view/ghost-bird

Date: 2018

By: Paul McMahon (19??- )

Sunday, 27 November 2022

The Angel Gabriel Talks Annunciation to Mary by Margaret Benbow

Before he’s said a word,
even as he bends the knee and rears his
wings in golden branches that wow them every time
(the more the little peasant is impressed, the faster this will be)
his eye is mournfully absorbed in what he sees.
She’s still a child, he can smell
honey and dairy on her, and just now she secretly
put out a finger in wonder to touch a feather.

Gabriel lugs the huge gold nugget words Messiah baby
into the conversation early, dazzles those big eyes:
but he saves the awkward
Crucifixion, with its spiky thorns,
for later, or never. Also, wrong time to mention
five wounds, or drop those bricks
lash, wood, nail, storm, tomb.

Leave it to life to tell her. After all, he’s not lying:
she will bear the main earthman of all time.
She’ll lose him, but
time chars all our beloveds.
Gabriel sighs just once.
Then like the whip-length of snake who first sold Eve the apple
he fixes Mary with a gaze
bright and old as quartz in granite:

Have I got a sweet deal for you.

From: https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/the-angel-gabriel-talks-annunciation-to-mary-by-margaret-benbow

Date: 2018

By: Margaret Benbow (19??- )

Monday, 7 November 2022

Defiant by Patricia Spears Jones

Fruit from one vine tangles with another
Making a mess of the intended harvest, yet
the lack of calculation is welcome

that accident that shifts bodies from shadows
into a locus of light midday bright & caustic
wounds un-healed newsreel cameras trap

this old & angry man in a bespoke suit lifting
white pages & refusing to read them, mumbles
unwelcome threats & thanks the nation

the nation kicks him out—finally defiant
after years of misrule, disruption, murder
and the choked voice youth terrorized

he wants more blood on his hands so that
when he enters his version of paradise
all will be red.

From: https://poets.org/poem/defiant

Date: 2018

By: Patricia Spears Jones (1951- )

Sunday, 9 October 2022

It’s the Way of Passing Things by Wendy Fulton Steginsky

For Liz

Michael, child, you added heft
and beauty to the world. Your eyes
were brighter than the silvery glints
of a disappearing perch as it cuts water.

It’s the way of passing things.
Yes… No. We cannot give your death
meaning nor tuck its edges in
to fit our idea of the order of things.

We believed you were unstoppable
blossoming Spring. It’s the way
of passing things. Yes… No.
Greedy death poaches our innocents.

The leaves are heavy with silken grieving,
curled with the burden.
It’s the way of passing things.
O child, O sweet ineffable breath.

From: https://www.riverheronreview.com/poemsandpoets#/wendy-steginsky

Date: 2018

By: Wendy Fulton Steginsky (19??- )

Friday, 7 October 2022

I Couldn’t Throw Dirt on Your Casket by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee

The rabbi floated like a magician.
Your casket we chose, bronze colored.

It was closed, as was the custom.
And at the grave, everyone took turns

shoveling some dirt onto your casket,
like a token gesture. I could not do it.

For me, it was like throwing dirt at you.
It dignified nothing. I’d throw a line of life,

not death. Who could say you wouldn’t know it?
Who could prove that the dead do not create

a force, distinguished on the particles felt
between us?

From: https://rappahannockreview.com/issue-5-3/contents/poetry/donna-j-gelagotis-lee/

Date: 2018

By: Donna J. Gelagotis Lee (19??- )

Friday, 30 September 2022

SONNET FOR SILVIA FEDERICI by Anne Boyer

HOW DO WE COLLECTIVIZE REPRODUCTIVE LABOR?
IS THE FAMILY ENOUGH FOR YOU?
IS THE COUPLE ENOUGH FOR YOU?
WHAT WILL YOU DO WHEN YOU ARE OLD OR INFIRM?

WHAT STANDS BETWEEN YOU AND THE COMMUNE?
WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE IF YOU HAD WHAT YOU NEEDED?
WHAT IS OURS?
HOW TO GET IT?

HOW TO LIVE LIKE ELEPHANTS WITH ARCHITECTURE?
HOW MANY CHILDREN WOULD YOU CARE FOR IF THEY DIDN’T
HAVE TO BE YOURS?
HOW MANY MOTHERS, SISTERS, BROTHERS, and LOVERS WOULD
YOU LOVE IF THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO BE YOURS?

