Month: September 2017

Donelle Dreese – Five Poems

Donelle Dreese – Five Poems   Earth Mothers They came in early spring. They asked the hard, dry fields to be patient. They folded dirt into buckets and planted seeds not knowing if the green shoots of prayer would bear fruit. They surrounded an Oriole’s cradle packed with eggs and sang songs in low-throated melodies of birth. They brought with them tones of the sea hoping the memories of marshlands would feed the waterfowl. The earth mothers come every spring and we don’t see them, rowing and sowing dangling spit on their fields when the rain doesn’t come. They...

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Emily Bowles – Three Poems

Emily Bowles – Three Poems   Unearthing Your Name, Its Roots You chose the name, Astrea, a cognate for star that sounds like a flower in weeds. We find them here.  They grow, deliberate, as if they understand how to arrange patterns defiant of what you create. Hairy White Oldfield Aster, Frost Aster. I can’t name them–the blooms retaliate, unruly as they grow into edges where they do not belong.  Subordinate, bowing, but defiantly wearing white crowns. Cedar Waxwing in Our House A primordial instinct urges him to catch it. He carries it inside for us to see it....

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LaShonda Katrice Barnett – July’s Jonquils

LaShonda Katrice Barnett    July’s Jonquils   St. Louis, 1942  “Are grits groceries?  Are eggs poultry?  Now Fritz, how long have I been coming to you?  You know better than to ask a question like that.  Of course I prefer the piece with all the marbled fat.  Since they took my gall bladder last April, after the thing swelled up so big and nearly popped right inside me, you might as well give me the fattest piece you’ve got.  The fat’s what seasons the meat better than salt and pepper ever could.  You know that.” “Two you’ll take, Mrs. W. ...

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Steven Ostrowski – Four Poems

As long as we are at least partly receptive, when we encounter genuine beauty, in any of its forms, its power temporarily overrides our default consciousness (which is often only a rote semi-consciousness) and, for a period of time that feels halted, it reconfigures our perceptions, our emotions, our points of view, our intellect. It is as if some of the atoms of a beautiful form enter us and some of ours enter it in a transaction that creates a most personal, intimate experience.  

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Charles Wyatt – Six Poems

When I think of beauty, I think of music.  Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.  That kind of music.  Well, it’s been my day job for a long time.  If I could write a poem that does what the opening measures of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande do, I would pay myself a million bucks.  I spent fifteen years writing a poem called Goldberg-Variations that comes from the pov of a piece of music. 

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