February 18-24, 2019: Poetry from Guinotte Wise and David Lohrey

Guinotte Wise and David Lohrey

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Guinotte Wise
guinotte.wise@vml.com

Bio (auto)

Guinotte Wise writes and welds steel sculpture on a farm in Resume Speed, Kansas. His short story collection (Night Train, Cold Beer) won publication by a university press and enough money to fix the soffits. Four more books since. A 4-time Pushcart nominee, his fiction and poetry have been published in numerous literary journals including Atticus, The MacGuffin, Santa Fe Writers Project, Rattle and The American Journal of Poetry. His wife has an honest job in the city and drives 100 miles a day to keep it. Some work is at http://www.wisesculpture.com

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Guinotte Wise and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Power & Light

Pups’ first real snow. They leap and roll.
We feed the horse, the birds.
It snowed all day, all night, it piled up.
Branches fall, first with a crack. Then softly.
The male scoots when he hears this, tucks
his rear and hauls his ass. The female looks
toward the sound. Snow no longer
thrills this old man, though a touch of
boyhood tries to double dog dare me to
find a flagpole. A sled. A Suicide Hill
for derring do. Aim toward the trees,
make it through two close together.
Breathy laughter, pull the sled back up
the hill, anxious to show off and do it
again. Through the years I hear the
other children, faintly, shouting from
that distance. Calling. Look!

Inside, I towel the pups off, then they
shake the remaining droplets.
Something is off. The power. Shit,
I say, the pups look quickly, did they
do wrong? No, I tell them. It’s me.
No lights where lights should be, the
coffee pot, the modem, the clocks.

I flip switches so when the power resumes
I will know immediately. Snow comes
down outside relentlessly. Soundlessly.
Like the fear that mounts with years.
If I could be that child with sled once more
replace the fear with breathless laughter,
a small king in my white world.

I call the power company. Dial one for
English. If your last name starts with
these four letters dial one. We are
aware of your power outage. We are
working diligently…

 


David Lohrey
lohr_burgh@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

David Lohrey graduated from UC, Berkeley. David’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and in Canada. His poetry can be found in New Orleans Review (US), Tuck Magazine (UK), Expanded Field Journal (Netherlands), and Dodging the Rain (Ireland). His fiction can be read online at The Broke Bohemian, Terror House, and Literally Stories. David’s book, The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th century American and South African novelists, was published in 2017 in Germany.  Machiavelli’s Backyard, David’s collection of poetry, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers. He lives in Tokyo.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by David Lohrey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Drink the Ramen

It rains every day but there is no water.

In Chitose-Funabashi, the puddles are fine and the river runs deep,
But showers are on timers.

It is only a matter of time before the buffalo reappear.
Gather twigs for the party.

Take the wrappers off the bottles, keep the lettuce in the larder.
The neighbors eye our bins.

The silent dogs are barking. The birds wither.
Soon Santa will come on his broom.

The ski’s gray, not blue. Fire pours from the faucets,
As the sunflowers blossom.

The summer’s lightning strikes hard and the rains lose heart.
Locals don’t taste the noodles; the flavor’s in the broth.

It rains every day but there is no water.

 



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