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Copyright © 2008 Barbara Southard
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Remember
Remember this
Junior Brown playing the blues.
Those leaves at dusk traveling
to the center of your soul
through conduits of deep crimson.
Store this
In some retrievable place,
like the glass dish placed
on the window sill, still holding
sea-washed stones from that little town
in Italy, where we walked through
the woods to swim in the sea.
Remember this
The hummingbird that pierced
your heart with beauty outside
the window of the café near the
Bay of Fundy— or the snow geese
rising up of one mind like Buddha
out of the marshes in coastal Virginia.
Store these
In some retrievable place,
to be brought back when your eyes
dim and your body no longer answers
your bidding — when ghosts of past
failures crowd out the incandescent
feel of a baby’s hand in yours.
Remember these
The multitude of sacred moments
that marched onward from that first
sentient spark to the last flickering light.
Remember
Moment
There is that moment
burrowed between clattering dishes
or a fence that needs mending
— when there is perfection,
like the flashing silver reflection
of a school of fish passing by
when clarity takes hold
and life throws a clue:
another peach to be plucked
all fragrant and soft, each bite sweet,
juice coursing down your face
like salty tears.
Rowing at 3 A.M.
Freeport
When oars slip into the water
waking drifting jellyfish
stars slide down from the morning sky
mingle with blue claws searching
for their morning meal
while mussels hiss from muddy banks
and the lopsided moon shoots ribbons
of silver across the canal—
dark houses on each side
like ancient amphibians
waiting for the morning sun
to touch their backs, start the day.
A boat, coming in from a night’s fishing
searchlights the docks for mooring
sending killies for cover
until it’s dark, still, once again—
amoebic-scented seawater
impregnating the air.
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from the back-cover:
I am struck by the subtle nature of Barbara Southard’s poetry and the delicacy of her role
as observer and guide to her reader. In poem after seemingly simple straightforward poem
she offers the careful reader unexpected dimension and sudden illuminations.
What we see is not what we might have seen. Looking inward, we see out into the world.
Looking out into the world, see ourselves.
Barbara Southard takes us to exotic places, from the Andes to Antarctica. And frequently,
as in “Kenai Peninsula at 11 P.M.,” the lovely imagistic nature of her writing carries the day.
But even in her most mundane locale illuminations may occur: in that moment/burrowed
between clattering dishes. . . life throws a clue (“Moment”). In the back seat of a car with a
child, not yet two, we re-live the intimacy of the moment she discovers there is a relationship
between air pushedfrom pressed lips and a bird or a butterfly, the child’s lips like tight buds
ready to bloom (“Where Poetry Begins”).
You’d be surprised what you find/once you climb that fence, she declares in the poem
“Sumps.”
Barbara Southard can find meaning in the most subtle of signs: in the darkened handle on
a hammer/a wedding band reduced to a sliver/of gold, concaved cutting board/hanging on
the kitchen wall (“Marks”). In “Ice” a pond has snapped into a latticelike pattern of frozen
and unfrozen beauty, water, ice and land/settled back into quiet symmetry, and we were there
to witness it. Junior Brown plays the blues and we have been reminded of snow geese/rising up
of one mind like Buddha/out of the marshes in coastal Virginia (“Remember”).
This is the poet as guide to her reader, someone who has learned to look into things, through
them, or tangentially to them in a manner that results in surprise, delight or wisdom.
A scout on the trail, teaching us to look beyond and through the standard signs of the trail for
deeper signs.
Remember is a book of rare glimpses at the worlds behind the world we encounter in our
day-to-day lives. A lot of poets can’t do that for readers, and the fact that Barbara Southard
can makes the quiet contemplation of her art a rare treat.
George Wallace
First Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, New York
February 18, 2008
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* * * * * * *
If You See My Dog, the Name Is Moon
poems by Pierre Gazarian
“With bemused wisdom, a hint of surrealism, and a sliver of romance,
Pierre Gazarian reinvents the art of aphorism in his poems. What, in
the end, really satisfies? he seems to ask in a tone at once innocent and
worldly. His poems tell us that what lasts are moments of warmth, and
he illuminates these moments one by one in these, his knowing, funny
enchanted pensées.” - - Molly Peacock
* * * * *
Spring
You break the Easter egg I gave you.
A bird flies from your hand,
a blur of red
that goes from tree to tree,
then to the sky,
and becomes the sun.
A rooster crows.
The day begins.
You made the earth.
You smile.
You’re six-years old.
*
There Was a War
Excuse me, Sir, do you have the time?
It is night, Madam, and very dark.
Thank you. Do you happen to know
if yesterday was a happy day?
War, Madam, war, yesterday.
Pity. My son was in a war, you see.
Say, have you seen my dog?
I heard a howling in the fog.
Sir, would you have a piece of bread?
Hungry?
No. It’s to feed the dead.
The dead, they are so lonely.
You must help me feed them today.
They say, today, that snow will come.
Madam, I have no bread to give.
Then I must find another way
to feed the dead, or they won’t live.
Tell me, do you think I’m mad?
Oh, no Madam. Your time will come.
Thank you, Sir. I must go now.
If you see my dog -- the name is Moon --
please, tell him I’m back at home,
and that the ovens will be warm all night,
to bake bread for the dead.
*
Old Men
Her dress vanishes in the sun.
She is naked under the wool
of the lamb.
Old men looking for love
follow her in the woods
where she sleeps at night.
They are drunk on their way back
to their lawful wives.
They cry on the edge of beds,
want to be children again.
She’s been accused
of breaking the peace.
The priest and the rabbi
have cursed her in their sermons.
They spoke of evil and sin.
But children and dogs
follow her when she runs in the fields.
One day she doesn’t come back.
Now the old men cry for beauty
and danger,
and their wives wish she would return
to feed the dreams
of their men.
*
7-Eleven
A trip to the 7-Eleven,
it’s like a ferry-boat ride:
you’ve got people with their ears sticking out
and tobacco up their noses.
The girls have incredible buttocks,
pants as tight as Saran Wrap on chicken.
Just to put your hand on their bare legs,
because you’re so lonely, nobody waiting for you,
not even a dog on the hood of your car,
waiting for you.
You’ve got some squishy doughnuts in one hand,
waiting on line,
nobody waiting for you,
and there’s that girl at the counter,
onions and crushed roses.
“Izatall?” she asks.
You say, “No . . .Well . . .Yes . . . ”
There’s a 300-pound man in back of you,
with 3 six-packs and 2 tons of pretzels,
smoke coming out his nostrils,
breathing down your neck,
and you know he’s got some great tattoos
with pirates’ heads and crossed bones
and all that sort of thing.
And there’s the cashier girl
waiting for an answer and it looks like
she’s got underwear on and nothing else,
with her Saran Wrap ass and her arms
like two fat snakes coming at you,
no better flame in Bombay bars,
and you throw yourself at her feet and bark,
“Marry me, woman, marry me.”
*
Angels
for Addy, when she was 8
The moon was green
and they fell from the sky.
They walked toward the house,
still blind from their descent.
They bumped into walls,
scraped the shingles,
the glass of windows,
pressed their blue lips
against window panes,
their mouths like crushed flowers.
I opened my door.
They blew in like the wind,
fell on the floor,
climbed on couches,
shaking their long sleep
like dew.
Then, they made the buzzing sound
of bees.
And the house took off.
And ever since,
Dear Adeline,
when the moon is green,
we visit the angels,
my house and I,
way, way past
the blue blanket
of the air.
*
© 2007-2008 by Pierre Gazarian
*
>>
About the Author
Born in Paris, Pierre Gazarian came to the United States at the age of fifteen. Over the years he has been invited to give readings of his poetry at Barnes and Noble, the Huntington Arts Council, the Vanderbilt Museum, the Langston Hughes Library, and at such universities as Columbia, NYU, St. John’s, and Queens College. His short plays have been read or staged at John Jay College, UBU Repertory Theatre, and the United Nations. He is a columnist for The Suffolk Times. This is his first book of poems. He lives in New York City with 4,000 books, one penguin, three bears, two cats, one giant lady bug (all stuffed and silent), and two lively dogs, Nina and Ida Mae.
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ECSTATIC by Mira McEwan
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.
* * * * *
* * * *
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.
© 2007-2008 by Mira McEwan
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(from the foreword)
When I was younger, I didn't look as old as I was.
Now that I'm older than I want to be, I still look younger than I am.
Some things never change. Except I have MS and I'm losing my hair.
I've had Multiple Sclerosis(MS) for 34 years. Those who also have it can
understand; I started with a cane, went to a walker and then
wound up in a wheelchair... not counting the extras I either started with or
picked up along the way like, muscle spasms, occasional double
vision, sleeplessness, etc. It's now time for a change, the time for the Good!
We want to go to Mars now, we've got the technology to do it but, we don't
have a cure for MS. So, what do you want to do? Cry? No!
You do what Norman Cousins did. He laughed himself (along with large
doses of Vitamin C) out of his disease! And if you're healthy, laugh anyway!
How do you do it? See funny movies, listen to tapes or DVDs with Sid
Caesar, Peter Sellers, Milton Berle, Benny Hill, Red Skelton, Rodney
Dangerfield, Woody Allen and others. See tapes or TV with Jackie Mason,
or the hilarious Robin Williams. You can read a funny book.
You can also read my humble offering.
I don't want to be so presumptuous that I guarantee a solution for what ails
you but I do guarantee a shot at some humor.
If you don't care for it, it's a free country. When you laugh or chuckle,
several things happen. First, laughter diverts your mind off the constant buzz
of depressing news we get every day. Second, laughter activates a chemical
change in your body.
Hormones, called endorphins, are activated in the brain. Endorphins reduce
stress and pain as well as cause a euphoric effect. If endorphins are secreted
continuously they spread and make the body healthier. Endorphins also:
enhance our immune system, improve the circulation of blood, have an
anti-aging effect, and help improve your memory.
Endorphins are a divine gift to human beings. Through laughter, let's generate
many of them.
Let's start with a Brigade of Endorphins!
*****
Celery
What did you expect?
A round vegetable like Iceberg lettuce?
That's not me.
I'm a lean, mean crisp machine.
Not bloated with water like Iceberg.
You know when you're eating me.
When you chomp on me, I'm never quiet.
I'm the backbone stalk of the vegetable world and don't you
forget it.
I give crunch to your tuna fish salad.
You'll bite me in most stuffings.
You can always chomp on me in the raw.
I'm the perfect shape to scoop your favorite dip.
Wherever I am, you can't miss me.
The ends of my stalks are sort of flowery.
If you stupidly forgot to buy your girlfriend flowers,
use me as a last resort; give me to her, tell her
I'm the flowery gift of mankind.
She can eat it, look at it, cook it or stuff it.
Or, she can throw it at you and end your relationship.
Flowers don't give you these choices.
*****
Rolling My Wheelchair Forward
I just keep rolling my wheelchair forward
Hoping for the ms cure
Just get offered band-aids but no cure
Can inject myself every other day
to reduce the chance of flare-ups
Sounds like a poor trade-off for injections
I just keep rolling my wheelchair forward
Thinking of jogging 10 years ago
I completed a 10k jog
Playing tennis at the tennis court
Relaxing and drinking a Heineken beer
I just keep rolling my wheelchair forward
I once had a cane and then a walker
Could walk up and down stairs holding the banister
Now I use curb cuts to wheel across the street alone
But I can go anywhere on Island buses for wheelchairs
I just keep rolling my wheelchair forward
Winston limo picked me and wheelchair up, took us to
LaGuardia
Delta flew me to Tampa, used their wheelchair for narrow aisles
Those lovely flight attendants and I had a great time
Too bad I couldn't get only one to keep
I just keep rolling my wheelchair forward
© 2006-2008 Richard Savadsky
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website ©2008 by Walter E. Harris III.
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