In the Field
By John Kneisly
In each dry seed, the shadow of the bloom,
the fold and fruit and every future seed
inheres—seed after seed, peninfinite breed
down to some local alternative of doom.
Each smolders to reflaunt its first day’s plume;
the currents of electric seas all bleed
within its cotyledons, and the old greed
to leap the aeons’ freeless weed streaked loom.
So every moment, every moment screams.
Open the album—every child lies dead
and stalks the pain of all posterity;
flee to the night—and every breath of dreams
steams of its seasons gone. So all is bred:
immanent, imminent, been, and been to be.
Copyright © 2014 by John Kneisly.
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The Face at the Festival
By John Kneisly
Amid the gew-gaws, brummagem, any hard term
of contempt for wares that reek and infect the eye
(helpless eye, filled up with such flash-orange vermin!),
a terra cotta head lies on the table. Oh let it lie, let it lie!
All these boys and young men, grown girls and new mothers, swarm
through the ordinary spring air, brief and bright as flies
(and the sunlight lies sweet on their writhingly beautiful arms).
Some of them look at the table, pass, and do not even cry.
Its eyes are empty. Its mouth gapes in alarm.
Its tongue hangs down, stunned. It lies there, facing the sky.
(Upright it would be comic: the gagging boy who swallowed a worm.)
But I know him; I remember it: a father’s face as he died,
mind, body, bowels. He loved these festivals and crowds.
“Come on,” whines the child, “come on. Daddy, now . . .”
Copyright © 2014 by John Kneisly.
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Macbeth Considers His Lady
By Patricia Callan
Her Picts and many Celtic kings in line
made my Highland lady shrewd and cold.
She spoke a regal tongue that equaled mine,
preferred the woven cloak to silk or gold.
The clans’ arranging of our stars was all
to me; our vows were sealed in summer’s heat.
Her dainty hand in mine, we left the hall
under a vault of blades. Our flesh complete,
we agreed our union’s purse be spent
In sole defense of Scotland’s royal banner.
I loved her violent urges when she bent
me to her offered breasts, her savage manner
the way the owl screams from where it’s kept.
Within that darkened thrill, I’ve often wept.
Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Callan
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LADY MACBETH
By Rosemarie Rowley
All the perfumes in the whole wide world,
Not to speak of Araby, or the East with all its spice
Could not sweeten my hand as these deeds unfurled
With heartless action, premonition, as a vice
My ascent through murder is so steep
I fall off into nightmare, terror, fear
A rendezvous in Hell’s caverns without sleep,
Descent into the bloody abyss, solitary and dear
As the loss of salvation, the porter’s knock
That I and my flesh are doomed, a soul
Destroyed, and hell my habitation
And so the other worlds, a whole
Lost in the fiery conflagration
Because I considered myself to be
Not a lord’s, but a King’s dowry.
Copyright © 2014 by Rosemarie Rowley
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HERMIONE
By Rosemarie Rowley
If her husband Leontes were indeed in love
He could see truly she was made of honour
Would not need a marble travesty, nor peace dove
To quiet his heart and give it even tenor,
Instead he whispers insults in a guest’s ear
Suspects that his friend will betray him
His fevered speculation is a jealous leer
He wants nothing more than to slay him
The queen is banished and he clears the deck
Of unattributed modesty and virtue
While she lingers by a flowery beck
Says to her daughter he will never hurt you,
Their daughter of a father whom she wins
By repentance of her non-existent sins.
Copyright © 2014 by Rosemarie Rowley
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A SONNET FOR JAMES WHITEHEAD
By James Naiden
1936-2003
Arkansas will not be green as it was
When you held forth with stories, old fables
From the deep south, a wordsmith’s Fortinbras
Of images from Mississippi, liberal tables
Where justice prevailed, a mind’s eye
Back to ’84 when you then spoke for
Jesse Jackson, believing naively
That the United States was somehow more
Than the sum of its parts, perhaps then gist
For poetry, sonnets of tight diction,
A quick lecture about what we missed
When the narrator left out friction.
Jim, the honor of “local men” did soar
After your second book, a vibrant roar.
Copyright © 2014 by James Naiden.
