After the annulment of light
In the stubborn kiln of winter
There is a beginning that hurts.
You hear it in the troubled cry
Spun from treetops,
In the muffled bending of trees
Cracking off the frost.
When you wander through the streets
Stunned by the bright emergence,
The wakened sunshine,
You start to remember
The endless colors of the world:
The Adriatic with its whitened dazzle,
Michelangelo’s angel-bitten blue,
All the faded shades of longing
In the remnants of the Roman Forum.…
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I. Then & Foreshadow
Blank page, dredged out fish bone
not so different, containers of what will be
and was.
Fossils. Left impressions, vestiges
in sand and smoke, crumbs of old
mixed with new light and sound.
II. Now, with Breathing
The living telephone wire. A laugh
I just had with you
ran over by the impulse of a cycling dryer.
Back to bleach and white,
penciled spheres around words
from a Yellow Pages. I see Psychotherapy,
there is only one name.…
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for Lucy
our hands extend,
these palms are wading pools –
the waters of God’s love. let
your spirit wade into our hands.
allow the still surface to flood
your soul. allow yourself
to bask in these holy shallows.
you are crying, and lovely.
you are smiling, and beautiful.
we look unto you, and love you,
as you shower in God’s graces.
– Joseph Dahut…
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Joan Gelfand’s reviews, stories, and poetry are in many national and international literary journals, including Rattle, Prairie Schooner, Kalliope, California Quarterly, Toronto Review, Marsh Hawk Review, and Levure Litteraire. She’s the Development Chair of the Women’s National Book Association and a member of the National Book Critics Circle. She also blogs for the Huffington Post and coaches writers. You can find out more about her here, as well as support the campaign for her new novel, Fear to Shred, here.
Please describe your duties as editor/writer.
I am a full time writer who speaks at conferences on getting published and on poetry and video. I coach writers around the country. Once a month, I host the San Francisco Poetry Podcast show which airs on line on U–Verse. …
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Yet another storm shivers the trees,
reeling even the towering
sequoia. While walking the dog, I weep,
forced by icy wind
to abandon stoicism, your plane not yet
airborne. Once again,
I strip your sheets, reshelve books you never
opened, find, on the sill,…
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river city sky
spectrum of grey
ungiving surfaces
nothing immediate
available here
suspended
between cities
someone…
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Do you know that feeling you get
when giving up
when you don’t care for another day,
when you realize you are your childhood
no matter how much you try to smother it?
As you wonder if anyone will care after you’ve departed
as you walk through the gate alone
in the same way you arrived. …
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