week of July 23-29, 2007
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
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Cheryl Snell, who lives in Glenn Dale, Maryland, has two new books out: Samsara (The Pudding House Chapbook Series), and Shiva‚s Arms, a novel published byThe Writer’s Lair Books She is Book Reviews Editor for Alsop Review, and a three time Pushcart nominee Visit her blogs: http://snellsisters.blogspot.com and http://www.shivasarms.blogspot.com/
The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Cheryl Snell and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
She Paints Herself into a Corner
She takes a crayon to the backs
of envelopes, to the cardboard
from laundered shirts She steals India
ink and black velvet for angry clowns
and the many faces of Elvis Worked over
images soon overflow the closets, tumbling
into the hall Stacked to the ceiling, there
is no room for light to enter, and she moves
over the dark, stained floor like a shadow Back and forth and back again—she falls
out of her own frame of reference
still believing in what the day can do.
He Doesn’t Believe in Aspirin
Like a zipper tired of meshing,
the surface pulls apart, the skin
swollen and warm The rip is tinged with red Draw hard on whorls and pads˜
whatever hurts tastes like salt or iron The cut is not that deep
but there’s a trick
to mending– some small technique
with a light thin touch.
When you’re ready,
thread the needle with cotton
the color of a bruise
and pull from one side to the other
the way you dragged your tongue
across the metal railing,
the snow irresistible,
your brother tugging you
out of your skin
with devotion exquisite as pain.
The boy breaks through the horizon
with a yoke of buckets, chappals flapping
in red, kicked dust.
The girl is kneeling over her porch prayer,
laying out dots and curves a pinch at a time,
a lace of rice and powder.
As the girl meets the boy’s gaze, aunties rise
up along the street A dowry that crushes
the girl’s father, the line of aborted daughters˜
the future is set in motion
with the first scuff of the boy’s foot.
He runs away, laughing Slapping
their hands of rice and powdered brick,
the women reach out and pull him back
into shadows black as a murder of crows.
Norman Wm Muise
I was raised in Guelph Ont Canada Robert Frost was a big influence on me and he turned me on to poetry While taking a poetry workshop I found my passion, haiku I found the simplicity and grace in the haiku is what I seen in Mr Frost’s work I’ve been hooked on haiku ever since
The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by email@example.com and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
slips into the garden–
her print skirt
the mosquitoes enjoy
my bad habit
an old pond
wind and shadow ripple–