Week of November 15-21, 1999
Tyurina Elizabeth Fate
I am a 17 year old poet from Park River, ND and would like to be included into your ezine I am copyrighted and have been published in anthologies I have been given awards and attended International Music Camp for creative writing summer of 99.
The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Tyurina Elizabeth Fate and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Stillborn: A Mother’s Narrative
Tuesday 3:20 AM The baby It was born blue She was mine and my fever was her only fame I do believe it was what kept her alive
It is the dead bell to the centuries My other me talked of it long ago,
But now she is dead and forgotten Her only heritage will be our one emerald baby
She is the legacy of the 2000 millennium They shall someday talk of her on TV and radio But I was the one who borne her,
Out of the foreign, origami rains They will always forget that
It is the attention headliner of the 1990’s The one with the fat, gold smile,
The one with the rich, bald head I guess not even I was as smart as they were
To put a quarter where the young ones tongue was The doctors’ smile claims it was what could have kept her alive The heart beating and the lungs of helium breathing I admit it was I which rattled the chain to the cage
The cage of foreign heads and bald doctors’ prescription bottles But it is locked now I cannot even open it up,
To save the life of my true, bald child My mind is too mixed up and my organic yellows are frigid
It is the liquid cauldron to morning The call to war and her baby blue eyes My mind is again frozen The child’s saltwater; the child’s saltwater I cannot even begin to think!
It is a godsend, they say Peachy pink upon gray It laughs; it laughs like vowels!
It is the cold eve of November Where the mothers grab their afternoon knitting
And hide, hide their children’s greens
It is the pale onslaught of the furnishing trees The night moves the 1870’s living room My God they would laugh at me if I were to say:
“Everything blue is poetry,
And my mother made me her plastic bedroom doll “
It is as if father was never good anyway!
Yet he wasn’t He was the Foreign Scowl The paper feelings, the midnight scare-dreams Oh how I still remember waking up screaming
Screaming to hear if the war was over The AM radios on too loud, mothers’ nut-bread too hard It about chipped my teeth at two!
It is the 1980’s Berlin wall falling when I was 10 I was too young, I don’t remember much of back then But my mother has the pictures in negatives to prove:
It is the black-eyed cauldron,
It is the black-eyed cauldron Not for twenty years have our heads been this dead!
They talk of me as if I was Egypt,
The mounted city of baby gold Its country is rotten, but delicious
Not even the computer could spill vowels like that!
They are selfless The 1980’s car jacking Not even I could destroy an antique like that
It smiles at me if I were its property The blue penguin with the bronze head I laugh My poetry has never been so pure!
It dances, dances to the vowels humming beat I watch it with my knees to the sky,
Fingers outstretched I see it as a Romantic Delicacy
My husband could not even do it upon two legs I laughed at him I called him my igneous love The one with the dental fillings and the O shaped mouth
I told him, It is the eyes that are too dim Plato could never understand it He studied it everyday It is this timeless History I love to breathe in
[And I laugh at it ]
Stephen Sleboda lives in a small three and half room house he and his wife rent from family Since the tragic loss of their daughter to Group B-Strep in June of 1999, these are the only poems to see the light of day
The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Steven Sleboda and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Turn Toward Darkness
.for Mary Eileen
At the turn
I have completed
operation Both eyes have
from my head When I am
everyone I see