Poems From The Bathtub - A Dip In The Pond That Goes Beyond

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About the Author John Kelly Hughes is a musician, author and Web technologist who has been writing poetry since the age of Average Review. Write a Review. Related Searches. Recently widowed, Mike Destep loses his job and is on life's down escalator when fate Recently widowed, Mike Destep loses his job and is on life's down escalator when fate deals him a winning lottery ticket. He sets out to mend his broken family, but becomes the target of unknown watchers and is recruited to View Product. Les gens adorent ce livre! Les gens de tous A Worthy Reception.

If you find yourself Harmer John. A classic Unworldly Story, that has been captivating audiences for generations. Harmer John, after studying Harmer John, after studying art in Italy, has devised a plan to combine the two and save the world. Life is a pure flame and we live by an Hawker's Mutiny. All night trees wave with roaring winds: autumn in the courtyard Bluebells and hazels lost in rustic kisses: morning stars burn On a lean branch of neem swinging a bulbul The courtyard stormed with dried leaves and tamarind: her frail hands sweeping From tree to courtyard cotton balls blown on the wind- seed in the centre Her scarf — a rainbow of flowers moving in the sky Her visit — a transient painting on holiday's floor Painting mom's smile with broken crayons — smiling Winny Intruding her voice on the phone Switching on the hearing aid: wife's warm soup With her saree hitched up between the legs my wife in bed Raising her saree above the thighs bends to ease and blocks my way Rising early to make tea for everyone the newly wed wife As the duo sit lights go out — sofa springs creaking Dissatisfied with each other the two of us in an empty house In the grey of dusk sway between hope and despair their dream promises Leaning sideways she looks at mango picklt caries ache She repeats my ills to express her anger but I know only her love Basking in the sun files nails in garden chair my wife's friend No joy in lighting the candles this Diwali: both the children away Awaits his son's phone call from the border: dogs and cats wail His son's voice not relayed by wire: tense borders Distance mounts each time he visits home: love's last rites Shadow of age on the wall — second full moon Whiteness of the moon and rocks howl with the wind- December in the veins The sun not yet set but the full moon rises as if in a hurry Enveloping all of the moon at night- white chrysanthemums Setting moon leaves behind sparkle on the waves Noisy birds don't let me sleep: midnight moon Through the window gaze at the moon hid behind cloud after cloud Caressing her pregnant belly — water lily Still night nude kisses in park images haunt Standing behind the window bars observes darkness in shapes Night bombing leaves the garden white as death Vultures waiting for the leftovers of the sacrifice In the ruins searching her photo: evening Rutting dogs sleepless the whole night cries for sex Parents pelt stones at the mating street dogs- nosey children Nothing changes the night's ugliness in the lone bed Alone in a shrunken bed aged love In the well studying her image a woman Knitting silence my wife on the bench after lunch The lone mushroom — a pregnant woman stares out of the window Under the tree in meditation sunken a lone stone Alone on the National Highway Hanuman So many headlights and my myopic vision- walking difficult They walk on red coal matching steps with drum-beats: carnival of ecstasy Keeps him sleepless fireworks and high decibel puja all night Sleeping on the cold floor a mother with child Awaits sunrise to hire an auto safely sits at the bus stand Two women argue over price and weight offish: the hapless huckster Carbon flakes drift high above the flat I cough they widen the roads Burning tap water and seething house in the morning heat wave cripples Chanting mantra with wine in one hand and torch in other Building bridges where there is no river— the politician A mother and child stuck between concrete rubbles: fidayeen attack Setting ablaze Muslim houses and children seekers of Ram White-yellow trail the Mirage on mission: ten souls buried Amidst roaring guns clouds blossom snow lotus: light hilly terrain On the margin of home-to-work-to-home routine — life's achievements Shivering in the cold young boys sell balloons late night- New Year revellers Journeying tries to raise his silence to prayer Never enough the earth's hunger for graves: peace barricaded In measured pace hit for divinity two political golfers Disposable blades one over the other- dusty switchboard Seismic lab a network of cobweb: no earthquake for long No Zen thought — scribbling haiku with gun in hand Staring at the huge stone penis at Shinto shrine- two female lovers With her breasts bobbing up and down she challenges the moon as she walks Sees the eyes in walls as I rise to kiss her Drowned in empty whiteness: love Wiping tears from each other's eyes two souls in love Writing with strands of watery hair on her back a love haiku Love of three decades extinguished in a moment- anger in the mouth Shedding bitterness of the tiff in sex act she and I Moist lips parting on a tea cup promising expectation Bending down to pick up apple she presses piercing embrace She preys the body behind obsidian sheath fatuous flap After burns leaving the body the dead skin Her palms the only lingerie in Fashion Show Crouching out of the bath with hand on the genital his new tenant A pregnant woman bending over the mushroom bloomed under a tree Awaits the bloom of love in her womb: silent action Lovely with hope the glow in her eyes: no need of sun Her body — the night's perfection in dim light Seeing her a liquid sensation between the thighs On a canvas a poet in twilight painting her skin Sensing her presence he stares down the street- lingering perfume A star in making — but an island appears: the palm amuses Sipping gin with lime he says he loves sex each night but hates the smell Bleeding fingers draw new domes of betrayal in windy matrices His tongue between the teeth- sudden sneeze Fed up with my sex she threatens to move to our daughter's room Leaves him alone to escape daily rape in bed his wife The bedroom altar no substitute for temple- sacrifice of sex Winter's chill — sweating under the gown her thighs and breasts Scanning her stooping breasts — the first night Measuring life with ejaculatory rhythm — envies sparrow sports Her thighs — resting place for my head on bed Trying to decipher the complex curves on my palms in the morning rays Fondling her breasts I incite a poem on her body A film of mist between my eyes and her image Locked in her eyes the bright glow of the goddess Melting in the colour of the heart the sun in the west A lizard shrieks before the climax: love making The blood passes through green veins I hear the heart play melody of dews Every breath love in action — fire in the hole No bottom reader but the shape and the lines do tell she can stir the soul The aching limbs and blood dripping between the legs: love-making postponed With his head between the knees he squats and smells the body's sweat Bones rattle to make a song of flesh in the night- togetherness Insomnia blaming her not old age Lies with her in freezing cold: an empty tube Invisible jangles odours presences- twinges in bed Drying on the line pork venison and beef-- the room smells their vests Don't know their tongue — the stars beyond the mountains whisper among themselves While I lie alone shapeless fears rest on my eyes heavier than time Searching salvation a moth flies into the lamp: oily burial Colours sparkle in the morning's dew on the blooms- my breathing changes Nobody cares burial of my dreams in coal dust Besides allergies so many other complaints: sudden weather change Bronchial breathing — the only sound audible in the soulless space Cleaning dusts from the old sandals for a walk: again the same pain Peeling paint from the drawing room- shadows flicker Seeing no image in the mirror of time- foggy blankness Hot bath or no bath — the cough persists unmindful of the New Year's eve Sees in a flash — opening the eyes takes a long time Linked with anxiety my comfort at his home: Ph.

Fear of forgetting — car insurance premium paid a month ahead Fears the approach of night with him — twisting tassels In the lone room prefers haiku to yoga drinking scotch Sunday afternoon- waving into gin two drops of lime Difficult to change I am what I have disowned- dressing down salads The bed is short and the covering shorter — crouching alone Unruffled by passions and clamours — Buddha's calm Seeks Buddha's stone bowl to win the bamboo princess: she dwells on moon beams Her heart a thousand doors of oneness Disappears into dust her last photograph Trying to read good news I look at the lines taking new turns on my palms Looking for riches in her left hand shortening days on the pavement They sculpture psyche in the city of dumb dreams: idols sweat in sun Pulling out white hairs she reminds increasing age: time's fragrance unchanged Still a child- embracing a breast sleeps her man Exchanging anger with roses: petals fall They all walk like shadows in night for themselves Lying on his table a few unanswered letters and unrealized dreams A little child chases the painted dreams on butterfly wings Two butterflies racing with each other perch on the wire Sudden rain drops wet the wings of a butterfly lying at the basil Lost my way again asking for direction: a pleasant change Locked between the cracks cockroaches in the alcove dropping their eggs Awaiting their turn to feast on a dead dog crows in a circle A crow hits the scare crow and cracks its earthen head A crow picking at the ripe papaya and another waiting A yellow spider on the blooming marigold weaves tiny webs Two lizards fight to mate on the wall — balancing act After the quake a dog sniffing his master's presence in the rubble Searching Christ's sandals in the pile of shoes at the church's entrance Traffic snails through the water-logged road I feel a manhole cover Dust mites devouring the secrets preserved in my diary Seeing my shadow three fish in the pond look for a safe corner Sitting with its tail coiled round sweets in the box a lizard A hooker hides behind the green letter box: looking for a client Too heavy these man-made machines choking weight Students murmuring over the class test result: the teacher's curved lips In the moving train sleeping on his feet the newspaperman Flowers inviting seeds of love scattered in the perfumed garden Looking for a prey a snake slides through the fence warmth of the sun Safe from sun under nascent leaf a gold fish With sunrise gone to sleep the morning moon Two dreamy eyes await the rising sun through the fogged window A sweating sun after the midnight chill- changing hues of spring The sun conceals aeons of darkness planets mirror in the sky Closing its eyes in the setting sun — the Ganges in autumn He sees art in her wanton dress- crawling curls A butterfly rests on the butterfly tattooed on her sunning back Setting sun leaves behind sparkle on the waves Suddenly rise the sleeping waves from far off- 'quake in the sea Swollen sea boiling over the head- roars increase The sun rolls on the waving Ganges- whitens love-hope On the wave's crest travels a fallen leaf- rot on the bank Couldn't erase the wind's soliloquy from the waves breaking on the shore Travelling back from the waves of bliss a foam-leap On the waves rise shells in accents lie with love — beauty on the shore Bathing in thousands they float lamps on her breast the river sparkles Knee-deep in the pond standing obeisantly nude worshippers Ends with ritual one more morning — sun-worshippers in the pond Awaits the sunrise in the chilly Ganges a nude worshipper Sees visions eating food of gods- mushroom Fills the void with illusions and self- names them god December almost over what new wish to add to Christmas wish list On Christmas eve santa claus takes leave — mist on chairs in pairs Standing between flowers Jesus on the cross Making holes in the wooden cross white ants Colours of envy stick on their colleagues' faces: Holi revelry Krishna offering parijata to Radha: Narada looks on The temple's dome in the flooded Ganga- empty kalash Fermenting spring in the arms of lovers: a secret sin The cherry pink in the spring — a framed nude Embrace suffocates in bed — chill seeps through slit Wintry chill — enters the cold bed: skips morning walk Winter rain bends the roses low- lumbar pain The long night passes sleeplessly I deep -breathe the December chill Alone and sleepless count hours by asthmatic bouts- the long winter nights A part of the night hidden in the morning moon: the sun waves bye bye The first night spots on the sheet: clothes wake up Long wintry night — opening the mail box for a date Vulnerable darkness of the opening: standing erect Seek my haven where the sky arches the sea— a white gull leads Stars mock his drinking alone on the cement bench: moon in the glass Spend our short time together after a long watching the moon Along the road in shanties they shack up — dreams in smoke Seeking smell in cactus flowers: late monsoon Clouds don't rain coldly come and go- icy bed All night rain the gaping roof her shelter Sudden rain on the way home — a peacock After the night's rain the sky's still overcast: wet Christmas today Through thick clouds sees an arc of moon — her belly Brightness straining through the trees: tea in full moon Lonely nights and days of non-stop rains — depression mounts Travelling on the wings of winter ill news Celebrating return of the light and warmth: winter solstice Feels the shadow with wet fingers in the fog Mist surrounds: the steel statue watches few visitors Morning fog: her face invisible even the sun The evening fog: invisible her hand on my shoulder Slowly clears the morning fog — end of the year Swollen fogs ready to make way for the sun Her make-up spoilt in the evening mist: looking for light After dust storm rain alloys with cool colours: rainbow in the west Waxing crescent searches the setting sun worshipped in water Sees beard shining in the mirror: morning on the face In a flash trapping eternity- the camera Post-lunch solitude filled with thoughts that couldn't become even a haiku A sly lover ejaculates poison- sting operation With glittering diamond on the navel swinging an item bomb The phone rings: in the middle he rises — prayers unsaid With a telescope view the lunar eclipse- midnight shadows Out of wood and stone he carves his vision of peace: night's secret visage Suffer animals with a peculiar smell: men in white khadi Crossing the shadows in the Indo-Pak match- thelast ball Drunken with force spreading the century's sore: nine eleven Freedom to kill with faith in divine regime: terrorist's peace Watches the snow rain with finger on the trigger: insurgence in Drass Reaching nowhere — ideas flying from the minds of top echelons Himself doesn't listen but teaches communication Her anger shifts from manure to cellphone: 10 o' clock soap Winking at her in the dark — power cut Two peacocks on a dancing spree: see water Dancing a few muddied crocs: the river returns Nibbling a leaf between her fingers a dragon-fly A small frog leaping on my hand from the pothole Birds crouch in nests along the snowclad path — wheezing silence Away from home — smell of frying fish in the air Swimming afresh in the glass box two gold fish Peace in silence of the heart and body's cells: Buddha's calm Weaving its nest grass blade by grass blade R.