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AFTER WINTER COMES THE SPRING
By James Naiden
The mud, the nude monotony of March.
—Edmund Wilson
“Aye, tell me somethin’ I didn’t know before, James!”
the old man stammered with a crooked grin.
It was the time of slush, intermittent with rain
After Christmas’s forgotten gift, the face of Yule.
“I’m awestruck by your quick perceptions, Hal,”
was my feeble reply, offering to refill his drink.
He accepted, holding his glass over the table.
I was tempted to pour wine over his hand,
But politely, lest he thought mockingly, filled his glass,
Adding: “You should have seen the Iroquois!”
“I’m sorry to have missed them,” Hal said, not seeming
Sorry at all but puzzled by my circular conversation.
Serves him right, I thought maliciously, taking a sip
Of white wine, looking at his fatigued, withered face.
Copyright © 2014 by James Naiden.
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JOURNEYS
By Maria Luise Weissmann; trans. by William Ruleman
All day long I have to search for you,
And what surrounds you holds much hope for me;
What’s yours feeds me with bright certainty:
Cacti, gleam of gold, a lone bird’s coo;
Ah, snow and violins have seen you run;
And flapping flags of shining cities too?
And wind-blown cries of boys at play—that’s you?
Are you dying in the sinking of the sun?
I roam through typhoons, crystalled ocean’s blue;
Perhaps a stray scent there’s brought you to light?
And all through black and silver alleys, true—
With sobs of woe or laughs of glad delight,
Yes, every day I have to search for you:
Toward you still roams the crimson path of night.
Copyright © 2014 by William Ruleman.
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FÄHRTE
By Maria Luise Weissmann
Durch allen Tag muß ich Dich suchend gehn
Und ist so viel, was rings Dich mir verheißt,
Mich mit Gewißheit Deiner schimmernd speist:
Ein Vogelrufen, Glanz des Golds, Kakteen,
Schnee, ach, und Geige, die gesehn Dich haben,
Fahnen der blanken Städte, Windeswehn—
Starbst Du in einer Sonne Untergehn?
War dies Dein Schrei in wehem Spiel der Knaben?
Ich wandre durch Taifun, kristallnen Strahl der Seen,
Vielleicht, daß Dich ein Duft gefunden macht?
Durch schwarze und die silbernen Alleen,
Durch Jenen, der geweint, und Den, der lacht,
Durch allen Tag muß ich Dich suchend gehn,
Zu Dir noch wandert purpurn Pfad der Nacht.
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THE STRANGE CITY
By Maria Luise Weissmann, trans. by William Ruleman
The sky’s been built quite close, with much cement,
Whitewashed all over with those gaudy blues
That advertising artists like to use.
Fate lurks in dark nooks: brooding, indolent.
And corners stare with deathly sentiment,
Then cliffs! I’m heaved against them suddenly
Until the flood (onrushing) crushes me.
I’ve lived through nights of autos’ shrill lament;
All hope for lasting grace seems long since past.
Angelic voices, radiant harp-strings’ sound,
O breath of prayers, palm scents . . . O wings’ sweep!
I shove myself at gates rammed shut, locked fast;
I stare at myriad masks of fright all round;
I’m tired—so tired—yet cannot go to sleep.
Copyright © 2014 by William Ruleman
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DIE FREMDE STADT
By Maria Luise Weissmann
Der Himmel ist aus viel Zement gemauert,
Sehr nah. Und grell mit Tünche übermalt
Von jenem Blau, das Litfaßsäule strahlt;
Aus Winkeln, dumpf und schwer, Verhängnis lauert,
Und Ecken starren, oh so todumschauert,—
Klippen. —ich Woge, jählings dran zerschellt,
Bis mich die Flut zerschmettert weiterwellt.
In diesem Autopfiff, der Nächte überdauert,
Ging mir die ewige Seligkeit verloren.
— Oh Engelstimmen, oh Gesang der Harfen,
Gebetshauch, Palmenduft, oh Flügelwehn!
Ich stoße mich an fest verrammten Toren,
Ich starre rings in tausend Schreckenslarven,
Ich bin so müd, und darf nicht schlafen gehn.
