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Sonnet for an Ineligible Bachelor
by Mary O’Donoghue
(to R.N.)
Women of all ages, skirts and creeds
Are rioting in the streets of Malden,
Thwacking each other’s faces and
Pulling out hair ‘til they’re balding,
While over in Allston vigils are held
With the good gentle ladies of Brighton,
Flinging up supplications to St. Epipodius
And getting his agreement in writing.
News of hunger strikes on Beacon Hill,
Blood-letting and black arts in Brookline.
Women of Boston are gone barking mad.
They’ve fallen like ninepins, sunk hook, line
And tinker, mother and teenage vixen
For this fecker, the playwright from Clifden.
Note: Epipodius is the patron saint of bachelors
and torture victims. Martyred by beheading in 178.
Copyright © 2002 by Mary O’Donoghue
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Three Signs near Granby, Mass.
by Joyce Wilson
The wandering rider arrived on a motorcycle,
Stopped, and reset his map to research
The roads that surrounded the busy octagonal
Russian ‘Vangelical and Baptist Church—
Beside the more singular Word of the Grace,
With quiet exterior, peaked roof and white paint,
That sat on the interstate, better to face
The way with composure, like that of a saint—
Across from the Grace, a sign caught his eye,
For Froggy’s Saloon and Grand Old Ballroom,
He thought of the spider, who said to the fly,
“Come into my kitchen,” like bride to a groom.
Salvation and sin, the highway between—
He reset his maps and abandoned the scene.
Copyright © 2003 by Joyce Wilson
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Roman Sonnet
by Julia Budenz
If I speak clearly can I kill the song?
If I talk muddily may I omit
Brilliants that make the very life of it?
A stolid ox is standing on my tongue.
Some hippopotamus has lazed along
The bottom and emerges to the lit
Surface that swirls above the whirling pit.
Can I tell right from left or right from wrong?
Can I tell, trusting image, metaphor,
Symbol, myth, literature, how I in force
Distrust the force itself, and without cease
Will I wage war on willing, winning, war,
Plunging both tongue and hand into the source
Soaked with which poets scream of peace, peace, peace?
Copyright © 2003 by Julia Budenz.
From “Roman Sonnets” in Book Three, “Rome,” of “The Gardens
of Flora Baum”
by Julia Budenz.
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Sonnet For Salty
by Laurence Loeb
(on her 65th)
No gift can repay the gift of laughter
Freely offered, dispelling daughters’ fright
To let sleep’s healing happily thereafter
Ease travel through monster-bearing night.
Your song and steps, puppeteering summers
Behind the screen, where each fluent hand tells
Of stories without calendric numbers,
Despite the tiers of these birthday candles.
Worth and value are not to be measured
By capricious laws conveyed by reasons known
But by an inner sureness to be treasured
Where the self can thrive in havens of its own.
We all have chimeras, yet despair
Departs with each vision of joy you share.
Copyright © 2003 by Laurence Loeb
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Here in Paradise
by Kathleen Kirk
My husband stands on the shore with a net.
Before we go, he wants to see the skate,
its white belly; I want to see him wet.
When we leave here, he will still taste of salt.
I cannot speak, nor close my stinging mouth.
This is how I pray, across the burning sands.
Last night with our fingers we ate the white
flesh of the flounder, innocent and sweet.
When we licked butter from our teeth
it was not a sin—no sin to eat
what we had taken gently in our hands
from the white net, from the bluegreen water.
This is how I pray, lips swollen with the sun.
Forgive me for whatever I have done.
Copyright © 2002 by Kathleen Kirk
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Unemployed
by Joyce Wilson
Some inspirations find themselves in song,
And blest are they who keep the message short;
Thus, I assure you I won’t take too long
To compensate for being out of work.
For what is work beyond a single goal
That someone else imposes on your mind,
That ties you to your worst supporting role,
And counsels you to leave the best behind?
It is my hope that morning’s mood improves
By afternoon, and winter’s rare delight —
The crimson clouds that evening's wind removes —
Will bring Orion’s stars into the night.
This poem marks the movements of the day
I gathered in my wealth, to give away.
Copyright © 2003 by Joyce Wilson
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Domestic Sonnet #26
by Wendy Vardaman
I read Frost last night to the children: “Fireflies”
and “After Apple-Picking.” Conor stuck
his fingers in his ears and began to buzz
like a locust. Why does he despise
poetry? I wonder that we rush to disguise
our humanity, to pluck
the eyes from our faces and to shuck
the soul from the body that tries to outsize
it. (As if some easy-fitting sort
would take its place.) We could do worse than
take a firefly for a model, making
an attempt at brightness: at least
offering a little light to one
another through the silent circling.
Copyright © 2003 by Wendy Vardaman
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Domestic Sonnet #63
by Wendy Vardaman
I can’t pretend life stays the same,
but its pace is never so clear
as when I open photo albums. There
the children we no longer have remain,
reminding me, as no clock ever can,
of how the seconds dissipate. How endure
their thronging number? How comprehend its future?
How many will abandon us from now to then?
I used to figure time by place. The first
decade of adult life slipped
by at college. Now the minutes matter.
You will feel the last two weeks were lost
when you return and find the children changed,
the ones you left already widely scattered.
Copyright © 2003 by Wendy Vardaman
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Our Cat and His Abscess
By Joyce Wilson
—abscedere: to go away
To flee the horror of his agony,
He crept away to live beneath the house
And trade our overanxious company
For meals of crickets, beetles, and a mouse.
Upon his source of torment, he obsessed.
The sore that had erupted on his back
Produced a yellow, awful smelling crust
But kept his mind and memory on track.
Alone, he was determined to endure
This exile in his dank unheated lair.
We wondered how he’d best achieve a cure
Without accepting our attentive care.
As winter weathers seeped into the field,
He stayed away until the wound was healed.
Copyright © 2003 by Joyce Wilson
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