Singh Sad and dull his backyard poultry- fears of bird flu Mooching about a rose petal in the sun- a butterfly An orgasmic view from behind the car's window the Taj Mahal Perches nervously on the fence a squirrel nibbling its luck Wintry evening — my grandson toddling round room to room Sudden screech of tyres: a frog from the pothole perches on the car Selling tea a mustachioed Mizo in shanty Awaits the train in November night — insects all around Truce between two lizards inside the light fixture Ten fish in the tank rising in twos threes or fours to the bait atop Hiding in the shade of toilet brush in the bath a frightened mouse Awaits a rickshaw under the gulmohar tree a girl with lilac Jumped over the head a sticky frog on the ground- stoning to death Alone the cellphone on her bed rings In the changing hues of rainbow in the east: sun and lightning Flashing a rainbow at the dining table her diamond nose-pin Sunlight behind the temple cloud's edge Glued to the rock feeling the river's cold flame my hands and feet Sun rising late slow arrival of winter feverish warmth Fallen tea drops reminding me of the guests last evening Empty shells about the quadrangle: English teacher Children return home splashing through the pool on road school bags on their heads Moving between the fingers of a toddler the first winter rain 8.

Emitting a mouldy smell her blouse Before parting she slips to the floor- raindrops fall From the edge jumps into the pond a green frog Inhales sun through the foggy morning a leaping frog A mass of cloud floating below the plane: my son's balloon Flying over the rose tattooed on her back a butterfly Abandoned her mother on the wall fading streaks Their first dating: with inverted reflection walk out of the bar Awaiting welcome midst the same old worries the new Samvat Stench of burning leaves mounts with smoke in the evening: asthmatic breathing East faced yoga in the fog — breathlessness Naval cadets master the waves in Peacock Bay pelicans bathe Two barking dogs break the night's monotony competition Their love game: bloodstained on the wall two lizards Pigeons fly for shelter through smoke blazing windows Looking for shade under the shapeless cloud a rag picker Scrounging for scrap in a pile of garbage empty Christmas Slowly dissolves the mud-brick house of worship: rain on Christmas eve Prayerful thoughts she invites with smile: Mother's compassion Her wrinkled fingers on the rudraksh rosary: Buddh Purnima Leaves fall to touch his shrine — mukti Awaiting the wind's blow at door autumn leaves Parrots stop chirping on the guava tree — autumn dusk Hangs a fading flower between the twigs Yellow lemons still hanging after the storm sunny backyard At the kitchen door await a handful of wheat two pigeons On way home a crow shits on my head: clouded sky Academics in convocation gowns- circus clowns Each morning the same prayers — God's silence On the wall witness of the past moth eaten Morning's foul smell the birds too change their tunes: sewage treatment Dusts settle on the rising creepers flowers grey Shelling the peas the toddler swallows some grins with delight Streetlights die with the onrush of rain — walking to silence Greets no known faces at the street corner kiosk: only folds of night Full moon waves through the branches at window- wintry night This morning sun misses the warmth — chilly wind Naphthalene smell oozes from the sweater — fourth November In the crowded mall a santa claus asking for my autograph Picnickers boat on the edge of Maithon lake dropping litter In the shade behind a plastic sheeting hut a sick woman Her lonely grief melts in the candle wax evening's dark floor Swallows the pills and chants mantra to sleep: flower moon Sits on a mound overlooking the camp awaits signal Flying to the tube light one after the other two owls picking moths Ants crowd under the hibiscus — snake's broken shell Noisy parrots returning to the tree: sun set early ] Hides behind a naked tree the full moon The wet pages of yesterday's newspaper: all trains late A pregnant clown on the squalid mattress- crying inside Boarding the train he looks for his luggage- cries of theft Evokes spirit to ease knots of pain cyst on the neck He fears seeking intercession from a Wiccan: spirit's clash Not a day without begging gods to solve problems- faith in helplessness Reciting my nightly woes no one hears Stretches his arms and wiggles the toes in bed: sleeping brain Making lemon tea and warm buttery toast — birds singing outside Treading with spring feet my grandson now nine months They squat to ease along the railway track — transistors sing It is the way of things to empty what is too full.

A single thinning cloud disintegrating across this steely sphere of sky. Here is a finger pushing itself into hot wax. Every night a hawk. She has published two chapbooks, Are the Children Make Believe? She is the founding director of the WingSpan Poetry Project, a not-for-profit which conducts poetry classes at homeless and battered family shelters in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This June she will begin teaching a weekly community poetry class in conjunction with the Santa Fe Railyard Art Project. Ray Neubert. The heart of my work is humanity.

I love people and studying them A perfect fit for poetry. The poet has a very special place in society. The freedom to be true to its art. The poet could gain a more 'popular' place but not without compromise and the possibility of loosing significance. If anything I would accept and honestly thank all assembled at the inauguration for the privilege of sharing with them my positive impression of the president's accomplishments. I would open my notes, scan them carefully, thank all assembled, then close my notes and reseat myself.

The goal of my work is to personally involve my audience. Missing that involvement would be my failure. The poem I am presently working on is my favorite. Since it isn't finished I will share the poem that has been received most positively. December Yaddyra Peralta. Whom do you choose and why? Gerard Manley Hopkins. He was my first favorite dead poet and though I prefer others now, I will never forget the visceral quality of reading his work out loud, of truly realizing what could be done musically with a poem, and that poetry—my favorite poetry—is not just about meaning making but about experiencing wonder and mystery.

