October 27–November 2, 2008: Margaret Boles and Brianna Barrett

week of October 27-November 2, 2008

Margaret Boles and Brianna Barrett

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Margaret Boles

Bio (auto)

Margaret Boles lives in Dublin Ireland Her poetry collection “Eye of the Tiger” is forthcoming from Sanbun Publishers in India.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Margaret Boles and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Black-Hawk Down

Black-Hawk down
Yet another
Or Apache down One mother’s son
With a gun
And sons,
Young men with
Fathers Mothers
Somewhere, downed,
Brought down
From the airNo fatalities,
This time.

Portuguese Fado Music

I want to listen to Fado,
And remember the whiff of danger
Pale skin on a swarthy ring finger
Night growing later, after a meal
Of Lourenco Marques prawns
Listening to Fado, Fado
Thinking of Portuguese sailors
Who’d once left Europe
Brought their music,
Language, and blended
It into the African soil
The tempo changed
The stage was set
The neon lights,
They shone –
And to the music
The dancers danced
Garments shedding
the night club evolved
Into strip show,
The dancer revealed
For a split minute
An unremarkable body,
Almost middle-aged!

Brianna Barrett

Bio (auto)

My name is Brianna Barrett I grew up in a lovely, little house tucked away in a little pocket in the forest outside of Portland, Oregon Our roof was two different colors that don’t match, but we had flowerboxes under every window and a big front yard with a patio where I would draw entire towns out of side-walk chalk Now, older, I am a screenwriter and filmmaker bouncing between Portland, LA, and dreams about Canada.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Brianna Barrett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Past Was Never the Present

My umbrella is keeping out the sunlight
and locking in the rain
on a gray Monday-morning-at-the-supermarket
but-gotta-pick-something kind of day
I told the girl at the bank I’d been turning
pages in my checkbook more than
pages in my journal She looked like a pinstripe wearing a jacket
with pinstripes on it
Back in the day—and
I say ‘the day’
instead of 1992
because it makes me sound much more
expert on the matter—
I remember when children grew here instead of weeds
on babyfat summers
where we had permission to get in trouble
We commit each day to memory with sunshine
as the present clouds with darker shades we
can’t see through behind yesterday’s sunglasses
I imagine somehow the Now and Then must be
two separate entities
which have never met It makes no sense
that the past lives a vibrant existence
between the goalposts of my mind
while today seems a still frame photograph
in black & white.

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