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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/
to order this book
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.
* * * * * return to top return to home page
© 2007-2012 by Mira McEwan © Website 2003--2012 Walter E. Harris III
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