I think this is more of an aspiration than a reality. It was often a refuge when it was freezing mid-winter, or when I was broke. One, a Starbucks, is a hard pass. The other, Panther Coffee , is part of a small local chain of about five coffee shops and I have been a couple of times to meet friends and just to people watch. Did you hear she was allowed to take her regular table and chair home when the place closed in ? Yaddyra is Associate Editor at Mango Publishing.

David Estringel. I would have to say it would be one of my newer ones, "Storms. I supposed it stemmed from a moment of unadulterated self-reflection upon some of my "fractured" parts I hate the word "broken" , but despite its personal nature, it reflects what—I think—many of us feel as we trudge through life doing the best we can. It—like the rest of the batch—do a good job at connecting with the life experiences of others that most often get pushed to the side due to the difficult feelings that come along as part of the package.

It would be my hope that the person giving me the ticket would see a bit of them self in the poem and not feel so alone in that moment and—maybe—in general. Hands down. To convincingly capture the relentless cruelty of war, death, and loss in one epic poem, only to then offer the soothing balm of another in the form of post-war literature not only denotes the characteristic of genius but the ability to expose vulnerability and the need for long-due succor.

Since my undergrad years, I have been mad for The Homeric Hymns. Whether the ones of just a few lines or the longer, more narrative pieces they take you back into your past to a time when magic touched everything and nothing happened at random. I remember the first time I read a hymn to Apollo. I paused, afterwards, as if waiting for something to happen. No other poet or poem has ever had that effect on me since or probably ever will. My work is definitely more Raymond Carver than it is Homer.

Looking back at my portfolio, it is evident that these two poets are significant influences. My darker pieces and others tend to be peppered with classical allusion—not so much for effect but to convey the depth Stygian, perhaps of emotion I am feeling about the subject and in that moment.

Dirty realism, however, presents its ugly self most, especially in my more recent works, capturing very real moments, "stripped down" and free from hyperbole or symbolism. That is what I appreciate in Carver's work, as a whole. To me, his poems are distillates of everyday life that convey experiences—unapologetically—in fragments, leaving one feeling they have just walked into the middle of something meaningful.

That is what I strive for, anyway. Drake 's works right now. Every flip of the page is a surprise, though. Just as one poem hits my consciousness with a resounding, wince-inducing thud, another pops up that makes my heart melt and not feel so alone. Either way Drake's words make me think and challenge my own stuff. He is amazing. Honestly, the cafes here in Brownsville, Tx. When I was in Austin, Tx. Very eclectic crowd and the conversations around you were always intelligent and often unexpected.

I am pretty weird about writing environment, though. I need to be home, where I can read my work aloud, pace the floors, and smoke without judgment although my dogs have seemed pretty annoyed, lately , but I will take myself out to Starbucks for a couple of toasted, plain bagels and cream cheese to celebrate finishing a poem or receiving an acceptance of a submission. David Estringel is an emerging writer of poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, and essays. In this poem, I imagine a world driven by love instead of the punitive.

The only writer I have ever been compared to is the late Mahmood Darwish. I bow to his talent. I do not dare compare myself to him, but I will take the compliment. As for Anne Carson, I can only hope to be as good as she is with metaphor and fragments. Cafes are too distracting for me.

I keep wanting to write about the people. I prefer my bed for reading and writing. During her tenure as a teacher, The Los Angeles Writing Project awarded Iknadossian a fellowship for their summer residency. She currently lives close to the sea with Henry the Cat. Find out more at armineiknadossian. November David Kirby. Have you ever memorized one of your poems? Not my own, no. When I see someone reciting their own poems, I always expect them to stop in the middle and just starting kissing the backs of their own hands.

I can recite half a dozen limericks.

I can sing from memory the words to maybe 40 pop, rock, and soul songs recorded between and What is one image from someone else's poem that you've read and that's stuck with you? We were eating in a noisy, overheated restaurant one night in Fiesole, the hill town above Florence. Barbara started lowering her head, and I thought she was leaning in to say something to me, but she just kept going and put her head down on the table and passed out. A waiter and I lugged her into the kitchen, and she came around, so we went back and resumed our meal. Then the lights went out.

Now this was at night, and the restaurant was in a basement, so the place was pitch black. What compression, huh? The whole evening in seven words. Besides poetry, what are your other favorite art forms? I love music of all kinds. I believe wholeheartedly in supporting live music — live anything, really. Live theater, live performance of every kind. So I try to get out once or twice a week to see a rock band or solo musician or opera or jazz quartet. And of course I go to poetry readings the way you breathe air.

