Hard Ground, Manic and Endless

I am thinking
about you
looking out my window
watching spring
wishing I hadn’t forgotten
how to laugh

watching you
even now
can still
make me smile
and stumble
reaching
for empty air
that rush
of soft voices
home

Thinking about you
I give up
sit down
on hard ground
let my teeth
slide into soft peach
trying to remember
the sound of you
manic and endless

5 April 2019

 

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My Interview with Jericho Brown

Charlotte interviews Jericho Brown!

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“I think social media allows more access to more poems. And I think it allows me the chance to think about the work of poets I love in a more intimate way since I can see them struggling with teaching and writing and raising kids and living in the moments when it happens. Poetry is better when it comes from and happens to real people we can imagine. No oracles!” — Jericho Brown

*****

My interview with poet Jericho Brown is currently online in Barren Magazine. Click here.

Many thanks to Jericho for generously sharing his thoughts and insight and to Jason Ramsey for publishing it in Barren.

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In the wood

With each careful footstep
pine needles
the forgotten colours
of a forgotten autumn
softening the sound

she counted

until stars
came out
to greet her

and the moon
to bless her

only then
did she let herself
rest

only then
did she let herself
believe

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a wood in West Sussex

Happy World Poetry Day!

I repost Charlotte’s poetry quite a lot. Here’s another wonderful one.

Zouxzoux

In honor of World Poetry Day I’m sharing my very first published poem. It was published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature back in 2010.

Delaronde Street

By late august we’ve become
accustomed to the noise of the
locusts singing their mating song of hope.
The calls rise and fall in tandem
with the breeze that blows over
our bodies as
we lie together in the hammock,
the gnarly limbs of an ancient oak
like a cradle around the balcony and
we the not-so-innocent babes
within it’s protective embrace.

Softly we swing, holding our
glasses of gin and tonic, the cold
sweat of the glass dripping
on breasts and chest then
vanishing into skin that still
glows with the flush of sex.

The rustling leaves of the palmettos
heighten the strains of Irvin’s
“Othello and Desdemona” wafting
through the french doors and
I hum along, too lazy and…

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A Story of Love Like a River

They fell in love

Later
they would wonder
if they had ever known the other
if they had merely fallen in love
with themselves

Even later
they would struggle
to remember
the other
themselves
the places their heart
meticulously mapped out

but deep in their hearts
was a solid line
with tributaries
like a river

when the moon was full
and the night was warm
and still
they would float on the surface
gliding on water like glass
and let themselves remember

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