HOW DO WE END THE TRAGEDY OF OUR ATOMIZATION?
HOW DO WE END THE TRAGEDY?

From: https://jacket2.org/poems/sonnet-silvia-federici

Date: 2018

By: Anne Boyer (1973- )

Tuesday, 20 September 2022

Healer, Healer, Witch by Sally Rosen Kindred

1.
Katharina Kepler
is mother of Johannes—
astrologer, alchemist, keeper of planets

and their laws—and mother
of Heinrich, Margaretha, Christoph, matron
of Sun Inn, of candles and locks.

Married a mercenary
out the door in four years to Flanders, Corfu.
Dragged him back once to Weil, but he left again.

Married tough greens and a broom full of rain.
Is a healer. Is a healer.
Not a witch.

Wakes in the dark to tend the cows and clear their stalls.
Makes spelt-cakes on Fridays, makes cabbages and bread,
makes hay and carries it by hand

from the outer barn on her
own, because the children are always
small, pox-weak or off at school—

is a healer sleepless
during fever weeks, her thumbs on the town’s damp
lids, the pestle, the poultice, until a boy at the market

eats roots from her winter hands
and gets sicker.
Is a place on no one’s map

of the moon. Wants to weep
for the planets now, dangling as they must
from her son’s hard mind. Wants

to know what’s in the letter
he’s sent from university, but when
she begs the schoolmaster to read it

he says No.
Later he’ll say her voice burned ice,
then her breasts melted red through his door.

Wants to be called Daughter again, hear her common name.
Does not care anymore how the planets move,
though once she showed her sons the evening star,

once she worked beneath it in summer winds
picking up speed with the scythe as the fields went dark,
bent and swinging,

the children already in their beds.
Out of love she moved in the scythe’s lit song, believed
none of them would wander.

2.
Katharina Kepler
dreams she does not dream.
Lies down on the prison stone in 1620,

chain at her wrist like snow. Lies
down at last and does not rise
for choleric cows or children. Tonight

she heals no one. Heinrich
has accused her to the court; Christoph gave
her up. Margaretha sweeps a far hearth, busy

with her family. Only Johannes
is awake somewhere, thinking of her, his mind
in the same stone dark. Let him think.

She has her hands on her own face,
can feel in sleep her skin buckle, harden, can feel
herself become the churchyard hill

she climbed once to see the comet—
dreams she wakes now cloud-furled,
dreams she flies

through space, finally a body burning ice.

Johannes stands far below on the hill, a boy again
lifting his hand to her, tender,
tipping his chin to her sky.

Does he hurt down there? She heals
no one—
she can only scorch and fly—

and now she is a girl, running through black grass
to a witch whose silk arms
stretch out to claim her:

in this ring of daisies flaring
under stars, she arrives into warm folds. They hold
each other and are held

in the cape of night, in a meadow made
from blooms and her own voice, from a cauldron of herbs and Mother air—
her song, her shroud, this nevertheless.

From: https://www.bearreview.com/sally-rosen-kindred-two-poems

Date: 2018

By: Sally Rosen Kindred (19??- )

Friday, 2 September 2022

Sentience as an Outing to the Zoo by Nomi Stone

Children throw pebbles
at the jeweled head
of the peacock and bark back
at the seals. Who

can say what happens
inside each bright life?

Scientists study the brain’s
ancient core in insects:
no, not dark inside, not simple
reflex—it feels like something

to be a bee. Livid with loss,
a hive rears a new queen. Bees,

groggy, hold each others’ legs
as they fall sleep. Bees! They cling
to a car all the way down I-95,
their queen inside.

From: https://athenaeumreview.org/poem/sentience-as-an-outing-to-the-zoo/

Date: 2018

By: Nomi Stone (19??- )

Saturday, 20 August 2022

Road Radio by Joseph Stanton

Hearing a song today, sudden on my car radio,
a song I heard often forty years ago,
when I drove
hour after hour, day after day, night after night
across the continent,

thinking, as I did then,
about love or what I thought love was
and not knowing, really,
who I was or might be,
but just driving, driving, driving,

and playing over and over again in my mind
that irritating, inescapable tune,
and wondering, as I did then, why I needed to get somewhere
and wondering if I even knew
where I would be.

From: https://boomerlitmag.com/joseph-stanton/

Date: 2018

By: Joseph Stanton (1949- )