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SONNET
By Maria Luise Weissmann, trans. by William Ruleman
Avert your gaze! It struck me hard and stayed
To strike me fatally. Do know I fade not quite
Against my will, nor slip away afraid;
Just take, from my death, this strange dark light;
Take your look away! No thicket stands
Prepared for me as for the wounded deer
Who soon will meet his end; no craft commands
Me yet to hide and watch and wait in fear . . .
So be merciful! And doing so, annul
For my gaze this hideous scene from history,
This once-queried sight shown to the imperial
Strolling Nero for his scrutiny:
A face impaled on a stake, waxing slack and dull;
He studied its agony long and smilingly.
Copyright © 2014 by William Ruleman
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SONETT
By Maria Luise Weissmann
Wende den Blick hinweg! Er traf mich lang
Und traf mich tödlich. Zwar ich gleite nicht
Unwillig hin, nicht zu vergehen bang:
Nur nimm von meinem Tod dies dunkle Licht,
Nimm Deinen Blick hinweg! Kein Dickicht ist
Mir ja bereitet wie dem wunden Tier,
Dem bald Geendeten; und keine List
Mich zu verbergen wachte noch in mir —
So sei barmherzig! — Und es löste sich
Auch meinem Blick dies schauerlich einmal
Vernommne Bild: Es bot dem kaiserlich
Wandelnden Nero sich, von spitzem Pfahl
Emporgepreßt, ein Antlitz, das verblich:
Er prüfte lang und lächelnd seine Qual.
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Roadkill
By Claudia Gary
patterned on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 19
Clenched firmly in the armadillo’s paws,
a beer can glimmers. Ever shall I brood
upon the day Love caught me in its jaws
there at the Texas Road House, in cold blood.
Unbridled two-step music, as thou fleet’st,
obliging me to step within thy time,
remember how thou guided me toward sweets
which other days were culinary crime.
Now after dancing hard, mopping my brow,
rebuttoning my blouse, grabbing my pen,
paper, and breath, I promise to allow
the wilder rhythms of creatures and men
plenty of time and space. Nothing goes wrong
forever when you’re sloshed and not too young.
Copyright © 2014 by Claudia Gary
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SUSQUEHANNA: RIVER OF MUD
By Lee Evans
Down from its source at Otsego it wends
Past Cooperstown and Baseball’s Hall of Fame,
Accumulating waters to its name —
And silt: Three million tons a year it sends
Along its passageway through Binghamton
And Wilkes-Barre, past the Three Mile Island plant
That caused us such alarm in years gone past;
An avalanche — the Chesapeake its end.
In January, nineteen-ninety six,
A snow-pack in its river basin thawed;
An ice-jam below Harrisburg was fixed,
And when it broke, an eight foot water wall
Ripped out Safe Harbor’s Dam and a train line —
But Conowingo sluiced it through in time.
Copyright © 2014 by Lee Evans
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Polyglot Subway Car
By Ron Singer
Riding to Brooklyn on the “R”
in a polyglot subway car,
am I the sole English speaker?
Chinese, Spanish, E.T.C., I hear,
plus several I don’t recognize.
Across from me, a Russian mom
and son, eight or nine, both outsize.
She coaxes him, in pantomime,
to suck the last drops of soda
from an almost-empty can,
but the straw has fallen in.
They dissolve in giddy laughter.
Who knows what the rest are saying?
“Bendiciones!” Home safe!
Copyright © 2014 by Ron Singer
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When it Happened
By John MacLean
When did I chose the left side of the bed
Some first night more than thirty years ago
When sleeping was the last thing in my head,
Though now, if you’re not there, my mind will slow
To dates forgotten as the kids would play,
As when our first girl first from childhood stepped
And let go of the chair and lurched away
Across the living room we’ve long since left.
I can’t recall the sunrise on the day
I said, “I love you,” but my memory
Still holds your brown hair in the winter sun
That skimmed the station roof. “I’m scared,” you say
Beside my old Renault. The town could see
Two hugging children and a life begun.
