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Mark MacDonald is a retired English teacher from Tulsa Oklahoma who grew up in Detroit. Mark’s first book, “Songs of Love” is currently out of print. Mark describes his poetry as “impersonal but intimate, very conversational in mood and tone with a penchant for the real inside the surreal.” Mark considers poetry as an act of sabotage, an act of theft whereby the poet steals from everything and anything within reach, fickles with it for a while, then returns it to the owner in a new form and perspective.
The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Mark MacDonald and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Telegram for Mrs. Smith
Poetry’s not therapy or a person you
Poetry can be a bird—or even
not the solution to poverty or war—
But poetry is sometimes a meal—
Nobody dreams of traffic jams
the last time I stood
the flood of rubber and steel
and the Chevys crawling
and the production workers
Today I will answer for all of those voices
Billions and billions of people and the usual
Xiang Tsu? Did you enjoy the fresh plums
How’s the new baby? Can I help you
Somewhere in Detroit
Michael H. Brownstein
Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), and I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011: http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com/2011/03/27/i-was-a-teacher-once-by-michael-h-brownstein/). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).
The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Michael H. Brownstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
In the Morning it Will Still Be OK
This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love has the weight of god, the weight of Eve’s sister,
This is who I love. This is what I love.
"…like an attempt
The sun lifted its mane
"more like an attempt
A soft drizzle rainbowed
"So an attempt at love,"
and a blue river
"Yes, that’s it.