As you know, the standard poetry reading can often be pretty terrible, so when I can, I coach others to do what musicians do: engage the audience, make eye contact, put on a show. It can be anything else it wants to be, but it better be action-packed. What is a piece of poetry advice that you never follow? Oh, read, says everyone. Read, read, read. What he said was that he learned to see the world the way poets do. By the way, you can have a poetic mind and never write a single poem in your life.

How would you put together your new book-length collection regarding sequence of poems?

Five Questions, Three Poets, Each Month

I tell poets putting together a first book that they should think like a pop star. A lot of collections begin timidly, but no rock or soul or hip-hop show does. So you start with something that has a lot of energy. And you continue that way for a while. The audience is eating out of your hands. Do that for a while, then turn up the volume. Raise the energy level back to where it was, then go higher. And end with a real audience killer of a poem, one that leaves them gasping in the aisles.

Whatever you do, think the way musicians do. As I say, this is show biz. Lawton Distinguished Professor of English. His latest poetry collection is Get Up, Please. See also www. Jen Karetnick. Sadly, only once. My mentor at Tufts University, the late Deborah Digges , wrote a love poem to her husband about sweeping the broom of her hair — she had long, beautiful hair —across his chest. That might not be the exact wording, but I remember the hair and the sweeping and the emphasis on it going back and forth. When she read that poem out loud, it always received applause.

I grew up playing flute and singing, then later I taught myself guitar, so music has been a big part of my life. But I also really enjoy visual art. The visual gene runs in my family but seems to have missed me. To put the first completed draft away and then look at it later to revise it. A Best poem opens the collection B Thematically transition one poem to the next C Throw the poems in the air and order them in the sequence you pick them up D None of the above- please explain Both A and D. I identify the largest themes of the collection, then group those poems together in piles.

If any of the poems are too similar in form or subject — say, two sonnets back to back, or two poems that feature family or nature — I replace one from a different poem in that pile. Then I start over again. So the poems create a recurrence of themes in the mind of the reader, but each poem is a surprise in terms of structure and content.

This is especially important to me because I write in a variety of ways, ranging from form to free verse to found poetry. A reader might find a prose poem followed by a sestina followed by an experimental piece that uses all the white space on the page. The themes bind them together. At least, I hope they do. She is also the author of four other poetry chapbooks, including Bud Break at Mango House , winner of the Portlandia Prize. Her fourth cookbook and 18th book overall is forthcoming in May Sean Sexton. Yes to both. His features fair and slight, best imagined on another; have crossed a great divide reaching from his mother.

Paintings, Ceramics, Etchings, Drawings I do all 4 Music I sing in our church choir as a baritone though I once was a tenor And certainly all the other longer forms of literature. Stay open to your original vision and let it come All important, but later. The order of things in fashioning a book or exhibition is all important to me though there are those who insist on randomness, to isolate each experience. There are curators who hang galleries under the same auspice. Place is a big thing with me. If you come visit my Art, my writing, expect a grounding. He divides his time between taking care of a acre cow-calf operation, painting, and writing.

He is married to artist, Sharon Sexton, and they live on the ranch in a house they built on the ranch. Sexton has kept daily journal-sketch and writing books since May Darkness Restore , Poems , Press 53 is due out in early October Catherine Esposito Prescott. How would you like God—if you believe in God-- to greet you?

What legacy words would you like inscribed on your tombstone? Love is everything. Do you remember the moment when you identified yourself as a"poet? I bounced around the arts before finding writing—from music for which I had an aptitude to the visual arts for which I had none to the performing arts for which I had some. In high school, I failed my first creative writing assignment, a poem. However, days before my senior year began, my guidance counselor called to see if he could enroll me in a creative writing elective because the cool-kid elective I wanted to take—AV something or other—filled up with all the cool kids, no doubt.

Anyhow, that teacher, John Azrak, gave me a proper introduction to poetry. From then on, I was a poet. Talk about coming full circle. If there are repeating images, references or phrases, in your work, why do you think that is? For me, it happens on a subliminal level. I find it fascinating how we acquire language, play with it, overcome it, shift it, and put it down. I look forward to witnessing how this practice seeps into my work. Eric Campbell. It is usually abandoned, because to struggle too long with a poem you wrote might suggest it shouldn't exist at all. I have never called myself one, as for me a poet shouldn't self-identify.

I'm more of a fan of The Replacements and certain authors than I am a "poet. In my second collection there were two poems back to back that invoked The Cold War and Bruce Willis. That's all I comfortably have to say about that. Unconditional love would be nice, but a chorus of angels will suffice. She was a nice lady. I "let it cool off" as my mentor Maxine Kumin used to always advise.