Copyright © 2014 by John MacLean
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How It Is
By John MacLean
Once home for four kids, nanny, and we two —
We’ll not need such a house to hold us soon.
The listing offered “winter river view”
To ease the passing on to empty rooms
Where walls show cracks but hide the secrets shared
With toys they didn’t love enough to take,
And uniforms we beamed to see them wear
Now hung in closets — lonely, left to wait.
But homes are made for leaving, at their best,
As children other parents’ children find
And fill to bursting homes we’ll never see,
While we now wonder why we never guessed —
Left pacing halls the children left behind —
How much we built our home to set them free.
Copyright © 2014 by John MacLean
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Thanksgiving
By Jeff Holt
I visit Mom and Dad less frequently
since Danny wormed into my dreams again.
He died alone in 1983
but still pursues me as if I were ten.
I’ve asked my mom to take his portrait down.
Mom asked me “Why take down my favorite?”
Cold, I squirm as if the wet nightgown
still clings to me. Wincing, I vow to quit
playing the normal game here. Dad can chat.
I glance up: mistake. Danny sees my stare,
whispers “You’re sweet.” Looming above Mom’s seat,
a pimply Zeus, he orders “Just lie flat.”
I jerk, look down. Mom: “Sweetie, the prayer?”
My eyes squeeze shut; my lips twist in defeat.
Copyright © 2014 by Jeff Holt
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Cat and Mouse
By Jeff Holt
I was leaping, clapping at a gnat
and scraped the flaky ceiling in the hall.
Now Dad is hissing like a monstrous cat.
I’m shrinking like a mouse into a ball.
Dad’s hand shoots from the sky, smacking my cheek:
the great claw burns. He corners me, and scares
me into silence. I can only squeak.
His brown eyes bulge out and his matted hair
sticks up like feline ears. But then he blurs,
a video that has been overplayed.
I feel another blow, but distantly;
this cat and mouse game has begun to fade.
Something within that can’t be pounced on stirs
and races far from Dad, preserving me.
Copyright © 2014 by Jeff Holt
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Dialogue with Venus
By David J. Rothman
“O Goddess of full-epidermis prickling,
Of shortened breaths, deep kissing and lost wits,
Of glistening eyes, delicious, slippery tickling,
Of hard-won resolutions blown to bits;
O Queen of whispers, moans, howls, yells, yelps, screams,
Of fickle, feckless, frenzied fucking, chasms
Of twitching, squirts of life, small death, wet dreams;
O Soul of flirting and berserk orgasms —
O listen, Bitch, I’ve got your number now.
From now on, no more pheromones, no sighs.
No post-coital sadness. Hear my vow:
I’m through with lovesick loving and goodbyes.
These lips will never more wish, kiss or suck.”
She giggled, then said “That’s so hot. Good luck.”
Copyright © 2014 by David J. Rothman
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And Remember To Be Kind to Yourself
By David J. Rothman
Love may be harder now than it once was.
At every turn of each day, contradictions
Rise up like fog, like knives, like bored applause,
Like doggerel poets in their derelictions.
The banks continue in their banky way,
The liars lie, the stealers steal, even
Old appetites go sour. The hours decay.
Bread leaves the earth and flies back up to heaven,
Which does not exist. Yet — is this
A new thing? Is it really? So let’s try
Imagining, despite the facts, a bliss,
A giving, even though we’re going to die.
Strange that it’s easy, always was. Here’s how:
Love more than you are able. Do it now.
Copyright © 2014 by David J. Rothman
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Another One
By David J. Rothman
For God’s sake, please — not another sonnet.
I just don’t want to write them any more.
I’ve tried every variation on it.
And I’m a poet, not convenience store.
Besides, love, you’re supposed to pout, to frown,
Play hard to get, disdain my overtures.
Honey, you’re supposed to turn me down,
Not conjugate. Are these my socks, or yours?
Hey, look . . . the rain has stopped. The sun’s come out.
That one, on the fence? A meadowlark.
Gurgling warbles like . . . Hey, cut it out . . .
Like champagne, or . . . Can’t we wait until dark?
At least have brunch? Though . . . as you can see,
I seem to have another one in me.
Copyright © 2014 by David J. Rothman
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