January 18-24, 2016: George Moore and Judith R. Robinson

George Moore and Judith R. Robinson

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George Moore
george.moore@Colorado.EDU

Bio (auto)

George Moore is retired from Colorado University, Boulder, and now lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia with his wife, who is a Canadian poet. They are remodeling an old cottage on the ocean in a little lobster fishing village called Shag Harbour. George recently had the collection The Hermits of Dinglepublished with FutureCycle Press in 2013, and then another, Children’s Drawings of the Universe, with Salmon Poetry in 20l5. He also has a new collection, Saint Agnes Outside the Walls, coming out with FutureCycle Press this spring.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by George Moore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Poem Enters the House

It began with the confusion
in the cave. The horses we drew
were imperfect, men and women

obscene, and the zodiac only
a rumor. Nothing of this magic
remains. Now the poem

knocks at the door, asks to enter,
sits quietly in the corner and
sips its tea. It could be a clone

or a zombie. You say that anything
once said can again become
a mystery. But I can’t read to map

that word. Dismantling the engine
does not save fuel. None of these
things are completely cured.

That makes the poem nervous
and it looks out the window.
I sing it that old Gene Kelly song

and it dies.

 

 



Judith R. Robinson
Pghdazzler@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Judith R. Robinson, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. is an editor, teacher, fiction writer and poet. A 1980 summa cum laude graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, she is listed in the Directory of American Poets and Writers. She has published 100+ poems, four poetry collections (Including When I Loved You, Finishing Line Press, 2015), one fiction collection; edited or co-edited eleven poetry collections. Visit Judith on the web here.

 

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Judith R. Robinson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

If this was a movie

I would drift back
onto a slope in Pittsburgh
when my ballerina days
were still a dream
and the kids on the block
found what to do
that had nothing to do
with parents.

Only the bike named Betsy
negotiated for me,
helping me always win
down the hill, the street hill
not the cemetery hill.

All before I cared about any other wanting.

No big questions.
We may as well have been
tomatoes or anything else
alive that grows regardless,
like tomatoes.
What mattered was the bike
–racing–more than jacks
more than tar-baby stop
much more than Monopoly.

If there was thought
it was not deep
or has been forgotten,
slipped back, flickering,

a blurry frame
silver-gray as were those skies
if
this
was
a movie.