It also helps me to read the poem out loud over and over until I can hear a new arrangement of words that sound more authentic and click into place. If I'm really stuck or if it's a longer poem, I'll record myself reading the poem and listen to it while I'm driving to work. A sharper focus occurs when I am engaged in monotonous activity like driving or staring out the window of a bus or train.

I'm more interested in being an active verb than a noun. I write. I write poetry. Breasts, wrists, the belly, and the throat appear throughout my poems. I'm not sure why. Because life pulsates there? She received a special mention in the Pushcart Prize anthology. Seeking emotional refuge after a traumatic assault, Micaela withdraws from the world of adults.

Her new love of the written word helps her find redemption in surprising places. Marianne Szlyk. Do you share new poems for feedback from a friend or partner before submitting them? Yes, I do. Sometimes I can be too satisfied with poems. At other times I worry that I am repeating myself, writing the same poem over and over, or heading in the wrong direction.

After that, I added more sensory detail to enliven the piece, and it was much improved! Do you save original drafts of your poems, and if so, how many drafts are there for a poem? My first drafts are handwritten, and generally I write one or two handwritten drafts, even at workshops. Those I save. It always surprises me how poems take shape from sometimes unpromising beginnings. I tend to peck at a poem here and there so that it evolves over time. If you have a brief ekphrastic poem- published or not- or a stanza or two of one, would you share it with us?

Here are the last three stanzas. No swimmer, no boat breaks the surface, more mirror for land and sky than home for fish and weeds. Perhaps this poem means more to me because it took a while for me to place it. Please give us the first line of 3 of your favorite poems by a poet other than yourself. Please provide the poem title and poet's name. Wow, this is a hard one. I was puzzling over this question for days! I just noticed that this line has ten syllables—just like a sonnet does. This poem is from her book Break the Habit , which covers the aftermath of her divorce.

His poem also encouraged me because each stanza is in the form of a haiku. I had been discouraged by the haiku format. I gave it a try and had fun with it. Do you have a favorite venue where poetry readings take place? What is the name of the place and what's so great about it?

The Ladies Pond in London - The Toast

The poets stand at the lectern and read their poems. Since this is a theater, the sight lines are clear, and the comfortable seats face the stage. This was an eye-opening, ear-opening, and mind-opening reading. As for the places where I myself have read, the basement of the Watha T.

Daniel Library in Washington, DC bears some happy memories. The DC Poetry Project used to meet there for its workshop and open mic. Another place I enjoy reading is the meeting room of the Unitarian church in Rockville. There people do sit at tables and eat cookies, but the focus is on the poetry and the music.

She also edits The Song Is This summer she and her husband started It Takes A Community! Poetry Workshop at Montgomery College Rockville. Her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy , is available on Amazon. Patricia Carragon. Do you share new poems for feedback from a friend of partner before submitting them? I started doing this recently and I find it helpful. I even email a few versions of the same poem. I make my comments, select my favorite, and hear what my friends have to say before submitting the final version.

There was no room to store these versions in binders. A man delivers his wares in an ancient but sturdy wagon as long as his horse can be of service. Instead, she allowed age to paint the edges, kept some areas devoid of color. Inside her dented box, capsules have lost their oil. Brushes lie unwashed, too brittle for use-- inertia lives in the dust.

Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? I wish the trains from Brooklyn were better on weekends. Patricia hosts the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. Carragon lives in Brooklyn, New York. Martina Reisz Newberry. Occasionally I do. My friend, Raymond Soulard , is often the first one to see new poems. When the poems are in a fairly strong manuscript form, my publisher and friend, Jeffrey Haste of Deerbrook Editions goes over my work.

I have absolute trust in his perceptions. The original drafts are in a notebook.


I write in a notebook to begin poems. I edit, polish, fine-tune them on the computer. There are usually two or three drafts in my notebook with countless squiggles and notes and changes. It helps me keep an eye on my work—make certain it continues to grow.

Submit a Poem to My Word Wizard

The world is, in this way, unmasked-- shown for what it is. They charge nothing to come listen, they are always open to having a poet come read, they are not elitist, are gracious and kind. They support poetry in all the best ways. Martina Reisz Newberry has been writing for 60 years. She has a passionate romance with Los Angeles and currently lives there with her husband, Brian Newberry, a Media Creative. If you read essays about poetry please tell us about one of them that might have enlightened you.

I have read some great essays on poetry craft from the 18th and 19th Centuries lately which I have incorporated into my poetry workshops. These texts motivate me when I feel underwhelmed by the perils of the craft to keep my objectives and purpose foremost in mind. Are you reading a collection of poetry at this moment? At the moment, I'm reading everything! Poetry, novels, plays, essays Being a Ph. The latest collection I read was For colored girls by Ntozake Shange which I was always on my unofficial reading list but popped up on my graduate reading list!

