Ecstatic

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      ECSTATIC by Mira McEwan
      ISBN-13: 978-0-9743603-5-5
      72 pages, 6 x 9
      Photos © 2007-2011 Dede Hatch
      - http://www.arttrail.com/

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      Mira's poetry is a mix of spiritual contemplations, the earthiness of everyday realities, a strong pinch of humor, and an overriding compassion and insightfulness that one would expect of a nurse. Her writing style deftly varies to fit the topic-- from stream of consciosuness to free verse to structured form (including a handful of haiku) to poems built on colloquialisms and quotes. Allbook Books is excited to introduce her work....

      Mira McEwan was born in 1969 and raised in Toronto, Canada. Her poems have appeared in Proem, Transitions, Re-Visions, Hydra, and U.C. Review. She holds a Master’s degree in Literature, with a concentration in British Romanticism and American Transcendentalism. She is also a registered nurse. Mira spent several years teaching literature and creative writing, and now divides her time between nursing and writing. Her literary influences include Rumi, Sharon Olds, and William Carlos Williams. She loves to play chess, hike in the woods, and read novels, preferably while eating something delicious.  Currently she is working on a manuscript of short stories. Mira lives in Upstate New York with her husband, daughter, and two cats.
      * * * * *

        i am that

        the soul                 salt in warm water
         
                         water                         distilled

           into air                      filtered in ether

        burning in the highest flame

        it is            nothing            in

                     relation to                  nothing

                         breath asymmetric    no

                                                     voice


        catch the soul in love discarded     surrender

                           to            the soaring wind

         bringing          you here         come
         
                             be still          in this light

        give praise              all       give praise

                                   for light          in winter

                                                   dusk

        * * * * *
       
        Remembering

      Sometimes sitting up in bed as I swallow that
      first sip of coffee, and lower the cup back down to rest
      on my leg, I remember. It is butterfly kiss caught in the
      corner of my periphery, a brief, almost imperceptible AHA!
      that bursts as soon as I lunge for it. It is a knowing and a not
      knowing. It is a veiled secret one keeps from one’s self, like
      when you hear your son is gay, or that your wife is sleeping
      with the roofer, and you sense that AHA! hurtling toward you and
      settling in the chest because not only do you
      know, you know that you always knew. It was there in the
      background simmering and rumbling, this knowingness, this
      remembering what you always knew. And I wonder (not for the
      first time) as I lift my coffee cup, that if I can know what
      people say before they say it, or who is watching me before
      I turn around, then it seems to me that I should be able to
      remember where I lived before I was born, who I was with,
      what we talked about, and who told me all of this.

               * * * * *

       Newborn Exam

      You are unwrapped and placed on the table, a gift.
      Wild-eyed, your parents survey and appraise you
      as you are weighed and measured, your reflexes
      tested, straining against a love both fierce and simple.
      You are amphibious still, your skin tender and
      translucent like a breast, organs
      partway visible. Your spirit flickers, speaks
      insistently through your desire. Soul essence within
      and without meets and mingles, this moment of touch
      invisible to the eye, marked by a gasp of inspiration.
      Your rapidly-beating heart and rhythmic breath, a
      groundswell of feeling, the whistling silk of damp roses
      opening. I hold you in my hands, lift you up to my face and
      breathe. Cloves.   Rainwater.  Sweet grass.



      She is learning the intermingling dance language of
      being human. Her hands fluttering together and apart
      like mating butterflies laces with my hand, grabs
      my finger. Her body a twig of willow,
      yielding, bending, twisting, bowing, and unbreaking.
      Each moment closer to essence sensing a
      little grace familiar, the tears in her eyes
      making us appear dewy and luminous.



      In time she will ossify and rise to the upper ether of
      yearning, rest in the place where longing worships
      itself, melting and swelling against walls, against
      choking sounds and silence. She will run from other
      people’s projections, living and dying
      in slow pieces, migrating in and out of a continuous
      series of small tragedies, the whole of her life hiding
      and revealing the startling presence of truth, a carrion
      bird perched on the edge of a windowsill.



      Perhaps she will learn that there is nothing holding
      an idea but will, and that each act performed by the
      body must hold within it a sacred seed of giving, that
      everything alive has thorns. Perhaps she will rest in the
      simple persistent fact of loneliness, and understand
      that life is sleight-of-hand and the gray secrecy of time made
      glamorous with various shades of truth, and that
      falling in love is the most ruthless trick there is, that life
      is a smoky glass pane, daring and teasing one to look
      inside but making everything thick and distorted.
      Perhaps then she will fulfill her life’s purpose, to do
      nothing, to do it well, to seek without seeking, to relinquish
      some of the terrifying darkness she carries within her.

                       * * * * *

      A Poem Composed Entirely From
      Blurbs Found in the TV Guide

      High school students try to stave off an invasion of
      alien body snatchers. Face the nation. Cheesy reality.
      Hour of Power Religious Programming. A demon
      poses as an imaginary friend. Jeopardy. Wall Street
      Journal Report. An ill-conceived romantic comedy.

      Marriage Crazy. Alien vs. Predator. Surreal Life.
      Work is slow at the mortuary and the staff gets
      tense. Good pulpy fun. A security officer

      battles a dragon.  A monster battles both Japan
      and Godzilla. Scofield arrives in prison where he
      aligns with a former mob boss and gets in the
      middle of a race war while trying to free his framed
      brother. A comic rhapsody. Overarching

      government conspiracy is cartoonishly
      obvious. A mysterious agent plots to steal
      government funds in this illogical thriller. A
      woman vanishes during a magic act and never
      reappears. Whose Line Is It Anyway?

      The history of ketchup is examined,
      making an already tense affair more so.
      Karen gets stood up on a date.
      We See Everything. The Adventures of
      Piggley Winks. Rolie Polie Olie. Drama. All New This
      Fall.  Horror. Lois fulfills her dream of becoming
      a model. Meanwhile, Brian suffers from worms.

           * * * * *
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      ©
      2007-2012 by Mira McEwan
      © Website 2003--2012 Walter E. Harris III