Patrice M. Wilson was born in Newark, NJ, has lived in NC, CT, MD, DC, VA and HI. She loves to poet, crochet, make jewelry, and is happily retired from an English professorship at Hawaii Pacific University in Honolulu, where she edited Hawaii Pacific Review literary magazine for 16 years, before it went online. Her poetry has been published in several journals and a few anthologies. She has studied theology and other subjects at the Carmelite monastery in the lovely mountains of Kaneohe, HI, from 2014-2019. Her poetry collection Hues of Darkness, Hues of Light was released in 2013. Visit Patrice on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Patrice Wilson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The fog on my glasses,
the film on the front side
of the lens after raindrops,
hold deep secrets.
From the whale’s belly
I fought toward its mouth,
the sea a city with rain,
wet gray drops
with soot and dust staining
the windows of structures
built on sand. This shore
I am spat upon
is not a place to rest.
I pull back from deep secrets,
the seeing before raindrops
have dried, my gray hands
clutching for a different prophecy.
Wesley holds an MFA from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, Tar River Poetry, the Indiana Review, the Greensboro Review, Story South, Lake Effect, and Salt Hill. Visit him on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Wesley Sexton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
On Trying & Failing to Teach Allen Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra”
O Allen Ginsberg I was sleepy
trying to teach your poem the students
were sleepy & I let them be it was
Wednesday & our thoughts were small
& unconcerned with anything beautiful
No one had time I couldn’t convince them
to have the time too much coffee
or not enough some fight with A or
whatever it was halfway through
I wanted to rip the poem off the projector
& bury it somewhere
like a family heirloom
In the YouTube reading people sit around
oo-ing like tiny cows & you add
two words to your overfilled last line:
all & beautiful as in
we’re all beautiful golden sunflowers inside
& I called nothing beautiful that day
not even your poem which meant
so much to me I called not beauty
the hour or so you spent thinking of it
As many dumb things as I’ve said
it’s only my silences I want to take back now
Look at them falling like soot
on every little thing I’d hoped
to praise forgive me