The plight of the African American woman is chronicled with much joy and sorrow in the book. I wouldn't attach a number per say to it, but it would definitely be more than once. Perhaps the number of times read is not as important as the number of attempts to read. Reading doesn't always equate to understanding.

The degree of difficulty would compel me to stay in the fight until I had assimilated something from the text. Then, I would live to fight another day. Has a poem ever made you cry? It is a poem I wrote about my children. It was visceral for a few private reasons. I read it in front of them at home which is probably the most difficult poetry reading I've ever had. Summon three poets from the past for a reading in your house. With this enchanted and mystical power, I summon Emily Dickinson because she wouldn't want to read, so it would be a spectacle just to see how she reacts to the setting.

I summon Gwendolyn Brooks because that would be an experience I can always live with and cherish. I summon Lucille Clifton because she seems like someone unlike Emily who would enjoy a house reading and she seems like the type of person to adopt me instantly and to help me nurture my craft. What a trio to have a reading, a panel discussion, and hopefully some dinner and more conversation after! My door remains open for them to enter Len Lawson earned a B.

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He is pursuing a Ph. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a multiple Best of the Net nominee. His debut full-length poetry collection Chime will be released in His website is www. Nina Romano. I always have several collections near at hand. Reading poetry before writing prose give me a sense of rhythm and balance—it also provides me with interesting metaphors and similes, and incredible images—a great jumping off place for ideas. I admire his Divine Meditations , and it amazes me how he had time to write all of those esoteric verses, wooing the love of his life, Anne, half his age, and who bore him a dozen children.

I love his religious work. Summon three poems from the past for a reading in your house. James Earl Jones would read it. Nina Romano earned a B. Romano has taught English and Literature as an adjunct professor at St. Williams at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival. Romano has presented her poetry and fiction at the Miami Book Fair International and has facilitated poetry and creative writing workshops at the Ft. Her short fiction, memoir, and poetry appear in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies.

She has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She has co-authored Writing in a Changing World. More about the author here: www.

Scenes of Life at the Capital

Holly Lyn Walrath. As a writer, I send out my work into the world because I want the one person who needs it to find it. The distance between the poet and the reader is a great gulf, crashing in the darkness, and I get to shine a light into the crevices and weird places of the world with my words.

I think it depends on the poem. There are gut-wrenching, emotional, personal, powerful pieces coming out of those websites that have left me just devastated. Can you just imagine what the conversation would be like afterwards? She holds a B. She is a freelance editor and host of The Weird Circular, an e-newsletter for writers containing submission calls and writing prompts.

You can find her canoeing the bayou in Seabrook, Tx. Doug Ramspeck. I am both a fan and not a fan of Haiku. What often draws me to poetry is the way that images—especially natural images—evoke a larger sense of the world, reflecting human ideas and emotions. But what I also like about poetry, and which Haiku is less adept at accomplishing, is storytelling. In other words, my favorite poems are the ones that manage to combine mysterious and suggestive images with narratives. We are, at our cores, storytellers, and the poems that speak to me the most fully are the ones that recognize that.

Is there a poem you could use to demonstrate a great use of line breaks? Please give an example. Even very serious poems, I think, often follow the structure of a joke. And what is that? A line will take us in an expected direction so we anticipate what might be coming next, and then that expectation is defied.

If you had to tattoo a line from one of your poems onto your body, what would it be? Where on your body would you put it? As I have been composing the book, I have been thinking a good deal about the passage of time I am 64 , and these lines, I hope, reflect the sense of that preoccupation. But, no, I am not going to have them tattooed on any part of my body.

Before rolling your eyes, what is your answer? I like to think of myself as a storyteller as I mentioned earlier , so here are a few opening lines from the first poem in my collection Black Flowers , which will be published by LSU Press in September: My father, in the hard gray of winter, is kneeling again and sliding the knife from sternum to crotch, blood welling like a dark liquid oozing from a secret burrow, intestines pouring onto grass. Dead is dead, he always claimed, adding that we might as well toss him someday in a landfill for all he cared, leave him to feed the buzzards.

These lines, I think, contain many of the elements I include in my poetry: a focus on the natural world and animism, a meditation on memory and personal history, and a penchant for narrative. You run into the editor of a prestigious poetry journal in which you very much want to be published. What do you say? I would nod and say hello, but I would not try to peddle my own work. Doug Ramspeck is the author of six poetry collections and one collection of short stories.

The Back East Poems

An associate professor at The Ohio State University at Lima, he teaches creative writing and is the faculty advisor for the literary journal Asterism , which publishes undergraduates from the United States and beyond. Nicole Yurcaba. I have always been a fan of Basho. These line endings also create a bluntness that mimics the idea that, throughout history, the Ukrainian people would continue to rise and reclaim their independence.