November 28-December 4, 2011: Mary Harrison and Vincent F. A. Golphin

week of November 28 – December 4, 2011

Mary Harrison and Vincent F. A. Golphin

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Mary Harrison
misong@ix.netcom.com

Bio (auto)

Mary Harrison Lives in Springfield, Missouri. Since retiring as a psychiatric nurse practitioner, she has spent time writing, cooking vegetarian meals, watching birds and taking care of her two old miniature poodles. Her poems have been published in Poetry Super Highway, The Kansas Quarterly, Midwest Poetry Review, Mediphors, Poetry Motel Olympia Review, Kota Press, and other journals. She has published two memoirs: ” And You Will Know the World’s Name” and “Unforeseen.”

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Mary Harrison and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Soup

Three days before Bud died, I stirred up
a batch of minestrone,
took it to him
where he lay in a hospital bed
at his home.

I remember once finding him
standing in the sun
in his vegetable garden,
a white-haired Adonis,
bare chested, bronze, muscular,
gently smoothing dust
from a tomato plant,
his love for growing things
inherited from our dad..

“A soup to die for,” he said.
I brought more, but
he hardly had time.

I took him an angel suncatcher.
It was to be a rainbow maker,
an offering, a prayer.
It was a superstition, a bargaining
with a diety
I lost sight of long ago.
In sunshine, it would have surrounded
him in a swirl of dancing colors,
but the weeks held only
mist and rain.

Once more I stir around the edges,
watch the swirling and swelling
as if in the thickness, I’ll find him,
or myself,
or the undoing of loss and grief.

Vegetables fresh from the garden..
bright, crisp, tasty,
unlike flowers resting
on tables, mantels and graves,
vegetables are destined
for the kitchen table,
or the sickbed.

I wonder, exactly, when the mix
becomes soup,
when separateness dies into wholeness,
when flesh and bone and blood
let go of the soul.

Once more I stir
this soupy garden,
its parts, connections.
The soup stirs me.



Vincent F. A. Golphin
vwriter@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

After more than 30 years as a writer, journalist and educator, Vincent F. A. Golphin is now an assistant professor of Creative Writing and Literary and Cultural Studies in the Department of English at the Rochester Institute of Technology. His newest collection of poetry Ten Stories Down, released by FootHills Press in September. His poems, fiction and essays have also appeared in Yellow Medicine Reivew, Washington Living, Upstate New Yorker, The Southern Quarterly, Reporter Magazine, Drylongso, Fyah, MentalSatin, Pinnacle Hill Review, Invisible Universe, Bridges, Ishmael Reed’s Konch Magazine, New Verse News, and UpandComing Magazine.

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Vincent F. A. Golphin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Betty’s Blues

For my wife

On a rain-soaked afternoon,
There should have been a song,
Maybe Johnny Mathis, Miles,
Maybe Nina, singing deep and low
About the way it hurts,
Some hyped medley,
That lifts spirits
And twists and turns
The soul in flight.
 
I could not think
Of words,
Or notes,
Could not find
The energy
To fill my lungs
With air to croon.
 
I just drank
Ethiopian coffee
And counted
The fast, fat, flat lines
Raindrops drew in the air
Outside the window,
A complement to the truth in a tune
Jean Luc Ponty
Played slow and soft on the speakers
 
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone